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Well, since the mighty (some case-followers would say "flighty") Aphrodite Jones recently tossed her two cents into the Jonbenet Ramsey unsolved murder spectacle, I guess I'm going to, too.
The orthodox narrative of the soon to be 15 year old mystery now holds that John and Patsy Ramsey, the parents of the eternal yet unfortunate child beauty, suffered needlessly for years at the hands of the sometimes incompetent but always narrow-minded Boulder Police Department. They, the BPD, were dead set on nailing the parents, reading into the labyrinth of left-behind clues one inescapable conclusion: Ramsey culpability.
Only when former Boulder District Attorney Mary Lacy yanked the case away from the Police, ‘round about 2002, did a proper investigation have any chance of bearing fruit.
And first, under Lacy's tutelage, forensic science was able to further cast light on that tiny amount of foreign DNA that had been intermingled with Jonbenet's blood, found in her underwear. The profile ? unable to be dated and sourced, and so long under a cloud of doubt, for years its relevance was bandied back and forth -- was at last forwarded to CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System.
(This was a sample of unknown provenance, too small even to determine if it was skin, saliva or what have you, and it has never been matched with a name, even as of today.)
Anyway, in 2008 it was announced that yet more DNA had been isolated: on both sides of the victim's long johns, microscopic skin cell DNA were scraped, collected, analyzed -- and then, with much excitement, found to match the original profile. Thus, Lacy and her team concluded that finding DNA with the same deciphered profile in three different spots ruled out artifact of innocuous origin, but very likely demonstrated that some unknown male had handled two different sets of Jonbenet's undergarments, and therefore was most likely the yet to be named killer. Since the DNA matched no Ramsey, living or otherwise, Lacy publicly exonerated the family.
Not long after, John Ramsey, the father, who over time camiseta de barcelona has fought to claim for himself the mantle of cooperation, urged ? again ? a re-investigation, especially into someone close to his family . . . tantalizingly hinted at by a certain bizarre ransom note written so many years ago.
But in 2009, the baton had been passed on again ? back to the aforementioned, bigoted BPD. Stan Garnett, who replaced Lacy in 2009, felt an unsolved crime should be actively investigated by the Police, not by a DA's office holding it in stasis, hoping for a hit in a faraway DNA database.? Further, without explicitly repudiating Lacy's assertion the Ramseys were victims two ways to Sunday, he had intimated as far as he is concerned, he'll follow the evidence where the evidence shall lead ? to wherever, to whomever, regardless.
So, if the BPD had royally botched the case in the first place, as is the conventional wisdom, and continued to do so for years, is Stan Garnett a fool? Or does he, like many others, think the present day narrative doesn't do justice to one of life's most intriguing yet infuriating aspects: nuance. Maybe, just maybe, the DA has concluded, what went before Mary Lacy's intervention wasn't necessary a complete fiasco that belongs in some hidden away trashcan of irrelevant law enforcement history.
Back we go, to the beginning.
Almost as if it were a different age, maybe in an alternate reality, early in the morning of December 26th, 1996, a 911 operator received a call from a distraught, close to discombobulated, Patsy Ramsey. The woman, nearly hyper-ventilating, yammered she had discovered a Ransom Note that claimed her daughter had been kidnapped, and she beseeched the Operator to send help at once. Apparently, Patsy's disorganized cry for help was in part due to her not having read the note in its entirety. That was something her husband, John, was doing at the time, with the three-paged threat spread out all over the floor. Then, Patsy, after the abruptly ending the 911 call, proceeded to call family friends, urging them to hurry over, that something terrible had and is happening.
(It has been endlessly debated as to why Patsy would so quickly defy the threatening language of the ransom note, which specifically warned against involving law enforcement. The kidnappers were supposedly conducting surveillance, yet Patsy announced, to anyone who would heed, hurry to the focal point of the insidious surveillance. Maybe she really didn't read it all.)
In the span of a few short hours, searching Police officers, evidence-hungry detectives and meandering family friends had unwittingly done the mysterious culprit or culprits a huge favor: gross contamination of the crime scene. The Detectives, particularly Linda Arndt ? who was later unwisely and unfairly left alone for hours that day in the mini mansion the Ramseys called home -- treated the parents with kid gloves, taking the oddly worded ransom note at face value. (Also, the Ramseys were moneyed up the wazzo, and money can and often does influence the playing field, as the cops were to find out, soon enough.) Too often that fateful day, the whereabouts of resident or visitor in that house could not always be accounted for;? movements were hardly painstakingly observed.
Between the hours of 8 and 10, a call, in accordance with the instructions of the ransom note, should have been received. "The Small Foreign Faction represented by a group of individuals" claiming responsibility, was after 118,000 dollars, and Mr. Ramsey (later referred to as "John" by the author as the note rambled on) was to await instructions.
Well . . . nothing happened. No sign or word of the missing 6 year old, and a frustrated, over taxed detective Arndt, a little after 1 PM, told restless John Ramsey to search the house, look for anything out of order. Further contamination just wasn't on Detective Arndt's mind, for whatever reason.
Soon, John Ramsey, with two family friends in tow, descended to the basement. (Unknown to law enforcement, John Ramsey had been down that way earlier in the morning; they would learn that pertinent fact four ? count it! -- four months later.) In an out of the way, nearly empty, windowless room (the infamous wine cellar), Mr. Ramsey located the body of his six year old daughter, behind a latched door in the dark.
(The Police had failed to open the door hours earlier, assuming a fleeing kidnapper would have no reason to go that way with their prey. Mr. Fleet White, one camisetas de futbol barcelona of the friends called over earlier by Patsy, and at John's back during the horrid discovery, claimed, of his own initiative and wandering feet, to have looked into the room earlier, and saw nothing of note.)
Upon inspection of the remains, it seemed that someone had fashioned a makeshift garrote to make the little angel's last moments on earth too terrible to contemplate, even for Quentin Tarantino. Was she strangled for someone's sadistic pleasure . . . ? So viciously, that someone might have wickedly contemplated taking her head off? As the hardly cogent ransom note ominously threatened?
Mr. Ramsey carried his daughter up the stairs, and then placed her on the floor. Further contamination.
And the contamination continued.
Shortly, Detective Arndt had the body repositioned near a Christmas tree. Some well intentioned souls not only covered the body with a blanket, but the feet with a sweatshirt; and, not unexpectedly, Patsy Ramsey knelt over, hugged her only futbol club barcelona tienda daughter before wailing for divine intervention.
Not even Sherlock Holmes could have extrapolated a pristine crime scene from this disaster. Good night!
Then . . . something hard to explain away, happened.
John Ramsey was overheard making plans to fly out of state with his family, that very night. The yet to be maligned Boulder Police informed the father of the newly discovered dead girl that was a big no-no. He had to stay around . . . there would very likely be a lot of questions -- questions that Mr. Ramsey and his family would likely be the best candidates to answer.
To summarize what had happened that day after Christmas long ago: An oddly worded yet clearly threatening note was discovered, one that wants only 118,000 from a pretty rich guy for the safe return of his daughter, written by an anonymous kidnapping mastermind with murky comrades, who signed off with an unknown acronym of S.B.T.C . . . and Victory!
But the kidnappers, for some yet to be fathomed reason, got it half right: they left the note, as certainly kidnappers must -- ?to get their point across. But they also their lifeless and, once inevitably discovered, useless bargaining chip.
A ploy at . . . ?misdirection?
The mother's behavior, in hindsight, was speculated by on-site officers as unusual: she surreptitiously fixated on the movements of the original responding officer; and as the hours passed she sunk into such a funk -- as if she had little, or even zero, hope whatsoever her daughter was coming back. No effort on her part to keep spirits up: something many people in such a dire pinch are wont to do. "Where there's hope, there's life" didn't seem at all to apply to this wreck of a woman. As for her husband, John? Well, he earned the nickname "The Ice Man" for the better part of that morning. Further, the couple expressed little to no mutual support, as was noted by more than one observer. The two parents . . . weren't as one.
Yet another odd point in an odd tragedy: Jonbenet's older brother, 9 year old Burke, was trundled off to Fleet White's nearby residence, around about 7 AM. It's been claimed the child seemed somewhat incurious.
Though certainly a big house, but not exactly the Taj Mahal, the?police could not ascertain with any confidence just how the villains broke in. They would learn, later, the Ramseys had a habit of loaning keys out; plus, a broken window in one of the cellars might have been another way. Sadly, as so many other aspects of this case, its significance got blurred. The window had been broken months earlier, so the police were told; whether it might have been fixed before the 26th of December, well, John and Patsy were a bit hazy on all that.