It was September of 1983, and I was a twelve-year old boy living in Papillion, Nebraska, a small suberb on the outskirts of Omaha. My family had moved to Nebraska several years earlier from Texas, and I had never quite adapted. I always felt like an outsider, like I didn't belong there.Junior High was exceptionally difficult for me socially, and I had become a rather poor student as a result. Still, being a child, I was able to find joy in this bleak, desolate landscape.

That fall, I found myself working as a paper-boy after school and on the weekends. It wasn't a difficult job, and it provided me with enough money to pick up my comics and the occassional tape. School had just started, and I was already starting to feel the depression that I associated with it. The winter months were just around the corner, and I always looked to those times with dread. Winters in Nebraska were dark, oppressive and particularly harsh. The wind that rips across the plains seemed to slice into your body, penetrating through whatever protective cold-weather gear you might be wearing. While this was still a couple of months away, the weather had already turned cold. Snow was in the forecast, and I couldn't help but feel that sickness in the pit of my stomach to know that the long, cold season was looming. At least I had Halloween to look forward to, which always seemed to alleviate this weight I felt pressing upon me.

On September 18th, the news reported that a thirteen year-old boy had gone missing that morning from Bellvue, a suburb just a few miles from Papillion. The boy was blond-haired and blue-eyed, just like me. This didn't really alarm me at the time, because like most children of that age, I really didn't have a whole lot of concept of my own mortality. That was about to change. Three days later, the boy's body was found. He had been murdered and dumped on a gravel road outside of town, mere miles from my neighborhood. This sent a shockwave of horror throughout the Omaha metro area, and particularly in the area around Bellvue. It was only going to get worse. After a few months, the police seemed to have no leads, and the case went cold.


On December 2nd, another young boy went missing. This time, the child was eleven, and had vanished from Papillion. The boy's house was only about a mile from mine, and several people at my church knew him and his family (one girl had even baby-sat him several times). He was also blond-haired and blue-eyed. This is when the reality of the situation began to sink in. There was a psycho in the area who was hunting and killing boys my age, who fit my description. What's worse, the first victim was a paper boy. The first boy's brother had reported seeing a white male following him and his brother in a tan car, and my mind reeled with the fact that I had been followed, more than once, by various cars while on my route (not an uncommon occurrence, as there were always nosy folks who made it their business to police kids). What if I had been targeted, or was being actively stalked? A composite sketch had been made of the perpetrator, taken from witnesses under hypnosis, and it seemed that everyone was reporting seeing him. Dozens of kids at my school swore up and down that they had seen him, lurking in their backyards, or at the local convenience store, or following them home from school. Obviously, a sort of hysteria was setting in, and I didn't want to join the flock. Still, the fear was there in the back of my mind that this guy just might be stalking me.


Two days later, the second boy was found down another deserted road. This one was just a few miles from the local K-Mart, where we actually were the night that the body was discovered. As we left the store, we could see the mass of flashing police lights down the road. It wasn't until we watched the news that night that we found out what was going on. This was now incredibly close to home. Police and FBI agents showed up at our school to discuss the case and warn the kids in the community. Fear was gripping the town, and many kids weren't allowed outside at all without an adult present. My father took to accompanying me on my paper route, and I could no longer go off and do my own thing when we went to the mall or other stores. The idea that a serial killer was amongst us was too disturbing to process, but it was reality.


I wasn't familiar, until these events, with the concept of a serial killer. A year before, a young boy had gone missing in a nearby town, but a body was never found in that case. In my pre-teen mind, he had been taken by some bad folks, or possibly run away, but he was still alive. In this case, these kids were dead, and word quickly spread that the condition of their bodies was far more gruesome than the media had reported. It appeared that this sicko had mutilated them, and had taken great pleasure in doing so. The idea of anyone getting a thrill out of harming someone else was new to me. In fact, all of this sick, perverted information was a shocking revelation. While I knew of evil as a concept, this was the first time I truly was faced with it. Suddenly, evil was real, tangible and lurking in the shadows near my home.

In mid-January, a pre-school teacher reported to police that she had seen a suspicious car driving in the area. Conflicting reports abound, but apparently the driver accosted her when he noticed that she was writing down his license plate number. The police arrested the man, after searching his home and car. Within days, it became obvious that they had their man, an Air Force radar tech by the name of John J. Joubert. Joubert was stationed at nearby Offutt Air Base, and was an assistant Boy Scout troop leader. He was suspected of at least one other murder in Maine, where he had previously been stationed (he was later proven to be the killer in that case as well, and was convicted in 1990 for the crime). The news reported that Joubert confessed, and entered a guilty plea. The community breathed a collective sigh of relief.


For me, this case continued to haunt me well into adulthood. Growing up, I had always loved monster movies, and quite enjoyed any kind of horror yarn. More than one person has noted that, to this day, I can watch back-to-back intallments of films about supernatural killers and never bat an eyelash, but put on a movie about a real-life serial killer and I'm sleepless for a week. The Joubert murders were my first exposure to the real horrors that occur in the world. The first time that I truly knew that there were evils that could kill me, or those I love, and take great delight in doing so. In many ways, this was the death of my innocence and naivete about the nature of humankind. I discovered that people are capable of atrocities that defy the imagination, and that the real monsters are made of flesh and blood.

I recently stumbled upon some information on this case on Wikipedia. It was the first time in years that I had seen anything in print about it, and it brought back a tidal wave of memories. I learned that Joubert was executed in 1996 for these crimes, and at least one book was written about the case (A Need to Kill by Mark Pettit) and that a novel was inspired by those events (A Perfect Evil by Alex Kava). In many ways, it's a comfort to know that others were affected by these events as much as I was, and that this case has not been forgotten. For the boys who were murdered, and those of us who lived with that fear in late 1983, it is good to know that there are those who remember.

I actually blogged about this topic a couple of years ago. This is a long one:

Since my parents did not tolerate behavior in their children that would not be condoned in adults, I'm guessing my childhood ended the first time I heard the word, "don't."

i was going to say when the pope died, but i think the moment i realized that my childhood was over was Aug 13th this year when we laid my grandmother to rest.

I think it ends when your parents have died.

i was going to say when the pope died, ....

ehuffnsd said:

Which one? I think I'm on my 4th pope now, if I counted correctly.