He was a beloved charmer, but Scott Brewster was shadowed by drink and despair. He died brutally battered in an unsolved crime that continues the mystery of an overcast life.

Scott Brewster's mother describes it as a big black cloud that followed him, a penchant for problems unsolvable, calamity unavoidable, fates unforgivable.

"Any time he walked by, a shelf would fall or a door handle he'd touch would come loose," Linda Brewster said. "It just got to be a joke."

But the handsome charmer whose smile could light up rooms and leverage favors would not have the last laugh. The cloud was growing too dark, too big, too fast, too deadly.

Falling shelves became a failing marriage, a spiraling down into the bottom of a bottle, into pain, violence, joblessness, homelessness. It became bad breaks, bad choices, confusion, depression and a despair that even his mother couldn't extricate him from.

When the black cloud descended for good last summer, Scott Brewster was dead, his nude and battered body found in the shadows of a drainage ditch in a Northeast Heights park.

He was 26.

His death last July was one of the most baffling and one of the most brutal homicides of the year. It is also one of the few still unsolved.

Albuquerque police Detective Rick Foley, the lead investigator, won't say much about the case so far. Most search warrants and documents in the case have been sealed under court order.

"The investigation is ongoing, and we are actively pursuing several leads" is Foley's pat answer.

Nearly a year later, the Brewsters wait to learn who killed their younger child, the charming golden boy dogged by a darker side he ultimately could not outrun.

"You never think your son's going to die in the dirt," Linda Brewster said. "I just want the case solved. We suspect that there are probably witnesses who don't even know they have important information. Someone out there knows something. Please, please, won't someone help us?"

A perfect world

Scott Brewster didn't come easily into this world. His mother had already endured three miscarriages when toxemia nearly took its toll, twice first with the birth of a daughter; then, and most precariously, with Scott.

"I almost died having him," Linda Brewster said.

Perhaps it was because of his hard-won birth that she so tenaciously doted on him, made sure his life was happy, easy, handled, perfect.

"I have to admit he was a mama's boy," she said.

But it was easy to love Scott, the blond-haired, blue-eyed boy who in photographs is always smiling, always flawlessly dressed, always surrounded by bright-faced youths or hugged by adoring nephews and nieces.

"I never met anyone who had so many people calling him their best friend," said John Williams, an Albuquerque lawyer who would one day become Scott's benefactor.

Such instant affability was likely honed during Scott's new-kid-on-the-block role in his father's Air Force years, when the family bounced around the globe from Vermont to Mississippi to Denver to the Philippines to Sacramento, Calif., and finally in 1985 to Albuquerque.

But there was more to Scott Brewster than a charming veneer.

"He was a real gentle, kind soul," said his father, C.J. Brewster. "The only time I knew him to get violent was when he saw injustice being done. He could not tolerate any injustices, bullies, racism. He'd give you the shirt off his back. He was for equal rights."

And by the time he reached Eldorado High School in Albuquerque he was also very much for girls.

"He had too much interest in girls," his father said. "He had three or four different girls calling him every week. He didn't have a dime, and it didn't matter. They took care of him."

Then he met Sallie.

"He loved her dearly," his mother said. "He loved her till the day he died."

On April 11, 1991, Scott and Sallie Sanderson were married, Scott a 1990 graduate, Sallie a senior.

The young couple struck out for Pascagoula, Miss., where Scott's grandfather had secured a job for him at Litton Industries building Navy ships.

Fewer than three years later, the marriage was over.

Divorce papers filed in Albuquerque by Sanderson in early 1994 give little indication as to what went wrong between the high school sweethearts. Grounds for divorce were listed as "no fault."

The couple had no children. She asked for no alimony. Sanderson could not be reached for this story.

The breakup devastated Scott.

"She left him destroyed so badly that he got drunk one night and sat in front of a closed drugstore in Mississippi and started banging on the door," his father said. "He just kept attacking the door and attacking the door. And then he sat down and waited until the police came."

Eventually, Scott returned to his parents' home in Albuquerque with almost nothing to his name but a felony charge in the drugstore incident.

A financial affidavit filed April 27, 1994, during divorce proceedings indicates that Scott was unemployed, had no cash on hand or in the bank. His only asset was a 1990 Dodge Omni valued at $1,500.

It was the beginning of the end for Scott Brewster's perfect world.

Down and out

With his heart broken, his record tarnished and his wallet empty, the once svelte, clean-shaven young man began to gain weight and appeared unkempt. Back and hip pain from a previous car crash usurped his usual vital self. Migraine headaches that had debilitated him as a child began storming back into his head.

"He got more depressed, started drinking beer, got more depressed," his father said.

He couldn't find a job partly because of the felony charge, his parents said. "He couldn't get beyond that," his mother said. "He wouldn't lie on the job applications."

The best he was able to muster was a job at a Burger King, where the owner had taken a liking to him and even wanted to make him a manager. But Scott's depression, drinking and distractions kept ruining his chances.

"In all honesty, he loved his beer," his father said. "But he had a problem with alcohol. His drinking was a dumb, stupid thing. Stupid."

By the summer of 1995, Scott's drinking had led to two arrests on drunken-driving charges, court records indicate. Then his mother's pain medication started disappearing.

Scott's parents had had enough. They asked him to move out.

"We're a close family, but we decided to practice a little hard love to help him grow up, be responsible," C.J. Brewster said. "He would call his mom; he cried on the phone. A couple of times he said he didn't think he would ever get his life together. But we had high hopes."

Friends say Scott, then 23, fell into a nomadic lifestyle, staying at the homes of just-met acquaintances, occasionally winding up in motels or on the streets, sleeping on old couches tucked in concrete arroyos in a secret network of transient hovels.

In August 1996, John Williams, a man several years Scott's senior, let him move into his home on Somervell Court Northeast.

Theirs was a turbulent alliance and a mysterious one.

"He hated it there, but he needed a roof over his head," his mother said.

Williams said he simply took an interest in the younger Scott and wanted to help him, knowing there was some risk to the older man's safety.

That's because it was Williams who took the brunt of the black cloud that was darkening over Scott. And it was Williams who would be one of the last to see Scott alive.

The last rainbow

Scott Brewster's last words to his parents still jangle in their minds like the dozens of clocks that bang out the time every hour, every day throughout their Southeast Heights home.

"The last time he called was just to tell me about a rainbow," his father said. "He was like that, into nature, enjoying simple things like that.

"But I was short with him because of his drinking. I was upset with Scott I'm still upset with Scott. I don't condone drinking like Scott was drinking."

Linda Brewster said she remembers standing at the front door saying goodbye to Scott for what would be the last time.

"He was leaving and I was giving him a hug when something made me say: 'Scott, your luck has just run out. You've had a guardian angel help take care of you; somebody's been watching over you. You just got to be careful.'

"He said, 'I know it, Mom. I love you.' "

She doesn't know what compelled her to utter those words that day.

"I just knew it," she said.

And she was right.

Just before 6 on the bright summer morning of July 16, a jogger running through Snow Park spotted a bloodied and nude body lying face down in the cold, concrete Embudo Arroyo.

The badly beaten body was partly concealed in the shadows at a point where the arroyo slides under Indian School Road at Altez Northeast.

One TV station reported on its noon broadcast that the victim bore a large surgical scar across the hip.

C.J. Brewster, two weeks after suffering a heart attack, was watching that broadcast.

He knew Snow Park was two blocks west of the home where Scott had been living with Williams.

And he knew Scott bore a similar surgical scar on his hip from the earlier car crash.

He paged Linda Brewster, who was out shopping at Wal-Mart.

"I call him back, and he asks, 'What side was Scott's scar on?' I tell him the right," she said. "He tells me I had better come home."

He didn't tell her why.

"I called APD," he said. "I said, 'That might be my son.' They said I was one of 14 calls saying the same thing. I was astounded."

Four hours later, police confirmed the Brewsters' worst fear.

The dark side

For the next few days, TV and newspaper reports referred to the homicide victim as Barry Scott Brewster, confusing friends and family who knew him by Scott, his middle name.

But as information and speculation on the homicide surfaced, even those who knew him as Scott wondered whether they had known him at all.

"This reporter from KOAT comes over to interview us, and he sits on our couch and says, 'How long have you known that your son was gay?' " C.J. Brewster said. "I was speechless."

Further news reports linked Scott's death to a possible serial killer who was targeting gay men in the city, a scenario that Detective Foley said has never been confirmed.

And then the news reports stopped.

Scott's family and friends said they are convinced that the gay connection quickly dissolved public interest in their Scott's case and put the investigation on a back burner.

"The gay thing really shut things down," C.J. Brewster said. "But he was too involved with girls" to be gay.

The Brewsters acknowledged that they may have not known everything about their son's lifestyle. They knew he had gay friends. And they knew that he frequented gay bars such as Foxes Lounge and the Ranch.

But Williams, Scott's housemate, said Scott's affinity for gay bars was based on economics and not sexual orientation.

"Look at him," he said. "All he had to do was walk in the door and men were jumping to buy him beers."

But a Jan. 30, 1997, domestic violence complaint involving Scott and Williams states: "Brewster did admit that they were both lovers."

Not true, Williams said.

"Scott had the mistaken notion that the law would go easier on him if it was a domestic dispute rather than a straight battery," he said.

In all, four domestic-violence complaints between Scott and Williams would be filed from November 1996 to March 1998.

The complaints detail how Williams was knocked to the ground and kicked twice, how he was grabbed by the nose and shaken, how Scott ripped the front door from its hinges and punched holes in the walls.

In nearly every case, police said Scott was drunk.

"Ninety-nine point 9 percent of the time Scott was the sweetest, nicest guy," Williams said. "But when he drank he became violent. And he drank because he had bouts of depression that were so deep and so black."

Scott was given probation and ordered into counseling, records show. It appeared to help, a little.

By the summer of 1998, Scott's life seemed to be on the upswing, his parents said. He was working out again and had lost weight. The 5-foot-11 Scott was again a firm 181 pounds.

He made plans to return to work at Burger King in mid-July 1998.

Maybe, they thought, Scott's dark cloud was lifting.

But it wouldn't last.

A fatal attraction

For three straight days in July 1998, Scott remained in bed at Williams' home two blocks west of Snow Park.

On July 15, his mood had grown so dark that Williams said he decided to stay home to keep an eye on him.

Scott was sober, he said.

About 7:30 p.m. Scott finally emerged from his bed and told Williams he was going for a walk.

"That was a good sign, that he was shaking his depression," Williams said. "He frequently took long, lazy walks, sometimes five or 10 miles."

He didn't say where he was going, Williams said.

When he didn't return that night, Williams said he was not overly concerned. Scott's plans were often changed by the breeze, a whim, a chance meeting.

He often struck up conversations with strangers, often took up invitations to do just about anything.

Anything.

"Scotty would just put himself in harm's way," C.J. Brewster said. "He was too trusting. I would just shake my head. He attracted crap."

What he attracted on the evening of July 15 was fatal.

When his body was found the next day in the arroyo in Snow Park, one thing was clear: Death, like birth, had come hard for Scott Brewster.

Bruises, abrasions, lacerations and tears covered nearly every inch of his body. Teeth were chipped, loosened or missing altogether. Blood was splattered on the wall of the arroyo, pooled around his head and covered chunks of concrete found nearby.

Repeated, crushing blows to the back of his head buckled his skull and killed him, an autopsy performed by the state Office of the Medical Investigator later determined.

Nothing indicated that Scott had attempted to fight back.

So severe was Scott's ravaging that months later an OMI employee still vividly remembered the autopsy.

Toxicology tests identified marijuana, Valium and Benadryl, an antihistamine he took for allergies, in Scott's blood. He had been drinking before he died, tests showed, and had a blood-alcohol level of 0.20 nearly three times the legal limit for driving.

But where had the alcohol come from? No bars are located near where Scott had last been seen and he had been on foot. A convenience store between Williams' house and Snow Park sells beer and wine. But, as usual, Scott had no money, Williams said.

Shortly after the homicide, police released a composite sketch of a dark-haired man who may have been seen with Scott. They seized a wooden club and a knife from a home near the park, police reports indicated.

Body fluids and tissue samples were taken from Williams and two other men, at least one of whom resided in the home near the park.

But each item has led to an apparent dead end. The man in the composite sketch is no longer a suspect, Foley said.

Several items seized at the crime scene, including clothing found in another area of the arroyo, have never been directly linked to Scott's death.

Scott's clothes have never been found. Detective Foley has not released a description of them.

What happened in Snow Park between 7:30 p.m. July 15 and 6 a.m. July 16 is still anyone's guess.

"It's just so strange, the manner he died," his mother said. "He was 5-foot-11. He was strong, a gentle giant. Somebody stronger had to have done this. Or somebody who took him by complete surprise."

Anyone's guess.

"It just doesn't seem fair the way it happened," his father said. "It's not right. Everybody deserves a better way to die."

Aftermath

Nearly a year later, and the Brewsters wait, trusting that detectives will solve their son's homicide, trusting that they did right by their son.

"You always have 'what ifs,' " C.J. Brewster said.

Williams said Scott's parents were not to blame for his demise.

"Scott blamed himself, not his parents," he said. "If he had been able to turn his life around, his parents would have been there for him."

But it never worked out that way.

The rips left behind by Scott's death are wide. Several of his young nieces and nephews have required counseling. One was hospitalized for four months.

"The children suffered so," Linda Brewster said. "One of the kids said, 'The only way you get to heaven is to be murdered.' "

Scott's death also took a toll on the health of Linda's mother, on Linda and on C.J., whose heart condition limits the amount of emotional stress he can handle. Talking and thinking about his son's death are often too much to bear.

"C.J. is a different person," Linda Brewster said. "I can't talk to him."

Instead, she talks to the members of the New Mexico Survivors of Homicide, women and men who have also lost a loved one to violence.

About once a week, she goes back to Snow Park, to the spot where Scott last drew breath and the dark cloud descended.

She places flowers around a sycamore that grows on a slope overlooking the arroyo. The Brewsters paid $100 to the city's memorial tree service to have it planted and a plaque installed.

Like the shelves that used to fall in the benign stages of Scott's dark cloud, the plaque's engraving originally was misspelled.

Scott would have laughed at that, his mother thinks.

Some days she brings his beloved nephews and nieces to play along the green hills and to remember an uncle who was too trusting of the fates, too willing to let the tides, good or bad, take him where they would.

"Scott was a good kid," his father said. "He just wasn't an angel."

So they wait.

"I hope and pray that whoever did this is off the streets," Linda Brewster said. "It's hard for parents of a murdered child to wait."