by Phil Hamman
Sandra: Well, Allen’s gun was in the air pointing at him.
Attorney: Things were happening fast at that time, is that true?
Sandra: Yes.
Attorney: So, it was very difficult for anyone to know exactly what was happening, right?
As the cross-examination progressed, the questions became more confusing and were often worded with atypical syntax that was especially confusing to a thirteen-year-old girl. They came like rapid fire, rekindling horrifying images of that night, and Sandra recoiled inside at being interrogated over her recollection of events. The fast-paced questioning appeared to be an attempt to confuse Sandra and discredit her testimony. This wasn’t the first time, however, that she’d been forced to deal with intense scrutiny. For two weeks after the murder of the four boys, she’d faced an increasingly dubious public and withstood the doubtful looks thrown at her around the police station. She’d held up under the verbal attack of the angry relative at Roger’s funeral. She’d been subjected to the embarrassing medical examination and been given a polygraph test, both under bright lights by men with their untelling reactions in order to prove her truthfulness. Before that, in what seemed a lifetime away, had been the adversity she’d faced at the Indian boarding school and foster homes. These struggles had toughened her fortitude and steeled her tenacity, which now allowed her to bravely testify.
Day after day, Sandra faced the questions, the testimony, the evidence, and always the memories of that night, slicing away more of her young life. The Fryers filled the room with their presence, breathing out lies with the same air she was using to bring justice for Roger, Mike, Stew, and Dana. Sometimes her quiet voice broke during testimony, but she refused to buckle under the pressure that had been building with all she’d been asked to do since the night of the murders.
The trials for the brothers lasted for more than a year, so Sandra was called upon to testify repeatedly. While the Fryers waited for their next trial date, they resided in the Lyon County Jail, which allowed Vinson and Griesse time to sum up each man’s personality. Allen was wiry and cocky but had low self-esteem that he compensated for by making frequent demands he expected to be met immediately no matter how unreasonable. It was a game to him to see what he could get someone else to do for him. He had an unquenchable desire to impress others, one time claiming to Griesse that he had recently been on a hunting expedition where he’d shot wild game while leaning out the open door of an airplane. Before David had been sent to prison, he’d alternated between trying to take charge and being unsure of himself. He’d made frequent threats but rarely carried through with them. He was a follower and was also considered moody and sulky.
The one who caused the most concern was James. Words like dangerous and frightening only skimmed the surface of describing his hardened persona. He was just “off.” While his brother Allen’s eyes could be described as cold, James’s were vacant. Unfeeling. The word that was tossed around the jailhouse was “crazy.” One person associated with the trial claimed that where James’s conscience should have been, there was a gaping void instead.
One afternoon, Griesse sat in the library, alert as always, on watch over James, who was taking advantage of his allotted time before returning to the courtroom. Out of nowhere, James jumped from his seat, stepped toward the officer, and bellowed, “YOU’RE NOT GONNA TAKE ME!”
The deputy leapt from his chair, knocking a stack of books to the floor, and his hand reflexively flew to his weapon. Griesse had never fired his revolver, other than in practice, and a vivid picture flashed before him of James lying dead on the floor from a gunshot wound. Though every officer understands that the call of duty may require shots to be fired, that moment when reality hits is a gut-puncher. “Don’t take another step!” Griesse ordered. The rotund criminal glowered, looking ready to strike.
From the back of the room, the click of a door opening broke the heated silence, and in walked two attorneys who had arrived to prepare for trial. The two clean-shaven men with their pressed suits and leather briefcases stopped abruptly, one still holding the door open, his eyes darting between the two poised men. James sank back into his chair with a growl of disgust but never let his hostile glare leave Griesse. “You’re never going to get me to Fort Madison,” James announced, referring to the Iowa prison to which he’d be headed if found guilty.
The trials lingered on for months, and Sandra’s role as sole witness required her to appear in court repeatedly as her testimony comprised the bulk of the evidence. The trials were popular in this area of the country where multiple murders were as rare as traffic jams. Curious murmurs bubbled through the gallery, and rubbernecking spectators clucked to each other about the shame of it all. Not only was Sandra forced to face her perpetrators day after day, but this was all played out under the curious watch of a sometimes judgmental public. During questioning she was forced to relive the nightmare in front of crowds of strangers. Sandra was a survivor, though, and she dealt with the stress, the uncomfortable questions, and the fear the only way she knew how: by pushing the ugliness to the far recesses of her mind, where they would lie dormant until one day the festering emotions would burst forth.
Eventually, the trials whose successes had depended on the guts and gumption of a young teen had finally reached their anticipated end. David had pled guilty to three counts of murder and one count of manslaughter prior to the trials. This killer who had claimed he’d never plead guilty was the first to give in. Years later in an interview with a reporter from the Des Moines Register, David would claim that if “all my appeals fail, I will write the governor and ask for the death penalty. I will not live out my life in prison.” He contended that living in prison is “like living with a bunch of wild hogs and other animals.” He was given a life sentence without the possibility of parole.
Allen was found guilty of four counts of first degree murder. He had two prior felony convictions. In a pretrial interview, one parole officer stated that Allen had killed “in the manner of one simply poaching a deer.” He was sentenced to four terms of life in prison.
James was found guilty of three counts of first degree murder and one count of manslaughter. He was given three terms of life and one term of eight years for manslaughter. The prosecution made the decision not to pursue a charge of rape since he would be locked up for life. All three were sent to the maximum security penitentiary in Fort Madison, Iowa. At the time, Iowa did not have the death penalty.
What was the motive behind the horrendous crimes at Gitchie Manitou? This was the question that so many people had pondered from the beginning. Even after lengthy court trials a clear motive was never established. Could it have been that in their twisted minds the Fryers felt they were acting as law enforcement agents and got carried away? Did they want the girl, or did James Fryer want the girl and the other brothers participated? Did Allen ask for Sandra’s phone number after a night of murder because he’d developed a bizarre obsession with her? Perhaps they turned to hunting humans that night since their quest for wild game during the day had been unsuccessful, so they turned to the only prey that was available? Were they deviant psychopaths or sociopaths who refused to operate within the moral and legal boundaries of our society? The question of motive remains unanswered. One final question hung in the air: Why did Allen change his mind and decide not to kill Sandra? It was a question that would not be answered for over forty years.
TOP: The photo of Sandra that captures the emotional toll of the trials.
BOTTOM (from left): Roger Essem, Mike Hadrath, Stewart “Stew” Baade, Dana Baade
Chapter 30
“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.”
Joshua 1:9
A final tap of the judge’s gavel signaled the end to months of trials and testimony. The courtroom cleared and people returned to their daily routines. The detectives now had new cases to tackle. The judges examined
their dockets. Even the media had nothing new to report surrounding the events once the last Fryer was safely ensconced in the Fort Madison Penitentiary. Memories of the Gitchie Manitou murders faded from daily life and things returned to normal. Except for the families of the victims.
Sandra did her best to pick up the remnants of her former life, the one filled with television shows about happy families and excited chatter about a weekend with friends before the start of class on Monday mornings. At school, two teachers worked tirelessly to try to help her catch up on the work she’d missed over the last year and a half when she’d been away to testify at trials. But even their help wasn’t enough to counteract the judgmental stares in the classrooms and the cruel whispers as girls passed her in the hallways. Hardest of all, though, was the avoidance, the leper-like status that kept many at bay. Kids at school kept their distance, not wanting to be associated with the “Gitchie Girl,” a term that was now often used in place of her name.
She could have risen above the heartless comments that were said just loud enough for her to hear. And after enduring months of face-to-face encounters with the murderers, she could have brushed off the repulsive looks from the corners of sanctimonious eyes. But what tore at her soul was the isolation. The seclusion from the lunch tables. The exclusion from after-school get-togethers. Most of the mothers of her former friends no longer allowed their daughters to keep company with the tainted “Gitchie Girl,” as if the violence that had been perpetrated against Sandra somehow made her a disreputable person. She wanted to hear, “There’s the girl who helped put those killers behind bars.” Instead, it was callous whispers. Always whispers followed by kids turning around in their seats and glancing at her with looks of revulsion, as though she were the one who’d committed the crimes. People avoided talking to her, as if her existence no longer deserved to be acknowledged.
Debbie remained a loyal friend, but she was older and had a job so Sandra wasn’t able to see her very often. One day, two girls who’d been somewhat friendly before the Gitchie incident finally spoke to Sandra after school. She was caught off guard. She dared herself to hope. Maybe the gossip had worn itself out.
“I’m still your friend. I just wanted you to know that,” the first girl said unexpectedly.
“We don’t care what the other kids are saying, but...” The other girl looked down at the ground as if expecting Sandra to fill in the rest of her sentence.
“But what?” Sandra asked.
“It’s just our moms. We can’t talk to you on the phone, and you can’t come over to our houses because, well, because that’s what our moms said.” The first girl shifted her textbooks from arm to arm and avoided eye contact.
Sandra knew she should feel elated that this was a starting point. Maybe the other kids would see that they could be friends with her too. Never one to judge, she didn’t feel animosity; in fact, she understood their predicament. The three made plans to meet at a basketball game at the Sioux Falls Arena that weekend. While there, she met a nice boy from the town of Dell Rapids, South Dakota, twenty miles from where Sandra lived. Neither was allowed to make phone calls because at that time there were long distance charges involved, so they exchanged letters instead.
It was a nice arrangement that suited Sandra just fine. He wrote kind things about her, told about going to movies with his friends on the weekend, and made Sandra feel like maybe, just maybe, her life could return to normal again someday. His letters gave her something to look forward to, a brief bright spot in an otherwise dark week. On the days when an envelope arrived, she’d tear it open, and a smile would fill her face. Until one day she unfolded the paper to find disturbing news. It read, “Sandra, I’m sorry but my mom found out who I was writing to and will not let me write or talk to you anymore. Sorry.” And that was it. The small bit of happiness had come to an end. It was another wound upon her heart.
At about the same time, the hassle of trying to meet Sandra secretly combined with not being allowed to be seen with her put too much of a strain on the friendship with the two girls who’d reached out to her. The friendship among them slowly fizzled out. But Sandra desperately needed to talk to someone. A nauseating dread sickened her thoughts with fear and apprehension each time she prepared to leave the safety of her house. Even the solace of her room no longer offered comfort. The emptiness of the nights filled her with the nagging feeling that something bad was about to happen. Sandra didn’t realize that professional counseling was even an option, and no one offered it to her. Ever. Her own family avoided the topic of what she had lived through. Her brothers, who wanted to help their sister but weren’t sure how, felt it was best for Sandra if she didn’t dredge up details about “that night.” It was typical of the time to simply not talk about uncomfortable topics in the belief that the pain would eventually go away on its own.
“It doesn’t do any good to bring up all the ugliness.”
“It’s over and done with.”
“It’s time to move on with your life.”
She wasn’t even sure who’d told her those things, but she heard the platitudes each time she dared to broach the subject of “that night.” She grasped at anything that would help ease the pain, including her love of music. She would climb the stairs to her room, shut out the world, and play a song by the Grassroots over and over on the record player while lying on her bed sobbing. She tried to move on, to forget about what happened. She tried to ignore the snide comments. She tried to pretend the whispers and disgusted voices weren’t about her, the “Gitchie Girl.”
But it was no use. She no longer fit in. Sandra felt twenty years older than the other girls. She’d grown up beyond her years while they were still able to giggle about first kisses and the school dance next weekend. But no one wanted to dance with the “Gitchie Girl.” People she’d thought were her friends had disappeared. Her brother Jim went off to the Marines and Bob left for college. As soon as she was able, Sandra dropped out of school and soon after her brother Bill followed. Her downward spiral escalated.
Chapter 31
The anniversary of the murders each year was especially difficult for Sandra. She soon found that she could cope with the unbearable pain of the day by partying and drinking away the bad thoughts in the evenings with friends. It was a method she turned to when she could no longer handle the horrendous emotions that clouded her life. At fifteen Sandra was already showing classic signs of survivor’s guilt and post-traumatic stress, although the diagnosis itself had not yet been coined. She still dreaded leaving the house and spent hours tucked away in her darkened bedroom with the covers pulled tight around her, crying until her mind went numb. She’d beg God to make it all go away and prayed that He could make it all be a bad dream so she could wake up and go on with her old life. Yet it seemed to her that God wasn’t listening anymore. She began to grow angry with Him. How could He have let this happen?
For the past two years, she had refused to sleep unless her mom was next to her for comfort when Sandra would wake up screaming. Before bed, she’d pray to God to let her dream about Roger and the boys so she could be with them again. But those dreams never came. It was always the nightmares instead. When it seemed God did not hear her, she started to doubt and question whether there even was a God. There were blocks of time when Sandra was able to shut out the pain and to others she appeared to be functioning very well. She landed a job and performed the tasks as required. Throughout her life, she’d proved herself to be a hard worker.
Lolo was working long hours and seldom home. Her brothers for the most part were out of the house and on their own. Evenings were the worst. The daylight would fade into the darkness that frequently sent Sandra into a panic or depression. She would lie curled up on her bed and cry uncontrollably. Often, she’d turn to music to hear the comforting sound of another human voice. Inevitably, a song would come on the radio that reminded her of Roger or one of the other boys and this would leave her devastated. She couldn’t shake the feeling of lethargy
that had come to control her life. Sleep would eventually enter her anguished mind only to have her startle awake in the middle of the night screaming from the relentless nightmares.
Morning, which no longer held any possibility of hope, bled into evening as she plodded through each day, having been driven to the point of emotional despair. Her eyes betrayed the dark signs of sleepless nights. Sandra trudged from bed, pulled the curtains together tighter, and crumpled back onto the mattress while waves of anxiety washed over her. She couldn’t fight the hopelessness much longer. She dug her fingernails into the waning meat of her forearm to transfer her mental pain into physical pain if only for a moment.
Church bells chimed in the distance, and it occurred to Sandra that today was Sunday. She’d lost track. With every chime, she covered her ears tighter. The cheerful toll of the bells only served as a reminder that God had abandoned her. Why? Why am I alive? Why did the boys have to die when they loved life so much? Why didn’t I die with them? But she didn’t feel even a whisper of an answer. The bells chimed again. The sound filled her with a sudden fury. She bolted up in bed and threw her pillow at the wall toward the mocking sound and let out a rolling scream. “WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?” she shouted over and over until her strength was sapped and she collapsed, once again pulling the covers over her snarled hair and feeling hot tears slide down her face in the stifling darkness.
Sandra was a survivor. It was in her nature to help, to heal, to make the world a better place whether that meant helping a struggling animal or a stranger in need. An unfamiliar feeling had begun to haunt her during these long stretches of self-imposed solitary confinement. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to have lived. Maybe Allen was supposed to have killed her, too, and by some huge cosmic mistake she was still here. Maybe the only solution was...