Bob was a handsome young man, as good-looking as movie stars Guy Madison or Gene Barry, whom he closely resembled. His hair was almost black and naturally wavy, and he combed it back from his forehead. He wasn’t a big man, no more than five feet eight inches or so, but he was muscular and tan.
The young couple were married on Halloween, 1948, and Joan’s dreams of being a math teacher evaporated. She became pregnant almost immediately and gave birth to their first daughter, Pamela, in the hot summer of 1949. Her second baby came less than two years later: Debora (who was first called Deborah, then Debra, Debi, and Deb before she finally settled on a spelling that suited her) was born on February 28, 1951.
By all accounts, the Joneses’ marriage was happy enough, despite their youth. Had Joan worked, she would probably have earned more than Bob did in the early years. But spouses didn’t switch roles in the fifties, so Joan stayed home and kept house. The marriage lasted; they were still together as their golden anniversary approached.
Both Pamela and Debora were cute little girls. And both of them were exceptionally bright, but it was Debora who showed true genius. Her uncle Gordon Purdy, who lived in Minnesota, remembered that she taught herself to read at two and a half by poring over the newspaper. He was astounded to get a letter written by his toddler niece.
Some who knew her said that Joan resented giving up her education to marry Bob, and that she sometimes took her frustrations out on her daughters with verbal abuse. Perhaps. Maybe she only wanted them to succeed beyond anything she had ever accomplished. If she seemed resigned to her role as a mother and housewife, she nevertheless wanted her girls to go to college and have professions. When Joan found fault with either girl, it was usually because she had failed to study hard enough. Where Bob was easygoing, Joan could be almost obsessed with the idea that her daughters had to succeed. She would brook no criticism of them from anyone outside the family.
“Between my parents,” Debora would say cautiously later on, “I think I would say my mother was the strongest—the one who made the decisions.”
Joan was the serious parent, and Bob was fun—the parent who made jokes and played games with the girls. Joan demanded excellence and high grades, although the girls were both good students. Debora was, in truth, a lazy student, but it didn’t matter; she was so smart she didn’t have to exert herself, not even to make straight A’s. If she heard it once, she heard it a thousand times: she was a genius.
Forever after, Debora would define herself in terms of her scholastic accomplishments and her intelligence. She would also judge others, perhaps unconsciously, by how smart they were and how well they did in their careers. Everything came so easily to her that she had little comprehension of her peers’ problems in grasping reading and math. She was also agile and athletic, and a gifted musician.
Her father drove a Butternut Bread bakery truck and gradually moved up in the company. “We didn’t have a lot of money,” Debora recalled, “but we always had everything we needed.”
Later, when asked about her childhood, Debora could not remember anything unusual, anything negative. It was almost as if her memory was blank. She described an idyllic existence, with no family dissonance. But, in fact, there was at least one unpleasant incident. Debora was very angry with her father when he came home drunk from a bowling tournament. It was late, but she was still up and she startled Bob as he was counting several hundred dollars he had won in the tournament. Furious, Debora bawled him out. Later, when she found out that he had always meant the money for her college fund, she was ashamed about what she said to him that night. She did not mention that in her recall of her young years, nor did she speak of the fact that she wet her bed until she was twelve.
Debora and Pam shared a room, and they got along well—as sisters do, with the normal squabbles. If Pam resented Debora’s transcendent intellect, her sister wouldn’t remember it. Debora took piano and violin lessons and excelled at both, continuing the piano lessons well into her college years.
Pam was perhaps prettier than her younger sister, her features softer and more feminine than Debora’s. Pam’s hair was almost as dark as her father’s, and she was small-boned. Debora was more solid, but “square” rather than chubby; she was growing up to be a cute girl rather than a pretty one, given her round face and the slight bump on her nose. Her forehead protruded above her eyebrows, a feature that would become more pronounced as she grew older and that gave her a slightly masculine look. Moreover, she was something of a chameleon; all her life, her appearance and weight seemed to change and blur continually, so that even acquaintances sometimes failed to recognize her. One thing was constant, however: Debora’s hair was wonderfully thick and wavy, a gingery-auburn color. She wore it long and hanging down her back, sometimes naturally wavy and sometimes absolutely straight.
The Joneses moved to Metamora, Illinois, a hamlet even smaller than Havana, when Pam was in her last year in high school. Debora spent her freshman and sophomore years in Metamora’s small high school, where her academic excellence shone even brighter. But the family stayed in Metamora for only two years. Bob was moving up in the parent company, Roman Meal, and eventually stopped driving a bread route and became a district manager. The family moved to a house at 3122 North Sheridan Road in Peoria when Debora was about to begin her junior year. For most teenagers, that would have been an unfortunate time to move, and going from a high school in a little town of a few thousand to one in a city with almost 200,000 people would be terrifying. Not for Debora.
Asked if she had ever felt frightened inside even though she was capable of keeping up a fearless façade, Debora shook her head firmly. “I always felt confident,” she remembered. “I always felt I could accomplish anything I set out to do. I was never scared—not until later… .”
“Debi” Jones rapidly became a popular member of the class of 1969 at Peoria High School. Even then, she had developed the wonderful sense of humor that drew people to her. Extraordinarily witty, she could turn anything into a joke—to the delight of her fellow students, and occasionally to the annoyance of her teachers.
The late sixties were turbulent years for teenagers, but Debora never wandered from the path she had set for herself—or, perhaps, that her mother had set for her. Harry Whitaker, who was the principal of Peoria High in the sixties, would remember her twenty-five years later as an outstanding student. “She seemed to follow all the rules. She didn’t take drugs and she didn’t drink. She was rather an aggressive girl,” he commented. “You could tell she was going to be successful.”
Debora had entered Peoria High in the 1967-68 year, and 1968 was the year of the Illinois Sesquicentennial, celebrating the 150th anniversary of the state’s admission to the Union in 1818. “I remember we read Spoon River Anthology in English in my junior year,” she said later. “It was part of Sesquicentennial.” Although her intelligence was turned more toward science and math, Debora enjoyed reading Masters’s work, and tended to choose epic books with historical links after that. She would always be a prodigious reader, able to lose herself in a novel so completely that the rest of the world faded away.
Debora was a cheerleader for Peoria High, served on the Student Council, and was a National Merit Scholar. The list of accomplishments after her name in the Peoria High yearbook, The Crest, was as lengthy as those found under top students’ pictures in yearbooks all over America. She sang in the Concert Choir;, she was a Music Accompanist, a member of the French Club, Music Workshops, Senior Services, and the Crest business staff. She was a superlative athlete as well, so much so that her steady boyfriend, Greg Short—who was on the varsity football and wrestling squads—wrote in her yearbook, “You know, it’s really terrible going with someone who is by far more athletic than I…. But, you know, I think I like you more because I have to compete with you. It isn’t fair, you being so darned talented….”
Short, who went on to become a lieutenant in the Peoria Police Department, dated Debora for two years. They attende
d the proms together, posed for silly pictures that appeared in the yearbook, and were expected to stay together after high school. It would be fair to say that Greg Short was totally in love with Debora. He declared his devotion over and over in his yearbook “love letter.”
Debora was the covaledictorian of Peoria High School in 1969. She and the other valedictorian, Scott Russell—now assistant superintendent of the Peoria School District—had perfect grade-point averages. Debora had never had less than an A in her life. She had scored close to a perfect 800 on both sections of the Scholastic Aptitude Test. She was headed for the University of Illinois.
Most of the scribbled messages in Debora’s copy of The Crest referred to her intelligence: “To the girl who never studied in history but always managed an ‘A’”; “You really are too smart for your pants….”; “All the luck at college, but you don’t need luck too much”; “To the laziest chemist in the class. For being so smart, you don’t look it or act it. Go easy on the profs next year—you’re so smart.”
Debora did excel at the University of Illinois, but her grade-point average was no longer unblemished. She received her first B in college. Greg Short remembered how that affected her. “She perceived it as an abject failure…. She was very, very, disturbed by that. She was the smartest person I ever knew.”
Debora continued to date Greg for the first quarter of college, but then the romance faded. “He wasn’t nearly as smart as I was,” she would say many years later. “He was just going to a community college or some small college—we drifted apart.” The last time Greg talked to Debora was in 1971; she had moved on to a new phase of her life and he didn’t fit in.
Debora was a natural at chemistry and had set her sights on becoming a chemical engineer. She had never had any particular pull toward medicine. “My mind works the way an engineer’s does,” she would explain. “But after I started in engineering, they told me there was a glut of engineers and I should consider another major. I chose chemistry—pre-med—and I graduated in three years.”
Medical school is a challenge to the most dedicated, the most motivated students. Debora became a physician by default. Medicine had never been a passion or even a goal for her. She applied to the University of Chicago and the University of Kansas medical schools. Her grasp of chemistry was phenomenal, of course, but her scores were lower in other areas. “I didn’t do that well on the medical aptitude tests,” she would say later. “But I was accepted at both. I chose the University of Kansas Medical School.”
KU is in Lawrence, midway between Kansas City and Topeka on the Kansas Turnpike with its medical school in Kansas City. It is the home of the famous Jayhawks basketball team, whose all-time star was Wilt Chamberlain, but Debora had little interest in the sport. She began medical school in the fall of 1972. She had picked KU because her parents were living in the Kansas City area. Bob Jones’s rise through the ranks at Roman Meal necessitated regular transfers; for the moment, Debora’s parents lived close to her.
She had chosen medicine, but Debora’s heart was not really in it. When she was asked later, “Which profession did you love?” she answered immediately, “Oh—engineering! My mind is very mathematical, very organized.” But she had decided to become a doctor. In the first of a number of coincidences that would lace her complicated life, one of her team of four medical students in anatomy class was a handsome, gentle young man named John Walker.* There was no romance between them, but they became good friends as they worked over the cadaver assigned to their foursome.
Debora recalled that she had no problem at all detaching herself from the humanity of the cadaver she and John dissected. “An autopsy is different,” she explained. “That person has been alive recently. I didn’t feel that way about the cadavers—but I always smelled of formaldehyde and I always felt greasy.”
Her fellow medical students found Debora likable. Reginald Hall, a classmate, remembered her as studious and caring. “She was a very easy person to get along with,” he said. “She always seemed very concerned about her patients and their well-being.”
Debora finished medical school in three years, graduating with her M.D. on May 16, 1975. During her internship rotations, she found that she enjoyed emergency medicine most. She did her first residency in the ER at Truman Medical Center in Kansas City: “I really liked it—something was always happening.” But after spending more time in emergency medicine, she was disappointed. “I found out that the biggest part of emergency medicine were patients who had earaches—or something that they should have had treated in an office call, but they waited too long and then showed up in the ER. It was boring.”
Later, Debora would switch to oncology, cancer treatment. “I picked oncology,” she said with a smile, “because I’m a ‘people person’—I really like people. But oncology was so depressing because I cared so much about my patients, and yet I knew they were going to die.”
3
Debora had met and dated a fellow engineering student at the University of Illinois: Duane M. J. Green. Their relationship deepened, and they were married during her studies at the KU Medical School in Kansas City. It was a charming, if informal wedding. Debora was thin, almost willowy, and she looked very young and very lovely in her old-fashioned “pioneer” gown with a high collar and puffed sleeves. She wore a pinafore of white eyelet over the long pink cotton gown. Her beautiful hair, parted in the middle, fell straight and shining to her hips. Her matron of honor and only attendant was her sister, Pam, who wore a similar eyelet dress. They posed together after the ceremony, two sweet-faced young women beaming with happiness.
Duane was tall and thin, towering over Debora’s five feet four inches. His sideburns and waxed handlebar mustache, de rigueur for the seventies, made him look almost as old-fashioned as she did. Bob and Joan Jones attended the wedding and it would seem that all Joan’s dreams had come true. Her daughters were both married. Pam was interested in studying psychology and counseling; Debora was about to become a doctor and she was married to a handsome engineer who would soon have his Ph.D. The future couldn’t have looked brighter.
Debora and Duane Green lived in an apartment at first, but after she graduated from med school in 1975, they moved to a house at 3110 Sterling Avenue in Independence, Missouri, so that Debora would be within reasonable com muting distance to her residency in the ER of the Truman Medical Center and Duane could be close to his job in Kansas City. But their marriage had been in trouble almost from the beginning. When asked what went wrong, Debora shrugged and said, “I’m not even sure why I married him, but I knew as soon as I did that we had absolutely no common interests. He was an engineer. That pretty much says it all. Engineers are boring and they don’t communicate well.”
Odd. Debora had aspired to be an engineer herself, but she had been forced to drop out of the program at the University of Illinois because there weren’t enough jobs waiting. Now that she was a physician, she denigrated the engineering profession.
Duane and Debora separated in the late seventies; even before her divorce was final, Debora began what she described as a “hedonistic lifestyle.” She was in her mid-twenties and had been in school since she was five. She had never traveled, never taken long vacations. Now, she did. “My friends and I would fly down to Guaymas or Belize or wherever and just do what we liked…. But part of me had a need to be grounded—to have a more secure life.”
Though Debora had had long, monogamous relationships with men who cared deeply for her, in the months after she left Duane, she had numerous boyfriends. She had craved freedom. And she was probably as attractive as she had ever been—or would ever be—in her life. She was slender and her hair was perfectly cut so that it moved in bouncy waves when she tossed her head. Her wit was sharper than ever. She had friends who laughed with her, and she was totally competent as a senior resident in the emergency room of Truman Medical Center. She seemed to have boundless energy; she worked extra shifts to add to her considerable income. She bought a silver Jaguar
XKE for $27,000 and zipped around Independence and Kansas City. Any man looking at her would have to notice how vibrant she was, how full of life. If there were less attractive aspects to her personality, they were not immediately apparent.
At least, not when Michael Farrar met her. Mike was a medical student, starting his senior year with an emergency room rotation at Truman Medical Center. Born in Lawrence, Kansas, and raised “north of the river” in Kansas City, Missouri, he was four years younger than Debora and considerably lower in the medical-education pecking order. He found her exciting. “She was an attractive woman—a thin, attractive woman,” Mike later recalled. “She was obviously exceedingly bright. She was tremendously witty; everyone who knew her knew how witty she was. But she had kind of a sarcastic, biting wit. She was very funny.”
Mike was drawn to Debora. And she noticed him. He was in his early twenties and around five foot ten; his facial features were as fine as hers were coarse. He was quite handsome, with dark hair worn in the long and curly style of the decade. He looked, if anything, younger than twenty. And, like Debora, Mike was extremely intelligent. “I got straight A’s too,” he said. “But I had to work very hard for them—Debora didn’t. Everything academic came easily to her.” Mike’s parents expected him to get A’s, and he had not disappointed them. But Debora was probably the smartest woman he had ever known.
In Mike Farrar, Debora perceived a stability she needed. Her “hedonistic” life left her as ungrounded as a balloon that has lost its tether, and she sensed that she needed a good, stable man to feel safe. Mike was brilliant; she knew he was going to be a very successful doctor. Speaking of him later, she did not say that she loved him. Rather, she said that he seemed to be a “good person,” someone she could count on. Apparently, the lifestyle she had been enjoying had left her frightened and in need of an anchor. Or perhaps she sensed some deficiency, some weakness in herself and needed a strong man to bolster her.