My favorite young friend bounced into my office the other day, full of excitement.
She was out of school, and had been on an adventure or two with her mother. I had to hear about everything, plus some other, non-adventurous things. She was happy like a little kid should be.
She brightened the afternoon, which was already bright and sunny, similar to the day when Tristen “Buddy” Myers disappeared.
I don’t like the word “disappeared” when dealing with missing persons, especially little kids. People don’t just disappear. The word conjures up images of a magic show where the illusionist twirls a cape or pops a smoke bomb and the person is hidden away, only to come out a few minutes later for another show.
On Oct. 5, 2000, the weather was nigh onto perfect. There was a storm brewing off the coast, yes, but the sky over Sampson County was achingly, perfectly blue. The weather was warm, but not hot; short sleeves were still comfortable, despite the pending start of deer season and the height of football regular season play.
Buddy Myers was a happy little boy, a couple years younger than my little friend. He was happy, or so I am told. He had two dogs, toys, plenty to eat, and a safe warm home. There were horses he could visit just a short distance from the family’s home. Life was finally good for him.
His mother was very young, and made some bad choices that just got worse as time went on. His grandmother took him in, but she had cancer. Finally, Buddy came to live with John and Donna, his great-uncle and great-aunt, right outside of Roseboro. John took Buddy for rides on his eighteen-wheeler. They watched and played football together. The couple loved him as if he were their first child and they were in their twenties, not like a couple looking forward to relaxing in retirement and enjoying grandchildren.
Life was good.
Life with a four-year-old can be exhausting for anyone, and Miss Donna was no exception. On the afternoon of Oct. 5, 2000, Buddy collapsed for a nap on the living room floor, as little boys do. It takes a lot of energy to be a little kid. Seeing that Buddy was napping, Donna did as moms and grandmoms everywhere have done for eons, and closed her own eyes for a few minutes of rest.
When she woke up a short while later, Buddy was gone.
Little boys are sneaky – I was infamous for my ability to hide and escape when I was his age – so Donna began searching. She figured he had somehow managed to slip outside without awakening her. She checked all his usual hiding places and playing spots. Neither Buddy nor his two dogs could be found anywhere, so she called 911.
It was late that night when my editor called and sent me scrambling. Miss Rhonda and I headed for Roseboro at more than a shade over the speed limit, turned off N.C. 24 onto the then-unpaved Microwave Tower Road, and followed a string of taillights in the clouds of dust.
As we topped a little rise, we could hear people calling “Bobby! Bobby!” as flashlights cut through the dust and the darkness, like spotlights in an old war movie. Those two memories are just as sharp today as they were 23 years ago.
I had been on a handful of searches like this one, but with one exception, the kids were always found safe. I watched two get spanked by their relieved mamas after they hid from searchers as a prank. I kind of figured this one would turn out the same. Deep in my mind I thought of the one time the child wasn’t found alive and well, but that wasn’t going to happen here.
Rhonda and I ended up joining in the search, riding with a couple of Wildlife officers as we checked the horse stables Buddy liked to visit, and fanned our way through clouds of mosquitoes to check a swampy creek. We finally headed home, and I filed a story that made the late edition, since we didn’t have the Internet back then.
The next day, the world changed.
Buddy did not, as I expected, turn up safe and sound in a neighbor’s outbuilding. He wasn’t in the woods or trails around Microwave Tower Road. Searchers from across the area, then across the state and then halfway across the country began pouring in. The old Ford dealership became as busy as a military headquarters near the front line, with helicopters, search teams, four-wheelers, firefighters, Forest Rangers, soldiers and volunteers checking in then taking a section to search. Reporters formed unofficial alliances based on information and remote telephone access.
Footprints that matched his shoes were found, and a favorite toy dinosaur was located along a trail, but there was no sign of Buddy or his dogs. The Highway Patrol helicopter spotted an infrared heat signature in a driveway tile, but it turned out to be a dead hunting dog.
I got entirely too close to that story, especially after meeting one of the bossiest people I have ever met, Monica Caison. She wasn’t really as brassy and unpleasant as I initially thought. Monica is the founder of the Community United Effort for Missing Persons, better known as CUE. She was there as an advocate, guardian and helper for Miss Donna. Whereas a victim’s family might, under some circumstances, be placated and pushed to the rear while investigators kept working to find a missing person, there was no brushing off Monica Caison.
There still isn’t, for that matter. She doesn’t quit, because every missing person is somebody’s child. That was one of the first quotes she gave me, and it’s graven on my mind.
Every missing person is somebody’s child.
In this case, that hit even harder, since this was truly a child. An innocent little four year old kid whose life was finally turning around, who was being loved and treasured after years of being little more than an inconvenience and a source of welfare checks.
Buddy was never found. That storm that was brewing off the coast blew in after three days, and made things too dangerous for search crews. There were otherwise tough as nails people holding each other and crying in the old service garage when the chief deputy announced the search was being called off. His dogs walked up to the family home during a press conference several days later, clean and fed, yet another unsolved mystery.
For years, yellow ribbons for Buddy marked utility poles, doors, convenient trees, mailboxes. They faded and deteriorated. Here and there you might find a few threads, if you know where to look and try hard enough.
Christmas presents for a little boy who would be grown now still wait at Miss Donna’s house, or they did a few years back.
I look at my happy little friend, who enjoys school and rocks and chickens and reading and life in general, and think of what she might become someday. I can’t help but think of Buddy, and what he might have grown up to be: a professional ballplayer, a doctor, a soldier, a preacher, a farmer, or even a truck driver like his Great-Uncle John.
I hope somehow, someway, in some magical literary twist, he did grow up to be one of those things. I have my doubts, of course, but I never give up hope.
Buddy disappeared, but unlike the magician’s assistant, he never returned.
The yellow ribbons are all but forgotten now, although for some of us, Buddy Myers will never be forgotten. He will always be more than just an unsolved missing person’s case.
He was and always will be somebody’s child.
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