And now to what has been called the War and Peace of ransom notes:
Mr. Ramsey,
Listen carefully! We are a group of individuals that represent a small foreign faction. We do respect your bussiness but not the country that it serves. At this time we have your daughter in our posession. She is safe and unharmed and if you want her to see 1997, you must follow our instructions to the letter.
You will withdraw $118,000.00 from your account. $100,000 will be in $100 bills and the remaining $18,000 in $20 bills. Make sure that you bring an adequate size attache to the bank. When you get home you will put the money in a brown paper bag. I will call you between 8 and 10 am tomorrow to instruct you on delivery. The delivery will be exhausting so I advise you to be rested. If we monitor you getting the money early, we might call you early to arrange an earlier delivery of the money and hence a earlier delivery pick-up of your daughter.
Any deviation of my instructions will result in the immediate execution of your daughter. You will also be denied her remains for proper burial. The two gentlemen watching over your daughter do not particularly like you so I advise you not to provoke them. Speaking to anyone about your situation, such as Police, F.B.I., etc., will result in your daughter being beheaded. If we catch you talking to a stray dog, she dies. If you alert bank authorities, she dies. If the money is in any way marked or tampered with, she dies. You will be scanned for electronic devices and if any are found, she dies. You can try to deceive us but be warned that we are familiar with law enforcement countermeasures and tactics. You stand a 99% chance of killing your daughter if you try to out smart us. Follow our instructions and you stand a 100% chance of getting her back.
You and your family are under constant scrutiny as well as the authorities. Don’t try to grow a brain John. You are not the only fat cat around so don't think that killing will be difficult. Don't underestimate us John. Use that good southern common sense of yours. It is up to you now John!
Victory!
S.B.T.C
Though there are many, many notable differences in the two cases, one of the main features they have in common, apart from little girls who performed in public, is the presence of a ransom note at a scene where the child was not actually taken from the house. Who leaves a ransom note and a body? Who murders the person they are attempting to leverage for ransom?
Another interesting component that is similar in a way but different is the use of movie lines in the Ramsey note and song lines or at least references in the Evers note.
In addition to the amount of money demanded in each note being relatively low—most kidnapers demand millions—the amount in the Ramsey letter is both specific and bizarre. Only $118,000.00 demanded of a millionaire whose company is worth billions. Two main theories have been posited—that the amount was almost exactly the amount of John Ramsey’s annual bonus that year or that the amount would convert into one million pesos in Mexico at the time—but neither is completely convincing or begins to explain either the oddity of the sum or the motivation behind it.
Why is the Ramsey note so long?
Why were both the Ramsey and the Evers notes left along with the bodies?
Why was the Evers note left along with Mariah’s runaway note?
Most experts agree that it would be nearly impossible for the murderer to write the notes after the murders—especially one as long as the Ramsey note, which had to be written in the Ramsey house around the time of the murder, because it was written with a pen on a pad that belonged to the Ramseys found in their home.
232
“Did time with your boy in Georgia,” Chance Hill says.
We are in my office in the chapel of Gulf Correctional Institution where I work part-time.
Chance Hill, an inmate who evidently is doing an incarceration tour of the Southern states, is a short, thin, African-American in his mid-thirties who looks far more like a boy than a man.
“My boy?” I say.
“Evidence,” he says. “Trace. Trace Evidence Evers.” He shakes his head. “Evidence. Ain’t that some shit? Gave himself that name when we’s stackin’ time near Atlanta. Said he leaves evidence of Trace on all the shorties.”
From the back of the building, the sounds of Muslim prayers drift through the chapel like peaceful Persian poetry being sung leisurely in the languid meridian of a hot, dusty day, and I can picture the Imam and the Islamic inmates in socked-feet and kufis on their prayer rugs in the fellowship hall.
Allāhu ʾakbar
ʾašhadu ʾan lā ʾilāha ʾillā Llāh
ʾašhadu ʾanna Muḥammadan rasūlu Llāh
“Why do you say he’s my boy?” I ask.
“Word on the ’pound is you investigatin’ him in your other job.”
Though I shouldn’t be, I’m continually amazed at the information inmates have access to and how it spreads into every corner and crevice of the compound.
“Media goin’ crazy over this case,” he says. “Reportin’ all kinda shit. No way it can all be true, but even if half of it is . . .”
Allāhu ʾakbar
Chance is often bringing me information, mostly rumors and gossip. Until now they’ve been mostly about the prison—the goings on of inmates, correctional officers, and staff. He’s like the prison town crier, making pronouncements, passing along information useful and not. Mostly not. But I’ve never dissuaded him because on occasion his information has been extremely helpful.
“Soon as I heard I knew I had to tell you what I knew about him,” he says. “You do time with a man . . . you learn a lot about ’im. A lot. And Trace is dangerous. Just not in the way you might think.”
Allāhu ʾakbar
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“He’s not dangerous in like a thug way, like the way he fronts in his songs and videos and shit. He’s more dangerous in a sneaky, kinda psychological way.”
ʾašhadu ʾan lā ʾilāha ʾillā Llāh
ʾašhadu ʾanna Muḥammadan rasūlu Llāh
“Can you unpack that a little for me?” I ask.
“You talk to him yet?” he says. “Bet if you have, he told you everything you wanted to hear, didn’t he? He’s like that. Scary good at reading a room and becoming just what he needs to be. You’ll see. He can be a thug, a caring, sensitive guy, daddy of the year, contrite, defiant, all about love and unity or a radical racist ready to burn White America to the ground.”
I don’t say anything. Through my office window I can see the late-afternoon sun low in the sky, sinking toward evening, and the goldish-orange glow it casts on the buildings and the inmates and staff walking between them.
“I like you, Chaplain,” he says. “You’a positive in this equation up in here. Just wanted to tell you to be careful. That’s all. Don’t believe the hype, don’t believe the music, and whatever you do, don’t believe the man.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”
“Thing is,” he says. “You smart. You’d’a figured it out eventually. Sooner rather than later, I’m sure. Just thought I’d save you a little time and maybe . . . you know . . . make it safer for you.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
“Tell you who far more dangerous and in a different way,” he says. “His so-called manager or whatever the hell he supposed to be, Irvin Hunter. That bastard . . . a manager. Shee-it. He don’t know nothin’ about music or the entertainment industry. All he know about is crime, criminals, criminal enterprises. But he protected Trace like the little bitch he is when they’s inside and now Trace feels like he owes him. You’d think ol’ Trace takin’ it up the naughty place for him while they’s inside would be enough, but . . .”
I nod in a way meant to be encouraging, though it doesn’t seem like he necessarily needs any encouragement to keep talking.
“Manager, Shee-it. Probably just uses him to carry his money around for him and sneak into his hotel room late at night.”
“Whatta you mean carry his money around for him?”
“Trace is like a poor nigga’s Floyd Mayweather,” he says. “Money Mayweather, who isn’t just nigger rich like Trace, carries a million dollars in cash in a hockey bag with him at all times. Word is Trace can’t roll that deep, so he always carries two-hundred-and-fifty thousand on him. Figure that’s Irvin’s job. Carry that shit around. Rub his face in it.”
I don’t react outwardly, but inwardly I’m reeling. If Trace always keeps a quarter of a million dollars in cash on him at all times then the kidnaper chose that amount so Trace could pay in cash and not have to involve a bank.
“Is that common knowledge?” I ask.
“What?”
“How much money Trace carries with him in cash.”
He shakes his head. “Not like it is with Mayweather. He doesn’t flaunt it or talk about it like he does. You’d have to be a true fan who dives deep or a friend.”
“You two still friends?” I ask.
“He still accepts my collect calls,” he says.
Collect calls are the only kind inmates can make. And if he’s telling the truth, then Trace is on his approved call list.
“How long since you’ve talked to him?”
He shrugs. “Last month sometime. He’s pretty good to send me some canteen when I run out.”
“That term you used,” I say.
“What’s that?” he asks. “Oh,” he adds with a smile, “nigger rich?”
“I’ve heard it before and think I know what it means, but would you tell me what you think it means and why you used it about Trace?”
“Nigger rich is when you have just a little money and you spend on things that can be seen. Shiny new Cadillac, rims, gold teeth, gold chains, what not, but live in a dump or have no money in the bank. Spend it on flashy shit the minute you get it. I ain’t sayin’ Trace is just like that, but . . . I don’t know. Just meant he’s got a lot less than Floyd and . . . And he’s got a song called Nigger Rich.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. Hell, I helped him write it.”
“So both Trace and Irvin Hunter are dangerous, but in different ways,” I say.
He nods.
“Trace may’ve killed his kid, but Hunter will kill you,” he says. “Keep your eyes on that nigga.”
“Got it.”
“Then they’s one more player in this little drama you betta watch out for. Another nigga they used to run with—Little Swag.”
“Rondarius Swaggart,” I say.
“So you heard of him. Ain’t sayin’ he’s a direct threat to you, just . . . They had a fallin’ out or some shit. Wouldn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire. You know how nigga’s like to be shootin’ each other. This shit develops into a Biggie Tupac situation, wouldn’t want you to be some kind of cracker collateral damage.”
233
“Cracker collateral damage?” Anna says.
“That’s what he doesn’t want me to become,” I say.
“Me either,” she says.
“Let’s hope none of us become that,” Reggie says.
It’s evening. Reggie has stopped by on her way home. She and I are sitting at our kitchen table as Anna makes dinner a short distance away. The girls are intensely playing with a variety of toys in the corner of the living room where Sam’s hospital bed used to be.
“You sure you won’t stay and eat with us?” Anna says.
We had both already asked and both been told no.
“Keep askin’,” she says. “Smells so good my resolve is weakening.”
“It’s settled,” she says. “I’m gonna make you a plate too when it’s done.”
Reggie looks back at me. “Do you believe what the inmate said about Trace? Be very telling if he does carry two-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollars around with him at all times.”
“Yes it would. I’ve asked around some. I think it’s legit. Far as everything else Chance said . . . I believe some of it. Need confirmation for other parts of it. But I did leave my interview with Trace thinking he acted and sounded a little too good to be true.”
She nods. “Yeah, things aren’t adding up. Aren’t what they seem. You heard all the stuff about him that’s come out in the media?”
I shake my head. “Avoiding it completely.”
“Probably a good thing, though I don’t know how you’re able to. It’s everywhere. They’re saying plenty of shit about our department too. And about you and me. Mentioned Robin’s murder and how I got the job. Mentioned you working the Stone Cold Killer case back in the day.”
“Don’t tell me,” I say. “I don’t want to know.”
“None of it?”
“None.”
“I feel like we need to do a press conference soon,” she says. “Not sure whether to just make a statement, try to correct all the misinformation, take questions. I was hoping you’d participate.”
“I’d really rather not,” I say. “I want to work this case with little to no contact with any media of any kind. And whoever does it—I think it needs to be you, they’d chew Arnie up and spit him out—trying to correct all the incorrect information is as futile as trying to clean up a hurricane with a hand towel.”
She shakes her head and frowns. “Case like this has a life of its own out in the public sphere, doesn’t it? Nothing we can do about it. And I get that it’s a shocking and compelling mystery and that the public’s appetite for information is insatiable, but the tabloid-type shit they’re all reporting isn’t just irresponsible, it’s . . . dangerous . . . damaging . . . lies.”
“Makes you wonder how much information out there on any subject is accurate, doesn’t it?” Anna says.
“Part of the reason I don’t want to go home right now,” Reggie says, “is I can’t talk about the case with Merrick and that’s all he wants to talk about.”
I nod and attempt to convey understanding.
“Not sure if we’re gonna make it,” she says. “And that’s something I never thought I’d hear myself say. But . . . there’s just so much conflict all of the time. Anyway . . . Didn’t come here to talk about that. The real reason I dropped by was . . . Couple of things I found out today . . . Didn’t want to wait ’til tomorrow to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“All the keys to the rental house are accounted for. None are missing—not to the house or the secret room.”
“This is from Justin Harris?” I ask.
“Yeah, but remember it makes him more of a suspect if it’s true,” she says. “So I don’t think he’s lying.”
“If it’s true,” I say, “then he and the owner . . . Roger Garrett are supposed to be the only ones with keys besides the renters.”
“Right. Narrows things down a lot.”
“Except anyone—a maid, a previous renter, someone who works in Justin’s office, a handyman—”
“Repair person,” Anna corrects from the kitchen.
“Repair person,” I amend. “Any of them could’ve made copies of the keys.”
“That’s the other thing,” Reggie says. “They couldn’t. They can’t. Garrett put in this elaborate lock system where the keys are made with lasers and have a chip in them and cannot be copied.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh.”
“Of course someone paranoid enough to have a secret safe room would have keys you can’t copy,” Anna says. “So . . . since there was no break-in, it was either someone inside, Harris, Garrett?”
“Or,” I say, “someone stayed inside after the party, or someone left a window or door unlocked or someone inside let someone from outside in.”
In her best Alex Hunter, the DA in the JonBenét Ramsey case, Reggie says “The field of suspects narrows. Soon the only one on the list will be you.”
I nod. “It does narrow the list down considerably.”
“Think Merrill may have backed a losing horse,” Reggie says.
“Why’s that?”
“Not looking good for Trace,” she says.
&nb
sp; “Merrill’s not backin’ him,” I say. “He’ll be the first to take him down if he killed his little girl.”
“Well that’s what it’s looking like,” she says. “He or one of the people he had in the house with him.”
234
That night with all three of my girls in the room with me, I worked on the case in the pale illumination of the small book light clipped to the murder book.
I think about what Reggie said about the media coverage, about Trace’s public image, and can imagine what is being reported. I’m sure he and Ashley and Brett and Nadine and Irvin have already been found guilty in the minds of most passive, non-critical consumers of media. John and Patsy and Burke were. And though statistically the odds of a family member or someone in the house the night of the murders is very, very high, a likelihood is not a certainty.
Why are we so quick to believe the worst about certain people and not others? What is it about John and Patsy and Trace that make them so easy to despise, condemn, presume guilty?
Why are we so quick to listen to information that confirms our biases and reject that which challenges them?
Why did so many refuse to believe OJ was guilty in spite of concrete physical evidence?
I think about the keys being accounted for and not being able to be copied and what that might mean.
No forced entry. No missing keys. Six people in the house.
I think about the notes—the fact that Mariah planned to run away and her motivation for doing so, the fact that in spite of the runaway note, the kidnaper left the ransom note.
I think about the use of Trace’s song lyrics in the note and the demand of the exact amount of cash he keeps with him at all times. Was the note part of staging to cover up the true crime of murder? Does it include so much inside information because someone inside the house and deep inside Trace’s life wrote it—including or especially Trace himself?
True Crime Fiction Page 92