Many remember Jill Behrman on what would have been her 30th birthday

She entered the world on a rainy morning in Bloomington and never stopped moving. She learned to ride a bike at age 5, drove a truck with a stick shift and danced in a red dress at prom.

She squeezed in bike trips between hanging out with friends and working at the Student Recreational Sports Center. She rode alone because no one could keep up
with her.

On May 31, 2000, she ate a bowl of cereal in her kitchen, strapped on her shoes, hopped on her new bike and never came home.

Details of Jill’s life were batted around in court and discussed on television and in the paper. Her senior portrait smiled at the family everywhere. But the Behrmans aren’t missing a victim. They miss Jill.

* * *

Eric and Marilyn Behrman never know when a memory of their daughter will wash over them.

Marilyn liked the name Jill because she heard it in Shaun Cassidy’s version of Da Doo Ron Ron. I met her on a Monday and my heart stood still.

When Marilyn took Jill home from Bloomington Hospital, 2-year-old Brian wasn’t sure about his baby sister. He smashed a toy train on the floor when he realized he was no longer the only child. As she learned to crawl and then walk, Jill knocked over his blocks and followed him everywhere, so Marilyn put a gate across the door of his room.

When Brian learned to ride a bike at age 7, Jill learned two weeks later. She asked her dad to take her training wheels off, and he ran alongside her while she circled the yard. She found the road and looked back to see her dad had let go.

Eric drove the family to church every Sunday at First United Methodist in Bloomington. As the children grew, they left the nursery and sat with their parents in their usual seats in the balcony.

In sixth grade, Jill sailed off her bike and landed braces-first into the pavement. A mess of blood and teeth, she had to have root canals and a bridge. She didn’t tell her friends that one of her teeth was fake.

In high school, she still slept with her baby blanket under her pillow. The one with the silk edge she rubbed between her fingers.

She wore a little mascara but never blush because she was rosy from working out. Boys were easier friends than girls.

At 16, when she got her driver’s license, Jill picked out an old red truck. A stick shift. Her father took her to the IU Memorial Stadium parking lot to practice with the clutch. Eventually she got better.

Her best friend Jessica Merkel remembers when Jill drove her to Louisville, Ky. for a volleyball tournament with the truck windows rolled down. They belted out songs from the “Now and Then” soundtrack with their hair blowing in the wind.

Jill surprised her dad when she asked to go prom dress shopping with him. Usually she took him shoe shopping because she knew he would buy what she wanted. But a prom dress was different. They went to a shop on Kirkwood Avenue, where Eric picked a red sleeveless gown.

He thought it made her tan skin and dark hair look beautiful. She held it by the hanger and said he only picked it because it was IU crimson. He put it back on the rack. Later, she tried it on. Dad was right.

She was self-conscious about her athletic build and was a picky eater. Baby carrots were a meal with Crystal Light or lemon-lime Gatorade. She would push away a turkey sandwich if her mom put mayonnaise on it, but she allowed mustard. Microwave Rice Krispies treats were the one dessert she wouldn’t give up. When her mom heard her throwing up in the bathroom, Jill confessed she was binging and purging. Group therapy helped.

Her dad thought she might go to college out of state. During her senior year at Bloomington South, she walked into the living room where her dad was reading the Sunday paper. When she said she wanted to go to IU, Eric threw the paper over his head in joy. He had been worried about out-of-state tuition costs. And he wanted her close to home.

That summer, as she prepared for a bicycle trip through the Blue Ridge Parkway, she longed for a $1,200 Cannondale bicycle. It was an R500, a sleek black and white road bike. Her parents split the price with her. She told her mom, “You know this is an investment in my future.”

When Jill trained, her friends couldn’t keep up. That’s when she started to ride on her own.

* * *

Whenever he sees a girl running or riding her bike alone, Eric thinks of his daughter. Not long ago, when Brian realized his sister’s 30th birthday was approaching, he stayed up late thinking about what Jill would have been like. Usually he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on thoughts of how much he misses her.

“It hurts too much.”

He thinks of other things. “I want to think about what Jill is doing now,” he said, referring to the organization in her name.

Jill’s House is a home for patients undergoing cancer treatments at the Midwest Proton Radiotherapy Institute in Bloomington. A 5K run/walk named in her honor raises money for Jill’s House and a leadership scholarship. The race
is Oct. 23.

If Brian does allow himself to reminisce about his sister, he still thinks of her as a teenager. When he holds his 15-month-old daughter, he wonders if Jill would have children now. He named his daughter Lainey Jillian after the aunt she will never meet.

* * *

Jill was terrified of strangers. She would run inside at the sight of an unknown car. At her freshman orientation, she walked to the Big Foot gas station to buy a cold drink. A man outside glared at her, and she ran into the store, ducked behind the counter and sat at the cashier’s feet.

At IU, she wanted to study business, but accounting class weeded her out. Beer was not her thing, but she developed a taste for rum and Cokes. Brian, a junior at IU, invited her to his Delta Upsilon parties. He wanted to keep an eye on the boys who were interested in his baby sister.

For her 19th birthday, her dad organized a surprise while he was out of town. Brian, his accomplice, made Jill stand on a chair in the middle of Wright Food Court while the original Straight No Chaser a capella group serenaded her. She blushed uncontrollably, then later told Brian she wanted to marry a man who sang.

That May, she prepared for a summer job at IU Alumni Camp Brosius. In her room, she stacked her jeans and shirts and kept a list of what still needed to be done. On one of her last days at home, her mom took her to see the movie “Return to Me.”

On the morning of the 31st, Jill ate a bowl of oat bran. Marilyn was getting ready for work and asked Jill to mow the lawn before she headed to her shift at the SRSC. Jill was more focused on her cereal.

She didn’t show up for a late lunch with her dad and her grandfather. Her bike wasn’t at the SRSC when Eric went looking for it. When Marilyn came home in the evening, her first thought was Jill hadn’t mowed the lawn. Then she saw her bike and shoes were gone. Jill never rode at night.

No one had heard from her. In the morning, Eric drove to the police station to file a report. Brian walked to an on-campus computer lab and printed off the first flyers with his sister’s picture. Three days later, a Cannondale was found undamaged in a field near a favorite riding route. Eric had gone to Bikesmith’s to check the registration number on the bike they had sold him. The Cannondale tossed in the field was Jill’s.

Three years later, in 2003, two hunters found Jill’s remains in a wooded roadside area in Morgan County. In 2006, John Myers II was found guilty for the murder, and he is now serving a 65-year sentence at the state prison in Michigan City, Ind.

* * *

At church last Sunday, Eric and Marilyn sat in the balcony where they used to sit with Jill. Eric gazed at a white memorial candle on the altar. Its flame has burned since Jill disappeared 10 years ago.

After the service, Marilyn said she thinks a 30-year-old Jill would live in Colorado, where people love the outdoors and sports. Jill would drive to Fishers, Ind., to play with her niece Lainey Jillian.

Today, the family will celebrate her life quietly. Eric and Marilyn will look through photo albums, and Brian will eat dinner with his wife and daughter.

Jill might have asked for a Snuggie for her birthday, her dad joked. She always loved a blanket. She would probably receive birthday messages on her cell phone and Facebook profile, neither of which 19-year-old Jill had.

For nearly a year after her daughter disappeared, Marilyn kept the stacks of jeans and shirts in Jill’s room, untouched. When she finally boxed them, she placed them on the top shelf of Jill’s closet. Beneath the shelf hangs the red prom dress.

The interviews for this story came from Brian, Eric, and Marilyn Behrman, Jessica Merkel and Becky Shoemake Griffin.