Sleep, My Child, Forever

by John Coston

  Year after year of record-breaking homicide rates had kept the St. Louis Homicide Section very busy, indeed. In 1991, homicide was the leading cause of death for black men between the ages of fifteen and forty-four, a trend that continues to this day. In that year, St. Louis judges sent more criminals to prison than they had the year before, and the year before that. There were enough felony trials every year to start a new one every working day, and that had been the case on average for the past fifteen years in St. Louis. On top of that, the number of homicides produced a staggering backlog, due in part to the fact that the Circuit Attorney’s office prided itself on pursuing prosecution instead of plea-bargaining defendants through the system. After all, three out of four Missourians supported the death penalty.

  So it wasn’t much of a stretch for the local community to support a tough law-and-order approach, even with its pocketbook. Since the early 1980s, the Police Department’s budget had surpassed the level of the city’s general revenue.

  But Detective Sergeant Joseph Burgoon, Badge No. 4022, was more than just one man on the payroll. He was a bulldog when faced with a puzzling case. What distinguished him, too, was his patient style. Not that he would let anything rest—without good reason. He just knew that some things took time. He would still be there, ready and waiting, when the time was right.

  Police work was in his blood. Joe’s father was a policeman, and his younger brother, Jim, was one as well, though he was forced to retire due to a nerve disability. The Burgoon tradition continued into its third generation when Joe’s own son, Thomas, one of seven children, became a patrolman.

  The Burgoon family, had seen its share of hardship, too, but an abiding faith in the Catholic church and a strong adherence to Midwestern values had always stayed the course. When Joe was four years old, his mother died, leaving the full load of raising three boys and a daughter on his father’s shoulders until three years later, when he remarried.

  When Joe was thirty-three, he experienced a nearly identical tragedy. His own wife died of viral pneumonia at age thirty-one. The young couple had three girls and a boy, and his wife had been pregnant again. The child she was carrying when she died didn’t survive the premature birth. So the son, Joe, like his father before, became “Mr. Mom,” as he put it. He had to juggle responsibilities, and was grateful that the chief of detectives at the time understood. He was also grateful that his mother-in-law, who lived two blocks away, could help out. Most of the time he was scheduled for the day shift, so he could race home in time to prepare dinner, help with homework, and arbitrate the squabbles that always bubbled up at bedtime.

  Three and a half years later, in 1975, he remarried. Her name was Jackie and she was a nurse. In time, three more boys would come, bringing the total for the Burgoon household to seven children. All of them, except the three boys who are still teenagers, became college graduates. His oldest daughter is a mechanical engineer. Another daughter manages a restaurant.

  Joe was twenty-two-years old when he joined the force. Eight years later, he made Homicide, where he has been for a quarter of a century. His bulldog reputation is rooted in the education he got early on, learning from the older men on the force. Phil Quire, for one, was a mentor for Joe, who watched the senior detective’s moves, and perhaps more important, kept his ears open. That’s how he picked it up. That’s how he got to be what he is today, Detective Sergeant Joseph Burgoon, Badge No. 4022, and when he sank his teeth into Complaint No. 91146623, it wasn’t going to be just another case for the Crimes Against Persons Division of the Homicide Section of the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department.

  A Cold Shoulder

  Steven Michael Boehm

  “Our Little Tiger”

  September 22, 1985–

  September 25, 1989

  A little more than a week after Steven’s death, someone called the Child Abuse Hotline about Stacy. The caller knew about both boys’ deaths, and they also knew about Stacy’s incident with the hair dryer in the bathtub. To date, no one among Ellen’s coworkers knew about it. Deanne didn’t know, and consequently neither did the medical examiner or anyone else who was beginning to have questions.

  On October 4th, Erelene Turner, an intake worker with the St. Louis Division of Family Services, received the details of a hotline report. From it, Ms. Turner could see that the accident involving Stacy had happened a mere two weeks before Steven died. It was also clear that both boys had died of undetermined causes. Without delay, she decided to interview Stacy, which she did at the girl’s school the very next day.

  Stacy was a second grader at Patrick Henry Elementary School. Though she was only eight years old, she was able to vividly recall the recent events in her life, starting with Steven’s death. But all she could provide was a scanty, outline of the facts, which she didn’t recall in correct chronological order.

  “All I know is Steven got sick, and got some shots from Cardinal Glennon Hospital,” the little girl said.

  When she was asked about the hair dryer incident, Stacy was again very succinct. “Steven threw the hair dryer in the bathtub, while I was bathing. My mother ran into the room and unplugged it. Then my mother took me to the hospital.”

  Ms. Turner had already made arrangements to talk to Ellen the next day, and she was beginning to anticipate that interview when she thanked Stacy for seeing her. The girl was polite, and seemed sad, but only the way any child might seem only two weeks after losing a brother. Stacy didn’t offer any further information, and Ms. Turner saw no signals that might suggest something worth pursuing.

  The next day, the interview with Ellen was similarly matter-of-fact, and Ellen wrapped all her answers around a filmy gauze of uncertainty: She didn’t know the cause of death of her two sons.

  At Ms. Turner’s prompting, Ellen related the dates and times and places of both David and Steven’s deaths. Her retelling of events was by turns oddly general and then specific. For example, about David she said little more than that he had a cold at the time and was lying on the living room floor, when all of a sudden he looked “funny.” She shook him, but he didn’t respond. But then she specified that she had been giving him some cough medicine during the day. She made a point of the fact that she had purchased the medicine at Walgreens.

  Similarly, while talking about Steven, she explained that he had been feeling ill through the weekend and on Monday she had taken the day off to spend with him. In describing the stop the two of them made for an early lunch at Taco Bell, Ellen was very precise when describing that Steven had taken only three bites of his food; it wasn’t unusual at all for a mother to actually keep count of how many mouthfuls went down, but Ellen never discussed whether Steven had a fever. What was equally precise in Ellen’s recounting of the events of Monday, September 25th, was the careful way she retraced part of the conversation to make sure Ms. Turner recorded the fact that Ellen and Steven had also stopped at Ellen’s mother’s house, a detail that Ellen had skipped over quickly the first time. Why would it matter? It was as if Ellen were establishing a fail-safe sequential routine of events for that day.

  Ms. Turner returned to her office and wrote up a report. There wasn’t much to it, but it didn’t rest on a shelf somewhere, destined for inaction, because in a little over a month there would be reason to drag it out again.

  The night of October 5th, the same day of Ellen’s interview with Ms. Turner, Teri Boehm decided to call her mother. She wanted to know if her cousin had given birth yet. Ten days had passed since Steven’s death, but they had no knowledge of it. While Teri was on the phone, Paul was sitting across the room, not six feet away, and he could see the growing puzzlement on his wife’s face.

  Teri kept saying, “Yeah, he had two sons.”

  “What do you mean had?” Paul barked back. “He does.”

  Teri’s mother had told her of the report in the Post-Dispatch about Steven’s death.

  Paul was getting up from his chair when Teri hung up the phone. Quickly she explained what
had happened. Paul pulled his hat off his head and threw it across the room. Then he collapsed.

  “What the hell is Ellen doing to these kids?” Teri said out loud.

  Paul hadn’t really gotten over the death of David, and now the news about Steven reignited the pain all over again.

  “I’m telling you,” Teri said, “she killed those babies.”

  The next day Paul and Teri’s thoughts were dominated by the bad news. Ellen had never even called to inform him of the death of his son. He wondered about the funeral, whether it had been held. Surely the funeral had taken place, because it had been almost two weeks. He remembered the argument with Ellen about where to bury David, but he didn’t know whether she had buried Steven next to him. Or where.

  They both took off work and went to the offices of the Red Cross to find out more. They knew that the Red Cross would at least confirm the information, because the agency had helped out when David had died.

  Paul called his first ex-wife, Susan Emily. He knew she still kept in touch with Ellen. Susan told him that it was true, and that by coincidence she had been at the hospital when Steven died.

  By the end of the week, the Tucson offices of the Red Cross confirmed for Paul what he had by then himself verified. The letter stated that his son Steven had died on September 25th at Cardinal Glennon Hospital in St. Louis.

  Teri also called the Tucson police and the local child protection agency. “Look, something’s going on in Missouri. Somebody’s got to do something about it.”

  After many frustrating dead ends, her persistence eventually paid off. Pat Morales, a Protective Children’s Service caseworker in Tucson, was assigned to follow up on the report. By the time Ms. Morales called Ms. Turner, her counterpart in St. Louis, it was November 11th. She wanted to inform St. Louis authorities of the request for an investigation in the deaths of the two boys. Ms. Morales explained that Teri Boehm has expressed grave suspicions about the deaths, as well as concern about the safety of the remaining child, Stacy Ann, age eight.

  Just as they had when David died, tenants in Ellen’s building took up a collection. This time Sally Jett, an elderly tenant, wanted to lead the effort. She had just entered the office of Karen Grimes, the building’s manager, and was asking if it would be okay to take up a collection for Steven, when Ellen barged in on them.

  “Guess what?” Ellen said.

  “Oh, what?” Sally said, turning to look at the ebullient Ellen.

  “I found this other funeral home that is so much cheaper. This one is only $1,500.”

  Ellen was almost laughing about it. Was she hysterical? What was this?

  Of course, neither Karen nor Sally knew what to say, and in the weighty pause, Ellen was on her way out.

  Karen looked at Sally, and Sally looked back. There was dead silence. Sally finally spoke.

  “I’ll be damned if I collect anything for that old bitch!”

  Then Sally walked out.

  Pretty much the same sentiment emerged at Andersen, where employees had collected $1,000 after David’s death. This time a similar collection was made for Steven. The kitty had grown to $1,200, but the money was being held back. Everyone was unsure about how it should be handled. Ellen’s coworkers and supervisors had by now come to realize that Ellen had been having money problems, but she had also taken a trip to Florida and stiffed the funeral home for David’s funeral expenses.

  When Ellen made the arrangements for Steven, she did find a less expensive route. It was the Wacker-Helderle Funeral Home, and after discussing what Ellen wanted, she was told that it would cost $1,594.87. Patricia Lauer of Wacker-Helderle actually knew Ellen slightly from church, and was aware that her youngest son had only recently died. Ms. Lauer also knew that Ellen had used a different funeral home, and she asked Ellen why she hadn’t gone back to Gebken-Benz.

  “I wasn’t satisfied with the way the arrangements were handled,” an imperious Ellen answered.

  Ms. Lauer didn’t question it any further, but she did make an inquiry at Gebken-Benz to determine what it might have been that displeased Ellen. What she learned was that it was really the other way around. Gebken-Benz wasn’t satisfied, because its bill had never been paid, even though there was life insurance on the boy from Ellen’s place of employment.

  Ellen didn’t flinch when Ms. Lauer later informed her that it would be necessary for Ellen to sign a deed, attaching the $5,000 life insurance claim from Aetna, which was the office policy. Ellen signed, and when Ms. Lauer saw Ellen next, at Steven’s funeral, she was curious to see that the bereaved woman showed no emotion. Ellen never shed a tear.

  Despite what she told her friends, Ellen never made any attempt to contact Paul about Steven’s death. This time she was free to make whatever arrangements she wanted. Steven was buried right next to his brother in the Babyland section of Trinity Cemetery, and after Steven’s burial, Ellen told the workers at the cemetery to keep an eye on the graves.

  “Watch out for the graves,” she said. “Don’t let anyone come out and take them away.”

  The men shrugged their shoulders, nodding at the same time. In the fall and winter of that year, they noticed that Ellen came out a lot. She wasn’t hard to miss, and the plot where her boys were interred was easily visible from the office and garage. The admonition to the caretakers was a sign that Ellen’s bold facade was beginning to show signs of wear. In the remaining months of 1989, a lot of Ellen’s friends and coworkers also were learning new things about the woman they had pitied for the previous ten months. Most of them didn’t know what to think, but their feelings were hardening.

  A Good and Kind Person

  Here was a dream customer.

  It was only three days to Christmas, which meant that most people were running around trying to get their shopping done. For Tony Kafoury, a salesman at Weber Chevrolet, this could be a slow time, indeed. The showroom was quiet as he stood around, eyeballing the traffic outside, when a short, heavyset woman walked through the front door.

  To Tony, she was a “real nice lady.” A veteran at his line of work, Tony was good at sizing up customers, but he wasn’t prepared for this one.

  After exchanging the briefest of niceties, Tony began to ask Ellen what kind of car she had in mind. Before she even answered, Ellen was heading across the showroom to a metallic-blue, four-door Chevrolet Lumina.

  “I really wanted a red one,” she said, and before he was obliged to say another word, Ellen was drooling over the showroom model.

  “I’ll buy it,” she said.

  “Do you want to take a drive?”

  “No, I’ll take it.”

  Tony had made a sale without even trying. The price tag was $15,050, and Ellen was eligible for a $1,050 rebate. On the spot, she made out a check for $200 as a down payment and told Tony she would return in a couple of days with the remaining $13,800. It would be a cashier’s check.

  “Okay, fine,” Tony said, just going along with her. He knew when a customer had fallen in love with a car.

  Ellen then proceeded to tell him where she was getting the money. Her child had recently died, and she was getting a large insurance check.

  Not expecting this, Tony expressed his sympathy. For him, it was a strange footnote to an otherwise perfect sale. This wasn’t the first time he had turned over a showroom demo without even so much as a sales pitch, but because the money to pay for the car came from an insurance policy on a child, he would never forget this customer.

  Now Ellen could tool around in a new Lumina. The purchase, however, was compulsive rather than well-advised. Only two weeks before, a homicide detective had been in touch with her.

  By December 6th, Dr. Graham had finally received the results of all the laboratory tests he had ordered for Steven’s autopsy. Dr. Graham suggested that the mother be interviewed in an attempt to learn any additional information. He still didn’t know the cause of death, and it would remain an open case until he could find one.

  “Anything, Joe,” Dr. Gra
ham said, “I just don’t have a thing. I’m arriving at this diagnosis based on what’s not there. See what you can find out.”

  Two days later, on the evening of December 8th, Sergeant Burgoon had the chance to meet Ellen for the first time. He had asked her to meet with him because there were questions about the cause of Steven’s death that the medical examiner couldn’t resolve. Could he come to her apartment to ask her a few questions? Burgoon was cunningly blank about it all, and Ellen was very cooperative.

  Burgoon was personable, as usual. He employed a diffident style as he talked to Ellen, hoping to get her to talk freely about the events of the night of September 25, 1989. Joe also wanted to know more about Ellen’s life, and once they got past the introductions, and then the personal data, such as name, date of birth, and employment, he proceeded to bore in, eliciting a portrait of the woman as she talked.

  “Ellen,” Burgoon started, “may I call you Ellen?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ellen, okay, I’m here because we have some questions, and we’d like to hear from you about the death of your son, Steven.”

  Burgoon paused, sensing that she was comfortable enough about the subject to talk. When it was time for her to tell her version of events, Burgoon got an earful.

  “Well, on Saturday, on the weekend before …”

  “That would be the twenty-third?”

  “Yeah. I took Steven and Stacy to the doctor’s for shots. Steven got three shots, for measles, DPT (diphtheria) and polio, and after that we went to Casa Gallardo in South County. Steven ate a taco, and after that we went home. About four o’clock, he started throwing up, and he threw up all through the night.”

  Burgoon stopped Ellen during her spiel. He needed names of doctors. He would ask what else Steven had eaten, and what he had to drink.

  “On Sunday, he was feeling a little better, but he slept quite a lot all day. He was still taking a lot of liquids. Then on Monday he still didn’t look good, so I decided to keep him home from school, and I stayed with him.”