No, Daddy, Don't! (19 page)

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Authors: Irene Pence

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T
HIRTY-THREE
When Officer Zane Murray was released from guard duty at the crime scene, he and fellow officer Ray Rojas were assigned to search the rest of the Adam Hats Lofts building. Adrenaline pumping, they first headed for the roof. Opening a trapdoor in the fourth-floor ceiling, they pulled down the overhead stairs that would take them to the attic and, eventually, the roof. They found the door opening to the outside, and cautiously peered around the roof before taking their first steps onto the tar and gravel surface. They saw many possible hiding places. Two large advertising billboards sat at perpendicular angles, lit by spotlights anchored to the roof. A large metal water tank stood on stilts, probably a relic from the days when the building had been a Ford assembly plant.
In order to give cover, the officers searched with their guns drawn and their backs to each other. The area was large and the probability high that someone could be watching, and change hiding places as the officers moved from point to point. Using their flashlights, they thoroughly checked around the water tank. They scrutinized the billboards but, with so much light from the spotlights, those would be unlikely hiding places. After several more minutes of fruitless searching, they concluded that the roof was secure.
 
 
The loft residents had begun to file out of their apartments. Some had heard the commotion in the streets, and those facing Canton saw the spinning lights on the emergency vehicles. Because of the building’s thick concrete walls, others had heard nothing and only learned about the shootings when they turned on the ten o’clock news. Every television channel’s lead story was the murder in the Adam Hats Lofts.
One first-floor resident, Sandy Wilhert, a young, pretty blonde, had been watching the news at ten and “freaked out” when she heard what had happened in her own building. In 1997, she had been the first resident to sign up for a loft and had always felt safe. She ran outside and grabbed the first officer she saw to find out what was going on.
As the officer gave her a synopsis of the murders, she felt a chill run through her body. She remembered those cute little girls skating in the lobby over the past several months. They had seemed like sullen, unhappy children; they looked like they didn’t want to be there. She had felt sorry for them.
“I’ve seen a lot,” the weary officer said, as he tried in vain to stop the tears forming in his eyes. “But, God, this is so horrible!”
They watched a man try to enter the lofts with two dogs he had taken out before all the commotion started. Now the dogs barked and howled, refusing to enter the building.
“We’re looking for Battaglia’s car,” the officer told Sandy. “I think he drives a small black sports car.”
She didn’t know anyone named Battaglia, but when the officer described him, he sounded like the man who had a reserved space next to hers in the basement parking garage. But that man drove a truck.
More residents began milling around. They grumbled that a background check was supposed to be run on anyone who wanted to rent a loft. What kind of guy was this? The management had allowed a murderer to move in?
Sandy kept thinking about the good-looking man who had the parking space next to hers. He was perfectly nice, but not chatty or overly friendly. She didn’t see him in the mornings, but rather after work hours when he was dressed in clean-pressed jeans and a T-shirt. He kept his shiny black truck so clean she could see her face in it.
She told the policeman that the man they were looking for sounded like the one who parked next to her, but that he didn’t drive a sports car. She gave a description of his truck, and agreed to accompany the police to the garage.
Down in the dimly lit basement, they found only a grease spot where Battaglia usually parked. Officers fanned out and began peering into large dumpsters and rummaging through the garage. It became apparent to Sandy that the officers had no idea where Battaglia was.
The police left one officer in the parking garage while the others went back upstairs to speak to Mary Jean.
 
 
With so many officers on the scene, communication became confused, and information was needlessly duplicated. The officer Sandy had talked with didn’t know that Mary Jean had already told the police that Battaglia drove a silver and black F-150 Ford 4x4 truck. An all-points bulletin was radioed throughout the city, advising every officer to be on the lookout.
 
 
The thought of her friends and family in potential jeopardy had alarmed Mary Jean all evening. She kept thinking of friends whom John Battaglia would also know. As they entered her mind, she would give police their names and addresses.
Dallas police scoured the city. They went to Melissa Lowder’s house to make sure that her children were safe, and left an officer there with the baby-sitter. They drove to the house of another of Mary Jean’s friends, Karen Rogers, who was just returning home. Police escorted her baby-sitter to her car.
Other officers rushed to Mary Jean’s house on Lorraine in case Battaglia had gone there and was hiding, waiting to torment her further. As they entered to search her home, they met her live-in babysitter, Anna Castillo, in the front entry. They had the sorrowful task of breaking the news that the two children she loved and cared for daily had been murdered. Anna had a daughter who was one year younger than Liberty; they had been best friends. Anna had felt like a second mother to Faith and Liberty, and hearing of their deaths sent her into screaming, sobbing hysterics.
 
 
One of John Battaglia’s friends, Candy Bristol, had been irritated with him the last time they went out, but he was hoping she’d have cooled down by now. Three weeks ago, they had been at a bar where several men were overly friendly to her. She had cuddled up to her admirers with smiles and conversation, and afterwards John had let her know just how he felt about being ignored. Hopefully she had forgiven him and would be willing to be with him tonight. He turned his truck toward Candy’s house. She lived over by lower Greenville, an area well supplied with bars and places to have a good time.
Battaglia knocked on Candy’s door but there was no answer. He then drove his truck down her alley to check for any lights in the back of the house. Could she have seen him at her door and be ignoring him? So intent was he on trying to see inside her house, he drove straight into Candy’s trash cans, crushing all of them.
He cursed under his breath, quickly got out of the alley, and pulled onto the street. There were plenty of girls. Another friend, Missy Campbell, lived in an apartment in the lower Oak Lawn area.
 
 
Battaglia parked in front of Missy’s tattered building. He had dated Missy several times. He liked her tousled blond hair, which made her look sexy, like she had just tumbled out of bed. Or better still, like maybe she was ready to tumble in. She was different, but he needed a diversion. By social class, lifestyle, or any other measure, she was nothing like the women he would find in the Park Cities, but that’s what he wanted. She never locked her door. Friends were always welcome. If anyone had had too much to drink or too many drugs, they knew it would be perfectly all right to crash at Missy’s.
John Battaglia knocked briefly, then opened the door.
“Anybody here?” he called as he glanced around the sparsely furnished apartment. He heard nothing. He started to walk through the living room, but felt his stomach begin to lurch and tighten. He felt dizzy and disoriented from the tranquilizers he had taken before his drinks, and rushed to the bathroom. The last thing he remembered was hitting the hard linoleum floor.
 
 
It was after ten when Missy Campbell shoved open the door to her apartment and went inside with her date, Bobby Phillips.
She went to the refrigerator and grabbed two cans of Coors, popping the tops. Taking them back to the living room, she sat down with Bobby on the sofa and they began to chat. After a few minutes, Bobby excused himself to use the bathroom.
Missy heard him talking in the bathroom, and wondered what was going on. He couldn’t be hallucinating ; he was the straightest person she knew. He never used any kind of recreational drugs.
“Missy, come here!” he yelled. “You’ve got some guy passed out on the floor in here.”
She ran to the bathroom and found John Battaglia stretched out between the tub and the toilet. She bent down and shook him. “John, John, wake up,” she said. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
John groaned as Missy shook his shoulder. His eyes fluttered open momentarily; then he slipped back into his stupor. Missy continued shaking him until she had his attention.
“John, what’s happened? You were out cold.”
John Battaglia’s eyes squinted in the bright, sterile light. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
Missy and Bobby pulled him to his knees, then got him on his feet. They half-pulled, half-dragged him to the living room and plopped him down on the worn couch.
Battaglia managed a sleepy grin. “I took some pills,” he confessed. “They were downers, but they didn’t do a damn bit of good.”
“You look pretty fucking down to me,” Missy said.
“What I need is to wake up. I could use a little speed,” John told her. He reached for the pipe that he had shoved in his pants pocket. It was wrapped inside a plastic baggie and had a grainy substance stuffed into the bowl. “Be a doll and light this shit for me,” he said.
Missy picked up a lighter and held it under the bowl of his glass pipe. Her date saw what was happening and left, slamming the door loudly behind him.
Battaglia watched the gravel-like powder sink down in the bowl as it gradually melted into oil. He could have taken the methaphetamine through a needle, but that hurt. Snorting didn’t get him high fast enough, so smoking was his favorite option. He sucked deeply on the pipe, and the smoke rushed into his lungs, coating the membrane, then into his sinus cavities and quickly to his brain. He had been resting his head on the back of the sofa, and now he sat up, looking more alert. He pulled again on the pipe and exhaled with a smile. “That’s better,” he said. He was happy and lightheaded when he handed the pipe to Missy for a drag.
“You know what I want to do?” he asked.
Missy shrugged.
“I want to get a tattoo. I’ll get one for you too. Sound okay?”
Missy smiled. “Hell yes, that’d be okay. I’ve been wanting a pretty little yellow butterfly. Right there,” she said, pointing to her right shoulder.
 
 
John Battaglia had met Missy through her brother, Gary, shortly after he moved to Deep Ellum. Her brother owned a bar, and John had become friends with him there. Gary introduced John to his sister because he thought she needed the stability of an educated, nice-looking guy. In Gary’s view, Battaglia was a real solid citizen—and he had such a calm manner. It impressed Gary that Battaglia spent a lot of time with his kids. John frequently had his children at his loft and talked about them all the time. Gary thought he was a great dad.
Gary also knew that Battaglia wanted a different lifestyle after he split from his wife. His sister may have been more than John had bargained for; after he started running around with Missy, John got caught up in drugs again.
 
 
John Battaglia finished his pipe and fumbled for the keys to his truck. “Before we get the tattoos, let’s go get some fucking cocaine,” he suggested.
 
 
Michelle Ghetti called a friend with the Louisiana State Police to see if he could check the airlines; she wanted to find out whether or not John was on a plane heading to Baton Rouge. Her friend put her in touch with Sergeant Brooks of the Baton Rouge police, who set up a patrol of her house and contacted the Dallas police, who began checking the airlines.
Michelle and her children packed a suitcase and went to her sister’s to spend the night. Michelle wanted to hear John’s messages again, and Laurie showed her how to retrieve them while away from home. Michelle listened to all three, but she misunderstood Laurie’s directions. Trying to save the messages, she hit the wrong number, and erased every one.
Michelle, her sister, and Laurie had almost memorized John’s messages and wrote out everything they could remember. Michelle called Mary Jean’s cell number; Mary Jean told her that an officer wanted to talk with her. Michelle told the officer that Battaglia had called her three times that day. The officer was particularly disturbed when Michelle said that Battaglia had called Laurie at 7:20
P.M.
, right after he had murdered the girls. The officer questioned why John was trying to contact his only living daughter.
T
HIRTY-FOUR
Shortly before midnight, John Battaglia parked his truck in a lot near Cafe Brazil, and he and Missy opened their doors and floated out onto the parking lot and into the Pharmacy Bar for drinks before buying an eight ball of cocaine. John was flying on tranquilizers, speed, and alcohol, and Missy wasn’t far behind. Anyone trailing him that evening would have surmised that he was trying to commit suicide.
As they strolled over to Elm Street Tattoo and Body Piercing, John said, “I want to get two big roses on my left arm. One for each of my little girls.”
“Why?” Missy asked.
“So I’ll always have them with me. Nobody can take them away if they’re tattooed on my arm.”
Missy glanced up at John’s glassy eyes and thought he made no sense.
Must be the cocaine talking,
she thought.
Battaglia pushed open the door of the tattoo parlor, which the management insisted be kept hospital clean. The place looked like a beauty shop, with half-walls constructed between booths for privacy. An adjustable chair in each booth rotated to any position, allowing a tattoo to be pricked onto any area of the body the customer requested.
Tattoo artist Madeline Eltran greeted them.
“Hi guys,” she said. “We’re about to close. What can I do for you?”
“We’d like a couple tattoos,” Battaglia answered.
“It’s almost midnight. How about coming back tomorrow ?”
“Tomorrow won’t be good, ” John said firmly. “I’ve got to get the tattoo tonight. I’ll be in jail tomorrow.”
“What for?” Missy asked, looking startled. Then, remembering his history, she guessed, “Probation violation ?”
“Something like that,” Battaglia said.
Madeline glanced at her watch.
“I’ll make it worth your time,” Battaglia told her. “I’ll throw in extra for the overtime. What say?” He grinned a silly, cocaine-induced smile. “It would mean a lot to me.” He pulled out three one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Oh, all right,” Madeline said. “What did you have in mind?”
Battaglia walked over to a wall where dozens of design templates hung for customers to choose from. “I like this big rose,” he said, pointing to a flower with a three-inch diameter. “I’d want a couple, but I’d like them strung together. You know, with something like black barbed wire? You don’t have any wire here.”
“No problem, Madeline said. “I could sketch in the wire. That’s easy.”
“Easy for an artist,” John said, giving her a wink. “How about one red and one yellow?”
Madeline nodded, and guided him to a rack that held hundreds of vials of ink in every imaginable color.
“They’re fragile. Just point and I’ll put them in my tattoo gun.”
Battaglia was familiar with the procedure. He had gotten three other tattoos from the place. Madeline picked up a gun that looked like a tiny, handheld sewing machine. She inserted a vial of bright yellow. One touch of the “on” button and the ink-filled needle would begin pulsating up and down.
After choosing the red he wanted, John staggered over to Madeline’s booth, pulled off his T-shirt, and sat down.
Madeline admired the lion’s head on his left shoulder and said she would start the roses an inch under the lion. She swabbed his arm with alcohol, then pressed the rose template against his skin and traced the flower in two different places. She picked up a fine felt-point pen and began sketching barbed wire. The complete design filled the space between the lion on his shoulder to a point right above his elbow.
John glanced at the design and announced that it was “perfect!”
Madeline pulled on Latex gloves. “This might smart a bit,” she said as she picked up the gun.
After all that Battaglia had ingested, he didn’t feel a thing.
Madeline continued to chatter as she worked. She often talked to put her clients at ease, but John wasn’t the least bit nervous. In fact, he was a very willing talker himself. He told her about being a CPA, about having been in the Marines, and about every other facet of his life. Periodically, Madeline would wipe away the pinpoints of blood that accumulated as she continued injecting the needle.
While John got his tattoo, Missy strolled over to the templates and chose a dainty butterfly. Madeline looked over and smiled. “That will be easy,” she told Missy, then went back to decorating John’s arm.
The death investigator, Gigi Ray, found Battaglia’s loft emotionally cold and sterile. Certainly not a place for children. On the other hand, it seemed like the home of a very egotistical man. Most of John Battaglia’s clothes were designer. In fact, the entire loft was about him.
Ray took out her Polaroid and began snapping photos to accompany her report. She took a close-up of each girl, then paced a few steps back and shot again to include more of the surrounding area for the doctors to use as reference for the autopsies. After that, she pulled out her 35-millimeter camera and took slides that would show the overall appearance of the room. She shot a photo of the bunk beds, and realized that Battaglia had been building bookcases for the girls to use as a room divider. She found that puzzling. If he had long-range plans that included his daughters, why had he just murdered them? She continued taking pictures, capturing the spent bullets and the massive gun collection.
It was her job to pronounce the victims dead. She didn’t need to touch these children or check for a pulse to know that they were dead. In fact, rigor mortis was starting to settle in. She had written in her report: “21:30- Pronunciation.” She found the whole scene extremely disturbing.
Ever since then, the loft had been buzzing with investigators. The entire fourth floor was jammed with officers milling around the hall and clustered near the entrance. The whole place was growing crowded and noisy. Cell phones rang. Officers called in their reports. Others, working long past their shifts, left messages that they would be home much later that night. Michelle Ghetti called twice from Baton Rouge. Ray called her supervisor back at the ME’s office to tell her that she’d be late because the search warrant had not yet arrived.
The PES cameras recorded everything in the loft, especially the girls, all Battaglia’s weapons and the exact placement of the guns.
By midnight, Ray could see how difficult it was for the police to work with the little bodies lying only a few feet away. It was old hat for PES, but those who didn’t deal with death on a daily basis were keeping their distance from the bodies, walking along paths as far away from them as possible. Their faces looked tired and strained as the evening wore on. She felt it would be easier for police to work if the bodies weren’t there, so she talked to Detective Elton Fite from the Child Abuse Section about removing them. He agreed that there was no need to wait on the search warrant’s arrival.
She studied both girls. She knew that all the blood and other trace evidence might be lost if the bodies were simply picked up and placed on gurneys. She decided to first wrap them in clean white sheets, then put them in crash bags.
The bags were stored in the trunk of her car. Ray hurried out of the building, and inhaled deeply as the cool air touched her skin and gave her a respite from the loft’s claustrophobic atmosphere. However, once she stepped outside, the media quickly came to life and watched to see where she was going. When she retrieved two crash bags from the trunk of her car, the media made hurried calls on their cell phones and ran to their vans to report the deaths of
two
children, as opposed to one. Ever since the media heard the initial report from scanning police radios, they believed there had been only one victim.
Ray ignored the frenzy and dashed back inside. When she returned, she told her crew there was a problem. “The victims’ grandmother is down there and reporters won’t leave her alone. There’s no way we can get through that crowd with the children’s bodies.”
One officer mentioned that there was a garage in the basement.
“Good, let’s do this,” Ray said. “When we put the girls in the bags, we can take them down in the elevator to the basement.” She turned to one of her crew, “Dick, you bring the van into the parking garage from the street and we’ll load up there.”
Gigi Ray unzipped a black crash bag, opening it almost flat. With latex-gloved hands, she helped the crew pick up Liberty and place her on a sheet. After so much time, full rigor mortis had set in. She was so stiff that her arms and legs held their frozen position as she was raised from the floor. She looked like a statue of a child sprayed with red paint. A PES investigator took her photo. Ray watched and nodded, thinking,
a jury would be swayed by that.
After the sheet was wrapped securely, the body was zipped into the crash bag. Then they went to the kitchen to get Faith.

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