Hilary Thayer Hamann, Anthropology of an American Girl
Submitted by kbrlab.
9 JANUARY 2013 - Last updated at 16:02
RODEZ (LE POINT)-
Clairvaux-d’Aveyron’s fame is in wine, not kidnapping. But recent events may change that.
Marie-Élise Laurin, one month, napped at home with her mother December 4th when someone broke in through the attic. There are conflicting descriptions of the assailant.
The initial report filed by Mrs. Marilyne Laurin described the assailant as ‘tall and strangely proportioned’. She told investigators that, when confronted in her daughter’s bedroom, the figure fled out the window. Her rescue of her daughter was swiftly forgotten in the aftermath. Reports say that several feathers were collected at the scene and sent to Université Pierre et Marie Curie for testing. Scientists and university representatives refused to be interviewed.
Police describe her as ‘adamant’ that she receive protection, but the police had little to provide. Neighbours describe her as increasingly frantic as the suspect eluded police. Michel Leclerc, a local lawyer and close friend of Mrs. Marilyne Laurin’s husband, recounts how she phoned him hourly during the day, convinced the suspect only bided his time.
“She kept saying that ‘they’ wanted Marie-Élise.” He says he became deeply concerned and attempted to warn her husband. “I told her to visit the hospital, but she refused. She seemed convinced some sort of monster was after her daughter.”
Mr. Pascal Laurin could not be contacted but Mrs. Laurin’s close friend, Martine Lacassagne, responded to calls. “We were all worried about her,” she says. “She wasn’t the same. We understood what happened was frightening, but she just fell apart. We tried to be there, but we didn’t know what she’d do. We didn’t know she’d do this.”
Things calmed after the attempted kidnapping. Police leads were cold, and Mrs. Laurin had gone silent by December 25th, the day that she went missing. The security system recorded nothing, and not an item lay out of place. Wherever Marilyne had gone, police determined, she had done so of her own will. Marie-Élise Laurin remained undisturbed in her crib. Trackers eventually found signs of Mrs. Laurin in the hills, but the footsteps were erratic and vanished around several mounds.
This tragedy may have gone unnoticed if not for Marilyne Laurin’s mother, Brigitte Desjardins. In the wake of what she describes as a ‘cursory and weak’ investigation, she started a petition and lobbied local politicians to intervene. “It’s disgusting,” she says. “My daughter vanished in the middle of the night, and they can barely rouse themselves to check the locks.”
Locks have become a fixture of her campaign. While the police have not commented, locals say that the police gave only a cursory look at the house, not even checking many of the locks to see if they were broken. That job, neighbours say, they left to the family.
While her campaign struggles to earn recognition, Mrs. Desjardins says she has no intention of giving up. Whatever happened to her daughter, she says, she will find out.
Any information on Marilyne Laurin’s disappearance and the attempted kidnapping of Marie-Élise Laurin should be forwarded to the Rodez Police Force at 08.99.51.27.38.
The latest article was posted all over the internet within an hour of publication, falling into all the right — or, wrong — circles and passing hands until it was impossible to trace the catalyst. This wasn’t just brazen, it was practically a jaunt through the bloody Yard with pointed ears and baby under each arm. Henrik pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off the inevitable headache as call after call from the council was sent to his voice mail.
Elie Wiesel, The Nazi Doctors and the Nuremberg Code
He had to be quiet — so quiet, each movement measured and quick, careful not to make a sound, careful not to wake a single soul — and pack light. Barely pack at all: a couple shirts, some trousers, his wallet — he couldn’t risk more. Shouldn’t risk more, not when each floorboard was a danger, each slide of a drawer an alarm.
as he stood by the door, hand outstretched and fingers brushing the knob, he paused. The sweater laid in a heap over the chair, large and dusty and his. It wasn’t Henrik’s to take, it wasn’t even his right to wish to — not when he was leaving like this. Shouldn’t want it after all that had been done; and yet…
It sat in his bag, on top his own things, for a very long time after that. But sometimes, late at night, he would pull it out and slip it over his head — bring the fraying cuff to his nose and inhale the scent of his mate.