An essay for my sister: Elizabeth Helen Foster (Nov. 9, 1970 to March 15, 1992)
On March 15, 1992, my sister was taken from this world after 21 years, 4 months and 6 days of living on it. I write this essay to give my late sister, Elizabeth Helen Foster, a voice in the best way I know how.
For many years, I really tried to forget most of what happened since that dreadful day the authorities found her body in a shallow grave along U.S. 441 in Gainesville. However, the memories come rushing back to me like they were yesterday.
Her body was beaten and bruised after being sexually assaulted, with the final blow shattering the front of her skull and rendering her unconscious. She was dumped like trash into a shallow grave just big enough to fit her tiny 5’2”, 115-pound frame while she was still breathing. The soil around the area was gray almost like ash with heavy vegetation and growth all around, giving off a sweet smell as if nothing horrifying had ever occurred there.
I was 13 years old when I visited this site with my parents shortly after my sister’s body was located. I remember the air was humid and the sky was sunny and pleasant as any typical Florida afternoon in March. I could hear the sounds of birds chirping and children laughing and playing in the distance. It was surreal for what we laid witness to that day.
Multiple failures throughout the course of time, caused by human error and possibly a lack of real empathy, brought my sister to that moment. My sister’s killer was a serial killer. In 1972, he was arrested and convicted of murdering a Miami woman, Linda Fida, a former beauty pageant contestant.
She was sexually assaulted, choked to death and stabbed multiple times until the blade bent and could not be used anymore. Her lifeless corpse was then plunged into her own bathtub full of water to be drowned, because her killer was not convinced she was actually dead. Her killer confessed without remorse and was dubbed a sociopath. He was sentenced to life imprisonment.
It was known he would kill again if ever let out of prison. However, a life prison sentence in Florida in the 1970s and 1980s was not for life. This killer only served 13 years and was released from prison by the parole board, while prisoners sentenced for non-violent drug offenses sat in prison for double the length of time.
In 1989, Tiffany Sessions, a University of Florida student, disappeared. She looked oddly similar to my sister. Her family was of the highest ilk with the likes of celebrities such as Dan Marino to help them raise funds and resources to try and locate Sessions. Her disappearance and death would remain unsolved for much longer than anyone expected.
In the late 1990s, my parents agreed to exhume my sister’s body to collect additional DNA evidence to find her killer. Yet, this DNA remained shelved for many more years. In 2009, three years after my father’s passing and my mother’s trauma reaching its apex, my mother and I called a meeting with the authorities. A young woman detective, a forensic analyst, gave us personal assurances that she would push certain pieces of evidence through the extensively backlogged FBI crime lab.
In 2012, an oral swab from my sister’s remains was finally tested. It wasn't from the guy they had been convincing my parents for the better part of two decades had killed my sister, but an inmate in prison for a different crime of kidnapping, sexual assault and attempting to kill a 15-year-old minor in Clearwater.
He was Linda Fida's killer, in a prison less than 40 miles from my residence. He was suffering from Stage 4 lung cancer and did not have much time to live. Following his death, the authorities discovered his diary with numerous entries possibly identifying five to seven or more female souls he took from this earth — one being entry No. 2, Tiffany Sessions, with her date of death demarcated in the entry.
My sister, Elizabeth Foster, was a hero even after death because through the oral DNA swab, the police were able to identify the perpetrator of Sessions’ murder.
My sister was not the daughter of wealth or a former beauty pageant contestant. She was the girl who loved to laugh with her friends and cared deeply about others. She was the big sister who would make fun of her annoying little brother, but at the same time would invite him to occasionally sit in her room with her and listen to records or ask if she looked nice in an outfit. She was the girl that loved to take random photos and would come home from college on break with new pets to the surprise of my parents.
She was the girl who loved big and was extremely naïve to a lot of the troubles and dangers of the world. I can’t blame my parents for letting her go so far away to college as they did their best, but they were kind of naïve too.
Being the father of daughters, I can’t be naïve and stick my head in the ground. I have to share my sister’s story and the souls that we lost too soon because we as a society failed them.
I end with this quote from Eleanor Roosevelt: “Learn from the mistakes of others. You can't live long enough to make them all yourself.”
Love you, Betsy. Your little brother.
Richard A. Foster is the younger brother of Elizabeth Foster.
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This article originally appeared on The Gainesville Sun: Richard Foster: Reflections 30 years after my sister's murder
