Читать книгу Murder In The Heartland - M. William Phelps - Страница 37

With everything else going on, Nodaway County sheriff Ben Espey was now contending with a public relations person from the FBI poking his nose into an investigation Espey believed he had well under control. The PR man’s insistence on taking over and running the investigation turned Espey inside out.

Espey wasn’t some hayseed local sheriff who could be pushed around; he was a consummate professional, soft-spoken and generally tranquil—the type of person who never showed his frustration or anger in a public setting. He acted on his instincts and moved forward despite opposition, doing, Espey noted, exactly what he thought Victoria Jo needed at the time.

By the middle of the night, the case was becoming overwhelming—not the investigative end of it (Espey could handle that), but his obligation to the press. Every hour, it seemed, Espey was sending out a news release.

Frustrated, he told a colleague, “If they won’t issue an Amber Alert, I’ll use the press in place of it.”

Finding someone from the media wouldn’t be difficult. Looking up the block from his office, Espey could see scores of satellite TV trucks camped in downtown Maryville, lighting up Main Street like a football stadium on game night. Espey had obtained the full cooperation of Sheldon Lyons, the MSHP’s public relations official, who assured him the MSHP would do everything in its power to help him, especially where the press was concerned.

“That was a lot off of my shoulders,” remembered Espey. “After I thought about it, I realized I needed the press to help me find the child.”

There was still no Amber Alert. Its absence became the broken spoke in the wheel of justice during those crucial first hours. The sheriff continued to push for it, but was repeatedly told no.

The FBI’s public relations agent from Washington, DC, soon explained to Espey and Lyons that they “weren’t doing this right.” His arrival included an incident with Espey’s dispatcher. He had walked into the foyer of the sheriff’s department, a four-by-eight-foot white tiled room, with vanilla-painted concrete blocks for walls, a door into the office and holding-cell area to the west, and a Plexiglas booth to the north, where the dispatcher spoke through a talkbox to anyone who entered.

Espey’s dispatcher looked up as the FBI agent opened the door, took off his sunglasses and black leather gloves, and approached the window. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m with the FBI. This is my case. I’m taking over,” said the man, flashing his badge. Espey stepped out of his office.

Quite outspoken and dedicated to her boss, Espey’s dispatcher looked at the G-man, bowed her head, and said contentiously, “Yeah, and I’m Daffy Duck.”

Nevertheless, before long, the same PR man made his way into Espey’s office and assumed part of the investigation, dictating who was in charge of what and whom, seeming to ignore Espey completely.

The bottom line for Espey was finding the child. A conflict with a member of the FBI held no interest for him. Espey wanted to find the missing child, and nothing else really mattered.

Espey finally told the intruder to get the hell out of his office as he slammed the door on his back. Then, he recalled, “I focused on finding the baby.”

Espey realized that, in order to get the child back, he might have to allow the PR man into the investigation on some level. Perhaps he could help. Putting the well-being of the child first, Espey wasn’t about to refuse more federal help. In truth, Espey was glad to have it—as long as the federal agents didn’t get in the way of what he was doing.

“But,” Espey told another agent, who had since arrived, “you get rid of that little public relations guy, or I’ll have him escorted out of the county.” Espey meant what he said. He didn’t speak often in anger. But when he did, his words commanded attention.

“This FBI guy,” said another law enforcement official, “came in there and got in Ben’s face. It was like he had just watched a movie, Die Hard or something, and was trying to be the quintessential FBI agent. The FBI is not like that.”

“We got along real good after he left,” explained Espey. “The guys that I worked with in the FBI, Kurt Lipanovich and Mickey Roberts, were just great. The best. I liked them a lot. The problem was that little press guy who wanted to come in and tell everybody what to do. He was probably told to do that from Washington, but I didn’t want it. Not in my town.”

Espey’s problems with the FBI, however, wouldn’t end there.