One year ago today, the brutality that took your life away took our breath away.

Your parents remain jailed two miles from your grave, charged with beating you and your twin sister, Kayla.

Your surviving siblings and half siblings are scattered in three family or foster homes in two states.

I wish I could tell you why child protective services didn't intervene in time to save you or why an Illinois judge sent you to live with your parents in Evansville after you had been with the same foster family for 41 of your 43 months.

I wish I could tell you someone, some agency, some entity had taken responsibility for, or even accepted accountability for, some of the events in the chain inexorably leading to your death from blunt force trauma to the head.

I'm sorry. I can't.

And, Kalab, I am so sorry you died after days of torture in the place where you should have been cherished and safe. No child deserves to live in the hell that was your home.

You need to know it wasn't your fault. No matter what you were told, you didn't do anything wrong. You were completely innocent, pure and worthy of love and protection simply because you were unique to this world and, therefore, precious.

Sometimes, the truth is, monsters wear clever disguises and lurk in familiar places. Sometimes monsters fool the children who love them. Sometimes they trick adults who might be able to help.

You probably won't believe this, but I met Kayla - once and briefly - when chance brought us together.

Without introduction, she clamored up my legs like a little monkey, wrapped her arms around my shoulders and nestled her beautiful face in my neck.

I buried mine in her shiny dark hair, rocking her gently from side to side, from side to side, from side to side.

That moment will never fade. I barely made it to my car before bursting into tears. I cried for you, for Kayla, for your brothers and sisters, for those who loved you, for those who never met you but will always remember you and for the estimated 1,500 children who die of abuse or neglect in this country every year.

For months, my colleague Kate Braser - I wish you had a chance to know Kate; you would have liked her - and I have been trying to ask the right questions of the right people in the hopes of finding someone who can make sense of your death.

Although Kate no longer works here, she has continued to participate in the effort to tell your story from her hometown near Chicago. Unfortunately, the laws designed to protect the privacy of your family also empower those who might have answers to withhold them.

When someone does provide an answer, inevitably that answer comes hand-in-hand with a host of additional questions.

Your life, in and out of the child welfare systems in two states, and your tragic death cry out for scrutiny. I hear that cry at night, in the dark, where the monsters sometimes hide.

After reviewing thousands of documents related to the investigation of your death, I cannot point to any one individual involved in your case who exhibited either thoughtlessness or intention.

However, the number of warning signs in your file screamed for extra attention.

Father's criminal history. Red flag. Mother's childhood abuse. Red flag. Both parents' use of methamphetamine. Red flag. Increased negative behaviors of children following parental visits. Red flag. Red flag. Red flag. Red flag.

Lack of communication and flexibility within child welfare guidelines also appear to be contributing factors.

Collectively, the system failed.

In the coming months, this newspaper will take an in-depth look at the actions of those responsible for your care within a framework of laws designed to reunite families.

Your life, though short, has mattered more than you could possibly imagine. You united the community, inspired proposed legislation and encouraged a new group to form in an effort to increase awareness about and prevention of child abuse.

Kalab, you have done so much for so many, it is a great tragedy to realize your life actually improved when it was taken away.

The greatest tragedy is that you could have been saved.

- Libby Keeling

(812) 464-7450 or keelingl@courierpress.com

In Memory Of