by Cylin Busby
As a family, we never spoke of these fears; my mom and dad did not mention the Meyer name. Dad had been in an “accident.” It was our secret, it was understood. And when a car pulled in too close behind him when he was driving, or went to pass him on the country roads where we now lived, I would always hold my breath, but I never saw him flinch.
Mom worked, my brothers and I went to school, Dad ran the farm, when he was able. The other kids at school said we talked funny with our New England accents, and that our clothes weren’t cool. It didn’t help that our schools back home had been a bit ahead of those in the South, and now we were called out for being smart. My mom bought Eric and Shawn the jeans that everyone else was wearing that year so they could blend in. I started wearing lip gloss like the other ten-year-old girls at school. I hid my glasses in my desk, cut my long hair, and affected a Southern accent. We became very good at our disguises, we made friends, and slowly, Dad started to heal, to become whole again. We pretended this was how it was all supposed to be, that we belonged here. Then something would happen to bring it all back. The phone would ring and no one would be there. A bank teller would be a little too curious, asking questions about the retirement checks from Massachusetts. A few years after the shooting, a reporter for the Cape Cod Times wondered about the family that had suddenly, one day, just disappeared. Through a connection on the police force, he was able to secure an interview with Dad. When my brothers and I heard about this plan, we weren’t so sure. Was this really a reporter, or someone pretending to be a reporter? We were terrified. No one was supposed to know where we were; no one was to be trusted.
But he was a reporter. He spent a couple of days interviewing Dad, then began to write a huge front-page profile about the case, tying Dad’s shooting to the Meyer family. Before the article was even published the reporter started getting strange phone calls. Not threatening, just ominous. “We know you’ve been talking to Busby,” one caller said, then hung up. The calls came to his office at the newspaper and at his home. The reporter took his wife and infant child and quickly left town until the story, and speculation, blew over. Once the article was published and everyone knew what the reporter knew the calls stopped just as mysteriously as they had begun.
As these events happened less often, the day-to-day fears of our family turned into waiting. And after months and then years of nothing, the waiting gradually faded too. All that was left was anger. Dad didn’t talk about how he felt, but he was constantly on the verge of destroying things. The hammer that missed a nail and hit his finger was thrown into the neighbor’s field, a stream of expletives from his wired-shut jaw following its trajectory. A fence gate that wouldn’t close after the winter rains was slammed and kicked into submission one morning while my brothers and I stood and watched from the kitchen window. When we got home from school, the gate had been hacked apart with a chain-saw and strewn across the barnyard; the wood would later be burned. When he was healthy, Dad would spend hours a day chopping wood for our small stove—much more than we would ever need for the average Southern winter. To this day, the sound of someone cutting logs with an ax makes my pulse quicken. Something bad is about to happen, someone is angry. The cut wood sat outside in huge piles—looming, stacked, and waiting to burn—a testament to Dad’s temper.
And Dad wasn’t alone in his anger; I felt it too, especially late at night as I lay in bed unable to sleep. I would think about all my old friends, the ones I wasn’t allowed to write to, the ones I didn’t even get to say good-bye to. I thought about our old house, my room with the multicolored carpeting mom had put in, the bunk bed with the Holly Hobbie blanket. I missed our days at the beach, I missed my school, my fourth-grade teacher, I even missed my long straight hair—everything I used to love, that I had always counted on, now gone. I would lie there seething, listening to the occasional car on our rural street. If the engine even slowed outside, I was ready. My hand would go to the place between my mattress and box spring, the place where I now hid my stolen steak knife, and I would hold the handle until the car passed.
In Tennessee, if you lived on a working farm or ranch, you could acquire what was called a “hardship” driver’s license when you were fifteen years old. The point of a hardship license was to allow teens who l ived—and worked—on their family’s farm to operate farming equipment and also drive vehicles when needed. The license would also allow you to drive on the public roads, though that’s not what it was really intended for.
We lived on a rural route with kids who needed the license. These were the kids, like the boys across the street, who missed a month of school in the early fall to harvest and hang tobacco. Or the twins down by Hidden Hollow who needed to drive their dad’s pickup into town on a regular basis to pick up feed and seed from the farm-supply store. Since Dad did most of the work on our farm—and we had almost nothing by way of actual farming equipment—my brothers and I did not need a hardship license for any legitimate reason. Our farm was small, and not our main source of income. But my parents allowed us to get our license early because we could, because everyone else was doing it, and because our bus ride to and from the county school took almost an hour each way. Cutting down on a two-hour commute would mean more time for schoolwork—and more time at home doing chores on the farm too. So I guess it was a hardship license in some ways, especially during the seasons when there was a lot of work on the farm and when it got dark early.
My brothers learned how to drive pretty soon after we moved down to the farm from Cape Cod, and both had their licenses by age fifteen. When I was fourteen, my dad started in on the process with me. The spring before my fifteenth birthday, he took me down to the end of our road—past the farms and the holler, out to where the street pretty much turned into packed dirt, and let me have a try behind the wheel. My coordination was never very good, and it was clear I wasn’t going to be able to pick up how a clutch worked in time to take my driver’s test.
One day when I got off the school bus, there was a new car parked in our cul-de-sac driveway—by “new” I mean new to us, but it was clearly old—maybe even older than me. It was a beat-up, faded orange VW bug, not quite as ugly as the one my dad had owned on the Cape, but pretty near. When I went into the house, I expected to see the driver of the car there, but it was just my dad in the kitchen playing chess against his computer.
“Whose car is that?” I asked him.
“Yours,” he said, not even looking up. “Saw an ad for it in the paper. It’s an automatic.”
“Dad! We can’t get a new car!”
“Five hundred dollars,” he said. “I figure you guys can all drive it.”
I didn’t know what to say. I had my first car and I wasn’t even fifteen. I didn’t care that it was ugly as sin or that I would have to share it with my brothers. Dad and I got in, and he drove us down to the end of the street where I could practice. The car was pretty crappy and stalled out if you didn’t apply the gas just right—mastering this was almost as tricky as the delicate balance of a clutch. But I learned it. We went out to the grocery store parking lot and Dad taught me how to parallel park and make a three-point turn. He drilled me on the driver’s manual—emphasizing certain points that he, as a former cop, thought were of extreme importance. Rolling stops, left-hand turns, right of way. By the time I turned fifteen, I was more than ready for the test.
We went down to the DMV, and I walked out of there with my driver’s license and drove Dad and myself home. When we got back to the house, I parked the car and raced inside to call my best friend, Eve. “Where are you going?” Dad asked me. “Don’t you want to take her out by yourself?”
I jumped back into the driver’s seat and waved as I (very carefully) pulled out of the driveway. I intended to just drive down to the holler and back, just to see how it felt. It was pretty strange being in the car by myself—no one there telling me what to do every second. I could hear my dad’s voice in my head. “Check your mirrors. Watch your speed here. That stop sign was for y
ou. Both hands on the wheel …”
When I was about a half mile from the farm, I was no longer alone on the road—there was another car coming up behind me. It was blue. I hated blue cars, and every time I saw a blue four-door car, I would compulsively check for Florida plates. This was because of the last news we had heard—years earlier—about the investigation into Dad’s shooting. They could find no trace of the car Dad had described under hypnosis, but one resident on Sandwich Road had come forward to say that he had seen a blue car with Florida plates racing down the street minutes after my dad was shot. The detectives said they suspected the shooters had been hired killers from Florida. This had been burned into my head: hired killers, blue car, Florida.
As the car closed in on me, I checked my rearview mirror for plates. But this car didn’t have plates on the front. Suddenly, I felt scared. What if they had been waiting for me? Watching the house. Waiting for just this moment, waiting to get me alone in the car on this lonely stretch of road. My speed—which was already a few miles below the limit—decreased more, and I felt my hands clench the wheel.
The car honked, twice, and flashed its headlights. I slowed more, unsure of what to do, powerless to stop the attack that I knew was coming. Then I heard the car behind me rev its engine and pull out into the opposite lane. And I forgot to breathe. I squeezed my eyes shut and yanked the wheel to the right—forcing the VW onto the dirt shoulder at an angle. I slammed on the brakes and pulled my head down low, by the passenger seat, as the other car roared by.
“Asshole!” I heard someone yell. I lifted my head just in time to see the other car race off down the road. I sat in my car by the side of the road until I calmed down enough to hold the wheel without shaking. I looked at my face in the mirror and wiped away the tear streaks. Then I sat there a few minutes more for good measure. I heard another car come up over the rise and down the hill behind me, but I wasn’t worried. I could see in the rearview that it was just the Jacksons’ mint green Ford pickup. They lived a few miles down the road from us, and I knew their two boys from school.
The truck slowed as it neared me, and I saw Jimmy, who was seventeen, inside. He leaned over to talk to me through the open passenger-side window. “This that new car your brothers were talking about?” he asked. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and looked like he had been doing some work outside.
I nodded. “What do you think?”
“I didn’t figure it would be so small!” Jimmy laughed. “That car’s just right for you, though.”
“I guess.” I shrugged, looking at his pickup truck. People around here didn’t drive foreign.
“Well,” he paused awkwardly, “reckon I’ll see you at school, huh?”
“Sure,” I told him.
He gave me a nod, then put the truck back into gear and drove off. I didn’t realize until after I watched his truck disappear over the next rise that he hadn’t bothered to ask me what I was doing pulled over on the side of the road. But that was pretty typical of our neighbors—they all minded their own business, and nobody asked anyone else much of anything. That’s why we lived here. Nobody knew anything about us, and that was how we wanted it.
I took a deep breath and checked my mirrors like Dad had taught me to do. When I was sure there was no traffic coming in either direction, I turned the car around and headed home.
where they are now
In 2003, James Meyer confessed to Falmouth police detectives that he was involved in the attempted murder of John Busby. He told detectives he had been driving the car that night, while his brother, Raymond Meyer, leveled a shotgun at Busby’s head from the backseat. Also in the car with them was Raymond’s wife, Laverne. The shotgun had been borrowed from a friend and returned shortly after the shooting. The car had recently been purchased from a Falmouth police officer, Ahmed Mustafa, and had no plates; it was later destroyed at a junkyard.
Meyer’s confession also included information about two unsolved murders and a disappearance, all linked to Raymond Meyer. The police report of his confession is unavailable to the public as it is currently part of the ongoing investigation into the murder of Laverne Meyer.
John and Polly Busby: Married for over forty years, John and Polly are now retired. They have three grandchildren.
Craig Clarkson: Retired from the Falmouth Police Department, currently lives with his family in Falmouth, Massachusetts.
John Ferreira: Retired as chief of police, Falmouth Police Department, December 1979. Currently lives with his family in Falmouth.
Michael “Mickey” Mangum: Resigned from the Falmouth Police Department, 1977. Currently resides in Massachusetts.
Tony Mello: Retired from the Falmouth Police Department in 2007, currently lives with his wife, Kathy, in Falmouth, Massachusetts.
James Meyer: Confessed to police detectives in 2003 that he drove the car on the night of John Busby’s shooting. Implicated his brother, Raymond Meyer, in the shooting, and also Raymond’s wife, Laverne Meyer. As of March 2008, he is facing charges of malicious destruction of property in an unrelated case.
Laverne Meyer: Her body was found early on the morning of May 10, 2005, at her home; she had been shot once in the head and once in the chest at close range. Her murder remains unsolved.
Raymond Meyer: Charged by Massachusetts State Police in a bid-rigging scheme in 1984, acquitted in 1985 (his business partner Charles Cacciola was found guilty). In an unrelated case, Meyer was charged with assault, two counts of threatening to commit a crime, and malicious destruction of property in 2001; he was found unfit to stand trial and diagnosed with dementia. He has been incarcerated in the Taunton State Hospital since 2001.
Larry Mitchell: Former Falmouth police officer who refused in 1979 to take a polygraph test. In 1980, he submitted to a polygraph and failed. In 2003, James Meyer exonerated Mitchell by revealing that it was actually fellow officer Arthur Monteiro who gave Raymond Meyer the police department work schedule, something that Busby and others wrongly suspected Mitchell of for years.
Arthur Monteiro: Former Falmouth police officer, died in 1990. Implicated by James Meyer in the Busby shooting. James Meyer told police detectives that Monteiro was the inside source for information about Busby’s work schedule.
Arthur “the Bear” Pina: Died suddenly of heart failure in 2007; he is survived by his wife and two daughters.
Don Price: Retired Falmouth police captain, currently resides in Arizona.
Rick Smith: Retired Falmouth police officer, 2008. Lives with his wife, Terry, in Falmouth, Massachusetts.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
John would like to thank:
Albert and Jean Santiago and family, who called for the ambulance
The EMTs and paramedics of the Falmouth Fire Department and the ambulance driver
Emergency room physicians and nurses at Falmouth Hospital, especially Dr. Gibbons
Massachusetts State Police escort to Massachusetts General Hospital
Dr. David Keith and the doctors and nurses at MGH who took care of me
The police officers who guarded me during hospital stays
Jim Alward and his wife, Carol
Bernadette and Dale Collier and my extraordinary niece, Kelly, for all they did to support us
Winny Woods
Businesses on Cape Cod that donated to our relocation fund
Jim McGuire and Phyllis Evendon, who formed the John Busby Road Race
My brother officers on the Cape for their contributions
Rick Smith, fellow officer and good friend, for keeping it alive
Newspaper reporters who kept digging for the truth:
Amanda Lehmert, Cape Cod Times
George Brennan, Cape Cod Times
Mark Sullivan, Cape Cod Times
Laura Reckford, Falmouth Enterprise
And last but not least—the guy who shot me, for opening my eyes to what is truly important in life, and what follows life
Cylin would like to thank:
Thank you:
August, our love
My brother Eric and his wife, Julie
My brother Shawn and his wife, Amber
My nephews Felix and Tabor (especially Felix for giving up his room so I had somewhere to sleep during my research trip)
My amazing editor, Melanie Cecka, for saying yes
My fabulous agent, Barry Goldblatt, for not saying no
My early readers:
Nanci Katz-Ellis
Erin Zimring
Jean Ross and Betty David-Ross
Eddie Gamarra
My friends:
Eve, Shane, and Mary in Tennessee, for taking a chance on the new weird girl
Melanie, Blue, Pamela, Cecil; Jenny and Rick, Jennie and Ken, Israel and Dane
Falmouth police officers—especially Rick Smith, Craig Clark-son, Don Price, Mickey Mangum, Tony Mello, and Tom Mountford—for their protection, research help, and everything else. Terry, for the apple pie and a place to stay. Arthur, you are missed. Thank you for making me feel safe
James Alward and his family
Dr. Lisa Garber
The teachers of the SIJCC and Ruthie Shavit for giving my son a wonderful place to spend his days while I was writing this book
And Sister Celine Martin, for my name and for all the prayers. Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
CYLIN BUSBY is the author of several fiction and nonaction books for young readers. She is the former senior editor of Teen magazine and the author of numerous magazine articles. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and young son.
JOHN BUSBY is retired and lives with his wife of over forty years, Polly Busby. He continues to fight for the extension of the statute of limitations on assault of a police officer.