ML73-3356
- Dean Cade
- 2 days ago
- 4 min read
The deciding factor of writing Summer 1973 was the funeral for the 29th victim of the Houston Mass Murders. On November 12th, 2009, the cold case had grown cold again, and the county was burying the last unidentified remains in a pauper’s field, a cemetery filled with the unknown.
I followed my printed-out directions to the Harris County Cemetery. The grounds were simple and flat, with numbered markers. The media was there, along with some county officials, members of the coroner’s office, and the family of another victim. I briefly spoke with Sharon Derrick, realizing her hope was for someone to come forward with information. The ceremony began, and I stood in the back, listening to the words spoken while the media took pictures graveside.
Prior DNA evidence had reopened the investigation that was winding down after some revelations. Sharon Derrick, a forensic anthropologist, had sorted out past mistakes from 1973 through DNA testing, which involved exhuming bodies and retesting them and brought some closure, perhaps too late, to some of the still-living family members, but it was chaotic and unsettling. I was fascinated by some of the details of the skeletal remains kept in boxes in cold storage for years. DNA testing identified two of the lost boys. Some families even learned that they had buried the wrong boy, opening up old wounds. The final set of remains in storage was unknown. There were theories, but without a relative stepping forward for a DNA test, there was no positive ID. They had found him with a peace symbol shirt, striped swimming trunks, and boots, and they called him the swimming pool boy. He had no name, only a number, ML73-3356.
These stories were hitting the news as I was researching the first draft of my book. After exhausting the two books about the crimes and microfiche at the public library, I explored the locations I could find with all of this miasma swirling in my head. Some of the streets in The Heights felt like I imagined them to be in the 1970s. I discovered the Henley house and a couple of apartment buildings that were still standing and in use. Other areas seemed to be gentrifying, with locations like the candy shop razed for new construction, making my search feel incomplete. One creepy thing was that the house in Pasadena on Lamar Street was still there, with tenants living inside, possibly unaware of its history. (It was torn down in 2023.) The one place I could not quite find was the boat shed. Asking around Montrose, I heard various stories that were mostly anecdotal in nature. One lead suggested I talk to David Babb, the cohost of The Prison Show on KPFT public radio, who led me to Ray Hill.
We met him at the Hollywood Cafe, a Chinese restaurant in Montrose, where he was holding court. Ray was a gay activist with a shady past, a jewelry thief who served time and became an advocate for prisoner rights. He was loud, proud, and connected to the political and media world of Houston. He even crusaded for Jon Buice, who, with a gang of homophobic teens, beat Ray Brussard to death in the neighborhood in 1991—the year before I came out. Basically, he had connections and was curious about why I wanted to write about the true crimes of the 1970s in the Heights. At dinner, we talked briefly, and he invited me to go to the radio station for the show.
KPFT Pacifica Radio has been around for a long time. When I was a teenager, I listened to a punk show, The Funhouse, and I would record cassettes to play back later. Years later, it was cool to see the inside of the radio station. I even sat in the corner of the sound booth during the call-in portion of the show, where family members would leave messages for inmates, and even some inmates called from prison. We talked more after the show, but I think Ray lost interest when he realized I did not have a political agenda with my book idea. Before I left the station, a random guy named Joe handed me a piece of paper with the address of the boat shed on Silver Bell Street.
The area around the boat shed had gentrified, but the place itself felt lost in time. I was able to drive onto the shell and dirt lot. The storage was L-shaped, with corrugated metal doors on each unit. I walked until I found unit number eleven. Standing outside the shed gave me the creeps, as I imagined the bodies once buried under the floor inside. Under the heat of the Texas sun, the images of their removal came back to me in flashes. Being there in person made the true crimes feel real.
About a week later, David Babb reached out to me and invited me to go to the funeral of the unidentified 29th victim. Standing in the back, I was transfixed. There was a computer-generated picture of what the boy would have looked like when he disappeared all those years ago. The description was of a white male between fifteen and twenty years of age with perfect teeth, five feet two to five feet seven in height, and brown hair about seven inches long. The belongings found were corduroy slacks measuring thirty-two by thirty; red, white, and blue striped stretch swim trunks; a beige T-shirt with a peace symbol on the back; a knotted rope bracelet; and a pair of cowboy boots. A sign mentioned the body was found at the boat shed, in the center of the back of the room.
The image of the tiny coffin struck me hard. It was so small. My heart ached in a weird way while my mind raced. What was it like in the Heights in the early 1970s? How could a teenager vanish and no one miss him? What was his story?
The idea brought the story to life in an organic way. I could not write about ML73-3356 out of respect, but I could create fictional characters in a true crime setting. As I stared at his graveside picture, I found my way in, and I set out to write about the summer of 1973.
Dean Cade
