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Authors: Buried Memories: Katie Beers' Story
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7-Eleven because Katie wanted a Slurpee, and stopped by his house for a little while to try out the video game. He said they didn’t like it, so they decided to go to Spaceplex. There, he said, he didn’t hesitate to send Katie off by herself to get tokens with a five dollarbill while he played pinball. After a few minutes, he added, as if he had already explained it ad nauseam, he couldn’t find her.
“The last time I seen her, I gave her five dollars and she was walking toward the machine. Then after a while, I started gettin’ scared, where is she?”
If he were lying, it was impressive. His horseshoe-shaped dark hair and grey tipped wisps of sideburns framed an anguished look on his face which appeared to be one question away from actual tears. So reporters pressed on.
“I was gettin’ scared. I couldn’t find her. It’s a big place. I’m going crazy looking all over. Then I went to security. ‘Could you page Katie Beers?’ They did it about three times.” The tears were flowing now.
He said he started frantically searching and was then paged to the arcade office where he was put on the phone with Linda Inghilleri and told that Katie had left a message saying she was kidnapped.
“I just want to do everything I can to find her,” he said, his forehead etched with deep lines of despair.
“If you heard the tape,” he said through sobs, “you’d know it was her. She said, ‘Somebody kidnapped me, a man, a man with a knife kidnapped me.’”
Sidney Siben chimed in, “If it was him,” he said, pointing to his now trembling client, she’d say, ‘ John kidnapped me.’”
Police had confirmed that Esposito had indeed been to Spaceplex. But no one in the cavernous arcade recalled ever seeing Katie.
COURTSHIP
John tried to make me his partner in crime. He politely requested that I make as much noise as possible while he listened for me upstairs. He said he wanted to make sure the cops wouldn’t hear me, if they should come. While he made his way upstairs, I was trying to figure out how I could trick him into thinking that I was making noise, but not actually do it. A Playschool baby monitor sat on the wooden shelf in the outer room— below the video monitor. It was always on and I knew it was connected to the upstairs but because I couldn’t hear John, I assumed he could hear me. If he could hear what I was doing when he got upstairs, I figured I better make some noise.
I turned the baby monitor all the way down on my end and yelled directly into it. I made sure that I didn’t make enough noise for him to hear me upstairs without the monitor. I held back. After a few minutes of this controlled, pseudo yelling, the drill groaned and the door crashed open.
“Did you do it, did you make noise?” he anxiously asked.
“Top of my lungs.”
“Good.” He believed me.
I was hoping the sound test would pay off, if police ever came.
They finally did.
Maybe it was day two or three. I can’t be sure. But suddenly the cops showed up at Big John’s house. I was in the outer room, having let myself out the cage above with the secret key I had hidden under the pillow. Big John had chained my neck to the wall before he last left, pointless, I thought, because I wasn’t going anywhere. But I snuck out and suddenly, I saw the cops walking up the driveway on the closed-circuit monitor. Finally, police!
As soon as I saw the cops on the monitor, I just started screaming— this time truly at the top of my lungs. Maybe the dungeon was not sound proof. I could hear the cops upstairs talking to Big John—so maybe, just maybe, they could hear me. I yelled and banged. Then I remembered the baby monitor! I yelled as loud as my vocal chords could stand. Screaming that made my hands shake and my head ache.
One voice asked Big John if he remembered anyone talking or looking at me at Spaceplex. I could hear their conversation in muffled tones. How was that possible? Why can’t they hear me?
Then I realized,
“The last time I seen her, I gave her five dollars and she was walking toward the machine. Then after a while, I started gettin’ scared, where is she?”
If he were lying, it was impressive. His horseshoe-shaped dark hair and grey tipped wisps of sideburns framed an anguished look on his face which appeared to be one question away from actual tears. So reporters pressed on.
“I was gettin’ scared. I couldn’t find her. It’s a big place. I’m going crazy looking all over. Then I went to security. ‘Could you page Katie Beers?’ They did it about three times.” The tears were flowing now.
He said he started frantically searching and was then paged to the arcade office where he was put on the phone with Linda Inghilleri and told that Katie had left a message saying she was kidnapped.
“I just want to do everything I can to find her,” he said, his forehead etched with deep lines of despair.
“If you heard the tape,” he said through sobs, “you’d know it was her. She said, ‘Somebody kidnapped me, a man, a man with a knife kidnapped me.’”
Sidney Siben chimed in, “If it was him,” he said, pointing to his now trembling client, she’d say, ‘ John kidnapped me.’”
Police had confirmed that Esposito had indeed been to Spaceplex. But no one in the cavernous arcade recalled ever seeing Katie.
COURTSHIP
John tried to make me his partner in crime. He politely requested that I make as much noise as possible while he listened for me upstairs. He said he wanted to make sure the cops wouldn’t hear me, if they should come. While he made his way upstairs, I was trying to figure out how I could trick him into thinking that I was making noise, but not actually do it. A Playschool baby monitor sat on the wooden shelf in the outer room— below the video monitor. It was always on and I knew it was connected to the upstairs but because I couldn’t hear John, I assumed he could hear me. If he could hear what I was doing when he got upstairs, I figured I better make some noise.
I turned the baby monitor all the way down on my end and yelled directly into it. I made sure that I didn’t make enough noise for him to hear me upstairs without the monitor. I held back. After a few minutes of this controlled, pseudo yelling, the drill groaned and the door crashed open.
“Did you do it, did you make noise?” he anxiously asked.
“Top of my lungs.”
“Good.” He believed me.
I was hoping the sound test would pay off, if police ever came.
They finally did.
Maybe it was day two or three. I can’t be sure. But suddenly the cops showed up at Big John’s house. I was in the outer room, having let myself out the cage above with the secret key I had hidden under the pillow. Big John had chained my neck to the wall before he last left, pointless, I thought, because I wasn’t going anywhere. But I snuck out and suddenly, I saw the cops walking up the driveway on the closed-circuit monitor. Finally, police!
As soon as I saw the cops on the monitor, I just started screaming— this time truly at the top of my lungs. Maybe the dungeon was not sound proof. I could hear the cops upstairs talking to Big John—so maybe, just maybe, they could hear me. I yelled and banged. Then I remembered the baby monitor! I yelled as loud as my vocal chords could stand. Screaming that made my hands shake and my head ache.
One voice asked Big John if he remembered anyone talking or looking at me at Spaceplex. I could hear their conversation in muffled tones. How was that possible? Why can’t they hear me?
Then I realized,
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