I find it a challenge to be shocked by the atrocities committed by the human race. I have covered everything from serial murder to baby rape. The topic never changes – death, death, death – all day, every day. Each crime is disturbing in its own right, but over time, I have developed a certain mentality to be able to continue writing about it. Am I desensitized? Perhaps, to a certain degree; however, every now and then, a case strikes a chord within me that reminds me of the despair I used to feel when I first became a professional crime writer. Such is the case I am about to relate to you.
Whenever I research a case, I try to mentally and physically insert myself into it to acquire as many details as possible. With today's case, I went to York, Pa., to visit the West Philadelphia Street home of 26-year-old Harve Johnson and 19-year-old Neida Baez. Neida's daughter, Darisabel Baez, a wide-eyed and curly haired toddler, also lives inside the home. Johnson is not Darisabel's biological father; however, he has assumed the role inside the household, more by necessity than choice. Darisabel's father lives in New York, and the level of his involvement in her life remains unclear.
Darisabel is not a particularly difficult child by any standard. She enjoys life and likes to play with the family's black Labrador, often sitting on the dog and trying to ride it as if it were a horse. When not playing the role of a cowgirl, Darisabel loves to run and play, and she often seeks the attention of those around her.
The day is Sunday, April 6, 2008. It remains unclear what Darisabel has done, but there is no mistaking the anger being directed at her. The type of anger that is all-consuming and separates us from beasts.
A thud is heard. Not the sound of a foot stomping the ground or a book hitting the floor, but more like the sound of plastic hitting flesh and bone. With each thud comes a high-pitched shriek, and tears begin to flow down Darisabel's rosy cheeks. The fear running through her little brain overwhelms her senses. Her attempts to shield her head with her small hands are futile, and her cries are in vain. With each blow, she slips further away. Blood mixes with her tears, and before long, she drifts into unconsciousness, to a place where the pain cannot reach her, a place where she is safe from those who wish to do her harm.
