Cold Case

In a small line of cars ten Meriden policemen slowly drive down a carriage path in the Walnut Grove Cemetery. One after another each car eases to a stop. It’s ten in the morning, January 2, 2014. No one is around. The temperature is eighteen; it’s gusty, and there’s been a light snow. This is a ritual the Meriden police carry out, this date and time, every year. Many of the guys are veterans, some retired, one is eighty, while others are new patrolmen that were just kids when this all started. A few of the oldies complain year-to-year just how long they can continue while the younger ones take on the duty of keeping it going.

Everyone gets out of their cars--they're all dressed in their formals, caps, high boots, braids. They know each other; they mull around for small talk. One pats the back of another and says, “Rob, twenty-six years, am I right?” Rob nods. He’s been to all of them. Channel Eight News arrived early and already the camera is going. The reporter wants an interview with Dan Marshall, the dapper inspector in a blended wool coat. Though he speaks like an actor, he is reluctant, telling the reporter, “I don’t know what to say.” But he does, he worked on the case for ten years. The reporter finally coaxes him on camera and he takes a few questions.

Soon a voice says, “Okay, guys,” and in a tiny procession, two by two, along the small path blown clear by a caretaker they trudge silently up the small hill. Two of them carry a wreath. In just forty feet they stop. At the top Reverend Davis waits, holding a bible and sheet of paper. The cops form a horseshoe; at their feet is a simple twenty-inch cement slab with a bouquet of flowers next to it. The hats come off. It’s biting cold but no one shivers.

Reverend Davis reads a poem, "We Pray for Children." It’s a sampling of a kid's world, kids with sticky chocolate fingers and kids who never get dessert, kids who sneak a pop-sickle before dinner and kids behind barbed wire.

A retired lieutenant describes David, that day he was wrapped in a blanket and left to freeze. "We ask ourselves, why?" He says the department had adopted David as their own so they will never forget. He goes on, how the Meriden Police Department tried to bring this case to "a successful conclusion." And he continues, "But it's been in vain. God only knows we tried." Finally he closes it by saying, "The mother must have suffered some kind of trauma."

Much of the snow had already been brushed off the plaque before they got there. You can see the name, David Paul Beloved Little Man. There is a date on it, January 2, 1988. It begs: is that the date of birth or death?

Both.

Back in July I looked into the Safe Haven Law, the one that should have protected Panna Krom, a case of neonaticide I was investigating. It falls under the Department of Children and Families, the DCF. I called the DCF and got to the public information office. They sent me their fact sheet. That led to me to the David Paul case—the murder of a newborn. It was the public outrage over the lifeless David Paul that pushed the politicians to do something, to enact the Safe Haven Law in Connecticut—so scared pregnant girls would have an out. I read in a newspaper column how every January 2 they have the ceremony for David at the Walnut Grove Cemetery. I circled the date on my calendar.

That morning starting before seven I first checked out the parking lot where a lady found the baby, "under a forked tree." Somewhere in those twenty-six years it had obviously been bulldozed and repaved. There were plenty of trees to pick from, many you could say were forked. But I was at a complete loss to pick one.

From there I stopped at the police department to inquire at the front window if the ceremony was today. Then it was off to the cemetery, still early before there might be any activity. I located two groundskeepers. They vaguely knew of the ceremony. Driving to a spot near the gravesite I hiked up the hill. A light dusting of snow covered the grounds. Finding some twenty plaques in the area, I wasn't sure which was his, so I furiously brushed the snow off about ten. None were David's. Heading back down I turned one more time and spotted a bouquet and figured that must be it. I brushed the snow off. It was. I snapped a photo. That was all before the cops and TV crew arrived.

That original day, January 2, 1988, was much like this day, quiet, bitter cold, only sunny. A lone woman walked along Evansville Road, her daily route, on her way to get groceries. When she got near the AGC plant she noticed across the street a doll wrapped in pink and white blankets. It was propped against that large forked tree in an overflow parking lot. It wasn’t really near the road trying certain to be seen but it was still hard to miss. The whole area was pretty empty and bare. The woman thought it was an oddity, enough that she walked across the lot to check it. As she got closer she froze and gasped. It wasn’t a doll. She looked around for anyone else. All was quiet and still. Moving closer, she leaned and stared. The baby's face was without expression, eyes fixed closed, cheeks cherry red. Reaching and tenderly touching it--it was rock hard, icy, like she suspected. Suspicion turned to fear. She stood up and looked around again. She turned and half-ran to a store and dialed 911.

Three police cruisers showed up. They confirmed it was dead. Yellow tape was strung around the area, now a crime scene. They snapped photos. The baby was taken by ambulance directly to the Connecticut medical examiner’s office in Farmington.

The ME determined it had been full term and alive when he was set on that lot, born within hours, or less. A boy, seven and a half pounds, blue eyes. The cause of death was severe hypothermia. It froze to death by that tree.

The news of the new baby left to freeze traveled like a shock wave, tore through the town of Meriden, rippled across the state and even around the world. Cards, flowers and checks poured in, to pay for a funeral, a gravesite, a burial gown. The Fain family with a small plot on a crest in the Walnut Grove Cemetery offered to share part of it. The local clergy named him David, from the scriptures meaning “God’s beloved,” and Paul, “Little man.”

In a funeral procession that distant January day a couple burly police pulled a small red wagon with the tiny coffin.

The Meriden police threw all their sources at the case. For years they had suspects, took samples, chased leads and followed tips. Two retired New York state police officers from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children weighed in. And in 2001, the FBI were invited into the effort. The leads dried up but they've never closed the case.

When I got home I sifted through my notes and photos on the day. Looking at one I scribbled: Someone left a bouquet of flowers by the grave. Someone, I thought. I was there at eight, even before. The ground already had a cover of snow and it had just stopped. So someone came in the middle of the night and left those flowers, making sure they avoided the ceremony. The wrapping colors were pink and white, the same as the blanket. Pink and white for a boy? Again, odd.

The next morning I put in a call to two of the investigators, the two that gave me their cards. They both called back that day.

I told Lt. Nick Salini I had been at the gravesite early because I didn’t know what time the service was. No one was there. I found the grave for David but later took note that someone had left a bouquet of flowers there. “Lieutenant, this person must have come sometime in the middle of the night.”

The lieutenant told me, “You know, I saw the flowers and wondered.”

"It just struck me, you know." I stopped there. No doubt they had had enough free advice from armchair detectives. I didn't want to be another crackpot.

“No, I hear you. But I have to be honest. This is a big deal in the community. After the ceremony I went to a diner and people there asked me about it. So to see flowers up there is not at all unusual. We see flowers. Not unusual.”

I made my point. He asked where I worked and how I got interested in this. I told him my trail led to the Safe Haven Law, then to David.

"You have a lot of passion about this.”

“Yeah, I guess I can be a pain in the ass.”

He said, “Listen, I’m going to give you the number of my cousin in the force, Danny. He knows more about this case than anyone alive.” Then he said, "And hey, we’ll send a guy up for the flowers, check it out. Give Danny a call, okay."

The other policeman called as well, Inspector Dan Marshall. We talked. I reminded him that at the ceremony he had told me something about “other similar cases.” I asked what he meant, because I knew of only three cases.

“There was Baby X," he said. "It was along the shore, Clinton or Haddam, if I remember right, way sometime in the seventies. As far as I know never solved it.”

The story of Baby X goes back to 1975. The little shoreline town known to many as the bluefish capital, Clinton, Connecticut, is still haunted by Baby X--it’s only unsolved murder. But like many of the baby death cases I come upon, it wasn't a case of neonaticide, like Panna's baby or David. And that's a whole different mindset.

It happened on January 31st that year; some children were playing behind a store. On a path they discovered a bag covered in weeds. They peeked inside and saw a dead infant. Authorities discovered a baby girl with blonde hair. They gave her the name Baby X. The medical examiner said she was born less than a month prior and her death was from exposure to the cold—like David Paul.

Baby X received national attention and a $25,000 reward was posted from Ella Grasso, the governor. No leads were found. One woman, however, did call claiming a family member killed the baby. She said she’d call back but never did. In the nineties the leads dried up and they closed the books on the case. Even to this day fresh flowers can often be found beside her grave in Beaverbrook Cemetery.

But in 2003 with modern forensic tools--DNA--the Baby X case was reopened. Once word got out the phone rang again, this time from family members who had been sitting on the dark secret of Baby X’s death. One of them knew everything. He named names, specifically the mom and the dad. The detectives needed more. So two new guys traveled up and down the East Coast digging up and interviewing witnesses, even tracking down a former Clinton police officer in Maine involved in the case. That led to a psychic in Florida the police had used on the case, and the psychic still had a piece of the bag the baby was in. That shred of bag was hand carried to the lab. The technicians discovered a speck of blood. They ran DNA on it. It was an exact match. They had the mother. Although she had obeyed a court order to provide the blood sample, from that point on she hired an attorney and he shut her up. The evidence, however, was enough--she was arrested, charged with murder, and the father as well, with conspiracy to commit murder.

In a stunning move the prosecutors backed off and the case died. Seems Aaron Greenberg, the medical examiner, died in 1982 and left them no one to back up his testimony about the autopsy. The lawyers said, “Pure and simple. The autopsy showed the kid was alive, but we don’t have testimony to back it. We're dead.”

What those police did was NCIS type fieldwork and they were commended. Sgt. Flynn, the primary detective so recognized, made a statement in consolation, “I’m just glad we got to the truth.”

In some cases the satisfaction of a vigorous pursuit of the truth is the only reward or perhaps the only justice--a lesson of sorts for David Paul.

I got through to Detective Danny McKnight, cousin of Nick, the first detective I talked to. We tossed around some things about the case, but balking at one innocuous question he told me, “It’s still an open case, so I can’t discuss that.” He asked what I did and I told him. He said, “Let me run this by the chief and see if he’ll let you look at the files.”

“That’d be great.”

He called me back and to my surprise said, “The chief was okay, would like you to look at the files and see if you might have something to add.” I quickly arranged to be there in three days.

It was a snowy Tuesday when I arrived at the Meriden Police Station just after lunch. Sgt. McKnight, with a badge at his belt and a small handgun, was courteous, introduced me to the other detectives, who greeted me like a hired gun from the big league. He sat me down in a quiet interrogation room, showed me where to get a bite, the bathroom. A cardboard box full of records was hauled in. Danny handed me one binder in particular packed with some 300 pages, patted it, and told me to start with it. He said, "As you read it, you'll get into the flow." Showing me another binder with photos, he warned me they could be a little graphic. I assured him it was okay, I had dissected a cadaver in my day, which was thirty years ago. Before he left he paused and told me, “This is the first time we’ve ever done this.” The door closed and I was alone for the afternoon.

I read the entire binder. It had pages and pages of investigations, tracking down parties, some DNA results, tips from the public. Sgt. McKnight had emphasized that since this is a cold case, but an open one, anything I read cannot be taken out of the room. So to honor that I faithfully reveal nothing of what I read.

Through the door I could hear Danny on the phone, busy with an arrest warrant. When I finished I couldn't find him, so I scribbled a note on his desk thanking him. I told him the reports read like a novel. I said I'd put some thoughts together on the case and send him a letter.

One month later I sent this letter:

Dear Detective Danny McKnight,

First, let me thank the Meriden Police Chief, the Department, and especially you, for inviting me and granting me unprecedented access to the 26 year-old open files on David Paul. After studying the files I regret I am not able to add anything of substance to this exhaustive investigation. But perhaps I can provide a fresh impression and a few relevant facts.

I came to David Paul after looking at another newborn homicide. I approach these tragedies starting from the other side, with the mother. My interest in that case first began when I attended a Hartford Legislative hearing and thereafter offered some assistance to the lawyer but mostly to the parents of the incarcerated Danbury teenager. Her story was sadly similar, except it ended with an arrest and conviction. She had hid her pregnancy and delivered her baby alone at home. According to her confession and the forensics she drowned the baby in the toilet. Two days later the newborn was discovered in her closet. That day, now six years ago, marks the beginning of a long tragic ordeal. Her sentence is 18 years. When one dissects all aspects of this case, as I have attempted to do, many extraordinary and complicated factors arise, about her, her family and their customs, her high school, and the threats--all contributing to her trap, being abandoned and her untimely terror.

David Paul was born within hours before being set in the park. And he had no signs of trauma. Just these simple facts suggest, as has been discussed previously, the mother was alone, the pregnancy was hidden, and she was not thinking in a rational way. If true, these are typical hallmarks for this special type of homicide, neonaticide (a mother killing her baby within 24 hours of birth). There is a general profile for these mothers, which is markedly different from the murderers of older babies and children.

With regard to neonaticide in Connecticut, I have found only three cases. The first of the three was David, in 1988. The second happened in 1996 in Cheshire; it involved a high school girl who put the baby in the trash and served seven months, a typical sentence. The third occurred in Danbury in 2007, the one I know well. After my travels and inquiries around the state these three are all I came up with. Unfortunately there is no registry for these crimes. Even the Safe Haven people don’t track them. Nationwide there are 40-50 a year. However, this number is misleading as most are secretly disposed and never discovered; they are just never known. How many? One study I found (from France) puts the number at 2.1 per 100,000 births. For Connecticut, that would be about one per year.

What drew me to David was the trail I followed pointing to the Safe Haven Law, which little David was instrumental in enacting, in 2000. To date it has rescued 21 babies.

So, even if the David Paul case never gets solved, keeping it open and the yearly January ceremony at the Walnut Grove Cemetery going should really be construed as “solving” it. By that I mean through this quiet display of humanism the department is putting the word out for other similar young women. I have no doubt he has saved more little David Pauls.

Again, thank you for allowing me to weigh in on this legendary story.