JonBenet: Inside the Ramsey Murder Investigation (40 page)

The detectives had consulted a couple of experts in an attempt to answer four questions concerning the DNA issues: What did we have? What did it reveal? Where do we go now? Would DNA solve this case?

A special briefing by molecular biologists Melissa Weber of CellMark Laboratories and Kathy Dressel of the Colorado Bureau of Investigation provided no miracles. The results remained frustrating and ambiguous, and even the experts did not agree on everything. Among their findings was that the DNA might not be related to the murder at all. Other results were open to interpretation.

• A head hair found at the scene appeared to belong to JonBenét.

• The primary DNA from the panties also appeared to be from her. But a secondary DNA source may have been present. If that secondary material was a mixture from two or more people, then the labs could exclude no one. Faint DNA results may have been due to “technical or stutter artifact.”

It might be as simple as JonBenét having put on a playmate’s underwear in which foreign DNA already existed. On the other hand, the mixture that had been found was complicated by a myriad of technical factors, including quality, quantity, degradation, and possible contamination. That meant that excluding people
might
be possible, but positive identification was unlikely.

• The fingernails of the left hand presented uncertain technical issues. JonBenét appeared to be the primary DNA source, but the experts could not exclude any male as the donor of a secondary source that was present. Issues included the possibility that multiple DNA had been under her nails for several days.

The experts noted no blood or skin tissue beneath the fingernails, as they often see when a victim has fought an attacker. However, DNA can be deposited by someone merely dragging their nails across their own cheek.

• The fingernails of the right hand were equally ambiguous, with JonBenét again appearing to be the primary donor and once again an unidentified secondary male DNA present.

• They drew no firm conclusions regarding the pubic hair. It was deemed, however, that it might not be a pubic hair at all but possibly a hair from a chest or beneath an arm. That would confuse things even more.

We would later discuss the cleanliness of the victim, including not washing her hands, wetting the bed, not wiping thoroughly after a bowel movement, and hating to have her fingernails trimmed. Weber said that the DNA beneath the fingernails could have come from anywhere, particularly if it had been there for several days, and that degradation was a concern.

They explained that obtaining additional DNA samples from any new suspects would not necessarily assist in an identification. Because of the possibility of mixtures from more than one source, conclusive determinations could not be reached.

Their results could be argued a number of ways, and defense lawyers surely would say that any unknown DNA found came from an intruder, although in fact hardly anyone could be excluded.

We could not determine whose DNA it was, when it was deposited, or if it had been degraded.

The DA’s people apparently didn’t hear what we heard, for Deputy DA DeMuth immediately announced that the results did not “match” John Ramsey. He said we must now locate and obtain DNA samples from any “potential suspect.” Such a list would be endless. The best bet was that new equipment and DNA-testing methods might some day crack this part of the mystery.

With those inconclusive findings, the district attorney asked Henry Lee if he would “unravel the DNA mess,” and Lee refused, suggesting that the FBI lab do that. “Adequate and complete [DNA] testing should have been done long ago,” he scolded.

Hunter then asked what we should do to solve the case, and Lee replied that he was only a scientist who could advise on evidence collection, testing, and results. Figuring out what it all meant in the company of other evidence would be somebody else’s job. “This case,” he said, “will be a war of experts.”

Trying to sound optimistic at a news conference later, Lee told reporters our chances had risen to fifty-fifty.

It had become difficult for me to get out of bed in the morning, so I would just lie there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling and psyching myself up for another day with this ugly, sleazy case.

A talk show prattled on about the bungling cops of Boulder as I drove through a cold and snowy morning. I wanted to call in and tell them we had probable cause but weren’t allowed to make an arrest.

The windowless SitRoom had taken on the oppressive feeling of a prison cell, and I felt as if I had aged ten years. “Come on in,” another detective called. “This place will suck the life right out of you.”

Although we had been strapped for manpower from the start, some of the detectives who had only recently been brought aboard to help already wanted out.

Detective Kim Stewart, the best investigator in the department, wanted to get back on midnight patrol duty and away from the Ramsey mess. Another detective had been screamed at and mocked as a “fucking incompetent” by Ramsey friend Susan Stine, and when he reported the incident to Mark Beckner, the commander responded, “I need to call Susan and apologize.” The detective put on his overcoat and stalked away without a word. We called it Mission Impossible.

“Someday,” I told Detective Gosage, “this case will be held up as a model on how not to run a major investigation.”

I urgently needed to do more work in Atlanta. None of the palm prints submitted to the CBI matched the single unidentified one from the door to the little basement room. But we had never collected the prints of four family members who had stayed in the house—Don and Nedra Paugh and their daughters Pam and Polly.

While in Atlanta, I could also knock on the door of John Ramsey’s former mistress, Jodi Roberts, and interview her. Ramsey had described her as being very emotional and claimed that she “seduced” him. In the April interviews, he described her as a vengeful person, but hadn’t offered any clues as to where we could find her. I had spent a year tracking her down, and friends described her as a sweet, beautiful lady. Somebody was wrong.

Cops know that talking to former lovers can provide a treasure chest of information that the person being investigated would just as soon keep hushed up. Since we had to clear Roberts as a suspect anyway, I wanted to hear what she had to say about her affair with John Ramsey.

When I suggested going to Atlanta, Beckner asked if I could interview Roberts by phone instead. The same day I was told the budget could not cover an airline ticket, Chief Koby hired a new consultant to provide “emotional survival training” for the police department’s executive staff.

Another year would pass before detectives flew to Atlanta to talk with the ex-mistress. Agent John Lang of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation eventually obtained the Paugh family’s prints, in the presence of their lawyer.

Detective Gosage believed you could watch the Super Bowl in less time than it took Beckner to run a meeting, and we were in the middle of still another one.

The commander discussed an extraordinary case in Florida in which the parents had refused to cooperate with the cops, got a lawyer, and pleaded their innocence on television. Within weeks the Florida detectives were up on a Title-3 electronic surveillance and recorded the mother saying, “The baby’s dead and buried … because you did it.” The father replied, “I wish I hadn’t harmed her—it was the cocaine.”

I considered the irony of Beckner discussing a Title-3 that worked damned well in Florida when he had been a part of the scandal-frightened leadership that wouldn’t let us try the same tactic.

Instead Beckner was now proposing that we adopt a “long view” strategy. Plan A was to wait until Burke turned eighteen years old and then “get a detective close to him.” Plan B was to put a wire on Father Rol and have the minister visit Patsy when she lay on her deathbed in some future year. Terrific, hard-charging cop stuff.

“We’ll document one hell of a case. Someday, someone will talk,” he said, avoiding words like solve and
arrest.
He just wanted to check off the boxes on his beloved to-do list and hand this monster off to somebody else. The meeting droned on as we wearily covered the same names and topics we discussed day after day. When the commander went around the table for status reports on a number of individuals, we answered in monotones:

“Santa Bill didn’t kill JonBenét.”

“Linda Hoffmann-Pugh didn’t kill JonBenét.”

“Joe Barnhill didn’t kill JonBenét.”

“The picture framer didn’t kill JonBenét.”

“Jeff Merrick didn’t kill JonBenét.”

“Priscilla White didn’t kill JonBenét.”

“Tom Carson didn’t kill JonBenét.”

He left the room and soon afterward confided to Sergeant Wickman that he might be losing control of the detectives, who challenged him openly now. “You’re right,” Wickman said.

We had no idea what the DA’s office was up to but knew they weren’t just sitting over there in the Justice Center twiddling their thumbs. We gave them copies of our reports and received precious little in return. Beckner said they were taking no investigative actions until we turned over the case. That wasn’t true.

A friend who was an FBI agent tipped me that a Michigan State professor was working on the Ramsey case at the request of the DA’s office. The professor had talked to the FBI about crime scene photos and the ligature, had wondered if Burke Ramsey might be the killer, and admitted speaking about the case with other people. “Just thought you should know what’s going on,” the agent said.

They were going behind our backs and spreading evidence around the country. Hunter was telling another expert that his investigators were looking for “a third weapon, a camera tripod.” Wickman punched a wall in frustration when I told him.

On February 25 the mayor chewed me out. This politician was meddling in a criminal investigation, probably in violation of the city charter, and didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, while Commander Beckner sat there watching, doing nothing to defend his detective.

Mayor Bob Greenlee wore khakis, loafers, a blue sports jacket, and no smile when I met him in Beckner’s office. “The mayor wants to ask you a few questions,” my boss said and retreated to a chair.

“Detective,” Mayor Greenlee began, all business. “What do you know about Jackie Dilson?” He gave me no chance to respond, and I had to suppress a grin. I knew all about Jackie Dilson, who was a regular visitor to police headquarters with her theory that her boyfriend probably murdered JonBenét.

Greenlee said he had personally met with Miss Dilson. “Did you know, detective, that her boyfriend, Chris Wolf, had Hi-Tec boots that Dilson purchased for him, that are by now undoubtedly in the bottom of some river?

“Did you know, detective, that Dilson gave the DA’s investigators evidence that could be tested in this case?”

Greenlee’s ruddy face was tinged with contempt, and I stole a glance at Beckner, who looked away from me.

“Detective, did you know Wolf had a flashlight similar to the one used in the murder? Detective, have you tested the rope that Dilson surrendered to you in this case? Detective, did you know Wolf was orphaned and raised by a beauty pageant queen mother whom he despised?” I was amused more than angry.

Greenlee eventually ran out of breath and let me speak.

Jackie Dilson, I told him, was nothing new. I had dealt with her for more than a year as she wove a sensational story about her boyfriend, Chris Wolf, tailoring it almost weekly to match the latest reports from the tabloids. When we decided there was nothing to it, we cut her loose, and she bounced to the DA’s investigators, Team Ramsey, the sheriff’s office, the district attorney’s office, and back to us, always adding new tidbits of information. Now she had peddled her package to the mayor, and the sucker had bought the whole thing. Congratulations, Jackie, I thought, you’ve reached the summit.

I answered Greenlee’s points one by one. I tried not to be insubordinate, but it was hard. “Did
you
know,
sir
, that the rope was not sent to the lab because it wasn’t the same type used in the murder? Did you know, sir, that the evidence she gave the DA’s office came with built-in problems such as authentication and seizure issues that make it useless in court?”

Greenlee shot back that just because I thought she might be embellishing her story did not mean we should not investigate Chris Wolf. “We need to check this out!” the mayor snorted. “We need a
thorough
investigation into this!” I guess he wanted me to cower in his presence.

Greenlee trapped himself, not me. “We
are
thoroughly investigating him,” I replied. Even as we spoke, Chris Wolf was in an interview room voluntarily giving handwriting, hair, and DNA samples and a statement. The police cleared him.

Still not ready to give up, the mayor turned to Beckner with a warning. “If Dilson goes to
Inside Edition or Hard Copy
, you’ll be embarrassed. We don’t need any more embamassment.”

Commander Beckner followed the mayor out of the office, down the hallway, and into the parking lot. If Greenlee had stopped quickly, Beckner’s nose would have been broken.

We came very close to exhuming the body of JonBenét Ramsey.

Throughout February we wrestled with that vexing question, because experts said the body might yield information on a wide range of points, from the vaginal trauma to settling the stun gun theory. The very idea was anathema to us all, and everyone agreed that before proceeding we needed assurances that vital questions would indeed be answered. Otherwise we would look like monsters.

The problem was psychological, not tactical or physical. The child had been laid to rest, and digging her up was almost unthinkable. This was one of the most shocking actions a government could take.

Commander Beckner said he was “leaning toward” doing it and assigned me to call once again upon the Georgia Bureau of Investigation for help. “No problem,” said GBI special agent John Lang. He soon came back with the details from the GBI attorneys, who said the only thing they needed was a comprehensive search warrant, medically researched and specific, with the facts clearly delineated, stating why we needed an exhumation.