Perfect Murder, Perfect Town by Lawrence Schiller Page B

social structure—just clubs and more informal groups.
    That morning, Rol said he hoped this terrible thing could be resolved. And said it would never happen again.
    After the service, almost everyone went to an adjoining building for coffee, as usual. One friend, Paula Schulte, said to me, “Maybe we can pull together as a church to help this family.” I don’t know why, but I answered that I couldn’t see anything good coming from this thing.
    —Niki Hayden
     
    When I arrived at St. John’s, I put my arms around Patsy’s sister Polly, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to Patsy. Pam, Patsy’s other sister, told me I had to go over and talk to her.
    “Who could have done this to JonBenét?” Patsy asked.
    “I wish I knew,” I said. “Are you sure you had all thedoors locked?”
    “Yes, we are sure.”
    “Are you sure you pushed the button on the patio door?”
    “We had all the windows and doors locked,” Patsy said.
    Before I could say another word, someone else was talking to Patsy.
    That was the last time I saw Patsy or John.
    —Linda Hoffmann-Pugh
     
    I knew where St. John’s was because I had once gone to a wedding there. That Sunday, December 29, it was sunny but cold. Some of us from the school and the neighborhood went together. We were all crying. The service was unbearably sad—people were sobbing all over the church. Patsy was shrouded in black.
    John spoke first. He told us he was wearing a medallion that JonBenét had won at her last pageant. He said that he often told his daughter the talent division was the most important because it was judged not on your appearance but on your achievements. The medallion he was wearing had been awarded to JonBenét for talent. He made it quite clear that he was not a fan of child beauty pageants. He thanked us all for coming, told us to remember we were all part of his family. He looked spaced out.
    As I watched John speak, the gossip we were hearing about his possible involvement in JonBenét’s death seemed ridiculous. Then Patsy’s sisters spoke. They were more charismatic and evangelical in their approach to worship.
    Bill McReynolds, who’d been the Santa at the Ramseys’ Christmas party, got up to talk. He told us that JonBenét had given him fairy dust for his beard. He rambled and he was almost incoherent. He was so strange that some of us were uncomfortable.
    When the service ended and Patsy stood up to get out of the pew, John helped her. Every step of the way, he told her, “I need you to be strong.” She stopped beside me and put her arms around me and we cried. Most of the congregation was in tears.
    We all went to the parish hall. There were silver pots of tea and cookies. Funeral stuff.
    Outside, the media people were circling.
    Eventually the Ramseys left for the airport and flew to Atlanta with JonBenét’s body.
    —Barbara Kostanick
     
    After the service, Detective Steve Thomas, thirty-six, who had been transferred to the case from narcotics only the day before and still had long hair and a goatee, helped the Ramsey family into their waiting cars as photographers closed in. “Get rid of them!” John Andrew shouted to Thomas. When the detective asked one photographer to step back, he accused the officer of protecting a killer.
    John Ramsey emerged from the church, and on his way to his car, he passed Thomas, whom he knew from the day before, when he had given blood and hair samples. Without looking directly at the detective, Ramsey shook his hand and said, “Thank you.” Thomas caught Ramsey’s eye and, looking squarely at him, said, “Good luck.” As the motorcade pulled away, Thomas was left with an uneasy feeling about JonBenét’s father. The detective had expected Ramsey to say, “Find the motherfucker” or “Bring the bastard to me.” Instead he got a thank-you and a weak handshake. Maybe Thomas’s reaction was due to frustration—the police had been unable to interview the Ramseys properly. The primary