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Unknown Threat
On a warm Saturday afternoon in April 2004, Bill and Adriann Nelson's two-story Colonial home in Dix Hills, New York, was humming with activity. Adriann, her brother Al, and her father, Alfred Raschdorf, a retired sheet metal mechanic and handyman, were installing a hood over the stove in the house the Nelsons were nearly finished building on their two-and-a-half-acre property.Bill and Adriann had started the project when Adriann was pregnant with their third child, Alec, who was now 16 months. An easygoing, happy boy, Alec was having a particularly good day. He had been to a birthday party and ridden a pony for the first time. After his nap, he bounded out of the house and joined Derek, six, and Sonia, three, on the front lawn, where they were hosing off a play schoolhouse.
Just below the Nelsons' house was a smaller bungalow that the family was living in during the construction. The couple had purchased the property, set well off a dead-end street, nine years earlier, knowing their children could play freely on it without fear of traffic. They never imagined one of the greatest threats to their safety waited, on this particular day, in their own driveway.
With their combined incomes -- Bill worked as a sales engineer for a major telecommunications company, Adriann was an international flight attendant -- they could support a large family. Their dream was to have four children, and as soon as the new house was finished, they'd planned on having another baby. The week before Alec was born, the Nelsons had also completed a 40-hour foster-parent-training course, hoping, at some point, to help make a difference in yet another child's life.
Next to family, faith was the most important thing to the Nelsons. In church each Sunday, Bill would often think how blessed his family was. He and Adriann had a good marriage, and their kids were happy and well.
At five o'clock that spring evening, Bill left for the hospital to visit his brother, who was having some tests done. He'd planned to return home in time to head out to a friend's surprise 40th birthday party later that night.
Meanwhile, Adriann got the kids ready for a sleepover at their grandparents' house, just ten miles away. She tucked their overnight bag into the back of her father's Ford Explorer, and Derek and Sonia climbed into the backseat. Then Adriann ran back to the house to get Alec's diaper bag, and for a few seconds, everyone thought the baby was with someone else.
While Opa, as the kids called their grandfather, waited for his daughter to bring out the Pampers, he decided to back his SUV down the sloping driveway that ran beside both houses so Adriann wouldn't have far to walk. After looking in his side and rearview mirrors, the 70-year-old released the emergency brake and let his SUV coast slowly toward the front house. About halfway down, he felt a bump and thought he'd run over a wooden beam. Nearing the house, he stopped the car, looked up and saw the unimaginable: his grandson Alec lying motionless on the drive, in a pool of blood.
Tragedies happen in a split second, leaving a lifetime of agony and grief in their wake. Once thought to be freak accidents, back-over incidents now regularly show up in headlines around the country: "Toddler Accidentally Killed by Mother at Fort Detrick," "Dad, Uncle Back Truck Over, Kill 3-Year-Old." According to research obtained by Consumer Reports, each week some 48 children are treated in emergency rooms after being backed over by drivers. Most of the time, it's a parent or other relative who was at the wheel.
And the incidence of fatalities has been increasing. In 2005, at least 100 children died in back-over accidents, up from no fewer than 59 in 2002. Vehicle safety experts link the problem to the popularity of pickups, SUVs and minivans, which have larger blind spots behind them -- some deeper than 50 feet if the driver isn't tall -- than that of passenger cars. "The bigger the car, the bigger the blind zone," explains David Champion, director of auto testing for Consumer Reports.
"And with so many of these vehicles out there now," adds a Consumers Union attorney, "they're tragedies waiting to happen."
Adriann called Bill at the hospital. "I need you to come home," she said. She didn't say why, but Bill left immediately.
Concerned by the tense tone of his wife's voice, he called her back from his car to ask, "Is everything okay?"
"Just come home," Adriann said.
As he pulled into the driveway, Bill caught sight of his father-in-law curled in the fetal position on the ground, sobbing. Adriann was holding Alec in her arms. Probably nursing him, Bill thought. But why had she covered him with a towel? As Bill walked closer, Adriann blurted out: "He's dead. Don't look at him. Just remember how he was."
Bill's head spun as he tried to comprehend the situation. Adriann's father cried out, "I'm so, so sorry, Bill. I didn't see Alec. It was an accident."
Trained to deal with emergency situations as a flight attendant, Adriann had the presence of mind to protect Sonia and Derek from the full extent of the horror. She'd rushed them inside the house and asked her brother to keep them away from the scene.
The next morning, Adriann and Bill explained what happened to Derek, who adored his little brother. When he asked, "Where's Alec?" Adriann said finally, "He's gone. He's in heaven."
Alec was buried the following Wednesday. The Nelsons asked for donations to help build a playground for underprivileged kids in their community. (The Alec William Nelson Memorial Playground, constructed with $80,000 raised in the boy's name, opened in nearby Huntington Station in April 2005.)
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