Erickson Daniel Scott lived in California foster homes from the age of four until he was sixteen. He ran away after being raped repeatedly by foster brothers. There was one vile foster mother who chain smoked and extinguished her cigarette butts on his legs.
Scott bounced around, living on the streets of California and Texas, where records show he was busted for stealing a car in March of 1992. But he turned his own life around dramatically, starting with a move to Denver when he was nineteen.
He had decided to care about the world and his place in it. He stopped doing coke, found a place to live, went to college and became a successful independent businessman — though not of the sort endorsed by society.
His successful business venture was as a pot dealer. He imported high-grade marijuana from Northern California, Oregon and British Columbia buying quarter-pounds and selling quarter-ounces at a profit of between $500 and $1,000 a week. He gave generously to friends in need, paid for his classes at Metro State College, traveled through Europe and saved meticulously.
May 28, 2001. Unable to reach Eric on the phone, his girl friend went to his apartment on the top floor of an old Victorian in the 300 block of Lincoln. He had been beaten to death with a hammer, his stash of $6,000 and a quarter pound of kinder stolen along with his safe where he kept his will, more money and marijuana.
“You’re trying to find out who killed Eric Scott?” Joe laughs bitterly and then spits.
“It’s no big mystery, dude. I mean, this punk showed up down here the day after the murder, before we had all even heard Eric was dead, right? And this guy was, like, flashing cash, flashing bags of kind bud, flashing his hammer, saying he did it, acting like that made him the man. Right here, dude. I heard him, I saw him, right here.”
Because he had no will and no living relatives, the state took control of his body as well as his estate. His worldly possessions were sold at auction, and he was unceremoniously buried without a headstone.
Scott was survived by at least a dozen souls who loved him. But since none of them shared his genes, they had no legal claim to his estate or a role in his funeral arrangements. Because there was no record of Scott’s will, his possessions, among them turntables, snowboards, surfboards, a motorcycle, two cars, Oriental rugs and several glass sculptures, were sold at auction. Frank and Talia persistently called the office of the lawyer assigned by the city and county to oversee Scott’s case. They wanted to find out the date, time and location of the auction. They never received a response.
The system did allow the protectors of the memory of Erickson Daniel Scott one concession: They were allowed to provide his burial clothes. Becker picked out Scott’s favorite outfit: a blue pinstriped zoot suit and a pair of blue suede shoes. Before he turned over the attire, he rolled a joint of kind bud and hid it in the inside breast pocket of the suit jacket.
“I figured wherever Eric was going, he could light it up when he got there, pass it around and start making friends.”