The Girl Behind the Blue Eyes – Who Was Elizabeth Pfeifer?
I was asked by Alice to write about my sister, Elizabeth Pfeifer. Although the young woman I knew would be willing to come forward and speak for herself, she can’t. You won’t hear from Elizabeth because she’s been missing since April 12, 1986.
Elizabeth was a handful, but not in the ways you would think. As a person, she was one of the sweetest, most gentle personalities I’ve ever known. As an alcoholic and drug addict, nothing stood between Elizabeth and her binges. She was mean, ruthless, and in the end, helpless.
She’d been raped and beaten at different times by various men, inflicted physical harm upon herself, and arrested by the police for disorderly conduct and drunken driving…all while under the influence of a variety of chemicals. When she was sober, she was good as gold.
Never one to be pretentious, Elizabeth was just a girl from a medium-sized town on the west side of Houston. There was nothing remarkable about her. She never strived for much, and not much was expected from her. Elizabeth’s biggest downfall was her blind trust: she took everyone at their word. Naive? Yes. Easily taken advantage of? Yes. She was a diagnosed psychotic and it was suggested, when Elizabeth was 18, that she be institutionalized. My parents refused, saying they feared what our relatives would think.
Two years later, my sister left with her friends to go to a party, and never came back.
Elizabeth was petite with large, blue eyes and straight, brown hair. She loved to wear bright makeup, tight jeans and pretty shirts. She was the ultimate blue jean baby, a longtime hippie and a sweet rock ‘n roller. She loved children and most of all, my son, Michael. Elizabeth had many friends. The police uncovered at least three different groups Elizabeth was friendly with. None of those groups interacted with each other. My sister was the link between many, many people.
There is a dark side, however, or this story would have a different ending.
It bothers me how people took advantage of Elizabeth’s weaknesses. It bothers me that my parents never sought help for my sister. It bothers me that I saw the train coming, years before it happened, and I did nothing to stop it. My parents weren’t going to listen; they were too caught up in the Ozzie and Harriet world of saving face while throwing their daughter under the bus. But the three of us, my father, my mother, and I, paid dearly for sticking our heads in the sand. It’s the ultimate shame and guilt.
But most of all, it sickens me that someone knows exactly what happened to my little sister, yet they refuse to talk about it. I’m beyond thinking someone should pay for this crime. I forgave that person years ago – all I want are the answers. The crime may be a simple omission: perhaps my sister overdosed, died, and the person got scared and dumped Elizabeth’s body. Whatever the case, murder or not, the story needs an ending. My sister deserves a proper burial, and my family deserves to know what happened.
To the person who was with Elizabeth Pfeifer when she died: if it were your sister, wouldn’t you want the answer?