A Cold Shoulder

Steven Michael Boehm

“Our Little Tiger”

September 22, 1985–

September 25, 1989

A little more than a week after Steven’s death, someone called the Child Abuse Hotline about Stacy. The caller knew about both boys’ deaths, and they also knew about Stacy’s incident with the hair dryer in the bathtub. To date, no one among Ellen’s coworkers knew about it. Deanne didn’t know, and consequently neither did the medical examiner or anyone else who was beginning to have questions.

On October 4th, Erelene Turner, an intake worker with the St. Louis Division of Family Services, received the details of a hotline report. From it, Ms. Turner could see that the accident involving Stacy had happened a mere two weeks before Steven died. It was also clear that both boys had died of undetermined causes. Without delay, she decided to interview Stacy, which she did at the girl’s school the very next day.

Stacy was a second grader at Patrick Henry Elementary School. Though she was only eight years old, she was able to vividly recall the recent events in her life, starting with Steven’s death. But all she could provide was a scanty, outline of the facts, which she didn’t recall in correct chronological order.

“All I know is Steven got sick, and got some shots from Cardinal Glennon Hospital,” the little girl said.

When she was asked about the hair dryer incident, Stacy was again very succinct. “Steven threw the hair dryer in the bathtub, while I was bathing. My mother ran into the room and unplugged it. Then my mother took me to the hospital.”

Ms. Turner had already made arrangements to talk to Ellen the next day, and she was beginning to anticipate that interview when she thanked Stacy for seeing her. The girl was polite, and seemed sad, but only the way any child might seem only two weeks after losing a brother. Stacy didn’t offer any further information, and Ms. Turner saw no signals that might suggest something worth pursuing.

The next day, the interview with Ellen was similarly matter-of-fact, and Ellen wrapped all her answers around a filmy gauze of uncertainty: She didn’t know the cause of death of her two sons.

At Ms. Turner’s prompting, Ellen related the dates and times and places of both David and Steven’s deaths. Her retelling of events was by turns oddly general and then specific. For example, about David she said little more than that he had a cold at the time and was lying on the living room floor, when all of a sudden he looked “funny.” She shook him, but he didn’t respond. But then she specified that she had been giving him some cough medicine during the day. She made a point of the fact that she had purchased the medicine at Walgreens.

Similarly, while talking about Steven, she explained that he had been feeling ill through the weekend and on Monday she had taken the day off to spend with him. In describing the stop the two of them made for an early lunch at Taco Bell, Ellen was very precise when describing that Steven had taken only three bites of his food; it wasn’t unusual at all for a mother to actually keep count of how many mouthfuls went down, but Ellen never discussed whether Steven had a fever. What was equally precise in Ellen’s recounting of the events of Monday, September 25th, was the careful way she retraced part of the conversation to make sure Ms. Turner recorded the fact that Ellen and Steven had also stopped at Ellen’s mother’s house, a detail that Ellen had skipped over quickly the first time. Why would it matter? It was as if Ellen were establishing a fail-safe sequential routine of events for that day.

Ms. Turner returned to her office and wrote up a report. There wasn’t much to it, but it didn’t rest on a shelf somewhere, destined for inaction, because in a little over a month there would be reason to drag it out again.

The night of October 5th, the same day of Ellen’s interview with Ms. Turner, Teri Boehm decided to call her mother. She wanted to know if her cousin had given birth yet. Ten days had passed since Steven’s death, but they had no knowledge of it. While Teri was on the phone, Paul was sitting across the room, not six feet away, and he could see the growing puzzlement on his wife’s face.

Teri kept saying, “Yeah, he had two sons.”

“What do you mean had?” Paul barked back. “He does.”

Teri’s mother had told her of the report in the Post-Dispatch about Steven’s death.

Paul was getting up from his chair when Teri hung up the phone. Quickly she explained what had happened. Paul pulled his hat off his head and threw it across the room. Then he collapsed.

“What the hell is Ellen doing to these kids?” Teri said out loud.

Paul hadn’t really gotten over the death of David, and now the news about Steven reignited the pain all over again.

“I’m telling you,” Teri said, “she killed those babies.”

The next day Paul and Teri’s thoughts were dominated by the bad news. Ellen had never even called to inform him of the death of his son. He wondered about the funeral, whether it had been held. Surely the funeral had taken place, because it had been almost two weeks. He remembered the argument with Ellen about where to bury David, but he didn’t know whether she had buried Steven next to him. Or where.

They both took off work and went to the offices of the Red Cross to find out more. They knew that the Red Cross would at least confirm the information, because the agency had helped out when David had died.

Paul called his first ex-wife, Susan Emily. He knew she still kept in touch with Ellen. Susan told him that it was true, and that by coincidence she had been at the hospital when Steven died.

By the end of the week, the Tucson offices of the Red Cross confirmed for Paul what he had by then himself verified. The letter stated that his son Steven had died on September 25th at Cardinal Glennon Hospital in St. Louis.

Teri also called the Tucson police and the local child protection agency. “Look, something’s going on in Missouri. Somebody’s got to do something about it.”

After many frustrating dead ends, her persistence eventually paid off. Pat Morales, a Protective Children’s Service caseworker in Tucson, was assigned to follow up on the report. By the time Ms. Morales called Ms. Turner, her counterpart in St. Louis, it was November 11th. She wanted to inform St. Louis authorities of the request for an investigation in the deaths of the two boys. Ms. Morales explained that Teri Boehm has expressed grave suspicions about the deaths, as well as concern about the safety of the remaining child, Stacy Ann, age eight.

Just as they had when David died, tenants in Ellen’s building took up a collection. This time Sally Jett, an elderly tenant, wanted to lead the effort. She had just entered the office of Karen Grimes, the building’s manager, and was asking if it would be okay to take up a collection for Steven, when Ellen barged in on them.

“Guess what?” Ellen said.

“Oh, what?” Sally said, turning to look at the ebullient Ellen.

“I found this other funeral home that is so much cheaper. This one is only $1,500.”

Ellen was almost laughing about it. Was she hysterical? What was this?

Of course, neither Karen nor Sally knew what to say, and in the weighty pause, Ellen was on her way out.

Karen looked at Sally, and Sally looked back. There was dead silence. Sally finally spoke.

“I’ll be damned if I collect anything for that old bitch!”

Then Sally walked out.

Pretty much the same sentiment emerged at Andersen, where employees had collected $1,000 after David’s death. This time a similar collection was made for Steven. The kitty had grown to $1,200, but the money was being held back. Everyone was unsure about how it should be handled. Ellen’s coworkers and supervisors had by now come to realize that Ellen had been having money problems, but she had also taken a trip to Florida and stiffed the funeral home for David’s funeral expenses.

When Ellen made the arrangements for Steven, she did find a less expensive route. It was the Wacker-Helderle Funeral Home, and after discussing what Ellen wanted, she was told that it would cost $1,594.87. Patricia Lauer of Wacker-Helderle actually knew Ellen slightly from church, and was aware that her youngest son had only recently died. Ms. Lauer also knew that Ellen had used a different funeral home, and she asked Ellen why she hadn’t gone back to Gebken-Benz.

“I wasn’t satisfied with the way the arrangements were handled,” an imperious Ellen answered.

Ms. Lauer didn’t question it any further, but she did make an inquiry at Gebken-Benz to determine what it might have been that displeased Ellen. What she learned was that it was really the other way around. Gebken-Benz wasn’t satisfied, because its bill had never been paid, even though there was life insurance on the boy from Ellen’s place of employment.

Ellen didn’t flinch when Ms. Lauer later informed her that it would be necessary for Ellen to sign a deed, attaching the $5,000 life insurance claim from Aetna, which was the office policy. Ellen signed, and when Ms. Lauer saw Ellen next, at Steven’s funeral, she was curious to see that the bereaved woman showed no emotion. Ellen never shed a tear.

Despite what she told her friends, Ellen never made any attempt to contact Paul about Steven’s death. This time she was free to make whatever arrangements she wanted. Steven was buried right next to his brother in the Babyland section of Trinity Cemetery, and after Steven’s burial, Ellen told the workers at the cemetery to keep an eye on the graves.

“Watch out for the graves,” she said. “Don’t let anyone come out and take them away.”

The men shrugged their shoulders, nodding at the same time. In the fall and winter of that year, they noticed that Ellen came out a lot. She wasn’t hard to miss, and the plot where her boys were interred was easily visible from the office and garage. The admonition to the caretakers was a sign that Ellen’s bold facade was beginning to show signs of wear. In the remaining months of 1989, a lot of Ellen’s friends and coworkers also were learning new things about the woman they had pitied for the previous ten months. Most of them didn’t know what to think, but their feelings were hardening.