Robbie Wayne was a victim of child abuse. This book chronicles his short life, its brutal end, and the detective work that led to the eventual apprehension and conviction of his tormentors - his own mother and surrogate father. Although names and places have been changed, the case is real, dramatically recreated from trial proceedings.
National statistics on child abuse are not easily available. Some one million children are known to suffer child abuse annually, but unreported or unrecognised cases may bring the hidden total to more than twice that figure. Even when abuse is suspected, well-meaning people are reticent about bringing charges - as happened in the Robbie Wayne case. Neither statistics nor the long list of specific tortures that were inflicted on this particular child can adequately describe this unspeakable crime, however.
The case of Robbie Wayne is shocking - but not exaggerated. More shocking is the fact that six-year-old Robbie was rather typical of countless other abused children whose circumstances will never be publicised.
Please read Robbie Wayne's story. It may help you save a life.
Robbie Wayne’s mother, Lana Wood, had been married four times by the time she was 24. Her job as a go-go dancer took her from one sleazy bar to another and left little time for Robbie and his half brother, Eric Bolton. Accustomed to shifting for themselves, the boys - ages five and seven - subsisted on junk food. Nevertheless, pictures taken of them at the time show two lively, apparently happy youngsters frolicking in the Texas sunshine, unmindful that social workers would have considered them underprivileged.
In the spring of 1977, after separating from her fourth husband, Lana was living in Pecan Grove, Texas, with Harry Joe Doud, the divorced father of a nine-year-old girl. Tall, broad-shouldered, and a brawny 245 pounds, Doud was ten years older than the petite, brown-haired Lana.
Not long after they moved in together, Lana became pregnant and had to stop working. Then Harry hurt his leg on a construction job, and the makeshift family's only income was his workmen’s-compensation payments; there was barely enough for food. Doud began to resent Robbie and Eric. He felt that they were taking food out of the mouth of his own child, Wendy Jo, who now lived with them.
During this period, Eric was having trouble in school, and Harry - no scholar himself - appointed himself the boy's tutor. Harry Toe was a hard taskmaster, a trait learned from his violent, alcoholic father, who often punished him severely "to make a man out of him." He forced Eric to study from the time he arrived home until late at night. When the boy faltered, Doud shut him in a closet. Some protective, maternal instinct in Lana Wood's mind asserted itself, and she decided to send Eric to stay with relatives near Houston.
In January 1978, Lana gave birth to her third son. They named him Harry Joe Doud, Jr.
Early in April 1978, with workmen's compensation running out, the two adults and three children moved to Big Spring, Texas, where Lana found a job as a waitress. She left their trailer home in mid-afternoon and usually returned around 11p.m.
Harry Joe did not find work. In fact, he did not look very hard for it, claiming that the doctors who declared his leg healed were wrong. He also was tormented by suspicions that Lana flirted with men at the restaurant, and he usually paced the floor frantically, waiting for her to come home.
Harry Joe had the notion that the children needed firm discipline and character-building chores. Wendy; who would have done anything to please her father, bustled about like a little housewife, washing dishes, sweeping floors, hanging out diapers. But Robbie, who had just turned six, often rebelled at his assignments, especially taking out the trash and picking up sticks in the small yard around the trailer.
One night, as she was cleaning up the restaurant just before closing time, Lana received a call from Harry Joe. "You'd better come home," he said. "I can't get the kid to stop screaming."
"Is it Robbie or the baby?" Lana asked.
"It's Robbie. He burned his hands taking out the trash and he just keeps screaming."
When Lana arrived a few minutes later, she realised that the burns had not been made by fire. The backs of Robbie's hands were dotted with holes which had eaten into the flesh. The holes continued to grow wider and deeper. Large blisters formed, and patches of raw, weeping flesh. But Doud refused to allow Lana to take Robbie to a hospital, and none of the home remedies she could think of - cold water, lotions, creams - seemed to help. Soon Doud admitted that the burns were caused by battery acid. He claimed that the child had got into an old automobile battery while taking out the trash.
Three days later Lana took the boy to a doctor, who put him in a local hospital. Robbie spent ten days there before being transferred to a burn centre. He was gone a month.
Eventually Harry Joe confessed to Lana that he had deliberately poured battery acid on Robbie's hands after the boy had refused to take out the trash.
“A Lot of Bumps and Bruises"
Child-welfare workers had begun asking questions about Robbie's "accident" while the child was still in the hospital. Their inquiries raised the fear in Doud that they might take away his beloved Wendy, and little Harry Joe as well.
Doud decided that the best way to impress the social workers would be to drill Robbie in his schoolwork (the boy was then in kindergarten) until he was letter-perfect. Doud thus resumed his distorted idea of education: punishing the child when he failed to count up to 20 correctly or faltered at reciting his ABC's.
He tried spanking the boy harder and more frequently, but the child only became more halting in his recitations. Doud also sent him to his room and, when that had no effect, locked him in the broom closet.
Robbie was able to recite and count for Lana and Wendy, but he seemed to freeze when approached by Harry. It was a vicious cycle: the more he faltered, the more frequently and severely he was punished; and the more he was punished, the more he faltered. Wendy did not do well in school, either, but she was never reprimanded or disciplined by her father.
One afternoon, after all of his punitive measures had failed to motivate Robbie, Doud thought of a new spur, born of his experience in bandaging the boy's burned hands. He stuck adhesive tape to the boy's face and forearms. "Count up to 20," he demanded. The boy faltered at nine, whereupon Doud jerked off one of the adhesive strips. He recited some more numbers, omitting 15, and Doud pulled off another adhesive strip while the child screamed. This little game continued until Robbie's face and forearms were irritated and marked with the residue of the tape.
It was not until Robbie had left for school the following morning that Doud realised his mistake: the kindergarten teacher might ask questions about the tape marks. Yet Doud continued to inflict this punishment, until the boy's face and arms were raw and bleeding.
Doud then sought another punishment. It was a Sunday afternoon, and the entire family group was in the trailer.
"Say your numbers for your mother," Harry Joe demanded of Robbie.
"No, I don't want to," the boy answered.
His rebellious refusal hung in the air for a long moment. Then Doud grabbed the startled child by one arm, dragged him to the clothes dryer, dumped him in, closed the door and turned on the machine.
After the boy had tumbled two or three turns, Doud stopped the dryer, and Lana helped the terrified child out of the machine.
"I want you to count to 20, damn it!" Doud shouted. And as Lana and Wendy watched, too stunned to move, the boy began his halting recital.
"You forgot nine, you dumbbell!" Doud yelled. Unmindful of his horrified spectators, Doud dragged the boy to the dryer, shoved him in, closed the door, and turned on the machine for a second time.
As frightened as Robbie must have been, he still was able to outwit his tormentor. On his second spin in the dryer, he braced himself so that he would not tumble as the drum rotated. This infuriated Doud, and he would have become even more violent had not Wendy and Lana intervened.
"Go sit in the closet. I don 't want to see or hear from you again tonight," Doud commanded. The boy complied with relief.
A week later Paula Nelson, a veteran social worker, alerted by Robbie's teacher, knocked on the door of the Doud-Wood trailer home. Suspecting that Doud might be causing Robbie Wayne's strange bruises and lacerations, she decided to concentrate on Lana, thinking the child's own mother would defend him if needed.
"Robbie certainly has a lot of bumps and bruises," Paula began. “We don't often see a child so banged up."
Doud sat motionless as though bolted to his chair. But Lana smiled disarmingly and laughed. "Robbie is one of those children who get into everything," she explained.
Paula Nelson knew that the kindergarten teacher would not believe this any more than she herself did. But the fact was, unless someone either complained or confessed, she didn't have a case for removing the child from the home of a natural parent.
"Well, here's my card with my telephone number on it," she said to Lana. "If you have any problems, just call me."
She had given Lana an opportunity to report Doud's abuses. After all, a young woman who spends 40 hours a week in a restaurant has plenty of chances to telephone whomever she wishes. It was an offer Lana never accepted.
Some days after this visit Doud formed a new plan. "I think we should put Robbie in the orphans' home," he told Lana, "and let them see if they can straighten him out."
"That's a good idea," Lana agreed. "But we'll have to wait until his bruises heal."
This is a frequent syndrome in child abuse. The adults who have lost control of themselves decide to turn the child over to surrogate parents. But they feel they had better wait until the bruises and lacerations clear up. The tragedy is that, before the old bruises heal, the abusers lose control again and inflict new wounds.
Doud had also made another decision. "We're going to have to get out of Texas," he told Lana, "now that the social workers are on our case." So, two days later, they loaded Doud's old brown station wagon with their belongings and headed for southwestern Oklahoma. It was rumoured that the area, having acquired new industry, had job opportunities; and Doud claimed that he was going to look for work.
A Slim Last Chance
From time to time, all of us make decisions that may mean life or death to others, perhaps even to strangers. Airline pilots and surgeons are called upon to take such responsibility frequently, but ordinary people in everyday situations make life-or-death decisions, too.
As the Doud-Wood-Wayne family drove onto U.S. Highway 20 and headed east, a middle-aged couple, Frank and Gladys Chapman, were preparing to leave their home in Abilene and go west on the same highway. Later that day they were to make a life-and-death decision regarding Robbie Wayne.
Leaving Big Spring, Doud and Lana were sitting in the front seat of the car. The middle seat was occupied by Wendy, Robbie, and the baby in his basket. The back part of the station wagon was filled to overflowing with clothes, dishes, pans and other belongings.
"I want you to count to 20," Harry Joe ordered Robbie.
"No, I don't feel like it," the boy countered.
"Come on, Robbie, count for your dad," Lana urged.
"He's not my dad," the spunky child responded.
This so enraged Doud that he nearly drove the car off the highway. Lana's reaction to the boy's impudence was to turn around and slap him across the face as hard as she could.
"I tell you, Lana, we're going to have to send that boy to an orphans' home," Doud said.
"I agree with you, Harry, but his bruises still aren't healed up," Lana answered, seemingly unaware that she had probably added a bruise or two a moment earlier.
It was almost noon when Doud had an idea that he felt would surely make Robbie obey him. When they pulled into a highway rest area for their lunch of potato chips and soda, he would leave the boy for a time, pretending to drive off. Doud was sure that would "frighten the orneriness out of him."
It was easier than Doud had thought. When they began to climb back into their car after the snack, Robbie lagged behind. Doud started the motor, but the boy remained seated at a picnic table.
"We're leaving you, Robbie," Doud called. "You're such a bad boy we don't want you anymore."
Then he drove the car toward a remote corner of the parking lot. Just as he passed the westbound entrance to the rest area, Doud was startled to see a car pulling in and heading for the picnic area. It was Frank and Gladys Chapman, who had decided to stop and eat lunch. They saw the boy before they got out of their car.
"Look, Frank, there's a little boy sitting there all by himself," Gladys remarked.
"He must be lost or something," Frank replied.
The Chapmans, carrying their picnic basket, approached the table at which the boy sat.
"What's your name?" Gladys Chapman asked gently.
"Robbie."
"What are you doing here all by yourself?" Frank Chapman asked.
"Harry says I'm going to the orphans' home," Robbie answered.
The Chapmans had raised a son and a daughter and were now the grandparents of two boys and a girl, so they knew that one cannot always take children's comments at face value. They could not imagine anyone abandoning a nice little boy like this, so they assumed that he had somehow become lost.
"Would you like one of my extra special ham sandwiches?" Gladys Chapman asked as she opened the picnic basket. The boy wolfed it down. He also devoured an apple, a banana and two cookies.
Doud, never a man who could cope with difficult situations, had at first panicked and almost decided to abandon the child in reality. Fear that he had been seen by the occupants of the car coming in from the westbound lane prevented him from actually doing so.
He drove back to the picnic area, parked the car a short distance from the tables and began calling the boy. Robbie sat there munching cookies and basking in the unaccustomed warmth of two adults giving him their kindly, undivided attention.
"Come on, Robbie, we've got to go," Doud called.
Wendy Jo, dispatched by her father, came into view. But the boy remained seated, reluctant to leave. Finally, she took the child by the hand and led him back to the car.
Gladys Chapman was a very organised woman. Instinctively, she pulled out a pad and jotted down the licence number of the car.
"He sure didn't want to go with them, did he!" Frank said. "Did you see all the cuts and bruises on that child?"
"What do you think we ought to do - report it to the police?"
They pondered the question for nearly half an hour. What did they really have to go on? A child who ate ravenously, was covered with cuts and bruises, seemed happy to have been abandoned and reluctant to return.
The Chapmans were kind, churchgoing people who would have been horrified if they had known Robbie Wayne's true situation, They did not fear becoming involved as much as they feared making a mistake. If there was no substance to their suspicion, they would have been greatly embarrassed at having reported it.
"That little girl certainly seemed well cared for," Gladys Chapman reflected. "She was a polite little thing, too."
So they finally decided not to report the incident, having convinced themselves that any family who could produce such a nice little girl could not possibly be mistreating her brother.
The Chapmans were unacquainted with statistics, which reveal that child abuse is not necessarily inflicted on all the children in a household. Often there is just one who for some reason becomes the whipping boy.
The piece of paper with Doud's license number on it remained in Mrs. Chapman's purse for several days until she methodically threw it away. With it went Robbie Wayne's hope for survival.
Locked Away
In Oklahoma, Doud got a job with a construction firm after only three days of job hunting. The adults also enrolled Wendy in school. They did not, however, put Robbie in kindergarten. Lana suggested it, but Doud flew into a rage. "Are you crazy?" he shouted. "Do you want the Oklahoma social workers to come nosing around here?"
So for the first week they lived a rather typical blue-collar existence, with Doud going to work, Wendy attending school, and Lana staying at home with Robbie and little Harry Joe at the Southwestern Trailer Court. But after three or four days on the job, Harry arrived home limping and complaining of great pain.
"I hurt my damn leg again," he told Lana. "But the doctor says there's nothing wrong. I told them what they could do with their job - I’m not going back!"
And so, seething with rage against a construction boss thought to be unsympathetic and a doctor who could not account for his pain, Harry Joe Doud shut himself away from the hostile world. Locked away with him was Robbie Wayne.
Severe disciplining of the boy began almost immediately. Robbie had long since learned to count to 20 and to recite the alphabet. If Doud had really been concerned about the boy's education, he would have enrolled him in school. But this inconsistency didn't seem to occur to him: he was determined that the boy was going to count to 100 by ones, fives and tens - and was going to learn to spell his name, not Robbie Wayne, but Robbie Doud.
Harry Joe would order the boy to count. The boy would refuse. Then Doud would spank him until he started counting. When Robbie got stuck on a number, Doud would spank him again.
The spankings began with a little switch which soon was discarded in favor of a board that measured two feet by four inches and was a half-inch thick.
Lana, who was at home all day during this period, regarded Doud's treatment of Robbie inconsistently. Sometimes she tried to get Doud to let up on the boy. At other times she, too, swung the paddle.
Doud developed a technique for accomplishing the abuse with the least expenditure of effort. He made the boy stand in front of him, bend over and hold his ankles. Then the 245-pound man, wielding the paddle in both hands, swung it with such force that he often knocked the child down. These beatings occurred three or four times a day at first, then escalated to five or six times a day.
Doud also began shutting the boy in the closet in the children's bedroom. This closet was five feet high by two feet wide, with no light, no windows and no ventilation. Harry Joe monitored the closet closely. When he caught the boy trying to stretch out, he forced him to either stand up or sit on the closet floor.
During this period Robbie was brought out of the closet to eat with the family, although food for everybody was in short supply and consisted mostly of oatmeal, beans and macaroni. Because of this scarcity, it was only two or three days before Robbie's release from the closet was postponed until after the family had eaten. He was then allowed to eat the leftovers. If there were none, he was given a glass of water with two teaspoons of sugar in it.
One night when the beatings, the closet confinement and the hunger failed to produce an obedient child, Doud tried another approach. He filled the bathtub with water almost up to the top, then dragged the child from the closet.
"Count up to 100 by fives," Doud ordered.
The boy tried, but stumbled at 15.
"You dumbbell, you will never learn!" Doud shouted.
Then he picked up the child, carried him into the bathroom and held his head under the water in the tub.
"Now I want you to try counting again," Doud demanded.
Again the boy faltered and was dunked in the tub, held under until he was fighting for breath. Doud then dragged him back to the closet.
Robbie began spending 20 to 22 hours a day confined in this closet. Occasionally at night he was able to sneak out and snatch some food.
Doud never caught him, but later discovered the food missing. He nailed the closet door shut.
This meant more torture for the boy. He had to ask to be let out to go to the bathroom. If Doud, Lana or Wendy were not around to bend the nails back, the boy would wet his pants. This enraged Doud so much that he forbade him to drink water.
One day Doud spotted an old extension cord with a broken socket. He cut oil the socket, but kept the cord. He then dragged Robbie from the closet, demanding that he add some numbers. When the boy faltered, Doud plugged in the cord and touched the raw end to the child's arm. The electrical shock knocked Robbie down.
Doud picked him up and stuck the wire to him again. He did this over and over until the boy was relieved to be shoved back into the closet.
Doud and Lana stayed at home most of the time, but occasionally they would go out to buy groceries or to have a few beers. Robbie seized these opportunities to beg Wendy for food. The girl usually sneaked him some, even though she ran the risk of being punished herself.
Doud himself gave the boy something to eat about every two or three days, usually cold oatmeal with nothing on it, or a can of hominy (which the boy hated), or a spoonful of beans or potatoes.
By the end of the first week in July the boy was showing the ravages of his ill-treatment. He had lost 15 or 20 pounds; his ribs and shoulder blades stuck out, his stomach appeared swollen, and he was pale and weak. He shook uncontrollably most of the time. And, pitifully, he had to hold his pants up with both hands to keep them from falling off.
Better to Be Wrong
It may seem surprising that the other residents of the Southwestern Trailer Court knew little or nothing about the occupants of Trailer 27. But Doud hated and feared company, and forbade Lana or Wendy to invite anyone into the trailer. He had never had friends and wanted to keep it that way.
Wendy was just the opposite - gregarious and helpful. The neighbours often saw her hanging out diapers or running errands and thought of her as being exceptionally industrious and polite.
Wendy knew that Robbie's ill-treatment was wrong. But she was Harry Joe Doud's loyal, adoring slave. She either would not - or could not - betray him.
Brad Thomas, the owner of the trailer court, later stated that at first he had no recollection of the boy. But then he recalled that one afternoon in early July he just happened to look out his office window and saw the little blond girl with a very pale, emaciated boy who was too weak to stand up by himself. As he watched, the girl supported the child, half-carrying him, half-dragging him back to the trailer.
It was unfortunate that Brad Thomas asked no questions. He assumed that the boy was "retarded or something" and that the helpful little girl was doing her best for him. Later he would comment that if he could do it over again he would report Robbie Wayne's case to the authorities, even though he had little to go on except instinct. "It would be better to be wrong 100 times than to fail a child like Robbie Wayne - and to have to live with that failure the rest of your days," he said.
Apparently the residents of the trailer court did not hear anything suspicious - none of the child's screams or cries. They did not hear anything even during the first week in July when Doud came up with still another heinous punishment.
They were all at home. In fact, Doud needed both Lana and Wendy to perform the gruesome feat. Doud removed the nails from the closet door and dragged Robbie into the living room by one arm. "Count to 100," he commanded. The boy stammered and missed 11 and 20.
Doud made him get down on his hands and knees. He then tied a string around one of his front teeth, fastening the other end to a doorknob. "You hold him, Wendy," he ordered, "while Lana and I slam the door."
The tooth was a baby one, but it was not loose. It did not come out until the door had been slammed several times.
Doud then demanded that Robbie count again, but the shivering child could not. Following Doud's orders, Lana attached the string to another of the boy's front teeth. Wendy held him down while the adults again slammed the door. After three attempts, the second tooth came out.
The next day, under the pretext of teaching him to count, Doud and Lana pulled two more of Robbie's teeth in the same manner. Unbeknown to them, they also fractured his jaw.
When they approached him again with the string, he suddenly was able to count even though his mouth was bleeding. Doud said laughingly, "If you would recite like that all the time, you wouldn't have such things happen to you." Nonetheless, the boy was shoved back into the closet without food or water.
The Final Day
July 8,1978, was a Saturday. Lana had got up early to report for her first day's work at a new cafeteria.
The trailer was a mess. Dirty dishes and dirty laundry were everywhere. The baby was fussy and Wendy Jo, usually so helpful, was engrossed in a book and ignored her father's orders to "get busy on this place."
Finally, Doud thought of Robbie.
He went to the closet, removed the nails and dragged the shaking child out.
"I want you to wash those dishes," he barked. Robbie was so weak it was hard for him to stand. Holding his pants up with one hand, he pushed a chair to the sink by using his free hand and his body. Shakily, he filled the sink with hot water, poured in some detergent and began dunking the dishes.
"Those aren't clean, you dumbbell," Doud objected, forcing the boy to wash the dishes over and over.
Lana arrived home shortly after noon, kicked off her shoes and lay down on the sofa in the living room. "Don't flop down there," Doud ordered. "This place has to be cleaned lip. That no-good son of yours can't seem to get the dishes clean. I've had him washing them all morning."
"Where's that precious daughter of yours? What's she doing?"
"Wendy Jo!” Doud bellowed.
"Get in here right now!" The girl hastily put down her book and reported to her father. "You're not much help to me today," he scolded. "I want you to go into that kitchen and wash those dishes. Tell the kid that I want him to mop the hallway floor and the bathroom. Now move!"
Crushed by her father's disapproval, Wendy Jo did as he commanded, collecting the rest of the dirty dishes scattered around the trailer. In the baby's room she caught Robbie drinking cola from the baby's bottle, against Doud's explicit rules. Anxious to get back into her father's favour, Wendy Jo - usually Robbie's advocate - ran into the living room and tattled.
Doud stomped back to the bedroom, grabbed the culprit, lifted him off the floor by one arm and pulled him, screaming, into the living room.
"Leave him alone," Lana begged as the furious man and the terrified child entered the room. Doud responded by throwing the boy to the floor. Robbie hit his head on a chair as he went down and landed with a dull thud. His screams stopped abruptly.
The child had been knocked down perhaps 300 times in the previous months. Each time he had got back up, either by himself or with the help of Lana or Wendy. This time he lay where he had fallen, like a broken doll.
Lana, Doud and Wendy sat staring at his crumpled form for a long moment. Finally, Lana broke the silence. "Let's take him to the hospital," she suggested.
"You know we can't do that.
They'd ask too many questions. Doctor him yourself," Doud ordered.
Lana knelt down and tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But she had no training, and it is doubtful that she performed the procedure correctly. After a few minutes she gave up the attempt. Doud threw cold water on the child, also to no avail.
Robbie was wearing blue shorts, a red-and-white T-shirt and a leather belt with a silver buckle, embossed with the figure of a bucking bronco. This is a uniform worn by millions of small boys on carefree summer Saturdays.
Except that this child did not run, play and laugh like the others. This child would never grow tall and manly. He had been born healthy and intelligent, and during the past four months he had demonstrated a remarkable courage. But the world would never know what he might have achieved. He had become a fallen warrior at the age of six.
Medical help was readily available. Less than three minutes away was the county hospital, a modern, well-equipped facility. Five minutes away was a military hospital, also equipped for emergencies.
It will never be known if the boy's life could have been saved by quick medical attention. But it must be recorded here that Lana Wood, his mother, and Harry Joe Doud, his surrogate father, made no attempt to obtain medical help for him.
Finally, Lana sat back on the sofa, closed her eyes and began to cry softly. Wendy 10, when she realised the truth, began screaming.
"What's the matter with you two?" Doud asked lightly, trying to ignore what must have become apparent even to him.
"He's dead," Wendy Jo told him.
"Robbie's dead."
Doud sat stunned, unable to move or speak.
Finally, Wendy To went to her room, pulled a sheet off her bed and covered the small body with it. This seemed to bring the adults to life, and they began discussing the situation.
"I think we should turn ourselves in," Doud said. "We haven't got any choice.”
"It's too late to turn ourselves in - Robbie’s dead," Lana sobbed. "I think we should go ahead and bury him ourselves."
"How can we do that? Where could we go?" Doud asked.
"I know a place in Texas where nobody hardly ever goes," Lana said. "We rented a run-down farmhouse there when I was a kid. The house burned down and has never been fixed up." The discussion of the next move continued for the rest of the afternoon. The child who in life had been the bane of their existence was now - in death - an even bigger problem.
A Grave for Robbie
They needed money; something would have to be sold-the crib, the new baby carriage, blankets and toys, some china cups, a cherished legacy from Lana's grandmother. These accumulated possessions brought Lana and Doud $43 at a used-furniture store. With that, they bought some food and a shovel.
When they re-entered the house trailer and were once again confronted by the fact of the dead child, Doud collapsed into a chair, put his head in his hands and sobbed. It was Lana - always brighter and stronger than Harry Joe - who continued with their departure plans. She and Wendy packed their clothes and gathered up their other meagre belongings.
Although this was July 8, they still had not paid the month's rent. So they waited until dark, then stealthily loaded the car. On the final trip, Lana carried the small, sheet-wrapped bundle and placed it on the floor behind the back seat.
Three hours later, outside Clinton, Lana directed Doud off the main highway onto a series of unmarked back roads, and with one final turn into a long driveway they arrived at the ruins of the old house, faintly visible in the moonlight. When the car stopped, Wendy seemed to be sound asleep, along with the baby.
Lana grabbed a flashlight, Doud picked up the shovel. After closing the car doors as quietly as possible, they approached the burned-out foundation.
Wind, rain and time had almost finished erasing the house, and now the bare outline of the foundation was all that remained. Lana walked over to a corner where a section of wall nearly two feet tall remained and indicated they should dig there.
Physical labor had never been much to Doud's liking. The ground was caked and dry from lack of rain, and he had a hard time breaking the surface. He made slow progress, digging, pushing and pounding at the earth, and stopping often to rest before resuming the distasteful job. It took him three hours to excavate a trench about four feet long, less than two feet wide, and about 15 inches deep.
"I think that will do," Lana said softly. She walked to the car and opened the back of the station wagon quietly.
Cradling the child tenderly in her arms, she approached the open grave. Robbie was feather-light in her arms. With tears forming in her eyes, she set the bundle down gently. She remained there on her knees for a long moment and then got shakily to her feet.
"You can start covering it up now," she called to Doud, who was resting on the ground. He halfheartedly began shovelling the dirt back into the grave. Between his rest periods and his fits of temperament, the job progressed very slowly. After almost an hour, Lana intervened, took the shovel herself, and vowed that at first chance, she was going to dump this infantile 36- year-old parasite and start a new life.
"Let's drag that old burned-out. refrigerator over here," Lana said. "It will keep stray dogs from digging here."
"You're going to break my back for sure," Doud grumbled. But with Lana holding one end, the hollow appliance was not very heavy. They added rocks and some junk that they found nearby. Then they went back to the car, leaving behind the remains of six-year-old Robbie Wayne.
Glamorous Las Vegas
Doud suggested, impulsively, that they move to a new place, get a new start. Somewhere they had never been - like Las Vegas.
Lana grabbed hold of the idea instantly. Las Vegas! The night-life capital of the country! If she could just get there, she felt sure she could find a job as a dancer. Once established, she could then carry out her plans to ditch Doud.
"Maybe that's not such a bad idea," Lana conceded. "How will we get there?"
"Let's go to Fort Worth and sell the car and all take a bus to Las Vegas," Doud suggested.
Lana thought this was smart, too - getting rid of the car. They drove to Fort Worth, where they sold the rest of their possessions for $55, retaining only their clothes and the baby's bottles and basket. The car brought them $250.
They purchased bus tickets, and for two nights and two days they traveled, back into Oklahoma, to Arizona, then to Barstow, Calif., and up Highway 15 to Las Vegas.
In Las Vegas they took a modest hotel room, registering as Mr. and Mrs. Paul Black of Dallas. Lana set out to look for a job and was hired as a topless dancer at a beer joint called the Blue Peacock. It was a sleazy club catering to Las Vegas's perennial losers, but the pay was double what she had made in Pecan Grove.
After working for three or four days, Lana suggested they move to a motel near her job. So they checked out of the hotel and into the motel this time using the names, Mr. and Mrs. Harry Joe Doud and family. By this time Doud had begun to have fits of jealousy over the idea of Lana dancing topless for other men.
"It's my job," Lana soothed him, "and the money is good. Tell you what, Harry Joe," she continued, "I'll call you up at five o'clock every day during my supper break. How would you like that?"
Although Lana had thought of the telephone calls on the spur of the moment, they now became a part of her plan. I f she could calm Harry Joe's suspicions for a few days, she could be free of him.
One afternoon a few days later, Lana left the motel and, instead of reporting to the Blue Peacock, took a bus to the opposite end of town and got a job at Aces and Deuces, another beer joint.
She rented a room nearby, registering under her mother's maiden name, Alice Tilman, and went to work immediately. She was so caught up in her new plans that she forgot all about the telephone call to Harry Joe. He and Wendy waited by the phone until after ten. Finally, Harry Joe settled Wendy in the motel room with the baby.
"I want you to stay here," he instructed, "while I go down to the Blue Peacock to find Lana."
He entered the beer joint ready to do battle with some new admirer of Lana's. But she wasn't there. "She didn't come in today, buddy," the manager explained, "and I don't know where she is. I'd like to find her myself - she walked off with one of my costumes."
Harry Joe half-stumbled, half-shuffled his way back to the motel.
Roads of Destiny
Harry Joe didn't try to find Lana. Nor did it occur to him to look for work. With a competent baby-sitter like Wendy, Doud might easily have found a job to support them. Instead, he sobbed into his pillow like a little boy who has lost a beloved pet.
At Wendy's insistence, they took stock of their situation. They had less than $100 left, and they owed three days' rent on the room at $25 a day.
"Why don't we go back to Pecan Grove, to Grandmother?" Wendy suggested. "She's always glad to see us."
Harry Joe was quick to agree. All his life his mother and older sister had righted his wrongs and fixed the things he had broken. After selling a few more possessions and paying the motel bill, he and Wendy Jo set out hitchhiking with $36 in their pockets.
Lady Luck seemed to be with the Douds that afternoon. The first few drivers hurried on their way, unsure what to think about these hitchhikers. Some saw a giant of a man carrying a bundle - the baby - which might have been at the very least a rifle. At his side they perceived a wiry young accomplice. The feelings of many passing motorists could be summed up by the comments of Everett Billingsley of Flagstaff, Arizona, who said, "I wouldn't pick up the likes of them if I had the highway patrol to guard me!"
But along came Roger and Pamela Fielding of Los Angeles, pockets bulging with winnings from the gaming tables, and in a magnanimous mood. They saw a tired man, a little girl and a baby, and stopped to give them a lift. With them the Douds got a ride to Barstow, where they could head east on Highway 40. They also accepted a meal of hamburgers, French fries and milkshakes, and milk for the baby, plus $20 in cash when they left the car.
They reached Pecan Grove at noon on July 25. It had been 16 days since they buried Robbie Wayne, and they were physically and emotionally exhausted. Doud telephoned his mother, but there was no answer. He called his sister, Jo Wilson, who was delighted to hear from him and said she would be right down to pick them up.
Lana stayed in Las Vegas only five days longer. At first it looked as though she had everything going for her: a well-paying job she liked, and freedom from family responsibility and Harry Joe Doud. But, as it developed, she was not yet to be free of him.
She had been working at Aces and Deuces only three or four days when the familiar morning queasiness and extreme fatigue began to overwhelm her. At first she refused to accept the symptoms and forced herself to continue working, dragging her reluctant body to the dance platform. She stuck it out until July 27 and then asked for her paycheck.
It was clear now and she had to face it: she was again pregnant by Harry Joe Doud. In a cruel twist of fate, she had conceived a fourth child during the turmoil of Robbie's last days. She decided to call her cousin Marilee Tilman, near Galveston.
Marilee told Lana to come ahead.
The next day Lana boarded a bus and spent three days and nights traveling. She arrived on July 31.
Both Doud and Lana were now back in Texas, the burial place of their terrible secret. They had unwittingly made the law enforcer's job much easier.
Arrest
For several days Jo Wilson and her mother, Marlene Doud Thornpson, fussed over Harry Joe, Wendy and the baby. At first, no one mentioned Robbie Wayne. No one even remembered that there had been another child in the family.
Then one night the three adults bought four six-packs of beer and began playing pinochle, a favourite weekend pastime. At 2 a.m., after losing three games in a row, Harry Joe suddenly laid down his cards and began sobbing loudly. The whole story of Robbie Wayne's death and burial came tumbling out.
Card game and beer forgotten, Jo and Marlene stared at Harry Joe, not wanting to believe what he was saying. Then they jumped to his defence.
"What if Lana tells the police and lays the blame on you?" Mrs. Thompson asked. "I don't think she would do that," Harry Joe answered. "We promised it would be a secret." "Boy, are you naive!’ Jo shouted.
"If Lana thinks it would be to her advantage, you can bet she'll call the police!" The next day, August I, local police were startled to receive a call from an unidentified woman who told them that she knew of a dead child who had been buried near Clinton. When they asked for more information, she hung up.
Four days later the police got a second call. A woman identifying herself as "Lana Doud" told them that the body of a child was buried at the site of a burned-out farmhouse near Clinton. The identity of the caller may never be known. Lana Wood later claimed she had called, but she rarely used the surname "Doud." It is more reasonable to imagine that the caller was Jo Wilson, trying to protect her brother by turning the spotlight on Lana.
The county police set to work tracing the former tenants of burned-out farmhouses near Clinton. There were three such sites, and before long the files turned up the name Alice Tilman Waggoner and the fact that she had a daughter named Lana.
A team of Texas state police was dispatched immediately to the site of Lana Wood's former home. The old refrigerator and other junk piled on the grave made the site obvious. On August 5 they found the badly decomposed remains of a small boy, dressed in a red-and-white T-shirt, blue shorts, and a leather belt with a silver buckle.
Both Lana and Doud were soon in custody. In jail, Doud rambled on and on, talking freely about the case, but blaming it all on Lana. Lana, in turn, claimed that she had been a "helpless pawn" of Harry Joe Doud and that she feared to take the boy and leave lest Doud kill the baby. Both were extradited to Oklahoma, the scene of the crime, held in $100,000 bail and charged with second-degree murder, which carries with it a sentence ranging from ten years to life in prison.
Wendy Jo Doud became a material witness in the case, subsequently revealing details of the tortures and abuses inflicted on the boy, which otherwise might never have been enumerated.
Unshakable Witness
Lana’s trial opened on January 8, 1979. She wore a pink two-piece maternity dress and a white sweater, her hair curled becomingly around her face. It appeared almost absurd that this soft-spoken woman could be guilty of murder.
But Wendy Jo Doud, now 11, the state's first witness, was formidable on the stand. She came bounding into the courtroom with her customary vitality, bringing smiles to the faces of the spectators.
Then for the next two hours she recounted Robbie Wayne's last months, her lilting, girlish voice belying the grisly nature of her testimony. To each question of "Why?" Wendy Jo would answer, "Because he couldn't say his letters and numbers."
She was Daddy's girl through and through. She emphatically implicated Lana in all of the active abuse, insisting that her father had played a minor role. Harry Joe Doud - slowwitted, lazy, cruel and inept - was a hero to his little girl and the beneficiary of her undying devotion.
At the district attorney's request, Wendy walked to a portable blackboard and unhesitatingly drew a picture of the grave site. She sketched an outline of the burned out foundation and put an "X" on the location of the grave. This was a remarkable feat, considering that it was dark when her father and Lana buried the child, and Wendy had even pretended to be asleep throughout the entire effort.
Then it was time for the defence attorney's cross-examination. His plan of attack was to point out discrepancies in her story, and to insist that she separate Lana's acts of abuse from those committed by Doud.
"Who turned on the clothes dryer with the boy inside?" he asked. "It was Harry Joe Doud, wasn't it?" "No, it wasn't," the girl replied stubbornly.
"The fact is," the attorney said, "that you didn't see who turned on the dryer. Isn't that right?" “I think it was Lana," Wendy replied.
"You think it was Lana?" the man roared. "This is a court of law and you are a witness under oath. Tell us what you know, not what you think!"
Many little girls would have dissolved in a puddle of tears at such harsh questioning. But not Wendy Jo Doud. "Don't yell at me!" she fired right back as the spectators murmured sympathetically.
The defence lawyer backed off self-consciously. "Can you remember," he asked, "when Lana asked Harry Joe to quit punishing Robbie so hard? Weren't there times when Lana asked your father to quit picking on Robbie?"
“I can't remember any," the girl replied. "When Robbie broke out of the closet, it was Lana who suggested putting in more nails!"
The girl also insisted that Lana forbade her to give Robbie food, and that Lana helped pull the child's teeth.
The first witness the following day was Dr. Dan Drummond, the Texas medical examiner who had done the autopsy on the body of Robbie Wayne.
"Would you tell the court what your findings were regarding the cause of death?" the D.A. asked.
"Our tests tell us that the boy's death was consistent with death by starvation," he said. "Even a small six-year-old boy should weigh 50 pounds. We determined that this child at death weighed only about 30 pounds."
On cross-examination, the defence lawyer asked a potentially damaging question. "Harry Joe Doud threw the boy to the floor and he struck his head on a chair as he went down. Isn't it just possible that the blow to the head was the real cause of death?"
"No, sir," Dr. Drummond replied. "If that had happened, we would have found a fractured skull or some other signs of trauma. We tested the body extensively and found it to be free of trauma and disease. We can say with a good deal of certainty that his death was consistent with death by starvation."
The D.A. looked grim as he summed up the case for the prosecution. "The question," he said, "is not what happened to the boy - we already know that to a surprising degree. The question is not which of the adults was more abusive. Harry Joe Doud is a co-defendant and will have a trial at a later date. The law says that a person is guilty of second degree murder and child abuse if he or she either committed the abuse or permuted it. I don't think there is any question but that Lana Wood - the boy's own mother - did both: committed abuse and permitted it!
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to question the defendant's argument that she was a prisoner of Harry Joe Doud and that she was unable to protect the child. Just remember that Lana Wood was not tied to a chair or locked in a closet. Lana Wood, by her own testimony, went out to work-out in the world where there are telephones and all manner of help. She could have taken the boy - and also the baby - away while Harry Joe Doud was asleep. She could have called a social worker. She could have asked the landlord to call the police."
The jury deliberated for five hours, then judged Lana guilty as charged. The jury was also to recommend her sentence-and here they stunned the prosecution. Their recommendation was a sentence of 12 years in prison - less than Lana's attorney had been willing to plea bargain for.
Harry Joe Doud was not so fortunate. Again the state's first witness was Wendy Jo, but when she walked in she was scarcely recognisable as the ebullient chatterbox who had testified so forthrightly at Lana Wood's trial. She was pale, nervous and uncharacteristically subdued. The little girl could talk about Lana and about Robbie, but with any mention of her father her face contorted and she began to squirm in the witness chair.
The D.A. read whole passages of her testimony at Lana's trial. Wendy would look toward her father and then look quickly away and murmur, "I don't know" or "I don't remember." Much of the time she looked at the floor and did not answer at all. She fidgeted, she wrung her hands, she wept openly. When the little girl finally was excused for the day, spectators and jurors alike felt as if they had been through the ordeal with her.
The next morning Doud changed his plea to guilty, because, his attorneys said, he could not stand to see his daughter put through such torture. The district attorney agreed with this theory only in part. "There may have been other reasons, too," he explained. "After Wendy Io refused to answer my questions yesterday, I got permission to play a videotape of Doud's confession given during a preliminary hearing. I was planning to play it in court today.
Six weeks later, the judge handed down the sentence: life in prison.
The Silent Epidemic
In October 1979, an infant girl, suffering from two broken legs, a broken arm, and assorted lacerations and bruises, was taken to a Texas hospital. The doctors who treated her theorised that her injuries were the result of having been flung repeatedly against a wall.
This would have been just an ordinary case of child abuse, except for the identity of the infant. The little victim was Shirley Delores Wood, the baby born to Lana Wood in prison. Her mother and sisters had been sharing in the baby's care.
Those who study child abuse were not surprised at this turn of events since Lana herself came from an abusive home. Her hard-working, hard-drinking father used to take out his frustrations by beating his wife and three daughters. Her mother also lost her temper frequently, slapping whichever girl was closest. Child abuse is a lifestyle that is often handed down from one generation to the next.
No charges were filed in this case, as it was impossible to ascertain who had committed the abuse. After a hearing, the best the court could do was to place the child in a foster home.
The cruel facts are that Wendy Jo Doud, Eric Bolton, Harry Joe Doud, lr., and Shirley Delores Wood all live in a legal limbo from which the laws designed to protect children have thus far been unable to extricate them.
The main reason for this is that parental rights usually prevail over children's rights when put to a test. Even convicted child killers like Lana Wood and Harry Joe Doud do not automatically lose their parental rights over their children.
In order for these children to be placed in permanent, adoptive homes, the parental rights of Harry Joe Doud and Lana Wood would have to be terminated. The court can do this in cases in which a child is proved to be neglected or abandoned. However, since they are in prison, Doud and Lana fall into the legal category of "involuntary abandonment," for which the termination rules are more stringent.
Lana and Doud could, of course, voluntarily relinquish their parental rights, thus unselfishly paving the way for the children to receive new parents and permanent homes. So far they have shown no inclination to do this. Foster care - with all of its drawbacks - seems to be the only acceptable choice, at least for the short term. But, as the case of Shirley Delores demonstrates, laws cannot be expected to prevent child abuse. Laws can only provide punishment after the fact.
The wide range of estimated child-abuse deaths - from 2000 to 6000 annually - reflects the problems involved in the gathering of statistics but, in the opinion of Dr. John Stuernky, associate professor of paediatrics at the University of Oklahoma, child abuse may be the leading cause of death in children 6 months to 12 months old, and one of the leading causes in those one month to two years old.
Practically all offenders deny that they are abusive. Thus, many child-abuse incidents are disguised as accidents. It is not surprising then that it was the physicians, called upon to minister to little children with battered skulls, broken bones, and unexplained lacerations and bruises, who first began to call child abuse "the silent epidemic," and to term it a national disgrace.
Who are the child abusers among us?
They come from all walks of life and from all parts of the country. They could be your neighbours, relatives, friends or co-workers.
Most are immature parents who are unable to cope with the ordinary stresses and strains that accompany parenthood. The overturned glass of milk, the wet pants, the crying in the middle of the night can be trying to even the most patient and loving of parents. But in the inadequate and immature, such simple problems trigger an uncontrollable outburst of violence.
The child even bears the brunt of frustrations unrelated to him. Some parents, confronted by marital problems, job frustrations or financial worries, look around for the smallest, most defenceless object upon which to vent their wrath - and the child is a likely target.
Contrary to common opinion, there rarely is only one parent in a family unit involved in child abuse. Typically, as in Robbie's case, one parent is the active abuser and the other is the passive abuser, permitting the abuse to continue.
Another misapprehension is that most child abuse is caused by stepparents or outsiders. A study of abusers revealed that the child's natural parents were involved in a full 80 percent of the cases.
What can be done to alleviate this scourge of childhood?
Many social scientists, juvenile workers, teachers and others put their hopes on public awareness and action. "It has been demonstrated in the past," a juvenile judge comments, "that an aroused public, focusing its attention on a problem, can accomplish much."
Professionals agree and recognise that the public is well-meaning, but often misguided, in thinking that child rearing is none of its business. People of good will like to think that most babies are being reared with an abundance of tender, loving care. No one likes to think of the thousands who live - and sometimes die - in terror. Indeed, many prefer not to be confronted with the horror story of child abuse.
Some judges and juvenile workers feel that child abuse could be greatly alleviated if the present child protection laws were brought to public attention. All 50 states now have reporting laws. In 18 states, anyone knowing of or suspecting child abuse is required by law to report it. In other states, certain professionals - physicians, nurses, teachers, social workers - are required to report. In many of these states there is also a provision that permits neighbours, passers-by or other interested persons to report abuse. All states provide anonymity and immunity from prosecution to anyone willing to report abuse, or suspected abuse, without malice.
What You Can Do if you find you are losing control of yourself in dealing wIth your child, get help without delay. Help is available, and there is no disgrace associated with it. Many of the volunteers and professionals in organisations designed to help families are parents themselves, and they understand.
National organisations that exist for the purpose of helping parents" and children are: Parents Anonymous, the Child Protection Division of the American Humane Association, the National Centre for Prevention of Child Abuse and Neglect, and the Child Welfare League of America.
Parents Anonymous has chapters in many communities throughout the country. It also has a national hot line which operates around the clock. The number is 800-421-0353. California residents should call Parents Anonymous at 800-352-386. In New York State, 800-462-6406.
Most communities also have local welfare departments, children's protective services, public-health offices, school nurses, school counsellors, youth centres, juvenile bureaus and mental-health clinics, all dedicated to helping families in trouble.
What an abuser must understand IS that the problem does not disappear by itself - it keeps growing worse until that terrible day when the child is brain-damaged, paralysed or dead.
If another adult in your household abuses a child, insist that he or she obtain help - or else take the child and leave. Shelters for battered wives and children are being established in many parts of the country and they, too, have professionals standing ready to help. Without the consent of the passive partner, child abuse cannot continue for long.
Learn to recognise the telltale signs of child abuse:
- Unexplained welts. bruises and lacerations.
- Extreme behaviour - either excessively aggressive or excessively shy.
- Dirty and unkempt appearance or inappropriate dress.
- Aimless wandering or being left alone.
- Isolation of family from neighbours or friends.
- Apparent indifference of parents to child's needs.
