One can only wonder what terrible imaginings nourished the recent emotional outpouring for 5-year-old Samantha Runnion, whose abduction, violation and death prompted a funeral ceremony in which private mourning turned into a public spectacle joined by absolute strangers who drove for two days to attend. Feelings ran high at the Crystal Cathedral that evening, and had I been present, I might well have been caught up in the ecstatic display of communal grief -- a true moment of catharsis in what's being treated as the Summer of Stolen Children. But watching the funeral on TV, I could only cringe at our networks' genius for turning sorrow into bathos.
None was more shameless than CNN, whose on-air "talent" milked the event like a stableful of demented dairy farmers. Larry King introduced Dominick Dunne with his usual delicacy ("We're an hour away from an emotional funeral service for little Samantha Runnion. Hear his take on her awful murder."). Quoting the dead girl's words about loving her family, reporter David Mattingly ordered the camera to zoom in on one of Samantha's drawings. And Aaron Brown lapsed into maudlin pseudo-profundity: "This is a child who was just weeks from the second grade, who will never know the most simple things of life -- a new bicycle, a first date, the anxiety of a final examination, or a broken heart."
If Samantha had been an old woman, her funeral would have dwelled on what she'd done with her life, but as she was only 5, it could only make a fetish of her death.
Although the murder of a child is always especially horrible, it's not often that one is deemed particularly newsworthy, let alone granted hour after hour of live national coverage in a world of trapped miners and beached whales. What made the Runnion case a media event was how neatly its storyline filled the needs of cable-TV news. Samantha was a cute little white girl of respectable parents (unlike Danielle van Damme) from an apparently safe neighborhood in Orange County, California. Her avenger was media-savvy Sheriff Mike Carona, who seemed to have stepped from Central Casting with script in hand (he dubbed her "America's little girl"). And her tale was perfectly calibrated to satisfy our dwindling national attention span: The case didn't drag on like that of Elizabeth Smart, stolen from her home in Salt Lake City, nor did it unfold too quickly, as happened with St. Louis' Cassandra Williamson, whose abduction and murder 36 hours after the Runnion funeral gave viewers too little time to identify with the "characters" involved.
Everything about Samantha's story made it easy for people to say, as they often did, that she had become "like our own little girl." While such expressions of empathy from ordinary people were often touching, it was creepy getting this from broadcasters busy using the tragedy to jack up their ratings.
Indeed, each time I heard it, I was reminded of a line from Ian McEwan's novel The Child in Time, about a father whose daughter is snatched from a store and suddenly belongs to the public domain. "The lost child was everyone's property," McEwan writes, and part of the horror of the Runnion case was watching America's little girl become the property of those who would bend her life to their own purposes and then abandon her.
Of course, American broadcasters are hardly the first people to exploit a child's death to win an audience. Back in the 1840s, Charles Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop contained the fabled death of Little Nell, a scene of a dying girl so extravagantly mawkish that Oscar Wilde joked that you'd have to have a heart of stone to read it without laughing.
But at least Dickens was a sincere sentimentalist who gave Nell a life to lose. Today's storytellers haven't the slightest hesitation about treating dead kids as simple narrative devices -- a trigger for easy emotion or shorthand for parental motivation. In the new film Sex and Lucia, a young girl is accidentally killed just so her mother can be driven to animalistic sex with a stranger. The tactic is balder still in Spielberg's Minority Report, where a kidnapped young son becomes the excuse for Tom Cruise to believe ardently in the Department of Pre-Crime.
Still, none of this is as insidious as the relentless news coverage of stolen children, which has turned our airwaves into a vast ministry of fear (to use Graham Greene's famous phrase). Many parents already live in dread that their briefest lapse of attention could have fatal consequences -- "I'm already overprotective," says a friend about her 7-year-old -- and cable news does them no favors by making stories of kidnap and murder the wallpaper of daily life.
We're being force-fed paranoia each time a rabble-rouser like Bill O'Reilly claims that 100,000 kids are grabbed every year by strangers when the correct number is closer to 600 (welcome to the No Facts Zone!).
Nor is the damage undone when Aaron Brown declares that "we're not in some epidemic of kidnapping" and then spends the next 15 minutes dwelling on the case of another kidnapped child.
Although the Summer of Stolen Children is a creation of excessive media coverage -- an obvious kin to last year's Summer of the Shark -- the recent child kidnappings and murders actually do seem to have taken on a more frightening resonance in the aftermath of September 11. Now, nowhere feels safe. This connection appears to have been grasped by Sheriff Carona, whose initial words to the kidnapper ("We will be relentless. . .We will hunt you down and arrest you") neatly echoed President Bush's threats to Osama bin Laden. One reason the Runnion case produced such an emotional release was that Carona got his man, Alejandro Avila, bringing about what people have taken to calling closure.
But heartbreak isn't cured with either justice or vengeance (however often the president declares Avila guilty in advance or Samantha's mother rages against the jurors who set him free the last time). Anger will not save you.
Indeed, this is one of the implicit themes of The Lovely Bones, which owes its popularity to being so gracefully attuned to the spiritual yearnings of a culture discovering that prosperity cannot protect you from loss. Rather than trapping us inside the unhappiness of parents tortured over losing their child, Sebold takes a cannier, more imaginative path. She gives us the world through the voice of the young victim who, blessed by being outside time, looks down on Earth from an extremely pleasant heaven that smells ever so slightly of skunk; to us she's not really dead. The result, although about a child murder, is actually cheery and life-affirming.
Sebold is no stranger to very bad things (her first book, Lucky, was about her brutal rape as a college student), and The Lovely Bones guides us through the painful steps of a violent crime, steps that come to feel universal: Susie's encounter with the killer, her father's guilt at not protecting her, the memorial service that lets her community feel better, the fracturing of her family under the pressure of her death. Yet even as the novel charts the human cost of a teenage girl's death, it also presents a vision of healing that, in its lavish doses of wish fulfillment, soars free of realistic constraints. Rather like the film The Sixth Sense, Sebold's book offers a reassuring pop-religious fantasy for a secular age. It tells us that those we've lost aren't completely gone -- "the line between the living and the dead could be. . .murky and blurred" -- and that the dead may help the living to find peace.
For all of her skillful storytelling, it would be easy to chide Sebold for turning the bleakness of a young girl's murder into a book that's so likable, so happy. But in a summer when our newscasts routinely make the world seem so much worse than it actually is, such winsomeness clearly strikes many readers as something of a relief. I doubt that any novel could provide consolation to those who lose a child; but for those of us who worry constantly about all of our loved ones, The Lovely Bones offers a fleeting refuge from the most chilling possibility of cases like that of Samantha Runnion -- that life's cruelty and pain are ultimately meaningless, that our lovely bones are actually no more than bones.
This article originally appeared in LA Weekly.