Dozens of Black Children Vanished in 1972 — 30 Years Later Their Names Appeared in Lab Records | HO!!

In the summer of 1972, Atlanta’s poorest neighborhoods were haunted by a silent epidemic. Dozens of Black children vanished—not from playgrounds or street corners, but from the sterile, white-sheeted beds of Crestwood General Hospital.

Their disappearances were explained away by a bureaucracy that saw them as disposable, their names fading into the silence of forgotten files. For 30 years, their stories remained ghosts, whispered memories in households hollowed by grief and official indifference.

It would take three decades and the relentless curiosity of a young journalist to finally break the silence—and reveal a monstrous truth hidden in plain sight.

The Forgotten Children

Simone St. James, a reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, was not searching for missing children when she entered the city archives in August 2002. Assigned to investigate the decay of Atlanta’s public institutions, she found herself buried in financial ledgers and procurement forms, hunting for evidence of corruption in the city’s shuttered Crestwood General Hospital.

On her fourth day, a weary clerk directed her to a neglected corner of the archive: “Personnel files, interoffice memos. Knock yourself out.” Among the dusty boxes, Simone found one labeled only “PIP clinical data 1971–73.” Inside were dense medical research notes and, tucked between them, a thin folder labeled “Subjects Master List.” It was a simple typed list of names—Abbott, Marcus; Baker, Daniel; Collins, Loretta—each followed by a date and a seven-digit number.

The dates were all from 1972. The numbers looked like medical record IDs. Simone felt a chill. She had stumbled upon a list of children—subjects in a long-dead research project.

Back at her desk, Simone searched the archives for connections. She found a classified ad from September 1972: “Missing: Marcus Abbott, age 7, last seen at Crestwood General Hospital.” Another ad for Baker, Daniel. Another for Collins, Loretta. Every name on the research list belonged to a Black child reported missing that year—their last known location, Crestwood General.

Patterns of Disappearance

The scope was staggering. This was not a story about isolated cases, but a systematic disappearance of dozens of children, all from the same demographic, all from the same institution.

Simone cross-referenced the dates. Each child’s admission date at Crestwood matched the date in the lab records. Their missing persons reports were filed days later. Official police files were thin, filled with dismissive notes: “Mother is single, works nights,” “Family is transient,” “Subject has history of truancy.” Most investigations were closed within a week, the child branded a runaway.

Simone realized she’d uncovered not just a story about bureaucratic neglect, but about the decay of a city’s soul—a crime so vast and so terrible it had been buried for three decades.

Thelma Abbott’s Story

To give the data a human face, Simone tracked down Thelma Abbott, mother of Marcus Abbott. In 1972, Thelma was a young woman working nights at a textile mill, her life defined by the fierce love for her son, Marcus—a bright, joyful boy with asthma.

One September night, Marcus suffered a severe attack. Thelma rushed him to Crestwood, desperate for help. There, she met Dr. Julian Cross, head of pediatric research. He spoke with authority and compassion, offering an experimental treatment that promised a future free from illness. Exhausted and terrified, Thelma agreed.

For three days, Marcus seemed to recover. Dr. Cross visited daily, reassuring Thelma. Then, after a night shift, Thelma returned to find Marcus’s room empty. The hospital claimed he’d been transferred to a convalescent center upstate, but the facility had no record of him. Dr. Cross was unreachable; the police were dismissive. Marcus had not just disappeared—he’d been erased.

A Wall of Silence

Simone’s requests for records were denied—patient privacy cited as the reason, even though the patients were missing and the hospital was defunct. Police files were flagged, restricted access. A retired detective, Frank Donovan, told Simone, “You’re chasing ghosts. We didn’t have the manpower to look for kids who ran away.”

But the pattern was undeniable. All the missing children had been admitted to Crestwood. All had vanished under similar circumstances. It was a system that deemed these children unworthy of protection.

A Witness Emerges

Simone needed a witness. Thelma remembered a nurse—Hattie Devo—who had shown kindness and, in retrospect, a look of warning. Tracking down Hattie took weeks, but Simone finally found her at a church in the old neighborhood. At first, Hattie denied everything, her fear palpable.

Simone persisted, sending a letter explaining the investigation and the evidence. With Thelma by her side, Simone visited Hattie again. The presence of the grieving mother broke the wall of silence. Hattie confessed: she had kept a secret diary, recording the names and dates of children who disappeared from Crestwood’s pediatric ward.

The diary was the missing link—a record of the vanished children, their illnesses, and the days they were taken.

The Monstrous Truth

Simone brought the lab records and Hattie’s diary to Dr. Eleanor Vance, a retired medical ethicist. Dr. Vance’s analysis was damning. In 1972, Dr. Julian Cross had been testing a highly experimental immunosuppressant called cycllorine—a drug so toxic it caused organ failure and death in animal trials.

Cross needed human subjects who were healthy enough to provide data, but vulnerable enough that their disappearance wouldn’t be noticed. He targeted poor Black children with treatable illnesses, admitting them under the guise of new protocols, then administering lethal doses of cycllorine. Their suffering was meticulously documented as “clinical data.” When they died, their bodies were likely disposed of in the hospital’s incinerator.

“This is not research,” Dr. Vance said. “This is barbarism dressed up as science.”

The Reckoning

Armed with evidence, Simone confronted Dr. Cross at a charity gala. When she presented the lab records and Hattie’s diary, his mask of benevolence shattered. The moment was caught on camera—a celebrated philanthropist exposed as a monster.

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution published Simone’s exposé, “The Lost Children of Crestwood.” The response was immediate and furious. State and federal investigations followed. Dr. Cross was arrested, his influence crumbling. With Hattie’s testimony and the lab records, he was convicted of manslaughter and unethical human experimentation.

Justice and Memory

But the story was never just about one evil man. The Crestwood scandal forced Atlanta to confront its history of institutional racism and official neglect. Sweeping reforms followed, and the city committed to protecting its most vulnerable citizens.

A year later, a memorial park was dedicated on the site of the demolished hospital. At its center stood a wall of polished black granite, inscribed with the names of the lost children—Abbott, Marcus; Baker, Daniel; Collins, Loretta; and dozens more. Thelma Abbott traced her son’s name, tears of peace replacing decades of grief.

The children of Crestwood had finally come home. Their names, once buried in forgotten lab records, now stood as a permanent testament to the power of truth—and the relentless courage it takes to uncover it.