The waitress in the coffee shop in Truckee, California, can’t quite make sense out of the remark. She puts her coffee server down, puts an elbow on the counter, places her hand to her cheek and furrows her brow at me. She’s staring into my eyes, waiting for me to say more—I would, but I don’t want to spoil the moment.

Wherever I go, people ask me who killed JonBenet. What am I supposed to say? I feel like I know the answer, but at some point quite awhile ago I decided not to run around repeating it like a robot. So I say something else. To this waitress, I say “Ramsey shmamsey.”

And after staring at me for awhile, she lifts a hand from her cheek to her forehead and acts like she’s looking for me across a vast distance, in the manner of Tonto searching for the Lone Ranger. This makes me laugh. “Mom and dad,” I tell her, shrugging, feeling immediate regret. Once you tell, the game is over.

And everyone asks. STILL. With the years rolling along. They hear you’re from Boulder; a writer, allegedly. So they have to ask. It’s as if they’ve been waiting their whole life to find out, and you’re the messiah who leads them from the darkness of ignorance. In fact I’m quite certain that should I ever be involved in a jet crash, or the sinking of a cruise ship at sea, amidst the screaming fellow passengers there will no doubt be one or two interrupting my prayers to ask the oh-too-familiar question. Well, now I have a (ital)better(ital) response: “Go to http:forward slash, forward slash…oops!” No doubt the FAA investigators will spend weeks puzzling over the faint laughter (my laughter) in the background during the plane’s impact and explosion. For those of you who made it here in advance of this incident.

Get a pair of dice. Seriously. Ordinary, six-sided dice. You’ve got ‘em? Good. Now roll ‘em. See if you can get a pair of sixes to come up. Come on, it’s not hard—roll those box cars. You can do it! Come on, we’re going to find out who killed JonBenet, and we’re going to have fun doing it.

Have you gotten a pair of sixes? Keep rolling. What’s that? You’ve got it? Congratulations, you’ve created, with your bare hands, a very simple anomaly. A pair of sixes will appear, on average, once out of every thirty-six tries. Here’s where the mystery-solving comes in: consider, if you will, an individual circumstance from the Ramsey case as an anomaly, similar to the mathematical anomaly of a pair of sixes appearing on a set of dice.

How about the anomaly of a kidnapper killing his victim on the premises of the kidnap victim’s home. Quite an anomaly! In fact there is one case in the FBI files (aside from the Ramsey case) of this event happening. Someone, in the process of being kidnapped, was killed, before removal by the kidnappers. This event is an anomaly because most kidnap victims are simply kidnapped—if they’re killed, well that’s something that happens later.

So, we have an anomaly. Not an impossibility; simply an anomaly, similar to an odd roll of the dice. In real terms, the odds of a kidnapper killing his victim before the kidnapping would probably be considerably higher than the odds of rolling two sixes—we’re simply using the dice for comparative analysis.

Now then, consider another aspect of the murder. The kidnapper happens to conceal the body in a remote section of the house. What would be gained by a kidnapper by this concealment activity? Either nothing, or very little, as far as the authorities can determine. Certainly the kidnapper would be spending more time than necessary in the house where it would be more likely to be caught and forced to confront the parents; so the behavior is contrary to the basic level of reason that even a crazed criminal might possess. So it’s another anomaly. Another roll of two sixes. What are the odds of that? Well, perhaps, for the sake of argument, we say that the odds are within range of throwing two double-sixes in a row. Of course, it happens. On command? Well, it happens.

But what about the ransom note having been written on stationery from within the Ramsey residence itself? Double-sixes again. And what about the combination of head fracture and strangulation identified by the coroner? More double-sixes. And what about the lack of evidence of forced entry? More double-sixes. Or the ability of the kidnapper(s) to spend considerable time in the house without detection? More sixes indeed. We could go on with this tedious perusal, but the simple truth is that while any single anomaly from this case may on its own be somehow credible--sustaining a scenario in which the Ramsey house was invaded--strung together they are as credible as an on-command roll of two-dozen double-sixes in a row. This level of credibility is precisely what we have been asked to accept by those who would support the theory of an intruder--the single theory, regardless of detail, which exonerates the parents of blame.

John Ramsey on the morning of his daughter’s disappearance; evidence of which lay upon her absence and the presence of a somewhat bewildering ransom note—called his lawyer before calling the police. Perhaps my lawyer knows where my daughter is, he must’ve thought. Or perhaps I’m responsible for the kidnap, without knowing it. Maybe it’s someone I’ve egged on; someone I mistreated in my very high-level business dealings.

Early on, I spoke with an ex-assistant DA; people who worked for the Ramseys; people who knew them; people who had simply been in their home. After a few interviews, I came to the conclusion that I understood everything. But also, nothing. Nothing at all. To me the story was simple, and simply mad—yes, in the tradition of Kate Hepburn saying that line, which she could say in regard to everything—"it’s simple and simply mad" Well, I still have most of that conclusion intact. None of the ensuing process has eroded my convictions, which will remain mine for the course of this article at least--and, as I said, won't be exposed entirely. Or did I say that? I'm not sure I remember? Did John Ramsey once say that the children of Boulder are safe, and then on another occasion, say they are not? It's hard to remember what anyone says moment to moment.

Here's a story--a parable? No, a true story--happened over the course of the last several weeks. I live on the edge of downtown Boulder, have some trees, undeveloped property near my apartment. Homes with yards, and so forth. Deer come there--have for years. A doe (a, a deer, a fe-male deer) had a faun there last year, broke her leg. This year, a mother had two fawns. They were always nearby over the last several weeks. There mother might leave them in a spot, then return. One morning I was going to water a little patch of weeds next to my house, in the neighbor's undeveloped lot. As I was turning up the path, the mother faced off with me. I had been moving her way fast--with her babies there. She walked straight towards me. I stopped. She moved a little closer. I backed off, took the long route to the hose. I left a pail of water. Another neighbor did the same. A few days ago the mother broke both her legs. Guy came out and put her down. Said babies had a chance. Three days later I hear them and see them--bleating--bleating for their mother. The fawns who've lost their mother.

What does this have to do with the Ramseys? Nothing, really. Except that death and perhaps only death awakens us to the connection between all beings. We are all apart of one another; all humans, and even animals and humans--or is it just some humans? It's not worth thinking about. Either you feel it or you don't. It’s simple and simply mad—darling. And I am still recovering from the woman who came up to me as I was buying vegetarian burgers from the freezer case at Leever’s to tell me that I was "wearing one."

"One what?" I asked, lower lip sensitively dropped. "A hamburger—on your back—your jacket." "Oh, yes, a hamburger, yes…," I nodded. I smiled at her but there was fire in her eyes. I thought I better get out of her way. I raced to the checkout aisle. She followed me. To the same line. I looked at her; my heart rate just mildly fast. She said nothing, her lips were firm, motionless. She stared piercingly at me. Fine, scare me, why don’t you. I made it home o.k.. Killing is not o.k. for some people, but being angry and intimidating is pure camembert. (Cheese, darling-- simply mad (ital)cheese(ital).)

And JonBenet? Well, regardless of what else may be said—she’s a reminder of the challenge of life—of survival. Her death, from supposedly safe and placid surroundings, suggests that it’s all only a “chance” that we experience. A (ital)chance(ital) to live.

A child--defenseless--killed. As much protection from the world as a fawn negotiating life in the city. Of course, there was the wealth of her mother and father providing the barest illusion of safety—an illusion she may have seen through at times—since children do have the ability to see through things. Her reported bedwetting may have simply been the barometer of her propensity to see through the illusion of safety.

I did, in the course of my research speak with a woman --one woman, who told me a story I will not forget. I was offered money to share this story--to let it hit the tabloids, so to speak. Had I done so--I would have put this woman's job in extreme jeopardy. It was only from knowing her a long time that I was eligible to be told. And then she may have regretted it afterwards.

A woman, working in another county. A psychiatric "worker"--I won't give her titles. She hears a story from a young girl--a girl JonBenet's age. A girl who knows Jon Benèt She is working with this girl and her family. The girl has been a victim of sexual abuse. And she whispers in the woman's ear her understanding of the reason JonBenet is dead. Her reason is the best reason I have ever heard. And I'm not sure that I should repeat it. But the whispered words were "she died because she didn't tell the big secret". In therapy for a child like this, the big secret is what an abuser would tell you not to tell. There's perhaps more to this story, perhaps less. I may have said too much.

Also, during my "investigation" I heard all sorts of things. People with truckloads full of theories and documents. Usually of no real worth. One of the more interesting stories came from a person who was convinced that their brother was in town, driving an old LTD with a violin case in the back full of explosives. Hey, I'm not much better--but, believe it or not, this was someone who actually had regular contact with the Ramseys over a period of time. Incidental contact, but regularly. Completely verifiable. Enough to get a picture in his mind of their lives; an interesting one at that.

Bad decorating job in their home. Loud furnishings. Reasonably expensive stuff, but cheap taste. What you'd expect to find in a very nice Las Vegas hotel suite, perhaps. What does that tell us? Nothing. I must insist. All of it adds up to nothing.

Although there was one thing. A medallion in lucite with Ramsey's signature. It said something to me. Absurd that I have anything to do with these things, but somehow I do. They're an odd artifact of the case. Nothing more, I don't think. But they speak to me. The signature--the idea that they were a Christmas gift. Let’s see, a bronze medallion with your signature on it as a gift to your employees. How many people give gifts with their signature on it? Surely not an indication of guilt. An indication of ego? What’s wrong with that? Nothing. Just an ironic twist—a man achieving the pinnacle of “career” success—celebrating his “billion dollar year” by giving Christmas gifts with his sig across them in very large script—then falling, falling from a great height. Excuse me, even if he did not kill his child, or either engage or institute a cover-up, he still fell—didn’t he? I mean to say, if we asked him, he would admit to that. Wouldn’t he? That it was a fall for him when his young female namesake died? The child who bore his name much as did his rather grand Christmas offering to the Access Graphics family. Or would we have to go through his lawyers and public relations firm to ask that question? Incidentally, this writer, at one time, was pursued for the return of the medallions. He does not, at present, have any more than a general idea of their whereabouts.

And yes, there's a novel. A short novel. Imagining the characters. I don't know if I'll ever live it down. I tell people I wrote this novel, and their jaws sometimes drop. This is BEFORE showing it to them--afterwards, well it’s like we’re back on that plane together, spiraling.

A snapshot of Alex Hunter: at a “roast” for a successful local businessman, one of Hunter’s many supporters, approximately ten months after the murder. Hunter gets up to speak, makes a joke about the business associate being roasted. The joke is a suggestion that the man was last seen wearing a trenchcoat on the “Hill” , the night of JonBenet’s murder. Humorous? At the time, a statement had recently and oddly been released regarding the search for a possible individual, a possible suspect, last seen on the Hill on the night of the murder. Was the existence of said “person” in trenchcoat a joke as much as his use of the material might indicate? How funny are, or were, jokes about the Ramsey case to Alex Hunter generally--in light of the failure by the police and DA to even come close to an indictment? Or perhaps, after many long days of a long investigation, a DA should simply be allowed to deliver a joke now and then.

I was happy to have met the people who have done personal "investigations" on the web. Some marvelous material. I still have the "cocktail parasol of suspicion" from a get-together last year, the gathering of the "websters"--the cybersleuths and so forth. At a restaurant in Boulder. I am certain only that on the rainiest of days, we're all under the same cocktail parasol together.

The last snapshot someone gave me of John Ramsey; excuse me, "verbal" snapshot—he was at a computer expo; shaking some hands; investigating some deals. Figuring out how to design his next billion-dollar business. What I hear of JonBenet’s mother, Patsy, she maintains a close circle socially. Spends considerable time in seclusion. From what I here, seclusion is a major aspect of her life.