Post by LadyBlue on Mar 11, 2006 17:03:10 GMT -5
That Sunday night — hours after the 40-year-old mother of two was supposed to meet a study partner at the university — her husband and a neighbor went to the school to look for her and reported her missing.
Campus police immediately began an investigation. Fuentes' co-workers at Cox Radio e-mailed her photo to vendors. Fliers were distributed. Billboards with her picture appeared. Public service announcements were broadcast.
Naomi Fuentes, it seemed, was everywhere.
But when Esperanza Ortiz, a 30-year-old heroin addict with past prostitution convictions, disappeared a few days earlier, no billboards were erected.
"Nobody cared," said Ortiz's husband, Johnny Limon, 34, who last saw her the night before Valentine's Day when she left to buy cigarettes.
Limon, who said it wasn't too unusual for his wife to sometimes stay with family in the area, waited until dawn for her at their home near Cupples Road.
The following morning, he got their two boys ready for school and hoped for the best. But his 12-year-old, he said, "already knew."
The less-dead
In San Antonio last year, on average, about 16 people went missing every day, Police Department spokesman Joe Rios said. And about 16 cases were cleared each day — meaning people were found, alive or dead. That leaves only a small number lost in the wind.
For criminologist Steven Egger, missing people like Ortiz are what he calls the "less-dead" — the poor, the transient, those with dangerous habits or who dwell in society's underbelly.
"They're marginalized. They're considered throwaway people," said Egger, a former homicide detective in Ann Arbor, Mich., and a criminology professor at the University of Houston-Clear Lake.
Ortiz's aunt, who never knew about her niece's past, said that's exactly why the family doesn't want others to know either.
"We don't want people to know she (used heroin) because then they don't care," said the aunt, who didn't want her name published. "Then they think she deserved it and she didn't."
Local police, who handle hundreds of missing persons cases a month, say they did everything they could in Ortiz's case.
"We did the best we could with the information we had," Rios said. "There just wasn't much to go with."
Moreover, Rios said, "there was no evidence of foul play. There was nothing to indicate that she was taken against her own will."
Police immediately entered Ortiz as a "local missing" — a tag that would pop up on the computer screen if an officer came into contact with her and ran her name.
Police typically don't search for missing adults unless investigators suspect foul play or the person suffers from some kind of debilitating handicap, such as Alzheimer's, Rios said.
"People go missing all the time," he said. "People leave all the time."
"An adult can be gone if they want to be gone," Rios added. "And unless there's blood found or any kind of thing out of the ordinary, there's nothing we can do."
But Egger believes society's view of the less-dead naturally filters into law enforcement, and such murders usually have the lowest probability of being solved.
"It typically goes to the bottom of the pack because we don't have any decent witnesses or nobody cares about them," he said.
Searching for Hopie
Ortiz's family did care. Her mother, Betty, wondered whether her daughter was in jail. She wasn't. Limon had more dire thoughts. He went to a field near Callaghan Road where there's "nothing but syringes." But Hopie, as he called her, wasn't there either.
Four days later, Betty called police and reported her daughter missing.
"They didn't want to believe me," she said. "They didn't want to believe that my daughter always comes home."
Family members, who desperately photocopied pictures of a smiling Esperanza and plastered their West Side neighborhood with fliers, contend police didn't do enough right away. Two weeks later, on March 3, her remains were found in a plastic bag in a drainage ditch off a rural South Side road. Her death was ruled a homicide.
The exact cause of death still is undetermined, the Bexar County medical examiner's office said.
Limon said an officer told him he'd spotted Hopie a week after she'd been reported missing. Police would not say whether Ortiz was seen in the two weeks before her death.
So far, there have been no arrests and police would not comment further on the ongoing investigation.
"They don't care," Limon surmised.
For now, police say their priority is finding Hopie's killer and are asking for help in their investigation.
"You can say maybe things should have been handled differently and you can second-guess all you want," said police spokeswoman Sandy Gutierrez, "but the point is, it's a murder victim now."
Kate Kohl, executive director of the Heidi Search Center, said her experience with law enforcement over the past few years is that every missing person's case is handled as extensively as possible with the information available, and no one case is favored over another.
The media, however, might give a particular case more publicity because they find it more interesting, she said. Cases that get a lot of attention also are typically those in which more information is known, she said.
In Ortiz's case, her family contacted the Heidi Search Center to ask for help in making fliers, but because of scheduling conflicts, relatives never met with center representatives. A few days later, Hopie's body was found.
As for Fuentes, she remains missing.
Kohl doesn't think Ortiz's case received less attention, noting that television stations displayed the missing woman's photograph and information. The San Antonio Express-News was not initially notified by police about Hopie's case, and did not report about her initial disappearance.
Kohl and Rios, the police spokesman, said the attention someone's disappearance garners is largely the result of the family's work, or that of a private company or group.
"The main thing you want to do," Kohl said, "is get their face out there."
For Limon, the handmade flier with a photograph of his wife was still in his back pocket although it didn't help save the woman he'd been with, on and off, since high school. Hopie was buried Friday.
Her family says she was a good mom who took her kids to the library for science hour.
Yes, she'd had problems — heroin mainly, Limon said. He noted the two times she'd gone — unsuccessfully — to rehab. But she was a mother, a sister, a wife, a friend.
"And now she's in a box," he said.
tinyurl.com/os4d3
Campus police immediately began an investigation. Fuentes' co-workers at Cox Radio e-mailed her photo to vendors. Fliers were distributed. Billboards with her picture appeared. Public service announcements were broadcast.
Naomi Fuentes, it seemed, was everywhere.
But when Esperanza Ortiz, a 30-year-old heroin addict with past prostitution convictions, disappeared a few days earlier, no billboards were erected.
"Nobody cared," said Ortiz's husband, Johnny Limon, 34, who last saw her the night before Valentine's Day when she left to buy cigarettes.
Limon, who said it wasn't too unusual for his wife to sometimes stay with family in the area, waited until dawn for her at their home near Cupples Road.
The following morning, he got their two boys ready for school and hoped for the best. But his 12-year-old, he said, "already knew."
The less-dead
In San Antonio last year, on average, about 16 people went missing every day, Police Department spokesman Joe Rios said. And about 16 cases were cleared each day — meaning people were found, alive or dead. That leaves only a small number lost in the wind.
For criminologist Steven Egger, missing people like Ortiz are what he calls the "less-dead" — the poor, the transient, those with dangerous habits or who dwell in society's underbelly.
"They're marginalized. They're considered throwaway people," said Egger, a former homicide detective in Ann Arbor, Mich., and a criminology professor at the University of Houston-Clear Lake.
Ortiz's aunt, who never knew about her niece's past, said that's exactly why the family doesn't want others to know either.
"We don't want people to know she (used heroin) because then they don't care," said the aunt, who didn't want her name published. "Then they think she deserved it and she didn't."
Local police, who handle hundreds of missing persons cases a month, say they did everything they could in Ortiz's case.
"We did the best we could with the information we had," Rios said. "There just wasn't much to go with."
Moreover, Rios said, "there was no evidence of foul play. There was nothing to indicate that she was taken against her own will."
Police immediately entered Ortiz as a "local missing" — a tag that would pop up on the computer screen if an officer came into contact with her and ran her name.
Police typically don't search for missing adults unless investigators suspect foul play or the person suffers from some kind of debilitating handicap, such as Alzheimer's, Rios said.
"People go missing all the time," he said. "People leave all the time."
"An adult can be gone if they want to be gone," Rios added. "And unless there's blood found or any kind of thing out of the ordinary, there's nothing we can do."
But Egger believes society's view of the less-dead naturally filters into law enforcement, and such murders usually have the lowest probability of being solved.
"It typically goes to the bottom of the pack because we don't have any decent witnesses or nobody cares about them," he said.
Searching for Hopie
Ortiz's family did care. Her mother, Betty, wondered whether her daughter was in jail. She wasn't. Limon had more dire thoughts. He went to a field near Callaghan Road where there's "nothing but syringes." But Hopie, as he called her, wasn't there either.
Four days later, Betty called police and reported her daughter missing.
"They didn't want to believe me," she said. "They didn't want to believe that my daughter always comes home."
Family members, who desperately photocopied pictures of a smiling Esperanza and plastered their West Side neighborhood with fliers, contend police didn't do enough right away. Two weeks later, on March 3, her remains were found in a plastic bag in a drainage ditch off a rural South Side road. Her death was ruled a homicide.
The exact cause of death still is undetermined, the Bexar County medical examiner's office said.
Limon said an officer told him he'd spotted Hopie a week after she'd been reported missing. Police would not say whether Ortiz was seen in the two weeks before her death.
So far, there have been no arrests and police would not comment further on the ongoing investigation.
"They don't care," Limon surmised.
For now, police say their priority is finding Hopie's killer and are asking for help in their investigation.
"You can say maybe things should have been handled differently and you can second-guess all you want," said police spokeswoman Sandy Gutierrez, "but the point is, it's a murder victim now."
Kate Kohl, executive director of the Heidi Search Center, said her experience with law enforcement over the past few years is that every missing person's case is handled as extensively as possible with the information available, and no one case is favored over another.
The media, however, might give a particular case more publicity because they find it more interesting, she said. Cases that get a lot of attention also are typically those in which more information is known, she said.
In Ortiz's case, her family contacted the Heidi Search Center to ask for help in making fliers, but because of scheduling conflicts, relatives never met with center representatives. A few days later, Hopie's body was found.
As for Fuentes, she remains missing.
Kohl doesn't think Ortiz's case received less attention, noting that television stations displayed the missing woman's photograph and information. The San Antonio Express-News was not initially notified by police about Hopie's case, and did not report about her initial disappearance.
Kohl and Rios, the police spokesman, said the attention someone's disappearance garners is largely the result of the family's work, or that of a private company or group.
"The main thing you want to do," Kohl said, "is get their face out there."
For Limon, the handmade flier with a photograph of his wife was still in his back pocket although it didn't help save the woman he'd been with, on and off, since high school. Hopie was buried Friday.
Her family says she was a good mom who took her kids to the library for science hour.
Yes, she'd had problems — heroin mainly, Limon said. He noted the two times she'd gone — unsuccessfully — to rehab. But she was a mother, a sister, a wife, a friend.
"And now she's in a box," he said.
tinyurl.com/os4d3