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It felt mischievous to be strangers in a raucous tavern far from home in the middle of the night. We reveled in escaping the constricting bonds of our everyday lives — him a lawyer, me a divorced single mother.

Our behavior was an unspoken act of defiance against the taunt of age, and the gloom of funerals that had become a common part of our lives.

Outside the restaurant James kissed me deeply and with a new fervency. We were passionately entangled while patrons passed by, and I whispered that we needed to go somewhere private.

James began walking me to my car, and I assumed I would follow him to the adjacent hotel, or to his house an hour away.

When we got to my car he told me to get in the back seat. I refused, saying that my kids had left a mess in my car. James took my hand and led me across the lot to his immaculately clean Mercedes.

James was right behind, and before I heard the click of the door closing he was kissing me. It was futile to fight the longing we had been feeling for the past hours.

Soon, all thoughts of motherhood and what was proper disappeared. We had been together many times before, but that night we devoured each other. In the days and weeks that followed we frequently reminisced about our romp in the car, and how it brought us back to our adolescence; a time of freedom and endless promise, a time before responsibilities and painful regrets.

Love this Narratively story? Sign up for our Newsletter. Send us a story tip. Follow us. Jay J. Armes is a legendary and controversial Texan investigator with hooks for hands and six decades chasing criminals.

This was his most epic murder case ever. Chiang Mai is a large city in the northwestern part of the country, an energetic mix of markets, shops and packed thoroughfares, a place where people can easily disappear into the anonymity of bustling urbanity.

It was early January , and Weber, at the time 30, had been in the country for about four months. Weber had stayed at hostels, where he slipped the proprietors some cash to not record his real name, and he was now living with his girlfriend, a Thai college student named Tsom, and her little dog Lychee.

She seemed to be waiting for something, and she perked up when she heard a knock at the door. It had taken a bit of convincing for her to warm up to them, especially since one of the men had two shiny silver hooks in place of his hands, but they were friendly and she told them her boyfriend was expected back in a little while.

Weber assessed his visitors. One man, in his late 50s, was shorter than average, with sparkling eyes. He was wearing a somewhat out-of-fashion leisure suit, but Weber could tell his clothes were quite expensive.

At the end of each sleeve was a curved, articulated hook, capable of opening and closing like a pincer. Weber glanced back at his perplexed girlfriend and stepped out into the hallway, lightly closing the door behind him.

The men deliberately crowded his space. Weber looked at the other man. He was taller, in his early 20s, and regarded Weber with a piercing look. The older man reached into his pocket and produced a card with his hook.

It read:. He was a private detective and chief of the firm, he said, then introduced the younger man as his son, Jay III. He had pursued suspects all over the globe, and he looked at Weber with the kind of practiced calm that can only come with such experience.

Armes noticed that the door had been cracked open and Tsom was surreptitiously trying to listen. Armes suggested the Orchid Hotel, where he and his son were saying.

It would probably be best to flee, but at the same time he was desperate to know what their appearance truly meant. A tough-looking Thai man grunted at them from behind the wheel and drove them to the hotel.

There was another knock, and when she answered, the men apologized for the disturbance. Your boyfriend was involved with another girl and she disappeared.

Nobody knows where she is. Like Tsom herself, she was pretty, with an open and trusting expression. The men strongly suggested that Tsom not let Donald back into the apartment when he returned.

In their experience, they said, there was no telling what a cornered man might do. T he car weaved through the sardine-dense street packed with cars, buses, motorcycles, and a seemingly unending amount of tuk-tuks, finally approaching the regal hotel where The Investigators were staying.

Armes opened the door for Weber and followed him inside. They grabbed a table in the restaurant, where they sat surrounded by tourists and locals alike.

Weber sat down and looked at the detectives impassively. They asked if he wanted anything to eat, to which he tentatively said yes.

He was softer-spoken than one might expect a private investigator to be, speaking in measured sentences in a voice on the higher end of the register.

Still, his straightforward demeanor gave off authority. Jay III picked up from there. Weber had left the U. Weber looked at them. Armes had blown his hands off playing with explosives when he was a kid, and his prostheses could apply pressure three times that of the human hand.

He was adept at everything from answering phones to firing weapons with them, and these tools even gave him seemingly superhuman crime-fighting abilities, like punching through windows and reaching into flames unharmed, adding to the lore surrounding him.

Corral, quit his post after a few days because the city was too dangerous. Armes readily plays up his standing in this crime-fighting tradition; his flair for self-promotion earned him minor celebrity as a larger-than-life crime fighter in the s.

He appeared on TV shows and in countless articles, and his autobiography was published by MacMillan in There was a Jay J.

Armes action figure complete with hook hands that could be exchanged for other crime-fighting gadgets. Armes is an irascible hard worker and very confident in his own judgment, but he has also been accused of getting lost in his own celebrity and inflating the magnitude and danger of his work.

He swallowed. Armes and his son nodded. They adjusted themselves in their chairs and settled in for a long conversation.

It was the beginning of a showdown, a desperate yet measured gambit on behalf of a woman who had tragically gone missing more than eight months before, on the other side of the world.

Armes was convinced Weber knew exactly what had happened. Bringing forth the truth was simply a matter of navigating a complex game of cat and mouse in a country where they had no jurisdiction, no authority and few allies.

But that was his forte, and Jay J. Armes was proud to be on the case. A pril 16, Lynda, 24 at the time, was in medical school at Northwestern University in Chicago, and was generally great about staying in touch.

Lynda was from Robinson, Illinois, a town of 7, people about miles south of Chicago, where her father, Sompong, was a radiologist.

Her parents had immigrated to the United States from Thailand when Lynda was a little girl, and Lynda had wanted to be a doctor for as long as anyone could remember.

Somewhat quiet, she came out of her shell in medical school and was known to be a dedicated student who thrived in the company of her intelligent fellow students.

It was completely unlike Lynda to fall off the radar. She was responsible and courteous and simply liked talking with her family. The last time anyone had verifiably seen her was the night before, when a friend recalled her eating a salad in the dorm cafeteria.

The police initially suggested that Lynda had taken off voluntarily, as there was little evidence that she had been abducted from her room in Abbott Hall.

The days turned into weeks and months, and neither the local police nor the FBI were able to unearth any information about her whereabouts.

Some small spots of blood had been found on the floor of her dorm room, but there was no way to determine whether the blood was from something sinister or from the routine nosebleeds Lynda was known to have.

Lynda and Donald had begun dating in when they were both undergrads at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Lynda and Donald continued their relationship long-distance when he went to New York to attend law school at Fordham University.

Things seemed to be going well, and in Weber flew to Thailand with Lynda and her mother to meet their extended family. In , Weber returned to New York to take a job with a prestigious accounting firm.

The rigors of a long-distance relationship were difficult on the couple, and it was sometimes hard to maintain their enthusiasm for each other.

Weber ultimately got fired from his job at the firm and moved back to the Chicago area. In the interim, Lynda had begun a friendship with a classmate that eventually led to mutual feelings of attraction.

But Weber became obsessed with winning Lynda back. The height of his vindictive ignominy came in February when he attempted to extort her family by promising to release the boudoir photos Lynda had given to him years earlier.

He promised he would keep them apprised of anything he heard. On Christmas Day , a little over eight months after Lynda had disappeared, the Singshinsuks got a difficult phone call.

He said he was calling from Thailand, and it was unclear what he was implying — did he find out something in Thailand, or was he saying that he knew where she was in the U.

Frustrated with the lack of progress, the Singshinsuks reached out to The Investigators, the private eyes from El Paso, whom a friend had read about in a magazine.

The Investigators were said to be one of the best firms in the world, and founder and lead detective Jay J. Armes gave a unique promise when taking on any case: He percent guaranteed results.

The mission-style building is surrounded by homes, restaurants and offices, and though it stands out as a bright-white cross between an adobe home and fortress, it is the enormous billboard out front that belies the service inside.

One side has a photo of Jay J. Armes peering through some blinds, a. A waiting room with magazines and couches sits across from the reception area, with the radio playing at a background volume from speakers in the ceiling.

The elevator opens to a room with dark wood paneling and long, low couches. A mannequin of Armes sits on the couch facing the elevator, providing a momentary diversion for intruders if Armes needs it.

Christian tchotchkes adorn his desk and blown-up autopsy photos sit on an easel in front of him. All in all, the effect is like walking onto the set of a spy movie from the s.

On a recent afternoon, Armes, now 88, sat behind his desk speaking on the phone with clients in English and Spanish, clad in a pastel jumpsuit embroidered with the Jay J.

Armes hangs up the phone, expertly positions a pen in an open hook and takes notes on a sheet of paper atop a file folder bulging with documents.

Another call comes in. Armes yells into the phone at a client who is at a bank trying to withdraw the funds to pay off a kidnapping ransom.

He speaks with the person on the other end gruffly, counseling them that everything will be totally fine if they simply do as he says.

Armes estimates that his firm has investigated around 5, cases over the past 60 years. The work can become fairly routine — indeed, the bread and butter for any private eye is keeping tabs on unfaithful spouses, Jay III says — but his work has taken him to far-flung locales and each case gives him the chance to learn something new.

Some countries allow outside investigators to do their work, but in some cases they have to straight-up lie about their reasons for visiting the country.

Armes proudly boasts that his life revolves around being a detective. Jay III, now 53, is the assistant chief investigator and managing partner of the firm and also runs Brandon Enterprises, a company based out of the same office that sells spy gear, body armor and firearms.

The elder Armes says he wanted his son to be an attorney or a doctor, but Jay III had been helping him with investigations since he was in middle school and had his sights set on being a private eye.

By the time he was in college, Jay III was a seasoned private eye who had seen more than his fair share of strange crimes and seedy locations. He was home on a break when his dad was contacted by the Singshinsuks, and he flew with him to meet the beleaguered family.

They had their first big break when they learned that Weber had happened to leave some suitcases behind at the Rasha Guest House.

The innkeeper suggested they try a local market, where they eventually spoke with a young woman selling animals and pet supplies who recognized the American.

She told them that Weber had recently bought a dog and that she had recommended a veterinarian to him and his girlfriend, Tsom.

But he was still skeptical. The trio circled around the question for the entire day, with Armes and his son insisting that they were working strictly in the interest of the wrongful death lawsuit against Northwestern University.

As they were talking, a tape recorder hidden on the table under a folded newspaper loudly clicked as it reached the end of its cassette.

His hand shot out, but Jay III slapped it away. The hint of a gun signaled the end of the conversation. Weber was visibly exhausted and excused himself to go back to his apartment, saying they could continue the conversation tomorrow.

As it happened, Armes had a copy of his autobiography, Jay J. Armes, Investigator , with him. Once Weber was assured that they were who they said they were, they could work on a way forward that would benefit everybody.

With that, the trio disbanded and Weber went upstairs. He was one of eight children five of which survived born to Beatriz and Pedro Armas, a butcher in a local supermarket.

Julian was an athletic, hard-working boy, and it was innocent boyhood mischief that led to his accident.

On May 11, , Julian and a friend were out exploring and came across a box of railroad torpedoes, small signaling devices effectively similar to dynamite.

His friend dared him to pick some up and rub them together. Julian was blown backward by a sudden explosion, and when he came to, he saw raw stumps where his hands had once been.

He was rushed to the hospital, and the remains of his hands were amputated just above the wrist. The doctors told young Julian he would need six months to heal before he could start using the apparatuses that would take the place of his hands.

He said that was unacceptable and that he wanted to start right away. The hooks operate like bike brakes, with tension applied to open and close them via a cable anchored to muscles in his arm.

Getting used to the hooks caused horrendous pain and he sometimes felt dismayed at the extreme clumsiness that came with his new appendages.

Slowly but surely he mastered the use of the hooks and became adept at writing, dialing phones, and doing other day-to-day activities. He lettered in numerous sports in high school, trained in martial arts, and, when he decided to become a private eye, learned to fire many different kinds of guns, which were adapted for use with his hooks.

He opened The Investigators in and quickly worked to make a name for himself as Jay Julian Armes. He legally changed his name in He had two daughters with his first wife and then two sons and a daughter with his second wife, Linda Chew, whom he married in and is still married to.

As the prestige of The Investigators grew, Armes became known for his ostentatious displays of celebrity, cruising around low-key El Paso in his chauffeured, bulletproof limousine and keeping a menagerie of exotic animals on his substantial estate.

Having been born to a poor family and suffering a terrible injury as a child, it made sense that Armes would play up the success of his larger-than-life persona, and others were eager to help craft his legend.

Police had no leads in the case, and an anonymous individual contracted Armes to investigate the bombing. It eventually came to light that a lawyer for Ideal Toy Corp.

Armes action figure, had hired him to solve the real-life bombing in a way that would conveniently coincide with the release of the toy.

Being a private eye has given Armes a flair for deception, a tool he can use to his advantage, since his investigations are not constrained by the boundaries theoretically informing normal police work.

Armes is a religious man who at one point tithed 10 percent of his income to the El Paso church he attended, and he has said that any deception he undertakes has an ethical justification — in this case, bringing to justice a murderer and giving peace to the Singshinsuk family.

But over the years, Armes has blurred the lines between fact and fiction so significantly that, in addition to bending the truth in pursuit of criminals, it has become difficult to distinguish between the myths and realities of his own life.

Armes for real? Once the issue hit the newsstands, Armes arranged an interview with a reporter from the El Paso Post-Herald to refute the charges in the article.

He presented people who were quoted in the article but who said that Cartwright had taken their words out of context or made things up entirely.

Armes practically spits when he talks about the experience, claiming it was a hatchet job orchestrated by the opposition to undermine his run for sheriff.

Despite what Armes says is consistent interest in profiling him, he refuses to have anything to do with Texas Monthly to the present day.

In 25 years, when people are not satisfied with the way things come out, they want their money back, and when you know you have done something, why should you?

Even Cartwright conceded that Armes did have the chops of a real private eye and that his work on cases typically obtained successful results.

Armes and The Investigators soldiered on through the criticism and were able to continue their detective work relatively unabated.

Armes ran as an outsider and promised to whip into shape a department that he characterized as lazy and ineffective. He promised to end police corruption and implement physical fitness requirements for officers.

One campaign flier had a picture of Armes alongside John F. Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr.

Indeed, despite the indelicacies of his tenure, Armes did have a reputation for getting things done. Just look at his hooks.

All the while, of course, Armes was continuing his work as a private eye and actively getting to the bottom of cases all around the world.

Back in the restaurant the next morning, the standoff continued. The book had convinced Weber that they were private eyes, but this also meant they had no legal authority so far from home.

Armes suddenly pounded his hooks on the table. Plus, with his girlfriend having kicked him out, he was now basically homeless.

Thailand may not have had an extradition treaty with the U. On cue, Jay III said he was going to call the local police and got up and walked down a hallway to use the phone in the lobby.

Just remember, you brought this on yourself. Instead, he stood out of view and watched Weber squirm. He returned to the table 10 minutes later and said that the police would be there soon.

Weber looked like he might make a run for it, but instead said he needed to go to the bathroom and quickly walked away.

Jay III stood outside the stall as Weber audibly had diarrhea, a common response to extreme stress. This development was reported to Armes, who was elated — they had literally scared him shitless.

Ultimately, Weber realized that he had to hedge his bets and accept that The Investigators were who they said they were — bounty hunters who only needed the body for lawsuit purposes.

Armes took it a step further: If he told them about Lynda, they would help him renew his passport, advance him some of the expected proceeds from the wrongful death lawsuit, and leave him be in Thailand.

Weber nodded and sighed. The father and son resisted the urge to look at each other in amazement. Armes asked his son to call the police back and tell them they were no longer needed.

W eber said his path to homicidal action began when he strained his back doing manual labor. His mother had given him some painkillers, which he said had knocked him out.

He slept fitfully and thought obsessively about Lynda. When he woke up, he was convinced that he needed to kill her.

He got up and went out to eat with his parents, who were completely unaware what was brewing in his brain. He was dressed in black and carried with him a backpack containing rope, tape and a pistol.

He parked in the quiet lot in front of the dorm, feeling the heft of the gun. Then he put the gun in the bag, walked into the building, and took the elevator nine floors up to her room.

Lynda was clad in pajamas and was surprised to see him. She tentatively invited him inside, thinking it was best to appease him and then get him to leave.

Weber stared at her. She stared back uncomfortably. He pulled out the pistol and shot her six times. The homemade silencer did little to quiet the shots, and the deafening gunfire was followed by an equally thunderous silence.

Weber strained his ears, expecting to hear the arrival of curious dormmates or the wail of a police siren, but an hour went by and nobody seemed to have noticed that anything had happened.

He had fully expected to be arrested after the deed and was considering killing himself as the police closed in, but now he had to rethink his plans.

He carried the hamper down a flight of stairs and got into the elevator with another student, who remarked on the late-night laundry duties.

Weber contemplated killing her too, but the conversation ended without any suspicion toward the bundle, and Weber dragged the hamper out to his car.

From there, Weber drove back to Robinson and buried the hamper under some car parts in a local landfill.

Then he went home, parked the car, and went to sleep. He woke up and had breakfast with his family, and Lynda was reported missing the next day.

Weber said that he got worried that the body could be easily discovered and decided to move it a little while later.

He followed a winding access road as far as he could take it and stopped at a remote clearing. Saying aloud for the first time everything that had transpired that grim April night, Weber looked deflated and sat back in his chair.

He noted the convoluted route to get there and handed the map over to Armes. The meeting drew to a close. The Investigators gave Weber some money for a place to stay and went back to the United States.

S oon after they got back to the United States, The Investigators went to the location deep in the Arizona forest that Weber had indicated and were surprised at how accurate the map was.

However, the task that awaited them revealed the unglamorous side of being a private investigator. As it turned out, a railroad had once gone through the area and digging hole after hole yielded only a large pile of railroad spikes.

It would be very difficult to find a metal belt buckle among all the scraps of iron. Armes said that they would not only buy him a ticket back to the U.

Of course, this was complete nonsense, as they had no intention of letting Weber go free after they found where Lynda was buried.

They would all get what they wanted, and nobody would have to know. O n January 26, , The Investigators drove down a barely navigable path through the Coconino National Forest with Weber in the back seat.

He looked out the window nervously, trying to spot anyone who might be hidden among the trees. It was a surreal experience, like stepping firsthand into an old memory.

Getting to this point had come together exactly as planned. From there, the group took the private jet to Flagstaff and drove to the national forest.

Alongside Armes and Weber were some men documenting the dig with video cameras, ostensibly for insurance purposes. Eventually, the vehicle came to the spot in the clearing where Weber said Lynda was buried.

Weber got out of the car and was mildly relieved to see that the snow was undisturbed, a good indication that nobody was there waiting for them.

Still, Weber was more on edge than ever, and he looked around nervously as he walked them to the grim location. Even to seasoned private eyes who had seen a lot, it was still gasp-inducing to see a foot protruding from the dirt.

They gingerly uncovered more of the body, and saw that she was wearing shorts with a metal belt buckle, just as Weber had said. Even the spaces between the trees seemed to be watching him.

What the fuck was he doing there? The group got back in the car and retraced their route away from the burial site. Weber watched the clearing recede and sat low in his seat.

About yards down the road, the trees around the car came alive. A few agents ran up to the passenger side, pulled one of the cameramen out through the window, and threw him on the ground.

When they realized they had the wrong person, they went back to the car and yanked Weber out, then handcuffed him as he lay facedown in the dirt and snow.

Armes had initially received a noncommittal response about putting some agents on the ground, but the FBI eventually confirmed that they would be watching for his private plane when it arrived in the area.

When word came that Armes had Weber in tow and would actually be bringing him to the burial site, the agents moved out and got into position.

A funeral ceremony was held for Lynda at a Buddhist temple in Chicago in early February , and a scholarship was established in her name at Northwestern University.

I knew that. But he was someone who wanted to set the agenda. Weber shook his head once in response to something Armes said but otherwise stayed quiet.

But Weber also argued that he was coerced into confessing by The Investigators and a group of four hired Thai agents who loomed nearby during their conversation, and that someone in the group had had a gun trained on him for much of the interrogation.

Given the abundance of evidence against Weber — including his confession and hand-drawn map — prosecutors would almost certainly be seeking the death penalty.

The Singshinsuk family ultimately decided to accept a guilty plea in exchange for a life sentence in order to avoid a lengthy trial.

Armes claimed some credit for convincing the family that this way Weber actually had it worse. Weber was ultimately sentenced to 75 years in prison — 70 years for the murder and five more for concealing a homicidal death.

Weber, who declined to share his side of the story for this article, is currently incarcerated at the Graham Correctional Center in south-central Illinois and will be eligible for parole in when he is O n November 18, , a U.

Border Patrol agent named Rogelio Martinez radioed that he was going to investigate an unknown disturbance near a culvert in the rural expanse of Culberson County, miles east of El Paso.

Martinez eventually died of his injuries, and although the FBI conducted dozens of interviews and an extensive investigation, the agency concluded that the cause of death could not be determined.

Some people close to the agent were unimpressed with this conclusion and suspected that foul play was involved, and they hired Armes to see what he could find out about that night.

As he nears his 10th decade of life, Armes often asks his wife why the Lord still has him here. Every time he expects that the resolution of a case will satisfy the itch to investigate, he finds he is still compelled to take on more cases.

I like to solve those cases. Armes has also run for office a few times since his tenure as a city councilor in the early s. His bid for a city council seat in ended with a lawsuit and countersuit between him, the winning candidate and a judge over alleged intimidation at a polling place.

Two years later, a fight broke out among supporters of Armes and another candidate during yet another council bid. After that, Armes put his political ambitions behind him and focused only on the thing he loves most: private investigating.

The elder Armes is at the same time boastful and modest when reflecting on the Weber caper. But there was satisfaction in providing the forlorn family with a definitive answer — and an affirmation of the legend he has built for himself and The Investigators.

After more than six decades in the business, Armes maintains a single-minded dedication to his work.

The more I draw on myself, the more I find I have left. O n October 3, , a year-old man went to sleep on a green tarp, under plaid and camouflage blankets, in downtown Eugene, Oregon.

A bus camera captured his prostrate form next to a wall on Pearl Street at p. Within minutes, their paths connected, calamitously.

By the time police arrived, five minutes after a p. Strewn about were his tooth, a blood-soaked ushanka fur hat with ear flaps, a Swiss Army knife, black boots, a watch, Yogi tea packets, matches and a tobacco pouch.

It was a tree-shrouded location on a dark night with no witnesses. Two miles across town, at p. She reached for her notepad. At the crime scene, Sergeant Tim Haywood paused while processing the evidence.

The tragic tale demonstrates how our society often fails the most vulnerable among us, be they homeless, mentally ill, or neglected and abused young people.

It illuminates tough questions about the limits of justice, redemption and forgiveness. The pair arrived on the scene at p.

Video at p. The attack occurred seconds later. He was hit in the head with the rock nine or 10 times, the medical examiner testified. He said he might have hurt someone really bad or might have killed them.

He seemed like he was going to cry. Eugene police discovered that the teenagers had passed near the downtown bus terminal, and they worked with security to collect video of them.

During the week after the murder and before their arrest, the star-crossed lovers celebrated their first anniversary in the apartment where they shared a bedroom.

A life lived decades ago in half a dozen states and reviewed through the lens of grief can be hard to fathom. But those who knew Ovid Neal recall a man full of verve and adventure.

None foresaw the horrors to come. Named after a Roman poet, Ovid — whom virtually everyone, including Detective Curry, seems to have called by his first name — was born in Inglewood, California, on March 22, His father, Ovid Neal Jr.

He fearlessly fished a Texas pond, his friend Javed Akhund recalls, even after venomous water moccasin snakes surfaced.

An old photo shows him tanned and in shape, with a small moustache and full head of curly brown hair. Albeit a bit more ridiculous.

Senn and Ovid used to laugh until their sides hurt. It was literally the theater of the absurd. I think he was partly joking, but … that was when I started feeling this need to protect him.

The family was financially well-off, but they struggled in other ways. The s and early s was a quicksilver period for them. Roth recalls that they moved to New York as a family in , then their dad moved back to Texas and the kids stayed with their mom.

Then all three kids moved to Texas, then returned to New York. Eventually, the two boys returned to Texas around or Ovid overdosed on six horse tranquilizer pills in Dallas at around age 13 or As things turned out, Ovid even counseled his mother.

Ruth Gordon recalls that it was Ovid who helped her stop drinking for good. Ovid spoke to her for a long time, and they prayed together.

Sober and sharp, Ovid turned heads when he arrived at Hampshire College, a private liberal arts college in Massachusetts, in in a shiny red Volkswagen Beetle.

His desk was neat. He had these little rituals, and he loved coffee. I had this desire to feel anchored, like, I need an Ovid fix. Ovid went to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and Bible studies and was a triathlete and basketball player.

Ovid and he discussed the euphoria that comes from exercise. Much less is known about Jessica Simmons, for whom Oregon officials declined to release records.

Born in Las Vegas in , Kirkpatrick was exposed to methamphetamine in utero but born healthy. He grew up amidst drugs, gangs and brutal violence in Porterville, California, and Anchorage, Alaska.

Kirkpatrick had people who loved and cared for him, court testimony reveals, but his parents struggled with addictions and domestic violence. A summary of his childhood written by Judge Suzanne Chanti in her Opinion and Order in the case — a page document recently unsealed by The Oregonian — includes information from child protective services CPS records from California and Oregon.

In , his father was sentenced to a year in jail, where his son visited him. Soon after, the father moved to Oregon.

By , Judge Chanti writes, after foreclosure and eviction, Jonny, his mother and siblings continued to live in a house with no electricity.

Jonathan Kirkpatrick and three sisters were placed in foster care. Social services called their father, Raymond Kirkpatrick, in Eugene.

Two days after his 14th birthday, Jonny and his three sisters moved in with his father, who shared a two-bedroom apartment with two other people.

At one point, Jonny ended up in a runaway shelter, effectively homeless on the streets of Eugene at the same time as Ovid Neal. At some point, the teen moved back in with his father.

During one argument he stabbed himself in front of [Simmons]. So why did I opt to do this? Maybe because no one had ever asked before. Maybe to look at what six decades of use and abuse looks like in my case.

Definitely to join in on this great, joyous fleshy statement about being alive. Women were invited to bring a prop to pose with, and each was given the option of having her face obscured.

With the launch of the exhibition, we will explore our diversity, share ideas about identity and sense of ageing self, and how and why we now value our bodies.

Jacqueline Maley is a senior journalist, columnist and former Canberra press gallery sketch writer for The Sydney Morning Herald.

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