USA TODAY International Edition
VIOLENCE, ANGUISH IN ALASKA
Amid high rates of rape and abuse, one family searches for answers
JUNEAU, Alaska – She wore her hair down to cover bruises on her neck and collarbone. She would go days without speaking to her family, explaining later that her husband didn’t want her communicating with them. In turn, her family grew suspicious, then fearful, wondering: Was Linda safe? They knew the state’s grim reputation: Alaska often ranks as the deadliest state for women. A staggering 59% of adult women in Alaska have experienced intimate partner violence, sexual violence or both. Linda Skeek’s family knew, too, that as violence escalates in the home, victims are less and less likely to make it out unscathed. But they kept hoping: She’d be OK, right? Nicole Robinson-Wells, Linda’s foster sister, recalls a frantic phone call from Linda a few years ago. She begged Robinson-Wells to come pick her up. When Robinson-Wells walked into Linda’s home, she says, she found Thomas Skeek, Linda’s husband, trying to stab her with a large kitchen knife as Linda screamed and dodged. Each time Linda decided to leave, her family says, Thomas wooed her back with promises to be better and provide the stability that she and their children needed. Robinson-Wells says Thomas convinced Linda multiple times not to report domestic violence to police, telling her, “We have these two children, and if I go to jail … they’re not going to grow up with a dad.” Three years ago, Linda Skeek, 32, a mother of three, disappeared in Anchorage, Alaska’s largest city. Within two weeks of her disappearance, prosecutors charged Thomas, now 37, with her murder, alleging that after he killed his wife in their apartment, he disposed of the body and
bought cleaning supplies to cover his tracks.
On March 28, a jury acquitted Thomas Skeek. Defense attorney Emily Cooper told jurors that the state couldn’t prove that Linda was dead, let alone that Thomas killed her, because there was no body.
During the trial, Assistant District Attorney James Fayette pointed to a history of explosive arguments between the two, which neighbors often overheard and which were described under oath as including violent threats from him. He argued no one but Thomas had a motive to kill Linda, who wanted a divorce.
Like many, Linda Skeek loved Alaska for its rugged beauty and tough terrain. For decades, travelers, transplants and natives have taken pride in surviving and thriving in this remote state, unlike any other in America.
The isolation has consequences, too. Some women in Alaska have to survive something more dangerous than anything they might encounter in the wild: the men they interact with every day.
Across the state, not just in rural areas, women are raped, beaten and murdered by their spouses and relatives at higher rates than anywhere else in the USA. Reported rape in Alaska is 2.5 times the national average, and it consistently ranks in the top two states of women killed by men.
To women here, the stats are more than just numbers – they represent their sister, best friend, neighbor, mother, cousin, teacher, grandmother, the woman standing next to them in the checkout line. It’s them. And the violence happens alongside rampant drug and alcohol abuse, particularly in remote areas of Alaska, where native villages often lack law enforcement. For victims in those regions, it’s not just about personally knowing your attacker – odds are, everyone else in the village knows him, too. And some of them are likely related to him.
“If you meet an (Alaska Native) adult female from The Bush, it’s almost a guarantee she’s been molested or raped or abused somewhere along the way,” says prosecutor June Stein, who lives in Anchorage and spent five years working in The Bush, Alaskans’ term for regions not connected to the road network.
As Linda Skeek’s family learned firsthand, big cities aren’t always safe, either.
‘Wanted to be loved so bad’
Everyone loved Linda from the moment she walked into Rena and Lenny Sims’ home. The foster parents have seen the depths of abuse over 21 years: children raped by family members; girls pimped out by addict parents who need a fix; boys growing up in homes where Dad beating Mom is an everyday occurrence. Rena Sims, 61, estimates that of the 300-plus children she’s taken in over the past two decades, 98% have experienced some form of sexual trauma.
Linda, then 14, didn’t talk about her childhood or her biological family – instead she gushed about her love of Juicy Couture and showed off her drawing skills. She played with Bratz dolls and did other kids’ hair and makeup. Known for her laugh, which spilled out as a high-pitched cackle and often came after she busted up at her own joke, she made fast friends with everyone.
“Linda,” Rena Sims says, “wanted to be loved so bad.”
As much as Linda could endear herself to her foster family by making banners to celebrate the little ones’ birthdays and teaching her sisters how to dance, there was a darker side, too. From the beginning, it was clear Linda had a problem with drugs and alcohol.
Rena Sims says Linda used drinking and drugs “to escape her past” and to fit in with her biological family, with whom she stayed in touch. Hungry for a permanent home, Linda spoke of wanting to be a wife and to have children and of her desire to do it the right way.
Linda’s sisters never quite understood why Linda fell for, and almost instantly married, Thomas. They say she felt pressure from her biological family to marry another Alaska Native (Linda was from the Tlingit tribe).
From her foster family’s perspective, Linda jumped at the first chance she saw to make that happen. She liked that he had an apartment and a car. “I’m ready to settle down,” said Linda, then 23 years old.
Soon, Linda’s family started to worry about what they suspected were signs of physical abuse.
When Linda and Thomas moved to Anchorage, the family hoped Linda’s burgeoning nursing career could stabilize her relationship with Thomas – or give her the funds to get out and start over. But the family says the distance seemed to embolden Thomas.
At Thomas’ trial in February, the state brought to the stand Barbara Barnett, who lived in the Anchorage apartment above Linda and Thomas.
Barnett had a history of listening to Thomas and Linda’s relationship play out. She told the jury that in October 2015, she overheard an argument between them in which Linda screamed, “Help me! He’s killing me!” and Thomas yelled, “I’m going to kill you, you f***ing slut!” Barnett called the police that night. She said that after that argument, Linda and Thomas confronted her, warning her to mind her own business.
During the trial, defense attorney Cooper painted Linda as a longtime drunk – she had a DUI conviction from 2014 – who simply wandered away from her home and her children.
Aryahna Skeek, Linda and Thomas’ 10-year-old daughter, testified for the state. The girl told the jury that on the night Linda went missing, “I remember a big fight downstairs. I was crying.” She said she “heard a big thump” and went downstairs to see what was happening. From the steps, she said, she saw her mother’s feet in a puddle of blood by the bathroom floor.
Across class lines
Violence doesn’t discriminate when it comes to race or socioeconomic class.
In February 2017, Brandy Sullivan, 37, an Alaska Airlines customer service agent who lived in an upscale Anchorage suburb, was shot and killed allegedly by her estranged husband. Their 11and 13-year-old daughters were in the house when she was killed and called 911. Police say Adam Sullivan, 40, confessed to his brother that he had killed Brandy.
Two months earlier, when Brandy had asked her husband for a divorce, he responded by flying into a rage, according to her family.
Adam Sullivan was initially charged with destruction of property, a domestic violence felony, but Anchorage District Attorney Clint Campion reduced the charge days later at the urging of Brandy Sullivan, who said she believed everything could be resolved in divorce proceedings. Sullivan had multiple prior convictions, according to Alaska court records, mostly for misdemeanors.
Campion, who is now in private practice, told a reporter in 2017 that he stood by his decision. He declined an interview request with USA TODAY.
Adam Sullivan could not be reached for comment. He pleaded not guilty to first- and second-degree murder charges and is in custody. His trial is scheduled to start this year.
Rural Alaska even more dangerous
As devastating as stories of violence and sexual assault are in urban areas, it’s considerably worse in rural Alaska.
When she speaks to a school full of native children – with her hair twisted up in a neat French braid, small pearl studs in her ears, well-manicured nails and a commanding voice that belies her petite 5-foot-3, 120-pound frame – Alaska State Trooper Anne Sears tells them it’s OK to laugh when she says words such as “penis” and “vagina.” She encourages kids to use slang if it will make the conversation easier.
She talks to them about the age of consent (16 in Alaska) and tells them that if anyone touches them or hurts them or makes them do something they don’t want to, they have a right to report it. She and people like her can help. “I love arresting rapists,” she says. Experts agree that education is key to stopping the epidemic in Alaska. Young men and women need to understand that violence is never part of caring for someone and that the state is dangerous everywhere; across race and socioeconomic spectrums, women are vulnerable.
Especially vulnerable are Alaska Natives, many of whom live in small villages in the most remote parts of Alaska. Among felony-level sex offense cases reported to Alaska law enforcement in 2017, Alaska Natives made up 42% of all victims. Women in those villages face extraordinary barriers in reporting and dealing with sexual assault and domestic violence.
Sears meets abuse victims all the time – women who have known violence their entire lives and aren’t sure there’s another option. Years ago, Sears says, a presentation for adults turned into “a de facto survivors’ meetings, because every parent had been through something.” She’s determined to show women there’s another way.
“You might arrest someone one week, and the next week, they’re your best witness, and the week after that, they’re a victim,” Sears says. “You have to treat everybody like you’re gonna need them next week.”
Because of state budget cuts, troopers aren’t stationed in every community and instead have to commute to hardto-reach areas. When weather allows troopers to go out, they first have to procure a plane – the state has a limited number – which can take a day or two. When there’s a sexual assault, the first responder is often the village health aide, who can’t administer a rape kit. There are no domestic violence shelters in villages, only regional hubs, so lack of access is common across the state. According to Standing Together Against Rape, an Anchorage organization, 30% of Alaskans weren’t able to obtain victims’ services because there were no services available in their area.
Convincing sexual assault or domestic violence victims to come forward is tough in any community, as survivors try to navigate an aftermath of shame, guilt and betrayal. This is magnified in a village of a few hundred people, where everyone knows everyone else’s business. Nationally, 80% of women who suffer sexual violence do so at the hands of someone they know.
In Alaska, booze is almost always an impetus for crime.
Alaska is one of the nation’s leaders in per capita alcohol consumption. There’s debate about which came first: Does Alaska have a sexual assault and domestic violence problem because of alcohol, or is there an alcohol problem because there’s so much sexual assault and domestic violence, and people use it as a coping mechanism?
There’s no perfect answer, but alcohol, officers and prosecutors say, is the biggest catalyst for crime in The Bush.
In the villages, many people have never known anywhere else – decades ago, this is where their family first fished and built a life. How do they turn their backs on that? There’s an expectation within the tribe that the younger generation will care for aging parents. Even if a woman decided leaving was the only option, it’s exceptionally expensive. There’s no bus to hop on, no neighboring town or state to find work.
“It’s true that some girls don’t know any better, so when they get hit or sexually assaulted, they think it’s normal,” Sears says. “But it can get better. It has to start in the villages.”
In Anchorage, Linda Skeek’s family plans to keep fighting for her – for her body to be found and for her story to be known.
In the days after Linda went missing, Rena Sims grew suspicious and called Thomas Skeek. She demanded to know why he hadn’t reported her disappearance to police. When he refused to let Sims speak with the couple’s children, Sims changed her tone.
“Did you kill Linda?” she says she asked Thomas.
“I don’t think so,” he answered in a low voice.
“You don’t think so?” she asked again, her voice rising.
“No, I did not kill Linda.” Months after a not-guilty verdict, Linda’s family wonders whether they’ll ever find closure.
If Linda is really gone – and her foster family does believe she’s dead – they’re determined not to let her be forgotten. Linda mattered. But the bigger story, her family says, is how the state continually fails to protect women. How many have to die or suffer severe violence, they ask, before changes are made?
They worry they might never get an answer.
“You might arrest someone one week, and the next week, they’re your best witness, and the week after that, they’re a victim.” Anne Sears, Alaska state trooper