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Authors: Deborah Halber
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annual Remembrance Day holiday weekend in Canada, and she was found only an hour from the Canada border, in an area frequented by tourists.
An event ten thousand miles from where she died may have sealed her fate as an unknown, More suggested. While Cali lay dead in the field, Iranian militants stormed the U.S. embassy in Iran, holding fifty-two hostages in a standoff that lasted 444 days. By the time media coverage of the hostage crisis had died down, the news of Caledonia Jane Doeâs death had been buried. More was determined to find a way to resurrect it.
----
In early 2001, Jennifer âStormyâ Marraâs site Stormcritters.com evolved into the Doe Network, and around that time she simultaneously developed a new, similar site, the Missing Persons Cold Case Network, or MPCCN.
MPCCN collected an impressive four thousand listings for missing and unidentified individuals from North America. During its relatively brief existence, a user named Carol Ann Cielecki would help solve one of its most perplexing cases. Meanwhile, the knowledge that Carol had been seeking in the first place would elude her for another four years.
In early 2003, Marraâs Missing Persons Cold Case Network was still a few months away from being hacked into oblivion. In a small Pennsylvania town, Carol scrolled through the networkâs database, looking for a mention of an unidentified body that might be that of her hunky, daredevil ex-Âhusband.
I visited Carol in her compact two-story house in Allentown, the postâsteel-industry blue-collar town that Billy Joel had made famous. Carol wasready for me, kneeling on her living room rug surrounded by photo albums and loose-leaf notebooks packed with articles and flyers documenting a decade of web sleuthingâand, in Carolâs case, more than twenty-five years of loss and pain. In jeans and a sweater, straight dark hair flipped over one shoulder, silver-gray shadow highlighting baby-blue eyes, she looked like she couldnât possibly have married Todd Martin Smith more than a quarter century ago. When she pulled out the wedding photos, it made more sense. I saw that she and Todd were very young back then, just kids who, fittingly, went to Disney World on their honeymoon.
When Carol first started searching for Todd online, she hadnât seen him since the day in May 1989 that he stopped by the car dealership where she worked to pick up their two-year-old daughter. Later that dayâwithout dropping so much as a hint about leaving to Carol; to his girlfriend, who was taking care of the toddler for him; or to his parentsâthe twenty-five-year-old motocross racer, sports car enthusiast, and skilled golfer sold one of his beloved motorcycles, abandoned his car on a city street with the motorcycle trailer still attached, and vanished.
Even after fourteen years, Carol didnât believe Todd was deadâif he was, she was certain someone would have found his body and notified her and his familyâbut she lived with a constant, gnawing doubt. She peeked out her windows at night as though he might be lurking in the bushes and wondered if he was keeping tabs on her and their daughter. Once, briefly, she was sure she had spotted him in a crowd photo, a pea-sized face in Parade magazine.
She and Todd had met in their early twenties, selling Hondas at a New Jersey dealership not far from where they grew up. Mont Blanc pens tucked into the pockets of their suits, Carol and Todd competed with the rest of the sales team to see who could move more Civics and Preludes. This wasnât overly difficultâthe practical, fun-to-drive cars were popular in upscale Somerset Countyâbut Carol recalled that, for Todd, it was practically effortless.
Tall, with tight blond curls and a chiseled jaw, exuding confidence and athleticism, heâd stroll over to a potential customer. He spoke softlyâno hard sell hereâblinked his cornflower-blue eyes, and flashed his
An event ten thousand miles from where she died may have sealed her fate as an unknown, More suggested. While Cali lay dead in the field, Iranian militants stormed the U.S. embassy in Iran, holding fifty-two hostages in a standoff that lasted 444 days. By the time media coverage of the hostage crisis had died down, the news of Caledonia Jane Doeâs death had been buried. More was determined to find a way to resurrect it.
----
In early 2001, Jennifer âStormyâ Marraâs site Stormcritters.com evolved into the Doe Network, and around that time she simultaneously developed a new, similar site, the Missing Persons Cold Case Network, or MPCCN.
MPCCN collected an impressive four thousand listings for missing and unidentified individuals from North America. During its relatively brief existence, a user named Carol Ann Cielecki would help solve one of its most perplexing cases. Meanwhile, the knowledge that Carol had been seeking in the first place would elude her for another four years.
In early 2003, Marraâs Missing Persons Cold Case Network was still a few months away from being hacked into oblivion. In a small Pennsylvania town, Carol scrolled through the networkâs database, looking for a mention of an unidentified body that might be that of her hunky, daredevil ex-Âhusband.
I visited Carol in her compact two-story house in Allentown, the postâsteel-industry blue-collar town that Billy Joel had made famous. Carol wasready for me, kneeling on her living room rug surrounded by photo albums and loose-leaf notebooks packed with articles and flyers documenting a decade of web sleuthingâand, in Carolâs case, more than twenty-five years of loss and pain. In jeans and a sweater, straight dark hair flipped over one shoulder, silver-gray shadow highlighting baby-blue eyes, she looked like she couldnât possibly have married Todd Martin Smith more than a quarter century ago. When she pulled out the wedding photos, it made more sense. I saw that she and Todd were very young back then, just kids who, fittingly, went to Disney World on their honeymoon.
When Carol first started searching for Todd online, she hadnât seen him since the day in May 1989 that he stopped by the car dealership where she worked to pick up their two-year-old daughter. Later that dayâwithout dropping so much as a hint about leaving to Carol; to his girlfriend, who was taking care of the toddler for him; or to his parentsâthe twenty-five-year-old motocross racer, sports car enthusiast, and skilled golfer sold one of his beloved motorcycles, abandoned his car on a city street with the motorcycle trailer still attached, and vanished.
Even after fourteen years, Carol didnât believe Todd was deadâif he was, she was certain someone would have found his body and notified her and his familyâbut she lived with a constant, gnawing doubt. She peeked out her windows at night as though he might be lurking in the bushes and wondered if he was keeping tabs on her and their daughter. Once, briefly, she was sure she had spotted him in a crowd photo, a pea-sized face in Parade magazine.
She and Todd had met in their early twenties, selling Hondas at a New Jersey dealership not far from where they grew up. Mont Blanc pens tucked into the pockets of their suits, Carol and Todd competed with the rest of the sales team to see who could move more Civics and Preludes. This wasnât overly difficultâthe practical, fun-to-drive cars were popular in upscale Somerset Countyâbut Carol recalled that, for Todd, it was practically effortless.
Tall, with tight blond curls and a chiseled jaw, exuding confidence and athleticism, heâd stroll over to a potential customer. He spoke softlyâno hard sell hereâblinked his cornflower-blue eyes, and flashed his
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