The best-selling young adult novelist recounts her daughter's mysterious shooting death and her own investigation into the crime, describing her use of a psychic to contact her dead child and expose the truth.
The day that began like a surrealistic nightmare continued on that way. We staggered around like zombies – bumping into each other, dropping things, making lists of things that needed to be done and then losing the lists – dependent upon kindhearted friends to guide and direct us.
The first of those friends to arrive on that terrible morning was a recent window who knew firsthand how the grief process worked. She took one look at our faces, realized we were dysfunctional, and loaded us into her car to go shopping for a cemetery plot. Other friends took over our telephone, answered the doorbell, kept records of people who brought food and flowers, and offered to house out-of-town relatives who came for the funeral.
Kait’s murder received extensive coverage by the media. Both the morning and evening papers ran banner headlines -–HONOR STUDENT DIES FOLLOWING CAR SHOOTING and BRIGHT FUTURE OF SHINING TEEN DIES IN GUNSHOTS – with Kait’s smiling senior picture prominently featured. Television cameramen materialized on our doorstep, targeting in on Kait’s sister, Kerry in particular. A former hostess for the P.M. Magazine New Mexico television show, she was well remembered in Albuquerque, and reporters threatened to trample each other down as they competed for interviews.
The police did not contact us. Like everyone else we learned the facts about the shooting by reading the newspapers:
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Albuquerque Journal, July 18, 1989
Eighteen-year-old Kaitlyn Arquette died Monday night of two gunshot wounds to the head. She was discovered in her car at about eleven p.m. Sunday by police officers investigating what they thought was a routine car accident on Lomas near Broadway NE, said Albuquerque police spokeswoman Mary Monina Mescall.
Mescall said someone apparently had pulled up alongside Kaitlyn’s car as it was moving and fired three gunshots through the side window. Two bullets struck her head. The car went out of control, veered, and struck a telephone pole.
Kaitlyn, a University Of New Mexico student who recently graduated with honors from Highland High School, had been returning home from dinner with a girlfriend.
Police, late Monday, had no witnesses, no suspects, no weapon, and no explanation for what appeared to be a random shooting.
Albuquerque Journal, July 18, 1989
Eighteen-year-old Kaitlyn Arquette died Monday night of two gunshot wounds to the head. She was discovered in her car at about eleven p.m. Sunday by police officers investigating what they thought was a routine car accident on Lomas near Broadway NE, said Albuquerque police spokeswoman Mary Monina Mescall.
Mescall said someone apparently had pulled up alongside Kaitlyn’s car as it was moving and fired three gunshots through the side window. Two bullets struck her head. The car went out of control, veered, and struck a telephone pole.
Kaitlyn, a University Of New Mexico student who recently graduated with honors from Highland High School, had been returning home from dinner with a girlfriend.
Police, late Monday, had no witnesses, no suspects, no weapon, and no explanation for what appeared to be a random shooting.
“When these things happen you say, ‘that person was probably involved in drugs,’” said Arquette’s sister, Kerry, of Dallas. “But not Kait. She was a straight arrow. She worked throughout her senior year and still held down shining grades."
Kerry said her parents, Don and Lois Arquette, were “doing as well as could be expected – lousy.”
Colvert, the Highland teacher, called the shooting “a freak thing, especially after those other traffic things.”
There followed a list of fatalities that had occurred during physical conflicts over traffic disputes.
Don and I read the articles aloud to each other and tried to make sense of their contents. To us the terms “freak” and “random” seemed inappropriate for Kait’s shooting. They implied that her death had been caused by an act of nature, like being struck by lightning or crushed in an earthquake.
“None of the deaths they’re comparing it to were ‘random,’” Don commented as he read through the list. “All of them occurred during fights. Kait didn’t have enough time to get involved in a confrontation. She was shot just minutes after leaving Sharon’s house.”
“And three shots were fired,” I added. “That’s too many for an accident. And the shots weren’t fired from the sidewalk. The police say somebody pulled up next to her and fired from a vehicle.” Although an empty Budweiser can had been found in the gutter next to Kait’s car, the autopsy had turned up no trace of alcohol in her blood, and the fingerprint on the can had not been hers.
The fact that our world was a madhouse actually proved a blessing, because it allowed us more time to accept the unacceptable. The telephone rang nonstop; people streamed in and out of the house bringing casseroles and condolences; Don’s brothers and their wives flew in from Ohio and Michigan, and my brother arrived from California. There were planes to meet, Kait’s obituary to compose, a minister with whom to confer, and a funeral to orchestrate.
At one point I realized it had been hours since I’d seem my daughters. I went in search of them and found them in Kait’s room, deep in conversation on the bed.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Is this a private conference?”
“Actually, no,” Robin said. “We need to talk to you. Will you, please, come in and shut the door?”
I did as she asked and joined them on the bed.
“Mother, Robin and I have been talking and – well – the thing is, we don’t think Dung should be staying with us right now,” Kerry said.
“There are some things that are bothering us. We have no idea who shot Kait, but we do know she was having problems with Dung. They were having a lot of fights, and she was looking for a new roommate.”
“That’s hardly a reason to suspect him of murder!” I exclaimed.
Robin and Kerry exchanged glances.
“There’s something else,” Robin said. “Something’s come to light that makes us believe Dung’s not the simple, honest person you seem to think he is. Tell her, Kerry.”
“A friend of Kait’s told me something weird,” Kerry said. “She said that back last summer Kait confided to her that Dung was involved in some sort of car-wreck scam in California. Kait didn’t understand how the thing was set up, but Dung went out to L.A. with a bunch of his friends, and they staged wrecks in rental cars. Kait said she thought each of the guys was paid two thousand dollars.”
“Who told you that?” I demanded.
“I don’t remember her name. It was one of the girls Kait worked with.”
“I can’t believe anybody would be such a troublemaker,” I said. “Especially at a time like this, when we’re so vulnerable.”
“But what if it’s true?” Kerry persisted. “I know Dung’s been over here a lot, but what do we really know about him? When Ken and I came for Christmas, there he was, scarfing down turkey like one of the family, but nobody ever told us where Kait came up with him.”
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