soon, Judy Woods was adopted by a loving Mormon family, and her breathing spells stopped entirely.
But the suspicions didnât subside, although nobody really knew just how big this case might be. Because Paulâs possible murder had happened on a military post, the FBI got the case, but in its earliest days, it was tragically simple: Somebody killed a baby.
It didnât stay simple. His killer had made a huge mistake. Paul died of an interruption of the oxygen flow to his brain. He was smothered. The lack of oxygen to the brain caused brain death at the time he was assaulted. The assault was committed on a government reservation to a civilian (Paul). This meant that the case fell under the jurisdiction of the FBI, which had the time and deep pockets needed for a comprehensive investigation.
The more FBI agents dug, the deeper, darker, and sicker the story became. They dredged up decades of musty records from small-town courthouses, sifted through family memories, interviewed far-flung friends and neighbors, and chased leads that bounced back and forth across the country. A chilling image came into focus. What began as a question of abuse quickly became a likelihood of murder.
And all the evidence pointed to the woman who only wanted everyone to know she was a good mother: Martha Woods.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Martha was born at home on April 20, 1929, the tenth of thirteen children born to William and Lillie May Stewart, a truck driver and his especially fertile housewife. Born on the eve of the Great Depression, Martha mostly grew up in an extended family of seventeen people crammed into a two-bedroom, $15-a-month rental with very little of anything. A middle-school dropout, sheâd worked a few menial jobs, in diners, laundries, and shoe factories, but never long.
Just before Thanksgiving 1945, at only sixteen, Martha Stewart got pregnant by a neighborhood boy. She had damn little to be thankful for. Just when she should have been attending high school dances and going steady, she was an unwed teenage mother-to-be without any income.
A month before her due date, Martha went into labor. A baby boy was born prematurely, weighing just over four pounds. She named him Charles Lewis Stewart, after two of her older brothers, one of whom drowned in Germanyâs Moselle River during the last days of World War II. But she just called him Mikey.
Mikey stayed in a hospital incubator for eleven days, but when he was finally released, he still struggled. Mikey slept with Martha in the upstairs bedroom she shared with her sister, a nephew, and several smaller children. He barely ate anything, Martha said, and when he did, he vomited it up. At one point, Marthaâs mother was feeding Mikey with an eyedropper, but it didnât do much good.
Then one day, quite suddenly, Mikey just stopped breathing and turned blue while Martha held him. Her parents rushed mother and child to Columbusâs Childrenâs Hospital. Doctors determined he was severely malnourished. Mikey was admitted, and over the next seven days, he brightened up and gained a surprising half a pound. He was sent home with some vitamins and some new formula.
Two days later, on August 23, Mikey died. Just like that. Heâd been lying on the living room couch when he abruptly stopped breathing and turned blue. The police ambulance raced to the house, but it was too late. The coroner came and took Mikeyâs corpse away in his little black medical satchel.
Mikey wasnât autopsied, but his death certificate blamed an enlarged thymus (a typical diagnosis for dead babies in the 1940s) and âstatus lymphaticusâ (a high-sounding term for crib death thatâs equivalent to a medical shrug, meaning absolutely nothing).
Only one month and four days old when he died, Mikey was buried not far from his war-hero uncle and namesake in the Wesley Chapel Cemetery on the outskirts of Columbus.
It wouldnât be long before another
But the suspicions didnât subside, although nobody really knew just how big this case might be. Because Paulâs possible murder had happened on a military post, the FBI got the case, but in its earliest days, it was tragically simple: Somebody killed a baby.
It didnât stay simple. His killer had made a huge mistake. Paul died of an interruption of the oxygen flow to his brain. He was smothered. The lack of oxygen to the brain caused brain death at the time he was assaulted. The assault was committed on a government reservation to a civilian (Paul). This meant that the case fell under the jurisdiction of the FBI, which had the time and deep pockets needed for a comprehensive investigation.
The more FBI agents dug, the deeper, darker, and sicker the story became. They dredged up decades of musty records from small-town courthouses, sifted through family memories, interviewed far-flung friends and neighbors, and chased leads that bounced back and forth across the country. A chilling image came into focus. What began as a question of abuse quickly became a likelihood of murder.
And all the evidence pointed to the woman who only wanted everyone to know she was a good mother: Martha Woods.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Martha was born at home on April 20, 1929, the tenth of thirteen children born to William and Lillie May Stewart, a truck driver and his especially fertile housewife. Born on the eve of the Great Depression, Martha mostly grew up in an extended family of seventeen people crammed into a two-bedroom, $15-a-month rental with very little of anything. A middle-school dropout, sheâd worked a few menial jobs, in diners, laundries, and shoe factories, but never long.
Just before Thanksgiving 1945, at only sixteen, Martha Stewart got pregnant by a neighborhood boy. She had damn little to be thankful for. Just when she should have been attending high school dances and going steady, she was an unwed teenage mother-to-be without any income.
A month before her due date, Martha went into labor. A baby boy was born prematurely, weighing just over four pounds. She named him Charles Lewis Stewart, after two of her older brothers, one of whom drowned in Germanyâs Moselle River during the last days of World War II. But she just called him Mikey.
Mikey stayed in a hospital incubator for eleven days, but when he was finally released, he still struggled. Mikey slept with Martha in the upstairs bedroom she shared with her sister, a nephew, and several smaller children. He barely ate anything, Martha said, and when he did, he vomited it up. At one point, Marthaâs mother was feeding Mikey with an eyedropper, but it didnât do much good.
Then one day, quite suddenly, Mikey just stopped breathing and turned blue while Martha held him. Her parents rushed mother and child to Columbusâs Childrenâs Hospital. Doctors determined he was severely malnourished. Mikey was admitted, and over the next seven days, he brightened up and gained a surprising half a pound. He was sent home with some vitamins and some new formula.
Two days later, on August 23, Mikey died. Just like that. Heâd been lying on the living room couch when he abruptly stopped breathing and turned blue. The police ambulance raced to the house, but it was too late. The coroner came and took Mikeyâs corpse away in his little black medical satchel.
Mikey wasnât autopsied, but his death certificate blamed an enlarged thymus (a typical diagnosis for dead babies in the 1940s) and âstatus lymphaticusâ (a high-sounding term for crib death thatâs equivalent to a medical shrug, meaning absolutely nothing).
Only one month and four days old when he died, Mikey was buried not far from his war-hero uncle and namesake in the Wesley Chapel Cemetery on the outskirts of Columbus.
It wouldnât be long before another
Similar Books
