“When I was interviewing Ashley Howard today,” I say, “I noticed she has tattoos of ropes that look a lot like these on her wrists and ankles.”
“I can do you one better than that,” Keisha says. “Look at this.”
She taps her tablet and a video begins playing. As she holds it up, we all lean in so we can see it.
A sexy, sultry music video fills the screen.
Two figures on an enormous silk-sheet-covered bed in a candlelit room.
In it, as he sings and raps graphically about all the ways he wants to have sex with her, Trace is tying a partially clothed Ashley up with ropes like the ones used on Mariah.
“Oh my God,” Arnie says.
“Are we watching a confession?” Reggie says.
“Y’all’ve never seen this?” Keisha says. “It’s pretty popular.”
“That’s a wrap, folks,” Arnie says. “Case closed.”
“Told you I could do you one better,” Keisha says. “Aren’t ya’ll glad you got a sister on the case? How long would it have taken you white folk to find that?”
“I can do you both one better,” Jessica says.
“The ropes actually used on Mariah belong to Trace and Ashley,” she says.
She pauses for a long moment to let that sink in.
“We found ropes in what can only be described as their sex kit,” she says. “A little overnight bag with toys and lube and masks and cuffs and stuff—and in her suitcase.”
“That does look very suspicious,” Arnie says, “but that doesn’t mean the ropes used on Mariah belonged to them.”
“I’m sure the DNA tests will confirm it,” she says, “but we don’t need them to. Remember how I said five ropes were used? Three full lengths and two half lengths. Well the half lengths were just a full length cut in half. Thing is . . . they weren’t two halves of the same full length piece. They were each one half of two different full length pieces. And . . . the two other matching halves . . . they were found in Ashley’s suitcase.”
26
“I miss Sam and Daniel being here,” Anna says.
“I do too.”
It’s late. The girls have long since said prayers and been tucked in, and Anna and I are in bed in our dark room, whispering our final few words of the day.
I don’t mention it to Anna, but in addition to missing Sam and Daniel’s presence in our home, I will miss having another armed adult to help respond to Chris when he makes his move.
“I know they have a ways to go,” she says, “but I’m amazed at how well they’re doing. So happy they’re together again and have hope for a future.”
“A short while ago it didn’t seem possible,” I say.
“Her returning him unharmed makes me think Randa’s not all bad,” she says.
“She’s not. Part of what makes her so interesting is what a contradiction she is.”
“So you don’t think she’s a sociopath?”
I shake my head, though in the dimness, I’m not sure she can see it. “No, I don’t. I’ve certainly wondered from time to time, but . . . I don’t believe she is.”
Anna yawns, bringing the back of her hand up to cover her mouth. “Better kiss me goodnight before I—” she begins, then yawns again.
“Sounds like I better time it just right,” I say.
“It’s safe now,” she says. “Go for it.”
She lifts her head and turns toward me. I meet her and we kiss. And though I’m sure it’s not possible, it seems as though she’s asleep by the time she lays her head back down.
Sleep didn’t come as quickly for me, but when it did arrive, dreams arrived with it.
It’s the early morning hours of December 26, 1996.
A frantic 911 call from 755 15th Street in Boulder, Colorado, but instead of Patsy Ramsey, it’s Ashley Howard placing the call.
755 Fifteenth Street.
What is going on there ma’am?
We have a kidnapping...Hurry, please.
Explain to me what is going on, okay?
We have a . . . There’s a note left and our daughter is gone.
A note was left and your daughter is gone?
Yes.
How old is your daughter?
She is six years old. She is blond. Six years old.
How long ago was this?
I don’t know. Just found a note and my daughter is missing.
Does it say who took her?
What?
Does it say who took her?
No I don’t know. It’s there . . . there is a ransom note here.
It’s a ransom note.
It says S.B.T.C. Victory. Please.
Okay. What’s your name? Are you...
Ashley Howard. I’m the mother. Oh my God. Please.
Okay. I’m sending an officer over, okay?
Please.
Do you know how long she’s been gone?
No, I don’t. Please. We just got up and she’s not here. Oh my God Please.
Okay.
Please send somebody.
I am, honey.
Please.
Take a deep breath.
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
Ashley? Ashley? Ashley? Ashley? Ashley?
Suddenly I’m on the stairs leading to the basement, passing the broken window, the scuff mark on the wall, the blue suitcase below.
And then the door.
And beyond the door on the floor, the lifeless body of a child beauty queen.
Door flung open.
White blanket on the floor, blond hair visible at the top.
Rushing over, hoping it’s not too late, knowing that it is.
Removing duct tape from her mouth, her skin cold to the touch.
I wake up thinking about how different Mariah’s restraints were from JonBenét’s.
Small white cords versus thick black ropes.
And the way they were used.
In addition to having her hands and feet tied with the narrow white cord, JonBenét was garroted with it, her small body showing signs of violence—especially her head and neck. A deep ligature furrow and petechial hemorrhages around her neck. Abrasions and petechial hemorrhages on the face.
Mariah was bound with soft Japanese bondage ropes in a way that can only be described as sexual, but there were no signs of violence.
Both children are dead, but one’s death seems to have been far more violent and brutal.
“Do you want to just move their beds into our room for a while?” Anna whispers.
She has once again found me asleep on the floor of the girls’ room, center of the floor, equal distance between Taylor’s baby bed and Johanna’s big girl bed.
I smile up at her. “It’s not just the case,” I say. “It’s Chris and not knowing what he might do.”
She nods. “I know.”
Like the last time, she disappears for a moment and returns with pillows, a blanket, and my phone.
Lying down beside me, she says, “We’ll sleep in here tonight and tomorrow we’ll move their beds into our room.”
“If it would make you feel better,” I say.
She laughs out loud at that, but fortunately not loud enough to wake the girls.
27
I wake the next morning stiff from sleeping on the floor, wanting to compare other aspects of Mariah and JonBenét’s cases.
At the kitchen table, over a bowl of Frosted Flakes, I read and reread the three notes and think about and compare them with each other, glancing occasionally to the spot in the living room where Sam’s hospital bed used to be.
Dear Dad,
Ashley and Brett or to mean to me. I love them but cannot take it. I sorry for leaving you like this. Y’all all will be happy with out me. Please do not look for me. I will be fine. I will miss.
Love you, Mariah.
Are we dealing with a runaway, a kidnaping, a murder, or some combination? Did Mariah really run away or try to? Was she killed while attempting to? Or could the note have been from an earlier or for
a later time? If she was running away, why? Was it just for the reasons listed in her note or was there more to it? Was someone helping her or going with her or was it just her? And where was she running to?
I’ll make this simple so even an ignorant thug like you can understand. I have your daughter. If you want her back it will cost you $250,000.00. That’s a very small amount because I want to do this fast and easy. I know you have a lot more, but that’s all I want. I’m not greedy, have no desire to be nigger rich like you. I don’t want no gold teeth or spinning rims or any shit like that. Your song says you will never leave her again. Well, maybe not, but she’s left you. You say you will never hurt her again, never let her down. We will see if you really mean that. I don’t want to hurt your little girl. Don’t make me. Just gather the money and I’ll call you with where we’ll meet to make the trade. Don’t test me boy. Don’t call the police. Don’t tell anyone. You do and it’s lights out for the little mixed girl. Just get the little chump change together and wait for my call. Be smarter than you seem and don’t fuck this up. Your little girl’s life depends on it.
Unlike the Ramsey ransom letter, the note left on Mariah’s bed isn’t addressed to anyone—though it’s obviously directed toward Trace. The relatively brief note isn’t just threatening, it’s demeaning and insulting too. Its lack of salutation to Trace seems another obvious dis, another form of contempt. Like the Ramsey note, the demand is for a relatively small amount of money, but unlike the Ramsey note, the Evers note explains why.
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.
28
“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 lat
e-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.
Blood Ties (John Jordan Mysteries Book 16) Page 10