Endangerment of Kidnapping

On October 22nd, 1989, Jacob Wetterling of St. Joseph, Minnesota was kidnapped. I'll never forget it. He was my age, eleven years old. The fear of childhood abduction became all too real for me, along with every mother and child in Minnesota that day. Jacob's mother keeps up the search for justice some twenty years after the day she gave her son permission to go into town and rent a movie.

Jacob's brother gave a chilling account. The masked gunman wearing black confronted Jacob, his younger brother, and a friend on a mile stretch of rural road between their home and where they were just returning from the convenience store. He ordered them to ditch their bikes in a nearby canal. Then he told two of the boys to run into the woods and not look back or he would shoot them. Last Jacob was seen-led by the elbow-he was taken into the opposite woods.

It's estimated that 1 in 4 boys between the ages of 9-14 experience some sort of run-in with a would-be kidnapper, though often only instances where a boy actually gets taken does it get reported. Knowing the fear and doubt you feel when something so unreal could be happening to you, I can understand why details of failed attempts don't come forward often.

Less than a year after Jacob went missing, two suspicious men, who actually were reported, got their sketches hung among wanted signs in gas stations for miles around. One was listed as a white male about six feet tall and 250 pounds, in his mid-30's. He was bald, with a five o'clock shadow. He had soulless dark eyes with deep bags drawn underneath. The other was listed as a white male about 5'8 and 165 pounds, and was said to be in his 40's. These pictures nearly jumped off the wall to the sight of my older brother. Apart, he might not have recognized either man, but together they were hard to miss, especially when their car had slowly tailed him to that very gas station.

He tried to tell the convenience clerk about the men, but really hadn't seen where their beat up dark purple sedan had gotten off to, so he couldn't point them out, and no one took my brother seriously. When the clerk asked if he was sure about the pictures, he didn't sound so certain anymore, though startled. My brother was fourteen then, and surely looked even younger, maybe less credible. Besides, he was beginning to doubt his own fears. In the commotion of a crowded store of busy strangers, he didn't readily see anyone who wanted to help him, or for that matter anyone he wanted to trust with the knowledge that he needed help, or give away the fact that he was alone. So rather than draw more attention to the plight of a young boy who needed to go at least a mile back along the freeway-where his father and two younger kids were awaiting his return-he left the matter at the station, a full gas can in his trembling right hand.

My brother hurried back toward the freeway purposely going against traffic. The plan was to enter the exit ramp as well. Checking one last time over his shoulder, as he reached the foot of the overpass, he saw his worst fear being realized; the purple sedan approached from the opposite lane. There were no other cars in sight. The sedan raced passed him, and then squealed tires as it made a U-turn cutting him off from his planned route. It felt like the world had stopped, and there he was frozen, horrified at the scene. As the car approached, adrenaline kicked in and my brother darted from the sidewalk up a grassy slope. He didn't look back, but he could hear the skinny driver yelling to the bald man, "get him," and he could hear the door open and slam in the man's wake. My brother didn't hardly notice the gas can still clutched in his hand, spilling much of its contents onto him as he climbed over a fence to access the freeway. He hurried down the hill. A couple hefty throwing rocks scooped from the random path he took to retrieve them, quickly got shoved into his left pocket. There were lots of cars. There would be lots of witnesses, but he didn't stop running until he was back safe at his own car with dad. It upset my dad greatly and he vowed he would pack all six of us kids in his arms to the gas station next time, if he were ever stranded in such a way. My brother was as distraught as I've ever seen him. But he gave me some advice if I ever encountered such a situation.

Within the next year, at the age of 12, his words became useful for me. Against all instruction from my parents, I was playing alone in the neighborhood park that was visible to a bordering freeway. I had been shooting free throws for about a half an hour, when I became a little unsettled. I felt it might be time to go, but I wasn't tired yet. About five minutes later an ugly brown 80's style Oldsmobile parked next to the pond, some 30 yards away. A scraggily haired man, probably in his 50s, lit a cigarette and tapped the butt free of ashes outside his window, as he watched me playing. It was time to go. I casually shot the ball one last time; it caromed off of the rim to my left. While retrieving the basketball with my back to the man, he quietly exited his vehicle without shutting his door. When I picked up the ball the man had narrowed the gap to about 20 yards. I instinctively ran, certain he could not catch me on foot. He ran too; only he went back to his car.

Thoughts raced through my mind, but I fast remembered what my brother had told me. First, don't doubt yourself. I told myself this was real and it was happening to me. The man had the front entrance of the enclosed park blocked, so I was running the other direction toward the only other escape, a small gate exit, some 60 yards away, at the back of a field. If the man knew the park, he might be able to head me off where that exit connected with a road. Sure enough halfway to my destination, his car sputtered into gear and he began to drive around the lane out of the park, but not out of the neighborhood. He was coming for me. I was trembling now, but I had no time to cry about it. Secondly, grab rocks! Don't go easily. As he pulled out of the front of the park I ran along a trail of rocks out of the back of the park. Rocks went into both pockets. I was relieved when my feet hit the pavement and my assailant was only halfway up the road to me. But now what? Home was still a block away. Did I really want to lead him to my home, anyway? No!

I kept yelling out help as I ran down the street, but no one had noticed my plight. It was too late now to run undetected into the woods. The car screeched around the corner and abruptly stopped. There I stood my ground in the middle of the road, arm held high with the first rock. He looked surprised at first, but then leered at me, smugly waiting, as if daring me. Without showing hesitation, I thrust the first projectile, with a rush of energy that sent it sailing over his car. Still, instead of backing away out of range, he pulled forward. The next rock came out of my pocket. He stopped and I patted a left bulging pocket demonstratively with my hand, not so much with confidence, but with anger.

This was not going to end well, not without damages for at least one of us. With that thought I unloaded several rocks into the hood of his car, not sure whether any cracked his windshield or not. I hoisted a few more rocks into my throwing arm-threatening. Finally, the standoff ended. He reversed. Turned around and drove away. Tears came now as I ran home, still checking over my shoulder, slightly wondering if I could get in trouble for pelting someone's car like that, but concluded that that man's intentions were not to ask for directions and he deserved no less than he got.