Ride Along

When all you can do is wait and watch

No one likes to ask a mother if she thinks her daughter -- just a baby -- is still alive.

But Angela Steinfurth has been asked that a lot lately.

And I had to ask.

It was cold Thursday morning, especially on the banks of the Maumee River. And it started to rain -- softly enough to find a cover underneath some weeds and trees on a hillside that happened to be taller than I am.

The clue to be there crackled over the police radio a little after 10 a.m.

Crews were needed to bag evidence near the base of the Anthony Wayne Bridge, or better known here as the High Level Bridge.

Could have been nothing -- could have been any evidence from any crime ever committed in the history of history.

But it wasn't.

It was Angela and her stepfather, Richard Schiewe, who said they found evidence that Mrs. Steinfurth's missing 18-month-old daughter, Elaina Steinfurth, might have been there.

She told Shaun Hegarty from 13abc that she found a freshly used diaper, the same size and brand that Elaina wears.

Amy Voigt and I were there all day. So were television reporters. And Blade photographer Andy Morrison was, for a few hours, set up on the downtown side of the river, watching from the other side.

Just in case the divers or the police or the SONAR found something. Or if they found what we all kind of wished they wouldn't. Because, you knew that if they did, it wasn't going to be the happy ending that some are still holding out for.

Watching. Waiting.

"Waiting is the bitch of it," Richard said, leaning against his gold-colored truck, watching detectives walk in and out of a narrow clearing in the trees. You could never know what they were doing down there all those hours, with brush blocking any chance at a peek.

Angela and Richard had pretty much stayed away from the media before that. It felt tense. From then on, though, it was easy. They talked, we listened.

The two started out at 9 a.m., headed first for that same narrow opening in the trees. Police searched that area the day before, but it couldn't hurt to check again, they thought.

Soon after, Angela was running down the street toward Toledo police who were already on the east side, gearing up for a search. She told them what she had found, prompting a search that lasted well into the night.

Hours had gone by when I finally got the chance to really talk to Angela. I had found a relatively comfortable spot on the sidewalk, she was sitting on the bumper of a Toledo fire truck.

"So," I started, "do you have that, like, mother's intuition that says, you know, if Elaina is still alive?"

Elaina is still alive, Angela said.

Behind her, Richard shook his head.

When Elaina was born she was 7 pounds, 13 ounces.

Angela said her womb was "too small" and the girl had to go through six months of therapy so she would be able to walk.

She talked, and kept talking about the past few days. How most people consider her a suspect in the disappearance of her daughter, about the comments people have posted on news stories, about her troubled marriage (she and Elaina's father are separated), and about her older daughter adjusting to being a big sister, about the "miracle in Cleveland."

When it was just about 6 p.m., my time on the banks of the Maumee were over. I was replaced by Kelly McLendon.

And now, as of today, Elaina is still missing.

On the scene: Fannie Mae Smith, 3 months later

It's been more than three months since someone shot up Fannie Mae Smith's Fulton Street home.

On Jan. 3, the 81-year-old grandmother was fatally struck multiple times as she sat on an ivory sofa in a sun room at the front of her house.

I found myself on Fulton Street today, along with Blade photographer Jetta Fraser, for a story we were working on. I'd never met Ms. Smith's family -- the shooting, the first homicide of the year -- happened on a weekend when I wasn't working. I decided we should visit the family, thinking it might help with the story (which is scheduled to run Sunday. I can't tell you what it is because it's a Blade exclusive.).

James Smith, from January, talks about his mother's death.
// The Blade - Dave Zapotosky

I met James Smith, 63, Ms. Smith's eldest son. He couldn't help us with the story we were working on, but we still sat in the dimly lit living room -- only feet from where his mother was gunned down -- to talk. The window that was shattered by bullets is boarded up.

READ: Woman slain by gunfire shot at least three times

There hasn't been time to replace it, Smith said.

"I talk about Fannie because I miss my mama," he said, tears filling his eyes.

His mother's killer has not been caught and police are still looking for tips, investigating. Doing what they can to find justice.

"I think it will be a cold case," Smith said. "I hope I don't die before they know who did it."

That feeling, the feeling of hopelessnes, is frustraging. Infuriating, even, Smith said. It's not fair.

Smith and his mother were close. Very close.

He was home that night when he heard four gunshots.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

They were so close.

"Any time my mother hears anythign she yells, 'James,' that's my name, James," Smith said. He went downstairs and called his mother's name several times without a response.

"I felt she was dead," he said. There was something that kept him from peering into the sun room where the television was still on.

Smith's brother came into the sun room. He saw his mother on the couch, her blood.

"I didn't want to see my mama that way," Smith said as he lowered his head into his hands.

A memorial for Fannie Mae Smith in front of 2264 Fulton St. on Feb. 1.
//Amy E. Voigt

Police have said the shooting may have been gang related, although Ms. Smith wasn't the intended target. One of her grandsons, however, might have been.

Smith said he doesn't talk to his nephews -- who are in a gang, although he doesn't know which one, or even, really, if they're in the same gang.

"This gang shit is ridiculous," Smith said. "It's ridiculous. It's ridiculous. When I was coming up we'd get in a fight. This is for nothing. ... I just don't know what this world is coming to."

Smith fears that his nephews -- two of them who were staying at the house at the time of the shooting -- are to blame. Not that they pulled the trigger, but fears that they may have been targeted by a rival gang.

On the scene: DeVaunte Roddy-O'Neil

I remember being 9 years old. I couldn't wait to be 10.

Double digits. That's a big deal for a kid.

DeVaunte Roddy-O'Neil just celebrated his 9th birthday on Dec. 5. His mother, Danita Roddy, said they had a nice party for him. Lots of his friends came.

"He had a big cupcake all to himself," Roddy said, standing outside her home, leaning on her SUV, in Toledo's central city.

She smiled. Her son loved fruits and vegetables. Can you believe it? she asked.

Her smile faded.

"I can't even process it," she said.

DeVaunte was killed Sunday when he was hit by a train only feet from the edge of his mother's backyard. What the boy was doing on the tracks is unclear -- his family says he knew better than to play around the trains -- although police say he was there, probably exploring like any 9-year-old boy might, when the stopped train fired up its engine and lurched forward.

READ: 9-year-old boy found dead on train tracks

Amy Voigt and I first went to the train tracks where DeVaunte's body was found early Monday morning -- about 12:39 a.m. We looked around -- the only indication of a police investigation was the bit of police tape tied to a metal post.

We hadn't been there long when Lori Tribue, DeVaunte's aunt, came to look for the spot where police found the boy's body.

She said that, when police were out looking for the boy, she knew they had found him. Police kept the family at bay, told them not to come back toward the tracks.

Ms. Tribue said they held them back "in case he came home."

"He wasn't coming home," Ms. Tribue said.

She wanted to be there, wanted to see DeVaunte.

"He always counted on me no matter what," she said. "I want him to know I'm here for him no matter what."

Police later said the kept the family back so they wouldn't have to see the boy's body.

She walked along the tracks, back and forth, at least three times.

"Lead me to you, baby," she said, looking at the white rocks under her feet.

She stopped in front of a squiggle of bright orange spray paint, used by police to mark evidence. There was, on only one rock, a small bit of blood.

"I love you," she said. "I love you, baby. I miss you so much."

She picked up the rock. "This is my nephew," she muttered. She touched the small spot of dried blood.

"I'm keeping this," she said.

DeVaunte had been living with his cousin, Tiffany McClain, since Oct. 12 -- McClain's birthday. Ms. Roddy voluntarily gave up custody of her children after she was assaulted in her home in late September. Julie Malkin, spokesman for the Lucas County Children Services, confirmed the change in custody was voluntary.

On Friday, McClain finished wrapping DeVaunte's Christmas presents.

He loved marbles and kites. Oh, and Power Rangers. He loved those crime-fighting kids. He had a Game Boy he hated to put down and played with it constantly until it was stolen.

And he had this costume, a skeleton, which became more like his uniform.

He'd wear it everywhere, to play, to sleep, to the store, to school. And his hair. My goodness, that boy's hair.

"He was so proud of his haircuts," DeVaunte's grandmother, Lorelye Tribue, said.

That boy was always riding his bicycle. Well, bicycles. He had more than one. In his grandmother's front yard was a green one with a flat tire. He abandoned that one in her yard until it would be fixed. Police found another bicycle near where the boy's body was found.

McClain was at Lorelye Tribue's home, along with a number of DeVaunte's other cousins, on Monday. One of them, Charlene Redmond, turned 23 on Sunday.

"I gotta celebrate my birthday a whole different way," she said.

Lorelye Tribue, sitting on her enclosed front porch with Redmond and another granddaughter at her side, spoke only briefly about the death of her daughter, Ella Louise O'Neil.

Ella was 16 when she was murdered on Chicago's west side. It happened on Christmas Day, 1971. The girl was stabbed 21 times.

Lorelye Tribue said her daughter was an artist. Her "gypsy," she said with a smile.

She had weird clothes, always wore gloves, Lorelye Tribue said.

But that was her baby. Her daughter's death is what made the family move to Toledo.

"I don't celebrate Christmas," she said. Her tone wasn't angry. She wasn't disappointed or upset. She was OK. And, although she is sure to miss her grandson, she is OK.

"The Lord was just ready for him," she said. "He said. 'I'm going to take you away before you get corrupted. You're coming home with me.' "

Lorelye Tribue's granddaughters let tears roll down their cheeks.

"Nobody leaves before their time," she said. "I don't think he'd want us to sit up here and cry about it. You rejoice when they leave because you know they're in a better place."

"But it's hard," Redmond said. "I miss him."

"Of course you miss him, but you think about the sweet times with him," Lorelye Tribue said, "don't think about why."

DeVaunte hardly had a chance to be a 9-year-old boy.

I wonder if he was excited about turning 10. Double digits. That's a big deal for a kid.

On the scene: bus safety

Blade photographer Amy Voigt and I got to hang out with State Highway Patrol Sgt. Brian Foltz for a few hours yesterday for a story about National Bus Safety week. (You can read all about that here: Authorities on lookout for inattentive drivers)

Sergeant Foltz was a nice guy to ride around with and, in addition to learning all about bus safety and state laws, I learned a bit about the sergeant.

Toledo Highway Patrol Sgt. Brian Foltz (photo by Amy Voigt/The Blade)

Foltz, who has worked with the state patrol for 13 years, didn't think bout law enforcement right away. In highschool he worked at a Kroger -- he's from Columbus -- bagging groceries. Eventually he worked his way up the chain to office manager. While he was working at the grocery store, he continually made citizen arrests. Every time he would make an arrest, he would call the local police to make a formal arrest and got to know the officers pretty well. (Now he considers them his friends.)

The officers said, 'If you want to arrest people, why don't you do it for real?' the sergeant recalled during our ride along. So he thought about it and it made sense, so he joined the academy. Thirteen years later and he still really loves his job.

We talked about how I, as a reporter, have to go to strangers homes after a loved one has died -- Amy told him the story about how, once, we were looking for family of a murder suspect and thought that the person who answered the door, was the guy police were looking for (it wasn't). For something that's so difficult to do, it was a natural conversation topic -- he's done the same thing, except he's the one breaking the news to families.

He said it doesn't get easier to tell people that someone they love has died, but putting the words together does get easier. Part of making family notifications, he said, is to know how long to stick around. The officers don't want to be there long enough to be part of the grieving process -- that's not their place -- but want to be there long enough to know everyone is safe and will be OK. Typically, as they are leaving, troopers will go to a neighbors house and ask someone to stop by in about 5 or 10 minutes.

On a lighter note: I also found out Sergeant Foltz is an Ohio State fan. I told him that I am not and, I think his exact words were: "This ride along will be over quickly."

It was said in good fun, don't worry. Plus, then I assured him I am also not a Michigan fan. Turns out he's not much for professional football so I didn't have to worry about him telling me he's a fan of any of my least-favorite football teams (Steelers, Bengals, and Ravens, specifically). I also learned that the sergeant has a horse (that is for sale) and he has a 2 1/2 year old daughter (who is not for sale).

On the scene: double homicide

I knew before I went to bed Thursday night that I would be following up on a devastating double homicide the next morning. As soon as I got to the newsroom about 9 a.m., I was searching for addresses, family, and friends that I might be able to talk to.

Fifteen minutes later, Lisa Dutton, Blade photographer, and I were out the door on our way to the scene in central city. It didn't seem like anyone was at the house at first -- truth be told, I didn't expect anyone to be there. The crime scene tape was still stretched from the back porch to a small shed/garage, broken glass from a shattered window was on the porch.

I had already knocked on the front door and, despite it being unlocked and nearly pushing open, nobody answered. I snuck around back, again, while Lisa hung around front. I was in the middle of weighing the option of sneaking under the crime scene tape when Lisa called out that someone was out front.

That's where we met Milton Baker, who said he is the brother of Andrew Baker, one of the deceased.

READ: Grisly scene greeted slain man's brother

Milton sat on the steps that lead to the front porch and started talking.

He recalled the last known moments of Andrew's life:

Milton picked up Andrew from the house on Sanford about 8:30 a.m. and the two went back to Milton's home after picking up other people Milton works with. Milton's girlfriend made breakfast -- the first time she's made a meal, Milton said. 

"He said it was great," Milton said.

They spent the day together, later Tanja -- the other deceased -- and Milton's girlfriend hung out. The children played.

"We hung out like it ain't gonna be your last and then I find him dead," Milton said.

Milton left about midnight -- the last time he saw or spoke with his brother.

"This is senseless," he said. "Killing for nothing."

Milton was very talkative, very poetic, loquacious.

He reminded Lisa and me that, even though Andrew and Tanja live in a very rough part of Toledo, heinous crimes can happen anywhere.

"Don't think you're too good for it to happen to you," he said. "It can happen anywhere, to anyone."

"It's always the good people," he said. "I know people who wake up every day who try to figure out how to make life miserable for someone else."

Milton went on to talk more about Andrew:

"I've been protecting him my whole life," he said.
He said Andrew and Tanja met as kids; they've been friends/dated for the past 10 years. The house where they were living, the house where they died, has been their home for the past two years.

He said everyone in the neighborhood, everyone in the city, loved Andrew.

Milton, early in our conversation, also told Lisa and me that these deaths aren't the first he's dealt with. In 2006, his 7-year-old son, Milton Baker, Jr., was murdered. The boy died at the hands of his mother's live-in-boyfriend.

From Milton's, we went to see Andrew's mother at a house not far from the University of Toledo.

There were times, sitting in the living room, next to Lisa whose camera rested in her lap, on a black leather sofa, that I had to stop taking notes and just listen.

Being a crime reporter is tough business. Not because of the things you see, really. More of the things you hear. No matter what someone has done in their life to make them "good" or "bad" there is always someone who has loved them, someone who is breaking on the inside. And for what? I'm not sure I've ever heard a good reason. I'm convinced there isn't one.

Andrew's mother, Gisel Baker, sat in the corner of another couch that rested along a wall of windows, the curtains drawn behind her. The conversation, at first, was easy. We laughed and joked. It didn't feel like we were intruding in this woman's life during one of the worst moments she has probably ever experienced.

But that didn't last. I had to ask about the sad stuff, the hard stuff.

Why did Andrew die?

"I don't know why they killed him. They didn't have to," she moaned, big tears rolling down her face. "Somebody know. Somebody know."

She talked more, she talked quickly. I've never written so fast in my life.

As  heart breaking as her words were, they were beautiful. Lisa, who has been doing this for a long time and -- like most journalists -- has found ways to not get emotional on the spot -- was crying, too.

I was too focused on capturing the pain in her words and in her face to think about crying.

"How did you find out Andrew and Tanja were dead?"

"I got a call that asked if something was wrong," Gisel said. "[My daughter] called me. When I saw the call I knew when I pickedu p the phone, I knew something was wrong."

"Did you talk to Neal," Gisel recalled her daughter asking. "Somebody told me he was hurt."

Gisel tried to call her son. No answer.

She got in touch with Milton.

"He told me someone called and said somebody shot him. I didn't know for sure. I just knew somethin was wrong," Gisel said.

Then she talked to her father.

"My dad told me they were dead, but I didn't know what he was talking about. He told me they shot them both."

Gisel stopped talking. She was sobbing now. Buried her face into her hands, one of which was clutching a picture of Andrew and Tanja, until another woman sat down next to her. Then Gisel rested her head on the woman's shoulder and kept crying. Lisa and I were still. I curled my hand into a fist and used it to cover my mouth.

This was too much.

Too heavy.

These are private moments.

But then Gisel started talking again. Through her heavy sobs and deep breaths, she spoke.

"My prayer is that the Lord have mercy. He's going to take care of this. He's going to take care of this. Have mercy Lord, have mercy, 'cause I know you gon' take care of this, Lord. I know he is. I know he is. I know he is. I know he is. I know he is.
"Everybody in this city loved that boy. Young, old, everybody."

"I don't want to talk anymore," she whispered.

On the scene: Monroe bombing

In Monroe Thursday I took a break from camping out in front of the police/sheriff building -- which is in the city's historic downtown -- and took a trip out to where Erik Chappell's Volvo station wagon exploded on Tuesday. I didn't go the day before and I was curious to see for myself what the scene might look like a few days later.

Remnants of yellow police tape were still tied to a speed limit sign and what is probably a street lamp post (although I don't recall), which would have stretched across East Elm Avenue to keep onlookers at bay. There were a few partially charred -- and one totally crisp -- leaf in the grass to the side of the road.

Glass from shattered windows had, clearly, been brushed to the side of the road during clean up. Some of the glass, though, landed in grass, too, along with a burnt piece of fabric from the Chappell's car.

It's hard to tell, I know, but these are shards of glass from blown out windows.

The burnt leaf you see is actually the entire leaf, not part of the good one underneath.

The place where the car exploded is, quiet honestly, easy to pass if you don't know you should be looking for it. Driving down the road I literally passed it after seeing it once. It seems as though, when the device detonated, it blew out a small bit of the road to make a shallow pothole-like void, although, since I have never traveled the road before, I can't say with 100 percent certainty it's from the blast. That would, though, be my most logical guess.

Standing to the side of the road, across from the blast site, it still smells like fire, like burnt something. But if you take two steps away -- in any direction -- the smell is gone. It's that faint, and that prominent at the same time. Very strange.

I wasn't the only one who was curious, though. During my 10 minutes or so of examining the area, I would say three or four cars drove by -- either curious of what some weird girl in cowboy boots was doing at the side of the road or trying to get a glimpse of where the explosion happened.

Can't say I blame them. It's definitely unusual. Something I only ever heard of happening on television or in the movies.

READ:
Car explosion that injured three described as 'heinous crime' by investigator
Brothers injured in car bomb 'in good spirits'
Chappell: 'Good overcomes evil'
Team has three reasons to win: Grant, Cole, and Erik Chappell
911 director defends dispatcher