'The Child Catcher' Explores Abuse in the Troubled Teen Film Industry

David did nothing.

McCowell stepped closer and leaned into the boy's face.

Still nothing.

In the cold hum of the air conditioning, three nurses entered. They watched the boy breathe slowly.

Perhaps it was the warm air rushing through the open door, the smell of men turning off the room's cleaning fluid, or a whisper that alerted David that something was happening. In a moment of lucidity, he lifted his head and pushed against the wall to stand and gain a footing.

With a sharp thud, David's head hit the floor. The white-uniformed employees pulled him up. Half-standing like a teenager after his first long night in a bar, David fell into the sober employees who pushed him toward the door.

Laughter echoed down the hallway. Rows of teenagers yelled at the boy they had only known for a few weeks.

“Come on, David, punch me! Kick that fat ass!” an older voice yelled.

A little boy shouted, “Bite them on the arm!”

Another boy, dressed only in his underwear, danced along the path, imitating David's neck swinging from side to side.

The team of men picked their way up the narrow staircase and lowered the teenager carefully, aware that a fall would bring them all down. At the top of the three flights of stairs, the tangle loosened around the boy. The guards stepped aside, hunched and sweating, grateful for the cool evening air and the stars that burned the black sky above.

On the concrete landing, David stood apart from everything he knew, everything he trusted. He could seize the opportunity to escape. He would run for the fences and hide in the woods. He would consider which way to go to his parents’ house, 220 miles southwest of Foley. But by the time David had done his best to guess, the dogs from the Ventress Men’s Correctional Facility in Clayton would have been unleashed. The pack would circle him, pounce, then attack him until he fell to the ground. A police officer would pull him by the head and shove him into an Alabama state car. Running would buy him only hours. He would be back.

McCowell nodded to the others. The men retreated, dragging David across the gravel path that divided the institution until they reached a warehouse against the barbed-wire perimeter fence. McCowell paused, jerking open a door that read Vocational Rehabilitation. Under the glare of the industrial lights, work tables and stools were scattered where the children of the institution were tearing strings of rubber fishing lures, stuffing them into plastic bags for tourists and the fishing stores in town. Beyond the workspace was an office door that was always locked. McCowell pulled a key from his belt. At the sight of the dark, unfamiliar room, David struggled against the men. The Thorazine was cleaning his system. “Mom? Dad? Where are you?” he yelled toward the corrugated roof.

McCowell walked to the nearest of the three black metal doors. Fumbling to free the wooden crossbar from its supports, he threw it to the ground and peered over his shoulder into the dim light. McCowell pressed the palm of his hand against the latch pin until the metal door gave way. Inside, the cell was smeared with red mud as high as a child could reach. A steel grill was bolted above it. Above it, a single light bulb burned. The stench of urine and feces hung in the corners.

A guard lifted David off the muddy ground, while others pushed him from behind. The boy hit the ground in a sudden movement as the men rushed toward the exit. McCowell slammed the bolt shut. No one paid attention to the screams.

David Dolihite had been admitted to the Eufaula Adolescent Center a few weeks earlier, on January 13, 1992. He was from Foley, not far from Mobile Bay. His family lived in a neighborhood of one-story brick homes, two-story trailers and gravel yards. People kept to themselves and their own. David’s middle-aged parents worked hard for what they had. His father was the custodian at the local high school. His mother worked the deli counter at the Winn-Dixie.

David never won a science prize or came home with a glowing report card. He didn’t much care for sports. His family, not his friends, came to his birthday parties. He liked heroes and rebels. He stood up for the weakest kids, sometimes punching them in their defense. With teachers, he would swing from calm to rude. He developed a reputation. The smallest mistake—a forgotten assignment, a class discussion—was dismissed as unacceptable, insolent, or impolite. He was considered an unimportant kid, and certainly not one to be forgiven. Suspended for insulting a teacher and confined to his home by school order, he slipped out for the afternoon. That’s when the principal seized his chance to force David and his parents to appear in juvenile court. The Baldwin County judge said a stay in the state facility would do David good.

Eufaula was the largest children’s mental institution in Alabama, with a psychiatric treatment designed for children who had a problem with periods. Mom and Dad resisted for nearly a year, until a state official in Eufaula called the house. She promised a mental health summer camp with horses, bikes, and a swimming pool—everything a teenager could want. The best and highest treatment was available, she claimed. When David’s parents wouldn’t believe it, the woman turned on them. The boy was going with or without their approval. The only question was whether they would give their consent and allow his admission to be called “voluntary.” They would learn that voluntary didn’t count for much—a fact they would learn too late.

The Dolihites loved their son. They found therapists and together they drove David to Mobile, where he attended sessions with and without them. Then the insurance money ran out. They attended meetings with high school counselors, patiently listening to the need for stricter discipline and how they, as parents, could improve. They went to church and asked the pastor for advice. With no choice and nothing else to do, Mom and Dad said: Yes, okay.They loved David desperately. They delivered him to Eufaula.

Even though they didn’t like the woman who called, she worked for the state Department of Mental Health, so she must have known what she was doing. As David’s father told his wife, “She was an expert.” Neither he nor his wife suspected that the woman was a blatant liar.

Excerpt from The Child Catcher: A Fight for Justice and Truth by Andrew Bridge ©2024. Reprinted with permission from Regalo Press.