The following interview excerpts were recorded and collected by the Arkansas State Highway Patrol (Troop 5, Washington Co. Barracks), in April 1979.
* * *
[Troy Gelineau, 22, Removal Technician]
Q:—
A: Yes, sir. That’s the DOT’s fancy way of saying I drive around and haul away roadkill.
Q:—
A: I’d say I’m going on three, almost four years now? It’s not as bad as you think. You’re out in the fresh air, you make 75 cents above the minimum. On-call pay’s not bad. Just you and another guy from the garage most days, driving around, looking for dead animals.
Q:—
A: Deer, mostly. Hell, you staties are the ones most likely to call us late at night for them. When’s it ever not deer at night, you know? Sir, I mean?
Q:—
A: I’d have to say it gets bad when an animal’s not quite dead. That’s the worst of it. That’s why I carry around a big hunting knife in the glove compartment instead of a gun. It’s a 4-inch Buck blade with a full steel tang I picked up at the county fair one year. My girlfriend calls it my “murder knife,” which is pretty damn funny if you think about it.
Q:—
A: Sir? I’d say about once or twice a week on average. We’ll get a call from y'all or the Fayetteville PD, and then we’ll pull up just as y'all are done taking the insurance report from the driver, and then we’ll have to wait until y’all are out of there. And I’ll tell you: I keep that old Buck knife in the glove compartment for two reasons. The first is for when there’s something big like a deer out there, still kicking, and I’ll have to slice its throat. Put it out of its misery, you know?
Q:—
A: Okay, about that? I’m gonna tell you a real quick story. It had to have been something like my sixth month on the job, and there was this huge doe that a driver had plowed over. Just mangled it. I was nearby when I got the call, and when I pulled in, right there was the state trooper and the family that had hit the deer. Except the poor thing was still thrashing over in the right lane. Traffic was down to a crawl and everything. Kids were awake in the backseat, yelling and crying and carrying on. And so the statie—excuse me, the state trooper—gets real frustrated, goes up to the doe, tries to shoot her in the head, and he misses! And I saw it, too. Clipped her right in the temple, and now she’s screaming. You ever hear a deer scream?
Q:—
A: Well, I sure as hell have. So the trooper fires again, and now this time he fires too low and gets her in the jaw, and now there’s blood everywhere, and that makes everything worse. Especially for me on cleanup. So then he walks back to his squad car, gets the shotgun out, walks right past the family, and
then stomps on the poor doe’s neck while he’s taking aim. And I kid you not: I thought I was going to have to scrape up that statie’s boot with his foot still attached to it. That’s how close he was to blowing off his own toes. So, yeah, that Buck knife is for when I don’t want to see an animal suffer on the road.
Q:—
A: I did say that, yes. The second reason I carry around that big hunting knife is because of the boy they finally caught on the highway. You’ve heard the stories, right? Well, the game plan was this: if he were to sneak up on me while I was out there working, then I would hope to use the blade on him if it came down to it. Figure I might have a chance that way. But if he were to capture me? Here's hoping I'd have the courage to use the Buck to slice my own throat before the kid could get to work on me.
* * *
[Crystal Frazier, 39, Dispatcher]
Q:—
A: They said I could smoke in here. Is that all right?
Q:—
A: I appreciate it. You care for one?
Q:—
A: Suit yourself.
Q:—
A: I work for the state Department of Transportation. This is about that boy they found in the interchange, isn’t it?
Q:—
A: I’d bet money on it. That large of a section between on-ramps and off-ramps, and something’s bound to be down there. Didn’t think it’d be something like him, though.
Q:—
A: That’s fine. In dispatch, it’s my job to send the crews out to where they’re needed. We have our long-term construction plans, our scheduled monthly repairs, our weekly maintenance, and then our immediate jobs. It’s my responsibility to break those up into tasks and send out the technicians where they’re needed.
Q:—
A: Immediate jobs would be reports of car crashes that we have to sweep up, bent rails or downed power lines, which we have to coordinate with Ozark Electric on, things like that.
Q:—
A: It would include roadkill calls, yes. Those make up most of the immediate detail each day, if I’m being honest. Which I am.
Q:—
A: Never. In my time working for the DOT, we’ve never had roadkill calls about that particular stretch of the highway and US-71. Like it’s a Bermuda Triangle of incidents. That interchange has been clean as bone for as long as I’ve been there.
Q:—
A: I have my suspicions, yes.
Q:—
A: If I’m being honest, which I am, I’d say it’s because that was the boy’s main source of food. He had most everything he needed in that patch there. When the county purchased that farmland back in 1970 to build the interchange, the acreage included an apple orchard. Came with a natural spring the farmer used to irrigate the lines of trees and the berry bushes there. If you grew up here, you probably picked blueberries at the old man’s orchard one time or another. At his place or the Wickham orchard up in Johnson City.
Q:—
A: The rest, I imagine, came from the roadkill there. I don’t know about the boy’s hunting skills, but if the lack of dead animals on that run of US-71 was any indication, he did just fine as a scavenger. As far as those parts of the stories go, that didn’t worry me. That he made no distinction between the types of fresh meat he found on the road does, though.
* * *
[Martha Crandall, 43, Licensed Clinical Social Worker]
Q:—
A: Is this going to take long? Because I don’t think you’re actually investigating this matter. I think you’re trying to dig up crimes you can charge this poor child with.
Q:—
A: Because he doesn’t know any better, that’s why. You’ve had him locked up for the last two weeks and we’ve barely been given any access to him, and—
Q:—
A: Excuse me. The Fayetteville police are holding him. My mistake. Like it matters.
Q:—
A: If the rumors are true, which I doubt they are, then, yes, I know why you’ve taken him into custody. But that boy needs hospitalization and all types of intervention, not sedatives and some locked room in Juvenile Detention. Jesus.
Q:—
A: I’m a speech pathologist and LCSW with the state hospital, but these days I’m mostly used as a social worker. I’ve got three degrees, but for the life of me can’t remember why I’ve decided to return to this backwater state, and I—
Q:—
A: Fine. I’ve been brought up from Little Rock to intervene on this young man’s behalf and to find out what happened to him and how long he’s been living in that forest in the interchange. Is that what it’s called?
Q:—
A: You know exactly which area I’m talking about, but since this is for the record, it’s the part of US-71 North that connects to 71 Business with the flyover, the part of 71B that connects back over to US-71 North, and then the spot where US-71 South splits from the main highway and down into the underpass that rides out to 71B. I imagine it looks like one big triangle from above. I can draw you a map if you’d like; I’ve been out there enough times.
Q:—
A: We don’t know how he came to live in that forest bordered in by the highways, but we do know that he’s been there a long time. If we had to guess, he’s either fifteen or sixteen. He has the language skills of a pre-kindergartener, but the funny thing is that he communicates only by yelling. Normally, talking directly with someone means you try to match their volume—it’s an earnest gesture, you’re trying to keep that line of communication open and flowing—but it looks like he was never conditioned to do this. If we had to guess, I’d say—
Q:—
A: Fine. His chosen mode of verbal communication suggests that he’s been yelled at by others he’s been in contact with, and that this is the volume by which he’s been conditioned to respond. Does that fit outside the realm of speculation?
Q:—
A: Well, think about it. If you’re living in the borders of a system of flyovers and underpasses, it’s pretty loud there, right? And if the verbal humans you’re in contact with want you to hear them—think: stranded motorists, cops pulling over speeders or DUIs—they’re going to have to yell, yes? Then, there you have it. He’s been trained to respond this way because of his environment.
Q:—
A: We have no evidence of that. You want to talk about speculation? Because that’s speculation.
Q:—
A: We don’t have proof he would ever do something like that. Or that he could do something like that. And you all jumping to conclusions that he could do something like pull DUI victims or dead travelers from their cars is dangerous. He’s a teenager, not some hyena out prowling on the savanna.
Q:—
A: Fine. Here’s what we do know: we know his approximate age. We know he has the speech capabilities of a four-year-old. We know he’s underweight and malnourished, but we also know it’s not as severe as we might expect, and that’s the strange part. We know that he’s going to need extensive dental work. And we’re pretty sure he survived in that forest on a diet of fruit, dirty spring water, and roadkill. And probably random fast food and garbage travelers have thrown out onto the road. And that’s all we know because you all won’t let us have more time to talk with him. You—
Q:—
A: Listen to me and stop jumping to conclusions and just think about this for a second, would you? Which would be an easier source of protein: freshly slaughtered raccoons and deer and animals like that, or living and breathing and possibly still-kicking human beings? Jesus.
* * *
[Calvin Walker, 29, Sheriff’s Deputy]
Q:—
A: Is this absolutely necessary?
Q:—
A: I’m an FTO under Sheriff Wilde. Says so right in your notes, too. Don’t know why I’m having to clear that shit up.
Q:—
A: Took you long enough. That boy in jail?
Q:—
A: You’d best keep him there if you know what’s good for you.
Q:—
A: We’re really going to rehash this past my initial statement? Fine.
Q:—
A: This was a 10-52 out on US-71 South. An ambulance call for an overturned GMC Jimmy, right under the flyover, just shy of two years ago. I was coming back down from Johnson City and noticed the wreck. Called it in, investigated the crash site, set up the flares, and then started walking the median.
Q:—
A: Because there wasn’t a driver in the damn thing. That’s why.
Q:—
A: He probably got taken by the kid, and I’ll tell you—
Q:—
A: Jesus Christ. Fine. The Jimmy was unoccupied. I first assumed at the time that the driver had stumbled out of the car and away from the crash site, and that he was probably bleeding out somewhere nearby.
Q:—
A: The Jimmy had overturned in the left lane and had skidded toward the grass. I remember thinking it was hard to see out there since the county hadn’t put up the sodium lights yet. Just had the Maglite to go by. So I went hunting for the poor bastard who’d managed to walk away. It wasn’t until I saw the other side of the wreckage later that I learned how he’d probably exited the vehicle, Superman-style.
Q:—
A: I found a damn runway of blood leading away from the passing lane once I backtracked. Like I said, the kid had probably dragged him away from the—
Q:—
A: Fuck it. What do you want me to say? That the driver had miraculously flown through the passenger-side window and survived the fall? Because that shit definitely didn’t happen, and you can write it down that I said that.
Q:—
A: Good lord. Fine, I observed the broken glass. I observed a trail of what I assumed to be blood leading away from the passing lane, where the overturned vehicle was visibly wrecked. I observed a break in the grass that might have been made if someone were trying to haul away a goddamn body.
Q:—
A: And that was it. A few of the other deputies and I set up a perimeter that night, broke out the spotlights, walked the entire length of that interchange, and we didn’t find a damn thing. Another team staked out the adjoining farmland on the other side of the road, and they didn’t find anything, either. We waited for daylight and then did it again.
Q:—
A: The only thing we found that week was a pile of trash under a small thicket of old apple trees that had tangled up together. A few people thought it was the site of an abandoned hobo camp. But five bucks says that’s where the little psycho was sheltering.
Q:—
A: You’ll have to pull the medical examiner’s records for that. I’m done being corrected by a goddamn statie.
Q:—
A: Off the record? I’d say you’ll eventually ID the bones of the driver in that pile you found in the irrigation ditch. Him and at least three others, I imagine. Bones cleaned down until you can’t find a shred of what used to be meat on them. Empty of marrow, too, if the kid was hungry enough.
* * *
[Mildred ‘Millie’ Reach, DO, 59, County Coroner]
Q:—
A: I’m the medical examiner for Washington County. The title says “Coroner,” but I’m an actual physician, thank you very much. You have to be for this job, if we’re being official about it.
Q:—
A: So we are being official about it. That’s fine. I’m the ME here in Washington County. Formerly with Internal Medicine at the VA hospital here in town, and, after that, with the Pathology Department up at Mercy.
Q:—
A: Because the pay is better here and because I needed five more years, apparently, for my state benefits. Anything else you’d like to know about the job?
Q:—
A: Sure, the feral kid. Absolutely. I understand.
Q:—
A: This time, you all got involved. Yeah, I get it. Heard he hauled off another drunk driver with a self-induced case of severe road rash.
Q:—
A: I mean, c’mon. It’s a little funny, right? The Ozark version of Bigfoot or the wendigo, maybe? I know: we could call him the “71-Business Baba Yaga,” you know? “Be still and quiet, my little darlings, on this stretch of US-71, or the Highway Baba Yaga will steal you away!”
Q:—
A: Sorry.
Q:—
A: That’s fine. I know this is serious.
Q:—
A: This was last week. Wednesday. You all called me out there once you found the bones in the irrigation ditch.
Q:—
A: Oh, bits and pieces from six different human skeletons. I’ve tasked a few of the daytime staff with tracking down missing person reports from that part of US-71 and the adjoining farms and neighborhoods, just stuff from the last ten years, though. That’s how long we think he’s been out there.
Q:—
A: Well, it’s either that, or you’ve got some very tidy coyotes living in that forest.
Q:—
A: Nothing, nothing. I’m sure the state police are doing everything they can to make sure this roaming monster of the countryside is kept safely within the confines of the—
Q:—
A: Look, would you think about it for a second? The kid’s been busy as a beaver stacking those bones in the old irrigation ditch. My guess is he finally had the raw material to dam the stream and let the basin fill up. So now, instead of trying to catch water in his hands, he can just drink freely where it runs in. And did you hear me? “Busy as a beaver”? Nothing? C’mon.
Q:—
A: You seem pretty upset. Would you like a glass of water?
Q:—
A: Let me tell you about a friend of mine.
Q:—
A: No, no, I promise. This’ll just take a sec.
Q:—
A: Okay. Thank you. So I had this friend named Meagan back in med school. We were two of seven women in the entire class. The other five were gunners, heads down and focused on nothing but school, and that’s fine. I get it. But Meagan and I had enough time between study sessions to talk, you know?
Q:—
A: I promise this will make sense. Now, do you want to hear this or not?
Q:—
A: Okay, so it turns out that Meagan came from a family of godly homesteaders up in Michigan. Serious folks, you know? Good folks, but serious. Grew their own vegetables and fruits on a farm up there. Raised hens for the eggs. What they couldn’t grow on their own, they bartered for with their neighbors. She told me it felt sometimes like she was living on a commune. Well, Meagan’s folks also had a rule of only eating meat they’d killed themselves. She said their deep freeze was filled with venison and wild boar, and that every other meat was pretty rare.
Q:—
A: I’m getting to that. I promise you’ll see your captured Bigfoot Jr. in a new light if you stay with me.
Q:—
A: So here’s the thing: Meagan’s family also drove, and when they drove their car to church or the store, they ran over the occasional animal, you know? But because they’d killed it themselves, the animal—the roadkill, mind you—was up for grabs. Meagan said she remembered that this was how they came to have turkey and the rare bit of veal sometimes if another farmer’s calf had wandered out of their field.
Q:—
A: My point is this: to Meagan’s family, meat was meat. Didn’t matter if they’d done the killing on purpose or by accident. The good Lord had provided.
Q:—
A: And to your little highway orphan in lockup right now, it’s the same damn thing. The forest and the roadways around it have provided exactly what he’s needed to live. Fat squirrels in winter, juicy rabbits that’ll pop out from the thickets. Apple trees and berry bushes that bear fruit for a good portion of the year, and then, lo and behold, the occasional fresh kill found on the shoulder of the highway.
Q:—
A: It just so happens that sometimes, just sometimes, the roadkill looks a little bit like him. And as someone who’s had to autopsy a few of these victims before, they can look pretty unrecognizable from hamburger or shredded pork or brisket. It’s kind of humbling in a way, you know? Because it reminds us . . .
Q:—
A: That meat is meat.
