The Dreams of Ada (3 page)

It was Saturday night, late. McAnally’s was dark, but not deserted. Monroe Atkeson, the manager, having turned off the outside lights, sat alone, hoping the phone would ring, hoping Denice would call. In the apartment at Fourteenth and Rennie, her clothes were in the closet, her makeup in the bathroom; all her personal possessions were there. Steve Haraway sat among them, waiting for her to call. At police headquarters her mother was near collapse. She could hardly walk, had to be supported by her husband. Janet Weldon was there. They talked about Denice, about how when Janet spoke to her earlier in the evening nothing had been wrong. They recalled the last time they had seen her, two weeks before, at a family gathering at Ron’s house. Ron Lyon was Denice and Janet’s brother, was married, had three kids; they talked tearfully about how much Denice loved the kids; about how she was not planning to have her own right away, but how down the road a bit she would.

Detective Baskin watched discreetly. There was nothing he could say to comfort them. He saw their tears, their terror; he pitied them. But he felt he had to be honest in response to their questions. The more time that goes by without hearing from Denice, he told them, the less hope there will be.

He gave them a form to fill out, for missing persons: name, age, height, weight, eye color, hair color; places for any birthmarks, any scars; a place for her dental records.

At the Ada
Evening News
, on Broadway at Tenth Street, the presses rolled, shuddered, printing the Sunday edition. There was no story in the paper about the disappearance of Denice Haraway. It had happened too late; the news would have to wait till Monday. On Interstate 40 a delivery truck sped toward Ada from Oklahoma City, carrying the early edition of the
Sunday Oklahoman
, which Detective Smith and his wife would hurl onto lawns in the morning; it, too, had gone to press too early for a story about a missing clerk in Ada. At police headquarters, Mike Baskin suggested that everyone go home; there was nothing more they could do tonight. The dispatcher would remain on duty, in case there was any news. The family, reluctant to leave, finally went out into the dark night air.

Baskin went home to get some sleep. He was awakened about 2:30, again about 4, again about 6, by calls from the dispatcher, patching through calls from the family. No, there wasn’t any news, he told them. He would let them know of any news.

He tossed in his bed, slept fitfully. Till at last dawn broke, an hour later, by man-made clocks, than it had the day before.

The religion that pervades much of life in Ada is most visible on the streets on Sunday mornings: people walking to church, people driving to church, orange buses with the names of churches printed in black letters on the side carrying children to Sunday school. There are sections of Ada where there is a church on every corner. They are often used to give directions; to get to Tricia and Bud Wolf’s house, you go to the Nazarene Church and turn left. Downtown, the First Baptist Church and the First United Methodist Church are imposing edifices which, back to back, cover an entire city block. The First Christian Church, almost as large, to which Dr. and Mrs. Haraway belonged, is only a block away. Scattered through the town are scores of others: Faith Assembly of God, First Apostolic Church, First Assembly of God, Free Will Baptist, Fellowship Baptist, Unity Missionary Baptist, Philemon Baptist, Morris Memorial Baptist, Oak Avenue Baptist, Trinity Baptist, Church of Christ, Church of God, Church of God in Christ, St. Luke’s Episcopal, St. Peter’s Episcopal, the Evangelistic Temple, First Lutheran Church, Church of the Nazarene, Calvary Pentecostal Holiness Church, First Pentecostal Holiness, Pentecostal Holiness, First Presbyterian (out on Kings Road), others. The lone Catholic church is on East Beverly. (Some Ada natives recall being brought up to believe that Catholic nuns ate children.) For many in the town, religion was the genuine cornerstone of their lives, enabling them to endure whatever fate had to offer; in restaurants and coffeeshops, as well as in private, these people often talked about Jesus reverently but familiarly, as if He lived next door. For others, as for some churchgoers everywhere, the religion was hypocritical. “The thing I can’t stand is how they hide behind the Bible around here,” said one rancher, who found it more useful to feed his horses that morning than to go to church. “They go to church on Sunday, but they’ll cut your throat for a two-dollar bill on Monday.”

For Bud and Tricia Wolf, churchgoing was as life-sustaining as eating. Sunday mornings and Sunday evenings and Wednesday evenings as well they went to the Unity Missionary Baptist Church, a pale frame building on Seventh Street; during Bible Study Week they helped to teach the classes; every summer they spent a week in Arkansas at Vacation Bible Camp. On this particular Sunday they got the kids dressed in their best church outfits, took their Bibles, climbed into the family car, a dark green 1972 Pontiac with a faded bumper sticker that said, “Life Is Fragile, Handle With Prayer,” and they drove to church. They were surprised to see how many cars were already in the parking lot. They were even more surprised when they stepped inside and found the service already in progress, Sunday school already over. As dozens of pairs of eyes turned to look at them, Tricia flushed a deep red, understood what had happened, knew that everyone who was looking at them knew what had happened. She slunk into a pew with embarrassment. They had forgotten to turn their clocks ahead; they were an hour late.

On the other side of town, Detective Captain Dennis Smith did not go to church that morning. He rarely went anymore, rarely felt guilty about it. He and Sandi made their rounds delivering the
Oklahoman
. Then he went to headquarters, to see about the missing girl.

Donna Denice Haraway was born Donna Denice Lyon on August 19, 1959, in Holdenville, Oklahoma, about twenty miles east of Ada. Her parents were Jimmy Charles Lyon, a truck driver, and Patricia Lyon. She had an older brother, Ron, and a younger sister, Janet. In her early years the family moved to Purcell, where she attended school. At Purcell High she was in the Pep Club and the National Honor Society. She wore her hair long and straight in those days, and had a serious demeanor. She was not a student leader; working after school at the Dairy Queen managed by her mother, she did not have much time for extracurricular activities; she was also on the shy side.

She graduated from Purcell High on May 17, 1977. In the school yearbook,
Dragon
, where the pictures of the most popular girls appeared six or seven times, hers appears only twice—once with the Pep Club, once with the senior class. Her name is spelled Denice in one caption—which is correct—and Denise in the other.

Upon graduation she was accepted at Oklahoma State University in Stillwater. She attended for one semester, working after classes to pay her way. But the expense was too much. She moved back home and went to work to save up money for college. She attended Seminole Junior College for a time. When Janet graduated from high school in 1979, the family moved to Ada, where their mother became manager of Love’s Country Store on Mississippi. Denice went to work for her mother, and began taking classes at East Central. When her mother moved back to the Purcell area, Denice got a job at Wall’s Bargain Center on Main Street, a discount clothing store. She and Janet shared an apartment. When her job at Wall’s began to conflict with her class schedule, she quit and got a job at McAnally’s, where her schedule could be more flexible.

When she worked at Love’s, she dated for a time a man from Texas. She seemed to be in love with him, but it didn’t work out. When she and Janet moved into a new apartment at Fourteenth and Rennie, she met Steve Haraway, who lived in the same building. They began to date. They were married on August 6, 1983. Though Steve’s father, Dr. Jack Haraway, was a prominent member of Ada society, a member of the Rotary Club, with a nice house east of the city, the young couple moved into Denice’s apartment, and continued to work after school to pay their expenses.

Steve was the outgoing half of the couple. He was in the ruling clique of Pi Kappa Alpha, the largest fraternity at East Central. He was gregarious, talkative. Denice was the shy one, sweet but quiet. Steve’s friends liked her, but felt they didn’t know her well. Steve maintained contact with his single friends at Friday night “boys’ nights.” Every Friday the Holiday Inn had a seafood buffet. While Denice worked at McAnally’s, Steve and his friends from school ate seafood there, laughed, joked. Then he’d go home to Denice.

At the college, Denice was a good student, though not exceptional. In February she began student teaching at Hayes Elementary School, which was halfway between her home and the college, as part of the requirements for a teaching certificate. She taught second-graders, the class of an experienced teacher named Donna Howard. Denice would stand or sit at Mrs. Howard’s desk in the front of the class, running the lessons, while Mrs. Howard sat and observed in the back. Denice had a good rapport with the kids, showed every sign of becoming an effective teacher. Each Friday she would take home teachers’ guides, to prepare lessons for the following week. On Friday, April 27, she took home the teachers’ guides as usual.

In the early hours of Sunday morning, the news of Denice Haraway’s disappearance traveled over the telephone wires. Steve Haraway’s best friend, Monty Moyer, who’d been called by Steve, in turn called Steve’s second-best friend, Gary May, who spread the word to another friend: volunteers would be needed to search the county. Most of Steve’s Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity brothers offered to help; so did the Ada Amateur Radio Club, some of whose members undoubtedly had heard the news crackle over the scanners the night before; so did the Ada Rifle and Pistol Club. The entire police force was called in to work, and the sheriff’s department, and the highway patrol. Normally all but deserted on Sundays, Ada police headquarters was as crowded, and as solemn, as any church in town that morning. The two men to whom those congregated there turned for guidance were Gary Rogers and Dennis Smith.

Gary Rogers was the resident agent for the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation (OSBI). He lived in Ada and had an office at Ada police headquarters. He was quickly assigned by his superiors to head the investigation into the disappearance of Denice Haraway. A slim, neat man, Rogers was almost dandyish in appearance at first glance, with carefully slicked brown hair, a neatly trimmed moustache. In the gray business suits he wore on most workdays, he gave the appearance of being manicured rather than tough. But below the business suits he wore western boots; below his left armpit was a holster containing a loaded revolver. On other days, more relaxed, he might wear complete western garb, looking almost like a cowboy, except for the slick hair, the neatness of the moustache.

The man directing the investigation for the Ada police department was Dennis Smith, the detective captain. In appearance and personality he was much the opposite of Gary Rogers. Smith was barrel-chested whereas Rogers was slim. The top of his head was as bald as a melon; the only hair remaining was a fringe on the sides and around the back. He preferred to go tieless, wearing short-sleeved Ban-Lon shirts on days when the job’s demands did not require a suit. Whereas Rogers had the businesslike manner expected of OSBI agents, Smith was a stormier presence, closer to the movie image of a bulky small-town sheriff. Whereas Rogers was under orders, like all OSBI agents, not to talk to the press—a publicity office in Oklahoma City would take any inquiries—Smith could make his own rules. Tough-looking, he had a gentle voice which, without warning, could suddenly turn gruff. His sense of humor was sometimes sadistic; he seemed to enjoy putting people on the spot for a moment and watching them squirm. But he could also show compassion. To some, his pale blue eyes seemed to twinkle in his large head; to others, this was a threatening glint. “He’s got them hard eyes,” one acquaintance would say.

On a large map, Rogers and Smith divided Pontotoc County into sections. The volunteers at headquarters, as well as the officers, were assigned different sections to search. Two to a vehicle, they moved out into the city, then into the areas around the city, and then farther away into the countryside. They drove up and down state roads, county roads, the narrow blacktops or dirt roads of oil leases. Mostly they were looking for an abandoned gray pickup, a late sixties or early seventies model gray-primered Chevrolet. That was the description given by Gene Whelchel and the Timmons brothers. Descriptions of the two men Karen Wise said had been “acting weird” at J.P.’s Pak-to-Go also were sent out. One of the men was described as being from twenty-two to twenty-four years old, five-feet-eight to five-feet-ten, with blond hair below his ears, and a light complexion. He was said to be wearing faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and tennis shoes. The other suspect was also described as twenty-two to twenty-four years old, with shoulder-length light brown hair and a slim build. He was wearing faded jeans, a blue T-shirt, and tennis shoes. The three witnesses at McAnally’s had seen only one man leaving with the woman. He roughly fit the first description. None of them had noticed anyone else waiting in the truck. But police believed there must have been someone else behind the wheel, since both the woman and the man had entered on the passenger side.

When they came to bridges over creeks, or to dumping areas strewn with refuse, the searchers got out of the cars and pickups and threaded through the underbrush, looking for bits of clothing, looking for a body. Steve Haraway himself went, paired up with his friend Monty Moyer. Gary May was paired with another friend. Fraternity members had come from Oklahoma City to help.

The search began shortly after lunch—more commonly called “dinner” in Ada—and gradually widened to the farthest reaches of the county, which encompasses 714 square miles. When the sun set and darkness settled over Pontotoc, some of the searchers went home. Others continued the search, shining flashlights out the car windows as they drove slowly on the narrow roads. It was two o’clock in the morning before the last of them—Steve Haraway’s closest friends—gave up and went home. None of the searchers had found anything of interest—no gray pickup, no trace of Denice Haraway.