A child dies, but lives for decades in the mind of a once young reporter

Editor's note: Elaine Porterfield was a reporter for The News Tribune from 1986 to 1998.

I feared her slaying would never be solved. I feared if it was, I would be numb, or it would feel anticlimactic.

It was neither.

When the face of the man who police say took the life of Jenni Bastian flashed onto my laptop, the sensation was almost indescribable; frozen, with nothing but the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

Then came a visceral, overwhelming flood of satisfaction.

So much adrenaline was shooting through me that my hands trembled as I called her mother, Pattie, on Friday.

She answered the call with a simple “Hi, Elaine,” and that was all it took to dissolve me.

“Pattie, oh, my God, Pattie,” was all I could choke out.

“I know,” she said simply. “I know.”

I was a young News Tribune reporter, barely out of journalism school and working the night cops beat, when 13-year-old Jenni disappeared the summer of 1986. I thought I was tough and dispassionate when I was assigned to the story.

It turned out otherwise.

Jenni crawled into my being, and she’s stayed with me ever since. I think of her whenever Point Defiance Park is mentioned. I think about her every August, the month her body was discovered. I think of her every time I hear of the assault, disappearance or murder of another young girl, another young woman.

Every. Single. Time.

Jenni informed my parenting. I thought of her the first time my daughter rode her bike out of my sight in a park. I thought of Jenni when my girl turned 13 and when she safely made it through the year to 14.

And it was Jenni I thought of when told my daughter she had to take a personal safety class before she could take a trip to Europe with friends.

For so long, I’ve gazed at her smiling school photo, the one used on the fliers tacked up around Tacoma while police searched for her. It is the photo of a girl with a pixie haircut and an absolute sense of youth and innocence. For so long, I have kept that flier in my desk drawer.

For weeks after her disappearance, I hoped and dreamed the case would turn out to be a kidnapping; of course, it turned out to be murder.

After her body was found at the end of that August so long ago, I could barely pick up the phone to call her parents. I turned craven: Rather than call them directly, I phoned their priest to ask through him if they might consent to an interview. As it turned out, Pattie and her husband Ralph were sitting with him in his office when I called.

Of course, of course, they immediately said. Come to our house. We’d be happy to talk.

Their graciousness extended to my attending Jenni’s funeral, a standing-room-only affair filled with love, loss, even some laughing as people recalled the sprite of girl lost too soon.

The years passed; I wrote stories about the status of the case around the anniversary of her death. I moved on to another newspaper and covered other murders over the years, including those of serial killers.

I covered Gary Ridgway after his arrest as the Green River Killer, and I sat in court as his case unfolded, listened to him read a confession about his murderous deeds. I covered the trial of serial killer Robert Yates and the trial of the Tylenol poisoner Joseph Meling, who killed perfect strangers in a plot to kill his wife.

Whenever someone was arrested for killing a teenage girl, I’d think: Could he have killed Jenni?

I would also constantly think: Why is it always open season on women and girls in this country? Why do these men lie in wait and hunt and sexually assault and murder girls and women so often? But nothing ever haunted me like the death of Jenni.

Joggers discovered her body six weeks after she disappeared. Jenni, 4 feet 10, had been sexually assaulted, strangled and hidden beneath brush near a trail. Her new Schwinn bike was nearby. Investigators said the place where her body was discovered appeared to have been prepared in advance — the killer had planned his hunt.

Over the years, I stayed in contact with Pattie, Ralph and their oldest daughter, Theresa. I gradually lost hope someone would be brought to justice for Jenni’s slaying. The guy who did it is dead, or in jail on another case, I’d glumly tell my husband.

That changed as DNA technology exploded. In 2016, detectives announced DNA tests revealed that Jenni’s killer appeared to be white, with possible blond hair and green or blue eyes. I thought of that news as I looked at the graying blond hair of suspect Robert Washburn, 60.

When Ralph Bastian passed away a few years ago, I grieved his passing, but I also grieved that he died without knowing who was responsible for his daughter’s death.

But soon after, DNA evidence broke the case open, and Pattie says she believes it’s no coincidence — Ralph must have had some spiritual influence on that. Who am I to disagree?

One lesson I take away from Jenni’s death is more earthly: It is a lesson about the implacable, relentless nature of science. It was science that broke this case, and it is science that will break others.

So for those who have preyed — or would prey — on our vulnerable children and on women, I have a message: They are coming for you. It’s just a matter of time.

This story was originally published May 14, 2018 at 5:20 PM with the headline "A child dies, but lives for decades in the mind of a once young reporter."