American Tabloid

The unsolved Christmas 1996 murder of 6-year-old JonBenet Ramsey, whose bludgeoned and strangled body was found in a basement room of her family’s Colorado home, is a national obsession. Every week, we are treated to photographs of this cupid-faced child on the cover of the supermarket tabloids and ceaseless television viewings of videotape loops of JonBenet, ghoulishly made up and costumed seductively posing like a seasoned chorus girl. This child, whose family had paved the way for her future as a Miss America, has been inducted into that pantheon of popular culture, which includes Princess Di, Elvis and Marilyn.

Americans, of course, have always mythologized the murders of the rich or famous: the Leopold and Loeb victim, the Lindbergh baby, Michael Rockefeller. JonBenet’s death is all the more intriguing because of her family’s peculiar behavior and unique pedigrees--Mom a Southern belle and a Miss America contestant and Dad a self-made tycoon. Set against their daughter’s grisly homicide, they put into motion an incendiary media frenzy.

Yet for all the reporting, the mystery remains: Why does the murder of this child, not the thousands of other American children who are killed each year, so relentlessly fascinate the country? Perhaps JonBenet, a beauty pageant contestant for a third of her brief life, with her dyed platinum blond locks, her doleful mascara-lidded eyes, is the perfect victim in the psyche of the American imagination. In the words of one serial child molester and murderer who was captured with a cache of photographs of JonBenet: “This little girl. She’s the ideal. She’s what I am looking for. She’s perfect.” How did America’s obsession end up being the same as that of a psychopath’s?

Into this volatile mix, comes one Lawrence Schiller. During the Simpson trial and saga, Schiller co-wrote two books: the first, “I Want to Tell You,” written with the murder defendant, told us that Simpson was innocent. A second, “American Tragedy,” written with James Willwerth, as much as came out and said the football star was guilty. Somehow, Schiller had it both ways and made a bundle to boot. Now he’s done it again. His current offering, an encyclopedic treatment of the Ramsey case, compiled with Charles Brennan, serves up a condensation of all previous reporting and all manner of data and minutiae. When you close the book after some 600 pages, however, you are no closer to knowing who murdered JonBenet than you were before. Schiller has no theory, no suspects, no bombshell revelations and very little evidence that we haven’t heard or read before. For those inclined to believe in the parents’ guilt in the murder of their child, there is plenty here to deepen their belief. But like a host fearful of offending any guests, Schiller has something for everyone and dangles just enough suggestive hints to satisfy devotees of the “intruder school”--those hard-core believers who cannot countenance that such good Christian, affluent folks, like the Ramseys, could be involved in such a murder.

Although early on John and Patsy Ramsey were described by police as being “under the umbrella of suspicion,” they have yet to be indicted. Because of breathtaking police and prosecutorial incompetence and rivalry, coupled with an aggressive pre-defense by the Ramseys’ retinue of lawyers and publicists, the case remains murky. The Ramseys (who have sold their Boulder and summer homes and private plane) recently met with their attorneys for six days at their Atlanta home and are said to be prepared for an indictment. But some legal eagles speculate that although indictments are likely once the Boulder Grand Jury (which convened nearly a year ago and is still deliberating) concludes its work, the chances of conviction are dim.

Schiller’s book is distinguished mostly by its unfinished, rushed roughness--as conspicuous and clumsy as a man running for a bus with untied shoelaces and his shirt hanging out. Clearly, its publication was dictated not by a natural completion of the work but by an undeniable lust to seize that narrow sliver of media space between the end of the impeachment saga and the publication of Andrew Morton’s “Monica’s Story.” A testimony to this headlong rush to publish is the maddening absence of an index, bibliography and notes. More grievous, there are many errors in the text, which has prompted a small furor in Boulder. Several Ramsey associates have publicly complained in the local papers and on talk radio--with one former friend claiming 17 mistakes. In fact, the brief section that refers to my Vanity Fair story on JonBenet (October 1997) had 15 errors, some minor, some misleading. Contradictions abound. For example, on Page 16, Schiller tells us that a police detective “moved JonBenet’s body . . . [to] the foot of the Christmas tree” stating it as fact, but on Page 317, he blasts journalists for reporting exactly the same story, as if it were untrue. To its credit, HarperCollins made some corrections in subsequent editions, prompted perhaps by one New York critic who quipped that even the enclosed errata slip has errata.

But careless reporting doesn’t really subvert a book like “Perfect Murder” and a master showman like Schiller. With more than $1-million in advance and hefty royalties as the book settles on the bestseller list, Schiller is likely to profit handsomely. How, then, does he do it? First, Schiller is not a traditional author or writer. He’s a book producer-packager--something along the lines of a P.T. Barnum of publishing. Each of his books, invariably centered on a headline-scorching event, is typically produced with a co-writer, assistants and often paid sources. Schiller then orchestrates a massively hyped marketing and media campaign, working both the mainstream and tabloid markets. He sold first serial rights of his exclusive photographs of Simpson’s victory party to the Star tabloid “for a six-figure sum,” according to Jeffrey Toobin in “The Run of His Life.” Likewise, Schiller, characterized by Toobin as a “perfectly amoral profiteer,” sold first serial rights of “Perfect Murder” to Newsweek. Second serial rights went to the Globe, according to an editor at the Star, but only after the Star and the Enquirer (which are jointly owned) turned them down.

But Schiller, a ferocious competitor and self-promoter, also craves respectability. He wants it all--commercial success, huge profits--along with good reviews. Striving for this, he struggles to marry his sensational material--usually concerning a murder or a celebrity--with a lofty theme, seeking to transform his gaudy goods into American fables. On some occasions he has been successful. His best outings were Norman Mailer’s “The Executioner’s Song,” a book based on Schiller’s interviews with condemned murderer Gary Gilmore, and “Marilyn: The Classic,” the Marilyn Monroe book he packaged with Mailer’s text. Naturally, it helps to have Mailer doing the writing. Regrettably, in “Perfect Murder,” his mercantile impulses trumped his better instincts, and he produced a book long before it was ready.

This is unfortunate. While this chronicle is often entertaining and on occasion riveting, had he taken the time to eliminate extraneous data and dubious sources and done basic fact checking and created an index, he could have had a terrific book. And had he waited until the Boulder Grand Jury concludes later this month, he would have had a natural conclusion of the case along with some potential bombshells, not to mention a probable indictment.

Schiller does introduce and reevaluate some compelling evidence. Most stunning is his account that John Ramsey, 25 minutes after discovering his daughter’s bludgeoned corpse, was on the phone to his pilot arranging to leave town later that day. He relented only after a dumbstruck police detective told him he could not leave. Later, Schiller describes “the ‘War and Peace’ of ransom notes,” a rambling three-page tract written on the Ramseys’ notepad with one of their pens (along with a practice note), which purports to be written by a “foreign faction” and signs off with the initials “SBTC.” Some have ascribed the initials to mean “Saved By the Cross,” while others have speculated that it refers to Subic Bay Training Camp where Ramsey spent time while in the Navy. Whatever its meaning, Schiller reports that the police discovered a plaque in the basement bearing the initials “SBTC,” which ties the parents one notch closer to the murder.

We also learn that the maid believed that the white blanket found around the girl’s body could only have been used by someone with intimate knowledge of the house. And Schiller reminds us, as reported in newspapers, that four fibers on the duct tape over the girl’s mouth have been linked to the red and black jacket Patsy wore that night and morning. In addition, numerous experts believe that the mother was the author of the ransom note. All other suspects, including John Ramsey, have been ruled out as its author. Police found it suspicious that Patsy greeted officers at 6 a.m. fully made up and dressed--even though she said she had discovered her daughter missing when she woke up. The fact that the two parents hardly looked at or comforted each other in the hours following the discovery of her body, coupled with their hiring separate lawyers and refusing a police interview for more than four months, convinced many that the Ramseys were not typical grieving parents.

The most fascinating part of “Perfect Murder,” one suspects inadvertently, is the tale of a desperately ambitious novice reporter named Jeff Shapiro, who emerges as a central character and a primary source. Through the offices of a wealthy uncle, Shapiro snares a job at The Globe, known as the most salacious bottom-feeder in the tabloid world. Shapiro, employing stunningly ingenious lies, deceit and guile and powered by the homing instinct of a white shark, insinuated himself into the lives of virtually every major player in the case from the district attorney to the lead detective and even John Ramsey. Schiller relates how Shapiro became a parishioner in the Ramseys’ church and feigned Christian devotion and a desire to convert in order to gain proximity and information about the family. “I lied through my teeth,” Shapiro tells the author.

It is one of the wicked ironies of this story that all of Shapiro’s targeted prey were convinced that they were in control of Shapiro when in fact, according to Schiller, Shapiro was compromising and betraying them, often with secretly taped conversations. As depicted by Schiller, Shapiro is the scorpion in the frog-and-scorpion parable, in which the scorpion cannot stop himself from killing, even if it means his own demise, because, as the creature concedes, “it’s my nature.”

By setting himself up as a gofer and confidant, Shapiro exploited the estrangement between Dist. Atty. Alex Hunter, who showed reluctance to take any action against the parents and had a scandalously cozy relationship with their lawyers, and the Boulder police, who were prepared to arrest the Ramseys six months after the murder. Nor was Shapiro the only one making secret recordings. Schiller describes a meeting between lead police detective Steve Thomas, known for his media wiliness, and Shapiro. “Before long Shapiro was talking about Hunter and how the D.A. had suggested that he [Shapiro] get some dirt on [chief of detectives John] Eller.” The detectives, however, hoping to verify their suspicions about Hunter, recorded the conversation and promptly played the tape to their boss, Eller, “who listened to Shapiro recount how Hunter wanted to smear him.” A few days later, Hunter would find himself sitting across from Police Chief Tom Koby listening to a tape “in which Shapiro revealed the content of his private talks with Hunter, including the D.A.’s leaks to the Globe, Hunter’s meeting with Globe editor Tony Frost, his attempt to smear Eller and other indiscreet disclosures.”

If true, Schiller’s allegations against Hunter could potentially cost him his job and expose him to legal jeopardy from Eller. Hunter’s 26-year career as district attorney has been distinguished by a reluctance to prosecute and an eagerness to plea-bargain. Obsessed with his image, Hunter seemed to spend most of his time courting and wooing reporters, including the editors and messengers for the tabloids. In Hunter’s defense, it could be argued that unorthodox circumstances, such as a small town under siege, require unorthodox methods. Certainly, the case has been a magnet for every form of lowlife. At every turn, deceit and betrayal have been rewarded with financial gain. During my four months on the case, I was stalked by tabloid reporters, harassed by rabid Ramsey-story groupies, slandered, robbed and shamelessly plagiarized.

Virtually everyone involved in or in proximity to the Ramsey case has been damaged, some quite onerously. Numerous careers have been torpedoed. Those who resigned under pressure or in protest include Eller; Koby; City Manager Tim Honey; Thomas; Det. Linda Arndt, one of the first officers on the scene; and Lou Smit, a detective hired by the district attorney. Another detective filed a lawsuit against the department and even the mayor, who was said to be so demoralized by the toll of the case on the community that she declined to run for another term. Even reporters have been singed. The Boulder Daily Camera fired its Ramsey reporter, charging her with theft of source materials. She in turn sued them and won. And in the frenzied pursuit of sizzle and headlines, some of Boulder’s alternative weeklies outdid the tabloids in the sleaze sweepstakes.

When Shapiro began publicly blowing the whistle on the Globe’s unsavory and illegal tactics, the Globe fired him. At last glance, Shapiro was trying to sell his wares as an ex-tabloid artist now in recovery, teaming up with the producer of a Ramsey-sanctioned documentary so hopelessly partial to the family that it qualifies as an infomercial.

In time, Thomas would also feel the sting of Shapiro and eventually threaten him and the Globe with legal action. Moreover, we’re told, “the FBI talked to Shapiro about the possibility that he had engaged in extortion with Thomas.” Curiously, Schiller describes Shapiro’s reprehensible behavior without any judgment--as dispassionately as if he were chronicling a quarrel in the Los Angeles Times’ newsroom. The relationship between the two is never clear, and Schiller’s pose of unbiased impartiality feels disingenuous. Indeed, it has been reported that Shapiro told friends of the Ramseys that he “wasn’t working for Larry Schiller but with him.” Schiller denies the claim, but one gets the eerie sense that Shapiro functions almost as Schiller’s alter ego.

Too often in “Perfect Murder” there is no attribution or detailing of sources. In addition, too much of the reporting is based on the accounts of tabloid reporters, such as Shapiro and his former Globe colleague, Craig Lewis. Shapiro now claims that for $200 Lewis masterminded the theft from the printer of the Vanity Fair story that I wrote. In a stunning act of hubris, Shapiro recently contacted Vanity Fair trying to sell a first-hand account of how the Globe “illegally obtained” such stories. Schiller also tells us that Lewis sent photographs of Thomas’ dead mother and aunt to Thomas to intimidate him into granting an interview. He writes that during one of Shapiro’s many meetings with Hunter, the district attorney casually phoned one of the Ramsey lawyers for information and then passed it on to Shapiro. It is an extraordinary claim, one for which Shapiro is the only source.

Schiller is particularly kind to those who cooperated with him, like deputy district attorney Pete Hofstrom. For instance, Schiller repeats the story of Hofstrom’s stunning special arrangement to fingerprint the Ramseys at his home and not at police headquarters, like all other potential murder suspects, without any comment or judgment. Likewise, Schiller affords some of the most notorious creatures in the tabloid demimonde with courtesy and respect. Those who refused him interviews, such as former Ramsey best friend Fleet White and Eller--the rare few who have not sought to profit from this case--fare less well.

Notwithstanding its myriad problems, “Perfect Murder, Perfect Town,” if read with a healthy grain of salt, is not without its pleasures. But Schiller has missed the real story. The truly unique and fascinating story that Schiller alone could tell would be a first-person account of his own peregrinations into the netherworld of the Ramsey case. Who but Schiller has access, relationships and camaraderie in both the tabloid and mainstream worlds? Who other than Schiller can guide us like Charon into this Hades and lead us out alive? Schiller, oddly, fails to realize that he is his most fascinating character and story.