"I can't understand why three innocent boys who still believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny should have to die such a terrible death," says grief-stricken John Mark Byers, 36, who was the first to alert police, when he couldn't find his son, Christopher, at dinnertime on Wednesday, May 5. "Nothing will fill the void and loss of my baby." The next Sunday, the Rev. Fred Tinsley told members of Holy Cross Episcopal Church, including the parents of another of the slain boys, Michael Moore, "My heart is very troubled. We've been subjected to a monstrous evil."
It is an evil this close-knit community is struggling to understand even as local police, aided by officers from Memphis, the Arkansas State Police and the FBI, work to unearth a more prosaic truth—the identity of the killer or killers. "It happened right outside our back doors. That's scary," said Donna Johnson, watching her 3-year-old son and two other toddlers at her apartment, not far from where the bodies were found. "I'm not going to let them get out of my sight, not until they catch who done it."
All around town, as volunteers collected money to help pay for the burials—by the time of the first funeral, more than $19,000 had been raised—fearful parents were clutching their kids more closely. No children walked unescorted to Weaver Elementary School, where the three boys—Christopher, Michael and their best buddy, Steve Branch—had been second graders. No youngsters played unsupervised in the tidy yards. And no little boys could be seen pedaling toward the popular hangout known as Robin Hood Park, the swampy, brush-choked woods where the trio was found. "I just told my son, 'You're going to have to quit riding your bike, even around the block, unless someone's with you,' " said Brenda Haycraft, who was delivering sympathy cards to the three mourning households and bursting into tears at each stop. "You don't know," interjected her 4-year-old, Ernie. "Kids could die."
So far police are keeping a lid on what, according to Inspector Gary Gitchell, promises to be "a long investigation." Officials have been stung by criticism from at least one of the dead boys' families that they failed to do enough soon enough. "I don't think it had to end up this way. I just feel like our sons' three lives just didn't seem to be important," says John Byers. Although West Memphis police searched around town for the boys, Byers complains that only a single officer looked for them in the woods near where they had last been seen. And when a frantic Byers called the sheriff's office to plead for additional assistance, he was told it wasn't within their jurisdiction. He also claims to have been told that the boys probably had lost track of time—and to call again if they didn't turn up by morning.
"We knew that was bull," says Byers. "These children are 8 years old. They're scared of the dark. I could feel it in my heart—something was wrong." Despite being partially disabled by a brain tumor, Byers, a onetime jeweler, joined the other parents and volunteer searchers in a futile hunt through the night. "There's no doubt in my mind if they had sent the rescue squad and more police officers [Wednesday night], there would have been a different outcome to this story," he says. "I think they would have either been found alive or they would have caught the perpetrator in the act or trying to leave the scene."
Sheriff Richard Busby blames miscommunication between his officers and Byers for the failure to send more help quickly. The bodies were finally discovered early the next afternoon, a few hours after a full-scale search was begun, when an officer noticed a tennis shoe floating in a ditch. "Inquisitive," says Inspector Gitchell, "he just jumped into the water and fell one of [the boys]."
In the absence of authoritative information, townspeople are formulating their own theories about the case. Some suspect the involvement of a serial killer or a Satanic cult. Others, noting Robin Hood Park's proximity to a truck wash and an access road to Interstate 40, suspect hitchhikers, truckers or other transients. And still others regard the woods as a malevolent presence, the kind of dark and forbidding place where the worst always seems to be lurking in the underbrush. "I didn't go no more because it looked scary," says Corteza Hollins, 9, a friend of the boys. "Michael and them said it looked scary too but they kept going."
Throughout West Memphis, neighbors shared memories of the youngsters: mischievous Michael, a leader who loved the Cub Scout pack his trucker father, Todd, started last year so much that he wanted to wear his uniform all the time; Christopher, everybody's buddy, nicknamed Wormer because he was too squirmy to sit still; Steve, a straight-A student who overcame his usual shyness to give a $5 friendship ring to his "girlfriend," Michael's 9-year-old sister, Dawn. The boys were also achingly present at their old school, where the flag flew at half-mast as teachers and some 15 counselors tried to help their classmates cope. "The children were crying, and I was crying, and I just told 'em, 'Y'all go ahead and cry,' " said counselor Lila Lovely. "I told them when someone dies, they're still our friend, they're just not here with us."
Within hours, each of the empty desks had become a memorial, covered with tear-stained crayon drawings and paper hearts. The top and seat of Michael's desk were decked with yellow-flowered weeds children had pulled from the schoolyard; barely visible was a Valentine's Day picture of him smiling shyly next to classmate April Jordan.
Then, on Tuesday morning, the day of Michael's funeral, his classmates had a special visitor—Michael's father. "He came up here because he was worried about the children," says principal Sarah Kirkley. "He said, 'I don't want them to be upset. I want them to see we are all right.' " As the trucker spoke, some children listened intently, while others put their heads down on their desks and wept. "Michael doesn't have to do board work anymore," Todd Moore told his son's friends, who knew how he chafed at classwork and lived to play. "He's playing at recess now."
PAM LAMBERT
LUCHINA FISHER in West Memphis
- Contributors:
- Luchina Fisher.
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