Free Katie Beers by Buried Memories: Katie Beers' Story Page A

had a sex abuse allegation against John Esposito, a close family friend. Astonishingly though, Katie continued to live as a ward of the same adults who seemed to have undeniably placed her in harm’s way. It was as if an entire community witnessed a hit and run, turned its collective head, and kept driving.
    With a virtual rogues’ gallery of misfits and accused perverts in her life, it also seemed inconceivable that Katie could have the uncanny bad luck of having been abducted by a complete stranger. But this was Long Island.
    Allan Binder, a Suffolk County legislator who headed the Committee for Health and Human Services, called for hearings into the apparent missteps by public agencies and schools. Binder could be counted on for an on-camera interview, even now, when he knew he’d be on the defensive.
    “The question is whether our Child Protective Services is following up and doing the job it should. We will be looking at this case and looking at other cases. We’ve been getting a flood of calls from people who have had similar problems.”
    A flood of calls? What are “people” saying?
    “They are saying they had instances where they have let CPS know about something and there wasn’t any follow-up and if there was an initial follow up, it ended there. That maybe a child died or was hurt. We are hearing these kinds of stories. They haven’t been confirmed. Obviously we have to investigate.”
    Obviously.
    More than a week into a criminal mystery, a journalist’s job is not entirely unlike that of police. One runs at every lead, hoping it will be a big break in the case. To cover a story is one thing. To have an exclusive, that’s pay dirt. So when a promising call from one of Katie’s neighbors came into the newsroom, I ran.
    A man with an Indian accent and thick bushy mustache welcomed reporters and camera crews into his small kitchen. This was apparently no exclusive, but he said he had a valuable clue and was willing to share it.
    He gestured to an answering machine on the counter and waited until the crews indicated they were ready to roll. Then he hit play.
    It was almost too quick to decipher, so he played it again. And again. It sounded like a gasp.
    The problem was, lasting only one second, it could not definitively be characterized as a human gasp. Maybe it was that of a child. Or a dog. I couldn’t be sure. The man said the gasp came into his answering machine between nine and eleven-thirty that morning. His niece, he explained, was a school friend of Katie’s.
    Why do you think Katie would call here?
    “I think maybe because my niece is her friend.”
    Has Katie ever been here?
    “No…um, no.”
    Did Katie have your number?
    “Maybe my niece gave it to her.”
    Reporters, huddled around the answering machine with microphones, gave each other disheartened glances that said, without words, this was a total waste of time, a vital commodity that was in short supply if Katie were to be found alive.

THE RIGHT TIME
    John Beers, surrounded by a group of a dozen friends, took deep, long drags of a cigarette. His jet black hair, styled into a nineties mullet, was tinged with scattered pink highlights slicked with hair gel. He had shed his KISS hat and now wore silver chains around his neck, several of them, and a leather motorcycle jacket. Reporters gestured subtly to their cameramen to come quickly. Run. It’s an essential skill in television journalism that takes some practice. Request that the photographer pick up the camera immediately, aim and shoot, without interrupting the focus and flow of a productive conversation with a news subject.
    Thankfully, John kept talking.
    “That’s all lies, really.” I came in mid-interview with a radio reporter. “We don’t know anything about what happened to Katie.”
    He took a hard drag of his cigarette.
    You told me last week John Esposito had abused you. Now you’re being more specific. How old were you?
    “About seven years.”
    How long did it go