service at the Mayes-Ward-Dobbins Funeral Home on Monday afternoon, December 30. Then he went to see Ramsey at the home of Patsy’s parents, Don and Nedra Paugh, in Roswell. Mann, who stayed until 1:00 in the morning, was impressed with Ramsey’s inner strength. He hoped that if he were ever faced with a tragedy of this magnitude, he could handle himself as well. Mann had worked with Ramsey for almost a year and knew he was deeply religious, with a good Christian foundation. Nevertheless, he wondered what it was in Ramsey’s background that gave him such strength.
Three hours before JonBenét’s funeral was to begin on Tuesday, December 31, the Boulder police asked the police in Marietta, Georgia, to take tracings and measurements of the child’s hands at the funeral home.
At the Peachtree Presbyterian Church in Atlanta, mourners passed by JonBenét’s open casket, where she lay with a pageant crown on her head and Kristine Griffin’s crown in her hands. Some caressed her hair. Others kissed her cheek. In his eulogy, Reverend Frank Harrington, who had married John and Patsy in 1980 and had baptized JonBenét, told the congregation, “The mind cannot accept, and the heart refuses to grasp, the death of one so young, who is suddenly taken from us by the cruelty and malice of some unworthy person…. When a child is lost, one feels part ofthe future is gone.”
Throughout the service, John stroked Patsy’s back as they sat in the front row with Burke. Afterward, Patsy knelt and touched her face to the wooden casket. Just after noon, JonBenét was buried at the foot of a large dogwood tree in St. James Episcopal Cemetery in Marietta. John Ramsey cried, his grief as fresh as if he had just carried her lifeless body up the stairs from the basement.
After the funeral, about forty people went to the home of Patsy’s parents in Roswell. Nedra Paugh noticed that everyone responded differently to her granddaughter’s dreadful death. Some people cried. Some couldn’t stop talking, it seemed. Some sat silently. Others had to make a great effort to compose themselves.
Nedra looked at John Ramsey sitting alone and saw a mature man who had endured other tragedies. He had lived through the death of his oldest child, Beth, who was killed in an auto accident in Chicago in 1992. When Patsy had been diagnosed with aggressive stage-four ovarian cancer in 1993 and the doctor said there was nothing that could be done, it was John who had said to her with conviction, “This too shall pass, and we will manage.” It was John who had searched nationwide for the best treatment program, and a year later Patsy was declared cancer-free. Nedra remembered Patsy’s doctor telling her, “Go have fun.” Then John had his scare with prostate cancer just this past fall. The tests had proved negative. But now he was being cruelly tested again.
Nedra kept asking herself why such a horrifying thing should happen. All she could think was that someone had come in the middle of the night and killed her granddaughter. She had no idea who it could have been. She knew the police had a list—neighbors, enemies, disgruntled employees, the housekeeper, even poor old Santa Claus from the Christmas party. It could have been anyone.
What Patsy’s sister Polly noticed at her parents’ home was that Fleet White was quarreling angrily with her brother-in-law John. Patsy was standing to one side of them while Fleet hovered over John, telling him he had to go back to Boulder and help the police. It was wrong for him to hire his own investigators and criminal attorneys, said Fleet. His job was to cooperate with the police, not stonewall them. John’s face reddened. It was obvious that he was embarrassed to have this conversation in front of his wife and family. But Fleet kept at him. What was this he’d heard about John contacting CNN for an interview? His daughter had just been buried! How could Patsy and John even think about going on television? Even
Three hours before JonBenét’s funeral was to begin on Tuesday, December 31, the Boulder police asked the police in Marietta, Georgia, to take tracings and measurements of the child’s hands at the funeral home.
At the Peachtree Presbyterian Church in Atlanta, mourners passed by JonBenét’s open casket, where she lay with a pageant crown on her head and Kristine Griffin’s crown in her hands. Some caressed her hair. Others kissed her cheek. In his eulogy, Reverend Frank Harrington, who had married John and Patsy in 1980 and had baptized JonBenét, told the congregation, “The mind cannot accept, and the heart refuses to grasp, the death of one so young, who is suddenly taken from us by the cruelty and malice of some unworthy person…. When a child is lost, one feels part ofthe future is gone.”
Throughout the service, John stroked Patsy’s back as they sat in the front row with Burke. Afterward, Patsy knelt and touched her face to the wooden casket. Just after noon, JonBenét was buried at the foot of a large dogwood tree in St. James Episcopal Cemetery in Marietta. John Ramsey cried, his grief as fresh as if he had just carried her lifeless body up the stairs from the basement.
After the funeral, about forty people went to the home of Patsy’s parents in Roswell. Nedra Paugh noticed that everyone responded differently to her granddaughter’s dreadful death. Some people cried. Some couldn’t stop talking, it seemed. Some sat silently. Others had to make a great effort to compose themselves.
Nedra looked at John Ramsey sitting alone and saw a mature man who had endured other tragedies. He had lived through the death of his oldest child, Beth, who was killed in an auto accident in Chicago in 1992. When Patsy had been diagnosed with aggressive stage-four ovarian cancer in 1993 and the doctor said there was nothing that could be done, it was John who had said to her with conviction, “This too shall pass, and we will manage.” It was John who had searched nationwide for the best treatment program, and a year later Patsy was declared cancer-free. Nedra remembered Patsy’s doctor telling her, “Go have fun.” Then John had his scare with prostate cancer just this past fall. The tests had proved negative. But now he was being cruelly tested again.
Nedra kept asking herself why such a horrifying thing should happen. All she could think was that someone had come in the middle of the night and killed her granddaughter. She had no idea who it could have been. She knew the police had a list—neighbors, enemies, disgruntled employees, the housekeeper, even poor old Santa Claus from the Christmas party. It could have been anyone.
What Patsy’s sister Polly noticed at her parents’ home was that Fleet White was quarreling angrily with her brother-in-law John. Patsy was standing to one side of them while Fleet hovered over John, telling him he had to go back to Boulder and help the police. It was wrong for him to hire his own investigators and criminal attorneys, said Fleet. His job was to cooperate with the police, not stonewall them. John’s face reddened. It was obvious that he was embarrassed to have this conversation in front of his wife and family. But Fleet kept at him. What was this he’d heard about John contacting CNN for an interview? His daughter had just been buried! How could Patsy and John even think about going on television? Even
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