Springfield Police get few leads from Discovery ID program

The Discovery ID program that aired on Monday, March 7 generated no real new leads according to Springfield Police spokesman Matt Brown.  They encourage anyone with information about the case to contact no matter how small they think the lead is.

A $42,000 reward is offered in this case as well.

Bartt Streeter, brother of Suzie Streeter, has a comprehensive blog on the case.  I encourage you to go visit.  Streeter also encourages folks to contact the police and ask them to dig at the Cox South parking lot to put that matter to rest one way or the other.

Springfield's Missing Women

I've been obsessed with 1717 E. Delmar since I moved back to Springpatch. Many of us know the infamous address of Springfield's Three Missing Women. Sherrill Levitt, Suzie Streeter and Stacy McCall disappeared from East Delmar 18 years ago.

There are numerous theories as to what became of the three women, a few suspects and thousands of leads were followed up on. Yet 18 years later, we're still no closer to knowing what happened to them. The three women just vanished, leaving a bereft family and baffled community.

“Are you going to blame Gerald Carnahan for global warming too?” Jody teased.

“Maybe,” I replied sheepishly.

I was highlighting a list of missing women from Missouri, sorting out the ones I thought Gerald Carnahan might be responsible for. I'm convinced Jackie Johns isn't the only woman Carnahan murdered. He did time for the assault and attempted kidnapping of another Springfield woman before law enforcement was able to pin John's murder on him.

Carnahan also had an ex-girlfriend who turned up murdered. To my knowledge, that crime remains unsolved.

Perhaps Carnahan is innocent of that crime. Perhaps the only crimes he is guilty of are the ones for which he is convicted. Gut instinct tells me that's simply not the case. Everything about Gerry Carnahan makes my hair stand on end. I see what I believe to be Carnahan's handiwork all over several missing women's cases.

“You don't really think Gerald Carnahan is responsible for the Three Missing Women, do you?” Jody asked perplexed.

“I'm not sure. I'm just not sure.”

Even I struggle with the notion that Carnahan could subdue three women. He's obviously a strong guy, but not superhuman. However, he is scary smart.

Did Carnahan break the porch light at 1717 E. Delmar as a ruse to gain entrance into Sherrill Levitt's home? It's possible. But is it probable?

Earlier this week, sidelined by a sore throat, I sat in my recliner watching a “Disappeared” marathon on Discover ID. The show documents missing persons cases across the country. As I watched, I grumbled inwardly that they'd never bothered to do a show on our Missing Women. Maybe I'm biased, but I consider it the single most baffling missing persons case in U.S. History. For three people to go missing at once like that … it's just remarkable.

Last night at dinner, Jody showed me an article in the News-Leader. ID is finally going to have an episode of “Disappeared” focusing on Levitt, Streeter and McCall. I wondered aloud if they'd bothered to try and interview Carnahan for the program.

Jody rolled her eyes at me.

I hold no illusions that the “Disappeared” program will answer any of my questions about 1717 E. Delmar. But I am glad the case is finally getting some much needed attention. We reached a point where their names only come up in conversation and at anniversaries of the date of their disappearance. Maybe the show will cause someone to remember something and make an important phone call. Maybe it won't. Assuredly, the show will cause me to turn the case over and over in my mind again.

The show will air Monday, March 7 at 8 p.m. On Discovery's ID channel.

Laughter is thicker than water

I opened the shower curtain just in time to see a black cat, chased by a girl cat, chased by Corgzilla all running down the hall at warp speed. This was followed by the sound of two crashes in the living room. The white dog was standing in front of the bathroom door looking very confused.

Just another day at the McLawrence Home for Criminally Insane (and sometimes incontinent) Pets. Ordinarily, I'd be annoyed by this disturbance in my pre-church routine. For some reason, today I was more curious than anything.

I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around me, not caring it wasn't completely up to the task. When I got to the living room, neither cat was in sight. The Corgi walked sheepishly by me. One of our floor lamps was lying on the floor and a DVD case lie in the middle of the room.

I righted the lamp and picked up the DVD … and laughed. The last week has been exhausting, difficult and profoundly sad. My heart has hurt in ways I didn't know possible. So I cackled like a lunatic at my goofy menagerie. I also silently hoped Jody wouldn't wander into the living room and determine I'd finally snapped.

My uncle's funeral was Saturday. I sat in a room surrounded by people I've known my whole life and yet don't really know. The distance of years and miles has left a vague familiarity, but the finer points are gone. What I know of most of my family is distilled drops of history, exaggerated stories … myths really.

I watched as people who had been larger than life to me as a child filed into this tiny church and they all seemed so much more human than I remembered. It's funny how the lens of age distorts your perception. Uncles had far more gray in their beards. My grandmother moved more slowly. My own father is shrinking before my very eyes. The Priscilla? Well, she will always be larger than life. Especially her hair.

My cousins were all drawn together. For some of us it had been 15 or 20 years since we'd seen one another. It always amazes me how funerals and weddings often serve as surrogate family reunions. For the briefest moments yesterday we forgot our sad reason for being there and joked and laughed together.

Those laughs all sounded so similar. If there is a common thread among the McMasters' kin, it's that our laughs all sound alike and we're the most stubborn so and so's you've ever met. I could hear and see this playing out all over the small sanctuary.

The hardest part of the whole service as watching my cousins Sandy and Shelly make the climb up to the pulpit. There was no question both of their hearts were breaking. None of us are good at saying goodbye privately. Saying it so publicly can add insult to injury. Shelly took a deep breath and delivered one of the best eulogies I've ever heard.

One by one, family and friends of my uncle got up and shared memories of him. Each one funnier than the last. My uncle was a prankster, a clown and one of the most generous people in my family. It was no surprise that just as we were weeping someone would deliver an anecdote that had all of us holding our sides giggling.

I realized the McMasters' share more than just a similar laugh and a stubborn streak. We're all comedians too.

During the sermon, the minister said we'd all see my uncle in the strangest places now. Whether it was a song he liked or his beloved Country Bob's steak sauce, his body may be gone but he'd always live in our hearts. Uncle David would still be a part of our lives. I thought it was a sweet, comforting platitude meant to comfort a grieving family. I didn't give it a second thought.

Sunday, as I was leaving a sanctuary full of familiar yet similarly unfamiliar people at my own church, my mind was on my cousins Sandy and Shelly. I was wondering how they were doing. Completely lost in my thoughts, I didn't hear my best friend Karen slip up behind me in the hallway.

So deep were my thoughts, I didn't even notice when she got right next to my ear and quietly said, “BOO!”

I jumped three feet in the air, flailed, flapped and screamed “Jesus Christ!” in the Lord's house. When my heart finally crawled back out of my throat, I stared dumbly at Karen, Jody and Bre who were laughing uncontrollably at my discomfort. Then I laughed in spite of myself.

You're right Uncle David. I needed to lighten up, thanks for sending the prank my way.

I watched the snow falling from behind my laptop as I worked. I was grateful for the ability to work from home and not have to brave the treacherous roads. But in the back of my mind, I was dreading the chore that would come at the end of the day, shoveling.

The white stuff was nearing chest high on my corgi, so I knew I was going to have to shovel a path for him in the backyard. Last year when we got a bit of snow accumulation, my efforts to provide him a potty path ended with a thrown back. Given the Wife is out of town and I've got no one but the pups and the kitties to take care of me, I was a little scared of this prospect.

The snow finally let up enough and I figured I'd procrastinated enough. I went to the closet and fished out the coveralls the Wife bought me. They don't fit well. Someone (read me) needs to lose some weight. When she got them I figured just having them over my clothes unzipped would be enough until my belly shrunk some.

At first, I was pleased they went on a little better this time. I silently congratulated myself for losing a bit of weight. I was even able to get the zipper most of the way up. I grabbed my snow boots and sat down to put them on. It was only then that I realized I was in trouble. I couldn't bend over far enough to tie them.

I muttered an expletive, stood up and unzipped the coveralls. Now I was in serious trouble. Despite unzipping, I couldn't move well enough to get my arms out of the sleeves. The stiff fabric was unforgiving and I couldn't bend anything! This was worse than having thrown out my back.

I thrashed around a bit hoping to bust a seam to free myself. Sadly, Wall's apparently builds quite sturdy coveralls. I heard this high pitched girly laugh that seemed like it was coming from a long way off … but no, it was actually me. I was laughing hysterically because I'd managed to trap myself in a pair of coveralls.

I squirmed some more and tripped over an untied boot, crashing to the floor and barely missing the corgi. He hopped and barked happily thinking we were playing a game. I struggled to fend him away as he licked my face and pushed my head with his snoot. Our other dog came running over and stood over us all. I sincerely thanked them for their efforts to help.

I'm imagine I looked like one of those guys they use to train drug sniffing dogs. Sadly my “trainees” were below average students. I thought of trying to convince one of them to grab a hold of a sleeve, then realized unless I coated myself in peanut butter that wouldn't happen. I was in a sticky enough situation anyway.

I rolled over and managed to stand up again. At this point, I was sweating profusely. I tried one more time to pull my shoulder and hand back inside the sleeve. I got part way in! I wriggled some more and inch, by painful inch I managed to work my left arm in side so I could slip it out.

Finally free of the top half, I then began work on freeing myself from the bottom half. Ten minutes later, bathed in sweat and dog hair, I was finally free of my duck fabric prison. I dimly wondered how I was going to have the energy to shovel.

I grabbed another coat, put my boots back on and headed out to shovel the potty path. I shoveled a nice area on the back porch and then even went so far as to shovel an area in front of the porch so himself could get out in the yard. I looked back through the French doors to see jumping and barking puppies who wanted to come outside.

I let them out and made a sweeping gesture with my hand at the area I cleared for them. They ignored me and set out on their own path into the yard. The corgi dug his own potty path.

Civility disobedience

Acts of desperation make us pause and think.

When Jarrod Lee Loughner opened fire on a crowd waiting to speak with their Congresswoman, in our horror and disbelief, we immediately began to ask why? Why did this happen? Why would this young man kill innocent people? Was this politically motivated?

The pundits came out in force. The politicians pointed fingers. The Left blamed the Right and vice versa.

I think in the end, we'll all come to find out this meaningless act of violence was, indeed, meaningless. Jarrod Lee Loughner is likely a mentally unbalanced man who needs help. He may or may not have been caught up with the vitriolic rhetoric we're all bombarded with daily. If you could get him to talk, I imagine he doesn't even know why he committed those acts.

Only one thing is certain about the tragic events in Tuscon, we're all suddenly talking a great deal about civility. We're all asking how we find ourselves at this place of hate and discontent?

A columnist for SI.com, Jeff Pearlman, recently tracked down a couple of folks who sent him snide, rude and pornographic responses to columns he'd written. When he called them both at home to call them out on their behavior, both were contrite. Both also sheepishly blamed the anonymity of the internet for their boorish behavior.

It's not surprising. While the Internet has done wonders to make our world that much smaller, it has also thrown a mask on each one of us. The web has reduced us to online monikers, cryptic avatars and FaceBook profile pictures that are doggedly hard to see on our smart phones. Is it any wonder we've stopped seeing each other as actual people?

But it isn't just the cloaking device of the World Wide Web that's causing so many folks to speak with wicked tongues. Our political and cultural worlds are rife with trying to shout over one another. Right and Left stick their fingers in their ears and say the most shameful things about each other. Even when those things are true it's hard to believe them given they're coated in hateful hyperbole.

We've stopped listening to one another. It's too loud to do so. We're so passionate that we are right and the other person is wrong that we drown one another out. I've witnessed family arguments where both sides are shouting loudly at each other about a political issue they don't even realize they're in agreement until one of us who actually has been listening to them points it out to them.

At church this week, our pastor advised us to imagine sitting at a table with someone we revile and Jesus. She suggested breaking bread with this person and trying to have a civil meal. While I have to admit the likelihood of me having dinner with the Savior and the Reverend Fred Phelps is about as likely as oil and water mixing, it was good food for thought.

I am not so naive to think that we can all agree all the time. I'm even enough of realist to think there are even places where some form of common ground isn't possible. Yet I am enough of an optimist to believe that if we pause, just for a few moments, and actually listen to one another maybe we can at least learn to have some tolerance and respect for one another.

Healing fractured faith

“I still haven't made my peace with organized religion,” a friend tells me over breakfast.

“I understand that,” I hear my blond twin tell her.

I look sheepishly at my plate of Georgie Browns. I haven't completely made my peace and I don't even understand. But I finally feel like I'm getting there.

Religion, specifically Christianity, has always mystified me for a host of reasons. Everything from a less than traditional religious upbringing to feeling like I don't belong in church because of that upbringing … and the whole gay thing.

Then there's the Bible. The source of religious truth for Christians. It is a vast book with fine print, sometimes contradictory twists and turns and legions of denominations shouting that their interpretation of the events therein is correct. It's daunting, to put it mildly.

I loathe not knowing things, so after I'd gone to church with the blond twin a few times I finally purchased my first Bible. After all, I'm a relatively smart gal with a college education. I could read the

Good Book on my own and come to my own conclusions. Then I'd have accomplished something and no longer feel that spiraling crisis of faith that gnawed at my soul every time someone asked me where I went to church.

I didn't even make it out of the Old Testament.

I kept going to church though. I'd just come out of the closet and needed a safe place. In southwest Missouri safe places can be hard to come by. Lucky for me, the blond twin was a member of National Avenue Christian Church. A Disciples of Christ Church, it welcomes those of us who happen to be gay Christians.

Like me, NACC was in crisis as well. The long-standing pastor had left the church … on less than amicable terms. Some members of the congregation were leaving while others maintained a tense vigil to keep NACC alive. A parade of temporary pastors churned through the pulpit, doing their level best to hold together what remained of a fractured place of faith.

It was at this time I decided to become a member.

Things began to slowly level out for both me and the church. An interim minister was hired and I began a long-term relationship with my soon-to-be wife. I felt more comfortable with me than I had in years. Yet old doubts began to eat at me once again, especially when it came to faith.

As I sat in the pew, I began to feel as though so much of what was happening was so far beyond me. For goodness sakes, I couldn't even finish the Bible. What made me think I had any business sitting in church, pretending to be a good Christian?

I stopped going, for a good long while.

It wasn't until just before the holidays last year I decided to go back. For whatever reason it felt right and comforting to be there. My doubts were still there, but I'd grown more accustomed to them. The church had found a permanent pastor. It would seem we were both in a more stable place.

But I still hadn't wrapped my mind around the Bible.

The Wife is fond of saying, “Through God and Amazon.com, all things are possible.”

I had joked to the blond twin that I wished there was one of those “Dummies” books about the Bible. It sparked an epiphany. I pulled up the Kindle Store on my Kindle and didn't find a “Dummies” book, but I did find “The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Bible.” I downloaded it thinking it would at least be good for a laugh.

Laughter is good for the aching soul.

The book is straightforward and without any attempts to interpret. It talks about varying interpretations of the Bible, but doesn't endorse any particular one. It also pokes fun of itself and manages to present the larger themes of the Bible in a way this hardened old cynic could relate to. I'm finally beginning to understand and feel comfortable with the book that, up to now, has terrified me.

I'm still reading the “Guide,” but I'm well into the New Testament. This small success has made feel I'm now ready to tackle that fear of organized religion as well.

I may even be making progress there. At church this week, we talked about Baptism. I remembered having my own Baptism some what forced on me by well-meaning but ill-advised friends. I didn't understand why I needed to stand in front of a room of 500 people and have water poured over the top of my head. It just seemed like a good way to humiliate myself.

At the end of this week's service, the pastor called us all up to be Baptized by taking water in our hands. We then were asked to take a shell or a rock to remind us of that day and to remind us to yield to God. Maybe it's because I'm older. Maybe it's because I'm reading that “Guide.” Maybe it's because God has decided it's my time to understand … but this time, it felt right and cleansing. And for the first time in my nearly forty years, I felt at home in church.

I mades a funny