On January 12, 2007, what began as a felony tax trial for Ed and Elaine Brown in Plainfield, New Hampshire, spiraled into the longest armed standoff in U.S. Marshals history. Refusing to appear in court and surrender to federal authorities, the Browns transformed their home into a fortress, drawing support from militia groups and anti-government activists nationwide.
No One Has To Die offers an in-depth look at the tense and perilous nine month standoff that tested the resolve and tactics of the U.S. Marshals Service. Steve Monier, with contributions from Gary DiMartino and Dave Dimmitt, recounts the meticulous planning and tactical negotiations aimed at resolving the situation peacefully, against a backdrop of rising militia activity and public scrutiny.
This compelling narrative dives into the Browns' extremist beliefs, the challenges faced by law enforcement, and the strategies employed to prevent another Waco or Ruby Ridge. Through detailed accounts and personal insights, the book highlights the importance of communication, patience, and strategy in averting violence and ensuring that no one has to die.
4.8from 11 readers
Chapter 1
Not Just Another Day…
U.S. Marshal Stephen Monier arrived at his desk at approximately eight a.m. on Friday, January 12, 2007. This was going to be the fourth day of the trial for Ed and Elaine Brown of Plainfield, New Hampshire, on felony charges for conspiracy to commit federal income tax violations. The government had a very strong case, and the Browns were representing themselves.
A friend sympathetic to their cause, Michael Avery, from the suitably named Outlaw Legal Services of Florida, was serving as a “paralegal.” He had helped Ed and Elaine prepare all their pre-trial motions. He was seated at the defense table to “advise them.” The Browns had rejected any representation by an attorney.
It wasn’t going well for the Browns. Ed Brown’s spurious arguments against having to pay federal income taxes were rejected by the court, and his theories on the federal tax laws were shut down by presiding Judge Steven McAuliffe at several points. The government’s witnesses were showing that Ed and Elaine had stopped paying their taxes in 1996 and owed more than $625,000 in unpaid income tax. They were also charged with structuring, the intentional manipulation of financial transactions to evade reporting requirements.
As was his custom on getting to the office, Marshal Monier checked in with the control room upon arrival and spoke with the two court security officers manning the cameras and other systems monitoring courthouse activity that day. All was quiet, they said.
Marshal Monier and his chief deputy, Gary DiMartino, were both concerned about this trial. The U.S. Marshals Service (USMS) had deemed that the trial was “high risk” given that Ed Brown, a self-described “retired exterminator,” had become a leader in the militia group, U.S. Constitution Rangers. Membership in the rangers had grown in the aftermath of federal law enforcement’s attempts to serve arrest warrants at Ruby Ridge in Idaho and at the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas. Chief DiMartino and Inspector Brenda Mikelson had ordered extra courtroom security and intelligence gathering for the trial. They had ensured that court security officers were being extra vigilant in screening people involved with, or attending, the trial in the U.S. District Court in Concord, New Hampshire.
Marshal Steve Monier and Chief DiMartino had worked together for the past five years in the District of New Hampshire. Chief DiMartino was a career deputy U.S. marshal who had risen through the ranks to become a chief deputy in the Marshals Service, the number two person in every one of the ninety-four district offices of the USMS.
Deputy U.S. marshals are highly trained federal law enforcement officers, not unlike career FBI, ATF, and IRS agents. They apply for open positions in the Marshals Service, take written and physical exams, and are subjected to background investigations prior to being hired. They attend, and must successfully complete, the USMS Academy and other advanced training programs throughout their career.
Gary DiMartino began his law enforcement career in a Rhode Island police department before applying for, and beginning, his calling with the USMS.
Because he had served in several supervisory positions on both the East and West Coasts during his long tenure with the agency and had taught at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Academy in Glynco, Georgia, he was a highly respected and well-known chief in the USMS. Marshal Monier considered him a very qualified, competent, and professional member of the service and was pleased that when President George W. Bush had nominated him to become the U.S. Marshal for the District of New Hampshire, Gary was his chief deputy.
Unlike the deputy U.S. marshals, who form the corps or “backbone” of the USMS, each U.S. marshal (USM) who heads the district offices of the USMS is nominated by the President of the United States and must be confirmed by the U.S. Senate before taking the oath of office. This has been the case since the U.S. Marshals Service was created in 1789 by the 1st Congress of the newly formed United States government.
When the 1st Congress of the United States stood up the federal judiciary, they realized there was no agency to enforce court orders, apprehend offenders, or help run the court system. In the Judiciary Act, the 1st Congress created the United States Marshals Service, with each marshal in each district to be appointed by the president with the “advice and consent” of the United States Senate.
President George Washington swore in the first thirteen U.S. marshals, including the first marshal of the District of New Hampshire, in 1789. The U.S. Marshals Service is our republic’s oldest federal law enforcement agency, with the broadest of authority in enforcing federal law and orders from the U.S. courts. For over 234 years, the U.S. Marshals have done everything from protecting the courts, to taking the census, to protecting the President of the United States.
In the twenty-first century, their core mission is the protection of the U.S. courts, enforcing court orders, apprehending fugitives, running the witness protection program, finding missing or abducted children, and taking the lead on enforcing the provisions of the Adam Walsh Act to track and monitor convicted sex offenders.
Congress and the U.S. Department of Justice made several legislative and administrative changes to how the work of the USMS was conducted over the decades, and in particular, in the twentieth century. Originally, each U.S. marshal could appoint his own deputies as needed, to carry out orders from the court.
As David S. Turk, the official historian of the Marshals Service, noted in his seminal work entitled Forging the Star, “[L]ong after gaining their Old West reputation with personnel such as Seth Bullock, Wyatt Earp, Bass Reeves, Bat Masterson, and Heck Thomas, U.S. Marshals and their deputies followed a winding trail of transition.”?i
At approximately nine-thirty on that Friday morning, Chief DiMartino stuck his head into the marshal’s office and said, “Marshal, Ed and Elaine failed to show up this morning for the continuation of their trial.”
It was a decisive moment in the long run-up to this point in the case of the United States v. Edward L. Brown & Elaine A. Brown. Their failure to appear was long feared by both Monier and DiMartino.
Both had had uneasy feelings about this case, since the district court’s magistrate judge released them on conditions, at their arraignment on May 24, 2006, on the income tax and other charges.
Among the conditions of release were that the Browns surrender all weapons to the USMS and the U.S. probation officers who would accompany them back to their Plainfield home. Further, they were to cooperate with, and report regularly to, the U.S. probation officers at the U.S. district court and appear at all future court proceedings.
Deputy U.S. marshals and U.S. probation officers drove Ed and Elaine back to their home in Plainfield to remove their weapons that day in May of 2006. Sharp-eyed deputy marshals noted the layout of the Browns’ home on the property, took photographs, and later sketched out the interior layout of the home. This proved to be pivotal in what ensued in the continuing Brown saga.
The deputies who went there also told Chief DiMartino that they didn’t believe Ed Brown had surrendered every weapon in his possession to the U.S. probation officers. The property, they reported, was simply too large and the house and outbuildings had too many places where firearms could be concealed.
Within a few hours of the morning the Browns failed to appear for the continuation of their trial, the news got worse. The USMS learned that heavily armed militia members and supporters of Ed Brown had gathered at the end of their long driveway leading to their hilltop home in Plainfield. Judge Steven McAuliffe issued warrants for the Browns’ arrest on failure to appear.
Initially, at the USMS and the prosecution’s request, the warrants were sealed. Chief Gary DiMartino counseled that the best course immediately was to call the Browns and convince them to return to court for the remainder of their trial. The marshal and Judge McAuliffe concurred, as Gary had carefully established a rapport with Ed and Elaine while they were detained in the Marshals Service’s detention facility at their arraignment in May.
“I had faith in Gary’s ability to use his considerable communications skills to convince the Browns that they should return to court to finish the trial,” Monier reported. Instead of immediately attempting to arrest the Browns at their home, where Ed’s armed followers had gathered, he consented to Gary’s suggestion that he try and convince them to return for the remainder of the trial.
Gary DiMartino spent the next three days talking with Ed and Elaine via telephone to do just that. The fact that the Browns took every one of his calls over that weekend was a positive.
At one point, it looked like the chief would be successful and that both Ed and Elaine would return to the court on Tuesday morning. Elaine was more noticeably willing to do that given the chief’s convincing arguments that this was a financial crime and that they need not take this to any further level.
Gary argued that it would be hard for them to continue to mount a defense if they weren’t in the courtroom to do so. The jury, he said, “will only hear the government’s side, and not yours.” As it turned out, Chief DiMartino was only partially successful.
Chief DiMartino continued to speak with them directly over the phone throughout the weekend and into the day on Monday, which was a holiday. On Tuesday morning, January 16th, Gary had brokered the return of the Browns for the remainder of their trial. Elaine Brown got into the car to return to the courthouse in Concord. At the last minute, however, Ed demurred and refused to get in the car.
This was a partial victory for the Marshals Service. While it isolated Ed Brown from Elaine, Ed was not alone. He was left with some die-hard armed militia supporters who shared his belief about the “corruption of the federal government.” Soon thereafter, others joined the group, including members of the “Free State” movement in New Hampshire who, while not professing violence themselves, joined in the discussion about the “overreach” of the federal government into the lives of ordinary Americans. A select number of the New Hampshire Free Staters, who preached an extreme form of libertarianism, supported the Browns.
In a letter posted on the internet shortly after Ed Brown’s public announcement that he would not be returning for the remainder of his trial, New Hampshire native William D. Miller wrote on a blog posting, “I am going to see Judge McAuliffe and U.S. Attorney Colantuono and various other officials hanged for treason for these actions.” In response, the U.S. Marshals Service issued a “be on the look-out” (BOLO) to area law enforcement in an attempt to locate Miller.
Miller, a New Hampshire resident who was living in Florida at the time, had a history of local law enforcement contacts. He was also an early disciple of Ed Brown and the Constitution Rangers and had been one of Ed’s followers for some time.
When Bill Miller learned of the trial, and Ed’s vow to fight any attempt to force him to return to the courtroom, Miller got in his car and drove nonstop from Florida “to protect Brown” at all costs. Miller was armed and ready to take on the role of “chief of staff” to Ed Brown when he arrived in Plainfield, New Hampshire, twenty-four hours later.
With Miller’s help initially, Brown made use of the internet, emails, blog postings, and media interviews almost immediately upon deciding that he was going to fight any attempts to arrest him or force him from his property.
“I will defend my property, and I am willing to die before going to jail…” Ed Brown told his followers. Apparently, Ed had concluded that he and Elaine were likely to be convicted at the conclusion of the trial. He was publicly critical of Judge McAuliffe and his rulings and, in interviews with the gathering media, called it a “kangaroo court.”
Word was quickly spreading through the militia, U.S. Constitution Rangers, and the sovereign citizen communities that things were heating up in Plainfield. Comments on blogging websites and emails about the federal government unfairly targeting the Browns were spreading hourly. Supporters were calling for all good patriots to stand up for them. One message being spread on anti-government websites was titled, “Will Plainfield be another Waco?”
Local and state media also began covering the Ed and Elaine Brown story. The NH Union Leader, New Hampshire’s only statewide newspaper, and the Concord Monitor, published in New Hampshire’s capital and widely distributed, and the Valley News (covering the Hanover, Lebanon, and Plainfield region) all took note. The marshal and chief assigned a deputy, who was particularly adept at high tech, IT, and the internet, to begin monitoring all activities related to the Browns. In a call to HQ, they asked that the Investigative Services Division (ISD) and the Intel Unit do the same.
On January 12, 2007, Margot Sanger-Katz, a reporter for the Concord Monitor (a prominent New Hampshire newspaper covering the capital city region) wrote one of her first news stories about the Browns’ trial when she reported on the first two days of it. The trial had already gained a local interest amongst the state’s papers and the statewide ABC-affiliated TV station, WMUR-TV 9, as supporters of the Browns demonstrated in front of the U.S. district courthouse.
Dave Ridley of Keene, New Hampshire, a member of the “Free State” movement in the state, held a sign reading “Ministry of Torture” in reference to “government-sanctioned torture with taxes.” “That’s why I support Ed,” Ridley told the Concord Monitor. “He’s standing up to the federal government.”
Ironically, Sanger-Katz’s article about the trial’s proceedings appeared on January 12th, the same day Ed and Elaine Brown both refused to return to the courthouse. The government was close to resting its case against the Browns after the testimony of the lead IRS agent handling the investigation and testimony from several postal service employees about the Browns’ habit of purchasing multiple postal money orders just below the $3,000 limit required for notification to the government of the transaction.
According to the government’s witnesses, this “structuring” of money orders is a common method to avoid paying income taxes. Over a two-year period, the Browns purchased more than $300,000 in money orders. Ed and Elaine, according to postal service investigators, would separately each wait in line and purchase a money order for $2,800.
At the close of the court’s proceedings on January 11th, both Browns told the court that they would begin their defense in the morning, and both told the judge that they planned to testify in their own defense.
Both, however, failed to return to court on Friday, January 12th.
On Tuesday, the 16th of January, 2007, the day that Elaine agreed to Chief DiMartino’s entreaties to return to court, she also agreed to have a court-appointed attorney, Bjorn Lange, represent her. Michael Avery, the paralegal, continued in his role and sat in on the plea negotiations between the government prosecutor and Attorney Lange.
Learning of the plea negotiations, Judge McAuliffe agreed to postpone the couple’s trial for another day when it appeared that Elaine Brown would be willing to reach a deal with the prosecution. That is, if she pled guilty to the extent of her criminal liability and conduct. As a dentist, Elaine Brown earned most of the couple’s income. She also had been charged with failing to collect employment taxes from the staff at her dental office in Lebanon.
The judge continued the trial for another day so that the government could calculate what they expected Dr. Brown would pay in back taxes and penalties and the terms of a prison confinement. Elaine was given until ten o’clock the following morning to make a decision on whether to accept a plea deal. If there was no deal, the judge ruled, the trial would continue with or without Ed Brown in the courtroom.
Because Elaine had failed to appear on Friday, the judge ordered new bail conditions for her. He ordered Dr. Brown to stay with her son in Worcester, Massachusetts, and not to return to her Plainfield, New Hampshire, home. She was only allowed telephonic contact with her husband, and she was ordered to wear an electronic ankle bracelet so that U.S. probation officers could monitor her whereabouts.
The Waco Branch Davidian standoff lasted fifty-one days. When both the Browns failed to appear on January 12, 2007, it set in motion what would become a nearly nine-month standoff, the longest armed standoff in the 234-year history of the U.S. Marshals Service. Would Plainfield, New Hampshire, join the lexicon of American history as another Waco or Ruby Ridge?
District of New Hampshire Chief Gary DiMartino, U.S. Marshal Steve Monier, and USMS Chief Regional Inspector Dave Dimmitt were determined not to let that happen.
“12/26/75” is more than a story about a murder. It is a case of wrongful conviction, prosecutorial misconduct, corruption, and a serial killer. For Tony Reid, this case began with a claim of innocence in the 1975 murder of Donna Jo Richmond. The original investigation and flawed trial resulted in a guilty verdict, but a reevaluation revealed that the defendant had been wrongly accused and railroaded. The question then shifted to who framed him. With a new team of investigators, including two original detectives, a startling possibility emerged: Could the real culprit be a serial offender?
Mr. Reid launched the "12/26/75" podcast, seeking information from the public. Based on primary evidence and new interviews related to Donna Jo's murder in Exeter, California, the team delved into every angle. What they found was more than a miscarriage of justice. They uncovered connections to the unsolved murders of Jennifer Armour and Claude Snelling, as well as links to The Visalia Ransacker/East Area Rapist. They exposed corruption by the lead investigator who destroyed trial evidence, and they investigated the mysterious death of the original defense attorney. This led them back to Exeter, where a new suspect emerged: Joseph DeAngelo, a sergeant with the local police department at the time, in charge of violent crimes and burglary investigations.
"12/26/75" goes beyond being a mere adaptation of the podcast. It offers fresh insights from the investigation, providing a firsthand view of the crimes and revealing the flawed evidence that led to the wrongful conviction. Most importantly, it highlights the grave consequences of letting a serial killer go free, compounded by mistakes, internal conflicts, and blame-shifting among different jurisdictions. The book makes it clear that reforms are urgently needed to prevent such tragedies from happening again, now that the truth of how it all unfolded is exposed.
5.0from 9 readers
CHAPTER ONE
“We’ll catch the guy”
“I’ll be driving my wife’s orange Jeep, you won’t be able to miss me.” Retired VPD Sgt. John Vaughan is a master of understatement.
I chose the Black Bear Diner because it seemed like the kind of place where cops eat. They serve all-day breakfast, steaks, and bottomless cups of coffee in their signature white mugs. I was afraid that if I suggested a place more suited for a vegan from Los Angeles, I might make an already awkward meeting totally unbearable for both of us.
The Jeep was the brightest thing in the parking lot, maybe in the entire county, now turned brown after years of endless drought. As I drove into town, the only color was the green from irrigated groves of citrus trees. Although it was still early, the day was quickly heading over 100 degrees. Visalia is a small city stuck in time. It prides itself on pretending that it is still 1950. The A&W brews its own homemade root beer, and sells it in jugs that you can take home. However, it was impossible to miss the racist graffiti scrawled on the wall of the Indian grocery store on the edge of the A&W parking lot.
I understood Visalia, and its power structure. My great-grandparents chased the American farming dream across the country at the turn of the 20th century, going from Kansas to North Dakota, then to the newly planted orange trees of Southern California. My great-grandfather was a pacifist, and they fled to Canada during WWI, finally returning to the apple and cherry trees of northeastern Washington State. My great-uncle, “Buck,” was the police chief of a small farming city a lot like Visalia. Rumors were that he ran the town as his own personal criminal empire. He took a cut of every illegal enterprise, and black and brown suspects ended up dead in the river, rather than in a jail cell or courtroom. According to my mother, the rumors were all true. As soon as she could, she left for Seattle, and never looked back. Her sister took the other path, became a police dispatcher, and married the son of a homicide detective in Spokane.
I never planned on becoming an attorney, but somehow my internal need for fairness found a practical profession. Handling criminal appeals immediately put me in direct conflict with law enforcement, prosecutors, and judges. It’s a specialized area of the law that requires endless hours of research on each case. The best appellate attorneys start at the beginning, with the events leading up to the crime, not the trial itself. That means digging into original police reports, witness statements, and forensic lab bench notes. Overworked and underfunded public defenders are rarely granted money for investigators and forensic experts, and critical details can easily be missed.
Although my office is staffed by licensed attorneys and private investigators, we each bring unique life experiences and skills. I spent summers on drilling rigs in the Arctic Circle and in Montana. Guns were a necessity in camps accessible only by helicopter, and stalked by grizzly bears and wolves. We have dirt bike riders, and a pilot who can conduct surveillance via small plane or drone. One of our attorneys is a forensics expert, who studied criminology at Oxford University, and can build a complete family tree for a subject while you wait in the field for the next address to check out or vehicle to follow. Two of us lost close friends to serial offenders, and we are guided by what we know they would want us to do if we were pursing their killers. Terri and Laurie would want the truth—no matter how long it takes, or how difficult it may be to accept.
My first phone call to John Vaughan went pretty much exactly as I expected. John had retired as a sergeant with VPD in 1996 after 35 years of service, and 20 years later, he had little interest in revisiting a 40-year-old unsolved crime spree. However, I wasn’t calling about just any case—it was the longest and most expensive investigation in VPD history, and Sgt. Vaughan had been the lead detective. I asked him if I could just email a few documents, and he finally agreed to let me mail him an envelope. The day he got the documents he called back, and asked if we could meet to discuss the information. Now here we were in the parking lot of the Black Bear Diner.
Even twenty years after retirement, John still looked like he could topple his wife’s Jeep with one hand, and the expression on his face as I pulled up made me think he was considering it. Walking into the restaurant together, we made small talk, and the mood hadn’t really improved by the time we were done ordering. John was a wall of skepticism, built over 40 long years of listening to an endless number of overly excited “theories” about his biggest case. Between March 1974 and December 1975, a man dubbed the “Visalia Ransacker” had terrorized his city. There had been over 150 residential burglaries with a very weird and specific MO.
The burglar ignored expensive jewelry and electronics, and instead stole Blue Chip trading stamps, piggy banks, food, coins, cameras, two dollar bills, knives, and single earrings from a pair. He took guns, but only if they were older or foreign, and therefore lacked traceable registration numbers. Immediately upon entering the home, he opened multiple escape routes, and placed the window screens in odd places, like on the bed. He also put chain locks across doors, or blocked them with chairs, to delay the homeowner should he return during the burglary. He displayed undergarments and jewelry boxes on beds and pillows, and stole photos of the attractive teen girls who lived in the rooms. All areas, including the kitchens, were heavily ransacked. Drawers were left pulled out, or contents dumped on the floor. Sometimes he placed stacks of undies and nightgowns in rows down the hallway.
The VR always struck in the early evening, while the residents were out to dinner, a movie, or the local football game. He confined his activities to a small area of single story homes, often on cul-de-sacs, owned by middle class professionals. The houses were usually locked, and the VR favored prying and chiseling locks on sliding glass doors or back doors to garages, then going into the kitchens. The VR traveled almost exclusively through backyards, ditches, open spaces, alleys, and greenbelts—always careful to avoid sidewalks and streets. The burglaries got little press attention or police investigation, and were treated like a nuisance, not a threat.
At 2:24 am on Thursday, September 11, 1975, VPD received an emergency call to respond to a shooting at the Snelling home. When they arrived two minutes later they found Claude Snelling lying mortally wounded inside his front door. His wife explained that he had been shot by a man who had kidnapped their 16-year-old daughter, Beth. Forty-five year-old Claude, a journalism professor at nearby College of the Sequoias, was pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital.
The killer had entered the house by removing the screen on an open window, and unlocking the back door. The air conditioning unit had stopped working that evening, likely due to intentional tampering. Beth awoke to find the masked man on top of her, pinning her arms, and holding his hand across her mouth. In a clenched teeth whisper, he ordered her to get up and go with him, or he would stab her. As they walked through the house, Beth struggled with the kidnapper, and her father got up to investigate the noise. Claude called out: “Where are you taking my daughter?” Rather than running away, the man let go of Beth, and walked back a few feet to get a clear shot at Claude as he exited the back door. As he stepped into the yard, the man fired two shots, both hitting Claude. The kidnapper then pointed the gun at Beth’s head, kicked her three times in the face, and calmly walked away towards the street. He just disappeared into the darkness.
Sgt. Vaughan was assigned as lead investigator, and his team quickly determined that the gun used to kill Claude had been stolen in a recent VR burglary. The gun owner was able to show them where he had done some target practice, and ballistics examination of the spent rounds matched the bullets that killed Claude. The investigation showed that the VR had arrived on a stolen bike, which he left in a yard a block away, and departed on foot, using a landscaped ditch along the highway. Sgt. Vaughan quickly realized that Beth, and her friends at Mt. Whitney High School, had been the Ransacker’s targets all along. They had been stalked and terrorized for nearly two years by a man whose true plan was kidnapping and murder. The VR was suddenly front page news, but the more that Sgt. Vaughan and his team promised to catch him, the more brazen the VR became.
On October 21, 1975, The Visalia Times-Delta published an update story on the Snelling homicide:
Presently, Sgt. John Vaughan and agents William McGowen and Duane Shipley are handling the investigation. All are confident they will succeed. “We are getting a lot of leads and tips. Lots of things are being worked on,” Vaughan said. “We’ll catch the guy,” McGowen said.
Just as that story hit newsstands and porches that afternoon, the most recent VR burglary victim, Ruth Swanson (a pseudonym), returned home for the day to an empty house. Suddenly, she heard someone trying to open the front door. When she checked the peephole, all she saw was a hand covering it. She ran to the living room window, but saw nobody on the front porch. A few minutes later, she received a couple of hang up phone calls, followed by an obscene one, using her name. VPD responded, and installed a trap on her phone.
On Friday, October 24th, the VR committed four burglaries. It appeared from witness reports and footprints that he started with two homes on W. Campus Avenue. At around 10:30 pm, while Sgt. Vaughan and his team were responding to those burglaries, the VR moved on to Whitney Lane. A neighbor saw the VR cutting through yards to S. Redwood, where he committed a third burglary—325 feet from the Snelling house. The VR then crossed Redwood to the house where he had left the stolen bike on the night of the Snelling homicide, passed through that yard, and across the back fence. He then burglarized the home on the other side of the fence.
The burglaries seemed to serve no real purpose other than to commit signature ransacking, sure to be recognized by VPD : kitchen drawers were pulled out evenly, but not disturbed; women’s undergarments were displayed with jewelry boxes on the bed pillows; lotion was left out; and the chain was thrown across the front door. Sgt. Vaughan noted in his report that the only motive for much of the ransacking appeared to be to “draw attention” and “to leave his calling card.” Sgt. Vaughan believed that they were being taunted for their comments to the newspaper.
It quickly became clear to Vaughan’s team that the VR was working with a deep knowledge of police procedure, their patrol rotation schedule, and even their planned stakeouts. He knew exactly when and where to strike to avoid all of the police efforts to catch him. The only advantage they had was their newfound knowledge of the VR’s true motive—he was stalking particular girls and young women in a set zone. Earlier that year, another teenage girl, Debbie Ward, had encountered the masked VR after he had just burglarized the apartment of their tenant, who lived over the garage. He pushed Debbie aside to escape, but she was unharmed.
Agent Bill McGowen was assigned to contact the Ward family and several other prior VR victims. He told them to look for signs of a prowler in their yards, and to report any strange noises. It paid off. Mrs. Ward found fresh footprints under Debbie’s bedroom window, and upon further investigation, Agent McGowen saw a circular impression next to the prints. He found a matching flowerpot in the neighbor’s yard that had been used as a step stool to look in Debbie’s window, and then had carefully been put back in place.
Sgt. Vaughan was heading to Los Angeles for PERT training, but he was able to plan the stakeout of Debbie’s house. It was agreed that Agent McGowen would hide in the neighbor’s garage, next to Debbie’s bedroom window. Agent Duane Shipley would be placed across the street to watch from that angle. The rest of the team would be positioned in the surrounding area to look for the VR, and create a net around the neighborhood should he appear. Sgt. Vaughan said that he was worried about not being there, but he trusted Agent McGowen. McGowen had been chosen because of his honesty and morality; he didn’t cut corners, swear, or drink. McGowen’s father, C.E. McGowen, was a police captain in the city of Tulare, and his brother, Richard, was a sergeant with the Tulare County Sheriff’s Office (TCSO). Sgt. Vaughan said that he knew Bill McGowen would always do the right thing, no matter how dire the circumstances.
The biggest change in the Ward stakeout was its silence. Not only were the officers ordered to stay off the radio, their entire operation was kept top secret within the department. The only people who knew what they were doing were the team members themselves, and they were not allowed to discuss it with anyone. Sgt. Vaughan had become convinced that the VR was a member of law enforcement, who not only listened to their radio frequency but also talked directly to officers on his squad—it was the only possible way he could have avoided all of the prior stakeouts.
At 7:00 pm on Wednesday, December 10, 1975, the stakeout of the Ward house began. Agents McGowen and Shipley were in place, while four other officers in two cars and on foot covered the surrounding neighborhood. Agent Hartman oversaw the operation in a roving, unmarked car. At 8:38 pm, a frantic call broke radio silence, “Shots fired, officers need assistance.”—Agent McGowen was down.
A few minutes before, the VR had been spotted at Debbie Ward’s window, and McGowen had confronted him at gunpoint in the side yard. The VR was wearing a mask, which he took off, and put in his right jacket pocket to show McGowen that he was complying. He then turned, jumped the gate, and ran into the backyard screaming, “Please don’t hurt me, oh my god, no.” McGowen fired a warning shot into the ground to try to make the VR stop moving, and to attract the attention of Agent Shipley. The VR then jumped the fence into the Ward yard, raised his right hand, and said, “See, my hands are up.” As he reached his left hand into his pocket, he pulled out a gun, and fired at McGowen through the fence slats, hitting his flashlight dead center. Mr. Ward looked out of his patio door just in time to see the VR hop over his back fence, and disappear into the night.
Agent Shipley found Bill McGowen on the ground, saw blood on his face, and thought he was dead. Glass from the flashlight lens had hit McGowen’s eye, knocking him to the ground, but he had not been shot. Agent Hartman then called in the California Highway Patrol, TCSO, and all VPD units to help seal off the area and try to prevent the VR from escaping. It did no good—he was gone. Investigators found a sock full of loot dropped by the VR on the Ward’s patio. The stolen items were quickly tied to a nearby home burglary that had occurred shortly before the shooting. There was no doubt, the man who had killed Claude Snelling, shot at McGowen, and committed the VR burglaries was the same offender.
McGowen created a composite sketch of the suspect. Sgt. Vaughan’s team investigated and eventually cleared nearly one hundred suspects, but by September 1976 they had run out of new clues to follow. Then the Criminal Investigation and Identification (CII) system notified them of an MO and suspect match to a serial rapist in Sacramento who had started his crimes in June 1976. John immediately saw the connection. He requested the burglary and rape case reports from the SSD for the offender whom media had dubbed the “East Area Rapist.” (EAR). In May 1977, Detectives Shipley and McGowen travelled to Sacramento and met with EAR investigator Detective Richard Shelby, who felt the VR was a good lead. Unfortunately, nobody else in Sacramento agreed, and Shelby was taken off the case a month later. In 2001, DNA connected the EAR to ten murders in Orange, Ventura, and Santa Barbara Counties (Original Night Stalker-ONS); that killer had never been caught.
The EAR/ONS crimes were profiled on the A&E show “Cold Case Files” in 2000, and that led to multiple online discussion boards dedicated to the cases. A&E eventually shut down their board after users started naming and harassing “persons of interest” in real life. Several of the people involved in the discussions were convinced that they were experts, and repeatedly contacted different members of law enforcement to tell them how they should be running their investigation and exactly who they should consider as suspects. Generally, five minutes’ worth of research could prove that their “suspect” could not have committed the crimes. Although law enforcement officers tried to be patient and have an open mind so that they didn’t miss an important tip, many of these case theories from internet investigators proved to be exhausting.
It would be wrong to put all internet sleuths or armchair detectives into the same group. Some individuals who become interested in a cold case bring unique research skills, or real life investigative experience, while others simply like to go with crowd sourcing, guesses, or theories, rather than with hard facts. As an attorney and private investigator, I didn’t fit into either group. I was relying on original police and forensic reports, witness statements, and court records, not the internet. Also, I was looking for evidence that could meet a higher standard—evidence that could support probable cause for a search warrant, arrest, and conviction.
I could tell that John Vaughan was not entirely convinced that my ideas were grounded in facts rather than hunches, and he asked me if I had ever talked to some of the other people who had approached him about the case. I hadn’t, and he seem relieved. He was not in the mood for a manic recitation of disconnected stories that added up to nothing. He was also a bit suspicious of my work as a defense attorney—generally a cop’s natural enemy. Nobody likes to have their work scrutinized, criticized, and second-guessed.
I opened our conversation by telling him how impressed I was with the forward thinking, professionalism, and thoroughness of his original investigation into the VR. It was textbook police work, with complete canvasses of the neighborhoods, and no potential suspect off limits. My only criticism was the hypnosis of Beth Snelling and Agent McGowen, which seemed to have changed their original suspect descriptions and thrown the case off track. Making “suggestions” to witnesses creates false memories that feel real, which is why hypnotized witnesses cannot testify in court. However, in 1975, was considered cutting edge science. I also pointed out to John that his team was the only one to ever catch the suspect; nobody else had even come close. It turned out that he was a lot harder on himself than I ever could have been.
Sgt. Vaughan expressed an enormous amount of regret for being in Los Angeles during the McGowen shootout. He felt responsible for letting the VR get away, and later hurting and killing so many innocent people. Even after 40 years he was still immensely frustrated that he hadn’t been able to convince Sacramento that they were looking for the same suspect. He believed that Sacramento should have focused on men who had been in Tulare County between 1974-1976, with law enforcement training. John also thought that if Sacramento had utilized secret stakeouts, the VR/EAR could have been caught in 1977, and… at least twelve homicides could have been prevented.
To John, it wasn’t just a theory; he knew that the VR was the EAR. He explained the uniqueness of the MO, and the utter creepiness that he never felt or saw in any other case. If I had doubted the connection before, I didn’t after I looked into John’s eyes. I also had complete certainty that the Visalia Ransacker and East Area Rapist were the same person.
We finally got to the reason for our meeting—the information in the envelope I had mailed to him. I was worried and hesitant to start, but he had no problem barking out questions faster than I could answer them. I asked him what his working relationship with TCSO had been during the VR investigation, and he said simply that there hadn’t been one. They never worked cases together if they could help it—the feelings of dislike were mutual. I asked about a particular officer, TCSO Sgt. Bob Byrd. John’s eyes flashed. He recited a couple of unflattering names for Byrd, including “DBO,” (Ditch Bank Okie), and said Byrd wasn’t an educated or trained police officer, and he had no business investigating real crimes. I carefully suggested that perhaps Byrd had manipulated and destroyed evidence, and John said, “Oh, it must have been a Tuesday.”
I felt a huge weight off my shoulders as one of my biggest fears lifted. If John had not been willing to believe that Byrd was both a terrible investigator and a rule breaker, our meeting would have been over. Instead, we moved on to discussing the homicide of Jennifer Armour, a name he barely recognized. At 7:30 pm on Friday, November 15, 1974, Jennifer, a 15 year old sophomore, disappeared while walking from her house to the Visalia K-Mart. She was meeting friends for a ride to the homecoming football game between her school, Mt. Whitney, and the rival Redwood High. Jennifer’s friends waited an extra fifteen minutes, then headed to the game. When they were unable to locate her there, they figured she hadn’t gotten permission from her mom and had stayed home.
When Jennifer didn’t return home that night, her mother assumed she was staying with a friend, and it wasn’t until Saturday morning that she realized that Jennifer had been missing for more than 12 hours. She called VPD, but in the 1970s, possible runaway teen cases got little attention. There was no sign that Jennifer had been harmed or was in danger. Had she told her mom she was meeting her girlfriends, but really run off?
The answer came on the morning of Sunday, November 24, 1974. A rancher found Jennifer’s body in the Friant-Kern canal, just north of Exeter. TCSO made it sound like an accidental drowning, and when Sgt. Vaughan got the Snelling case ten months later, Jennifer was not listed as a missing person or a homicide victim.
In the Black Bear Diner, John and I went over some maps I had printed out for the meeting. I showed him the two November 1974 VR burglaries that had immediately preceded Jennifer’s disappearance—they were three blocks from where Jennifer was last seen. We discussed how Jennifer and Beth Snelling were the same age, physical type, in the same class at Mt. Whitney High School, and were kidnapped just four blocks apart. Had Jennifer been one of the VR’s Mt. Whitney stalking victims? I asked John how many other Mt. Whitney students had ever been kidnapped in their homes, or off the street, in all of the years he had lived in Visalia. He didn’t know of any others. John had always assumed that Beth Snelling’s kidnapping was going to end in rape and murder in some remote, dark location—just like an orange grove out in Exeter.
I asked John about something else that was the hallmark of both the EAR and VR— his taunting of police. The EAR was perhaps most infamous for responding to two different public “challenges.” The first was in March 1977, when The Sacramento Bee published a story stating that the EAR “has never attacked while there is a man in the home.” The next attack, on April 2nd, was on a sleeping couple, and that soon became his signature. Then, on May 17, 1977, the EAR attacked a couple in the Del Dayo neighborhood. Detective Shelby immediately realized that the husband was the same man who had stood up and yelled at him at a community meeting on November 3, 1976. The man had berated Shelby for not catching the EAR, and said that in his native Italy, the men would never let their wives get hurt like that. Clearly, the EAR had been at that meeting, took the man’s comments as a challenge, and targeted him. In fact, almost every single time that SSD issued a statement to the press about the EAR, he would respond with another rape. It was a constant call and response.
I had noticed that the VR had done the same thing after Sgt. Vaughan and Agent McGowen had made statements to the press about “catching” him. In fact, the VR went right back to the Snelling neighborhood, and burglarized their block again. John confirmed that the VR had clearly taunted them after every public statement, and gone out of his way to embarrass his team. That took me back to the days after Jennifer Armour was found. Tulare County Sheriff, Bob Wiley, declared to the press that “there is no reason to believe that the girl may have been murdered.” Jennifer’s public service was on that Friday, November 29th, and that night the VR hit five homes in Visalia, and thirteen on Saturday night. This was an insane spree, even by VR standards—there was nothing else like it in the series, before or after. Eighteen burglaries in two nights. Clearly the VR was trying to get the attention of VPD, but it fell flat. It was almost a year before John took over the case, and the officers working the burglaries back in 1974 didn’t catch on to it—at all.
I took out some additional maps. Now we were looking at the Friant-Kern Canal, just north of the Exeter city limits. The area where Jennifer had been killed was easily accessed from the highway, yet totally secluded, with no homes or lights nearby. The killer kidnapped Jennifer right by the highway onramp in Visalia, drove east eleven miles, turned left and headed north, then right heading east again, and finally a left onto the same grove siding road the rancher was driving when he found Jennifer’s body. Those actions were deliberate, specific, and planned by someone who knew the area extremely well. Most of the agricultural property close to Exeter surrounds the owners’ ranch homes. When you turn off the road onto a dirt drive, you don’t know if you’re heading into trees or are on a driveway leading to a home full of people—and a shotgun.
I showed Sgt. Vaughan the grove, siding road, and spot in the Friant-Kern Canal where Jennifer was killed in November 1974. Then, I moved my finger just slightly to the southeast on the map to a different orange grove along the same canal, Neel Ranch. “and, that’s where Donna Richmond was killed in December 1975,” I told John. The distance was less than two miles, with a straight line of sight between the two groves.
Neel Ranch was owned by Hank Neel, who lived in Ventura. The property was purely agricultural, with no ranch house, and it could be accessed from the siding road along the Friant-Kern Canal. Like Jennifer, Donna had disappeared while she was alone on a Friday evening. Both girls had long blonde hair and blue eyes. Donna was a 14-year-old freshman at Exeter High, and like Jennifer, she had simply disappeared into a vehicle without any witness seeing or hearing a kidnapping.
At this point, I was expecting an eye roll, sigh, or some sign of frustration from John, but the moment passed quickly. A man named Oscar Clifton had been convicted of Donna’s murder, and had died in prison three years earlier, but John was unfazed: “So that guy Clifton didn’t do it.” He asked how Clifton had been eliminated in Jennifer’s murder, and I said that he and his family lived in Las Vegas—TCSO had fully checked his alibi since they really wanted to clear both cases with one suspect if they could. John agreed that it was now apparent that the same person had killed both Jennifer and Donna, and that the evidence in Exeter seemed to point directly back to Visalia and the VR.
I had originally wanted to talk to John because I believed that there were four things about Donna’s murder that were meant to be tied to the VR but had been totally missed by TCSO in their rush to convict an innocent man. The first was a ski mask that was collected into evidence on Neel Ranch. It was described by the forensics tech as a “multi-colored ‘ski cap’ with possible hairs adhering.” The description of the ski mask worn by the VR, as described by Beth Snelling, was “having white stripes and having multi-color zigzag design.” Obviously, there was no photo of the VR’s ski mask, but there is one from Neel Ranch. It is crumpled on the ground, but it clearly has white stripes, a zigzag pattern, and what appear to be eye holes. There would be no reason for Donna’s killer to leave the mask at the homicide scene unless he wanted it to be found and matched back to the Snelling case, and to the VR.
There was also no question that TCSO investigators were supposed to connect Jennifer and Donna’s murders, and then follow the cases back to Visalia and the VR. Kidnapping similarly aged blonde girls, in safe public areas on a Friday evening, and then leaving their bodies in orange groves on the Friant-Kern Canal, just north of Exeter, was a highly specific MO, and a lead that was meant to be seen and pursued. Sgt. Vaughan agreed, and said that it felt exactly like the offender he had been chasing for so many years—always taunting the police, and daring them to catch him. That brought me to a quote of John’s from The Sacramento Union newspaper: “Both men have been known to have this peculiarity of taking things—not of special value—from one house—and leaving them at other houses.”
He was correct. In October 1976, the EAR had even gone so far as to plant a bag of jewelry (stolen from EAR victims) in a house, then he attacked the next door neighbor and made statements to her indicating that he lived nearby. Sacramento Detective Shelby had the innocent neighbor, John Dority, put under surveillance, and that helped clear him when he was seen at home during the next EAR attack. The EAR had framed Dority with planted evidence, and it almost worked.
I had two more sets of maps for John to see, and I put them side by side. One showed the area where Donna’s bike had been found, three miles from Neel Ranch, at what appeared to be a staged kidnapping scene. The other map showed an area John knew well, an irrigation ditch on Ave 256, between Visalia and Exeter. About a week after the Snelling kidnapping and homicide, a man called VPD to report finding a gun in an irrigation ditch on Ave 256. It was not the missing murder weapon, but it was a Taurus revolver, identified by its serial number, that had been stolen by the VR from a residence on Mountain Drive in May 1975. That prompted John’s team to search the other irrigation ditches along the same road, where they found a large screwdriver and some ammunition wrapped in a clear raincoat. The gun had been located near a large fertilizer plant. John checked out those employees, and a few of them stayed on the suspect list. However, the location of the raincoat items was more of a mystery, and no suspects were developed there.
I told John I thought I knew the suspect that the VR was trying to frame with the raincoat—the same person he implicated with an invoice book found next to Donna’s bike at the staged kidnapping scene. John had found the raincoat across the road from a small dead-end street called Hypericum, a name I had seen in Donna’s homicide case file. One of the homes on Hypericum belonged to the parents of Oscar Clifton, and had been staked out by TCSO on the night they found Donna’s bike. According to TCSO, they found the invoice book used for Clifton’s repair business near the bike. I told John I believed the VR had tried to frame Clifton after the Snelling homicide, and then again after Donna’s murder. The VR was hoping that Clifton would be convicted of Snelling, McGowen, Jennifer, Donna, and all of the burglaries, and… the VR would be in the clear.
I asked John how he had eliminated Clifton as the VR, and he just laughed. Clifton was 6´2˝ and 150 pounds dripping wet—”he was a beanpole.” He also had a distinctive limp from a ruined knee, wore a metal brace, and had a thick Okie accent. The VR was more like 5´10˝ and 170 pounds, with strong arms and shoulders. John said that he gave Clifton one glance, and knew that he could not have been their suspect. Obviously, when the EAR attacks started six months later, John was proven right. Why the VR would choose to frame Clifton was more of a mystery, but clearly he didn’t know about the bad knee or his recent return after eight years of living out of state. It seemed like a question that couldn’t be easily answered until we identified the VR.
Sgt. Vaughan and I talked about TCSO Sgt. Byrd a bit more, and I detailed the misconduct I had found, and the total and complete lack of physical evidence. There was nothing that tied Clifton to Donna or the homicide scene. She had not been kidnapped where her bike was found, so the planting of Clifton’s invoice book (stolen from his unlocked truck) near the bike was just more staging. Clifton had a solid alibi, with multiple witnesses, and the state’s case and timeline were physically impossible—barring time travel and cloning.
I told John that when he identified the VR as being the EAR, and gave the timeline for the suspect leaving Tulare County as the summer of 1976, Sgt. Byrd had immediately ordered the destruction of the case evidence in Donna’s murder. It had only been five months since Clifton had been sent to death row. Not only was that highly illegal, it violated multiple court orders in place to preserve the evidence pending Clifton’s appeal.
I had finally told John something that truly shocked him. He simply could not believe that any police officer would intentionally destroy case evidence, especially evidence that would be needed if Clifton won his appeal and a retrial was ordered. Clifton would have walked free. John and I agreed that whatever truth Sgt. Byrd was hiding had to be worth the risk of getting fired, going to jail, or letting Clifton out of prison. We came to the same conclusions—Byrd knew who really killed Donna, was covering for him, and was afraid that either Sacramento or Visalia would match their suspect to the evidence in Donna’s murder.
We also agreed that we should be looking for VR suspects in Exeter. In 1975, the town had a population of 5,000 residents. Roughly half were men, and many were Latino. We knew we were looking for a white male, within a specific height and weight range, 20-30 years old, left-handed, with blue eyes. He was either active duty law enforcement in Tulare County, or was very close to someone who was. He seemed to want both Jennifer’s and Donna’s homicides investigated by TCSO, so we felt that he likely lived within the city limits of Exeter, not in TCSO jurisdiction. The man went unnoticed in solidly middle-class, professional neighborhoods, so he didn’t look like an obvious creep or criminal.
John said he would contact Detective Shelby, the EAR Task Force, VPD major crimes, and the TCSO forensics officer who worked Donna’s homicide. I agreed to work on a list of people of interest that fit our criteria. They had a solid suspect DNA profile, so all we needed to do was go down the list and eliminate them, one by one. It was going to be hard going without more help. The Exeter Sun newspaper microfilm reels had been sent for digitization, and nobody could find a copy of the local 1975 Exeter census. The phone books had to be accessed in person, during library hours. Assistance from law enforcement, with their vast resources, could really speed things up. John and I didn’t think it would be easy, but we never imagined the force and effectiveness of the backlash we would face.
Chapter One Sources
1. VPD Reports 1974-1977
2. VPD Report - Gomes September 11, 1975
3. VPD Reports - Shipley & Arnold September 15, 1975
4. Visalia Times-Delta - October 21, 1975
5. VPD Report - Shipley October 24, 1975
6. VPD Report - Vaughan October 28, 1975
7. VPD Report - McGowen October 2, 1975
8. VPD Report - McGowen December 19, 1975
9. VPD Report - Hartman December 13, 1975
10. VPD Report - Vaughan December 17, 1975
11. VPD Report - Vaughan November 20, 1975
12. Visalia Times-Delta - May 18, 1977
13. Sacramento Bee - April 5, 2001
14. Visalia Times-Delta - November 26, 1974
15. Visalia Times-Delta - December 2, 1974
16. VPD Report - Vaughan October 8, 1975
17. Sacramento Bee - March 20, 1977
18. SSD EAR Report - April 2, 1977
19. Sacramento Bee - April 5, 1977
20. SSD EAR Report - May 17, 1977
21. TCSO Report - Johnson December 26, 1975
22. Sacramento Union - July 22, 1978
23. SSD EAR Reports - October 9 & 18, 1976
24. VPD Report - Vaughan September 25, 1975
25. VPD Report - McGowen September 28, 1975
26. TCSO Report - M. Richmond December 28, 1975
27. Mt. Whitney Yearbook 1975
28. Photo of ski mask at Neel Ranch
The Laney Gwinner Effect: How One Cold Case Mobilized a High School to Make a Difference explores the unsolved murder of 23-year-old Alana “Laney” Gwinner and the ripple effect it had on a small community. When Laney disappeared in 1997, her case became a haunting mystery, with her body discovered weeks later in the Ohio River. Though her killer remains at large, her story continues to inspire.
This book chronicles the journey of high school teacher Randy Hubbard and his students as they delved into Laney’s cold case, sparking a classroom movement that brought forensic science to life in ways no one could have predicted. Through their dedication, Laney’s case took on new meaning, giving birth to a phenomenon that challenged minds and ignited passions.
More than just a true crime story, The Laney Gwinner Effect highlights how one life, tragically cut short, can still have a profound impact, creating waves of change and inspiring future generations.
4.8from 11 readers
Chapter 1 - “I’m on my way”
“The Last Words Spoken Echo in the Dark Forever”
~ Randy Hubbard
The calm rain I was watching from my patio when I started this book is nothing compared to what hit us in 1997. The greater Cincinnati area was hammered by torrential rainstorms that spring. I remember this because my childhood home, which my parents still live in, is less than one hundred feet from the Great Miami River. They had lived in that home for more than forty years, and it had never reached the house before. That March we spent about twenty-four to forty-eight hours moving furniture and watching the water rush through the basement as if the river had decided to take anything in its path. The Ohio River had risen to a record 64.7 feet and had taken over the streets of downtown Cincinnati. Many small towns along the river from Manchester, Ohio, to Louisville, Kentucky, were destroyed like the mythical city of Atlantis.
Maybe the raging river was foreshadowing the cold secrets it would carry later that year.
I had moved away from my hometown of Fairfield, Ohio, about five years earlier to build a life with my wonderful new bride in Kansas City, Kansas. We loved our time in Kansas, but we knew after our first daughter was born in 1996 it was time to return home to be with family. We found a perfect house for us in Burlington, Kentucky. We were back. Back to see the Cincinnati Reds flounder to a 76–86 third-place finish. Back to watch the Bengals miss the playoffs for the seventh year in a row. It was home, and we were so happy to be back.
That year, I started a new teaching position at Harrison High School. I was always proud of being innovative in my classroom. Doing something different to make the classroom more enjoyable for my students was always something I strived to accomplish. Heck, I even talked my principal into letting me take over an old industrial arts room and make a zoo. I guess you could call me the Tiger King of small rodents, reptiles, and birds. As I taught my biology class about the circulatory system and blood, using the relatively new idea of weaving in forensic science, I did not realize an event that would occur on December 10, 1997, would rejuvenate my passion for teaching and helping others after twenty years. It would be the catalyst to open my mind to the intrigue of true crime, new friendships, and professional connections, and, most of all, introduce me to a young woman I would never get to meet in person.
As Forrest Gump said, the 1990s “was like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.” It was the era of boy bands and the Harry Potter series. Y2K signified the world’s end in the year 2000, and music icon Prince wanted us all to “party like it was 1999.” On the world stage, the Oklahoma City bomber, Timothy McVeigh, got his well-deserved sentence of death from the courts, while in that same month, the world lost a true princess with the awful death of Princess Diana. Here in the Cincinnati area, towns were starting to put the pieces back together from the damage caused by the rising rivers earlier that year. The city was actively trying to improve its highways. The city council even talked about building a light rail to move people along the I-71 corridor to improve business ventures. Now we know how government projects work. It is twenty-five years later, there is no light rail, and the I-71/I-75 roadwork seems to never end.
Despite the endless construction zone of doom, Cincinnati and the surrounding areas were really progressing back then to make this part of Ohio a place that would attract more people. Things seemed to be going well, but like all cities, big and small, there are always underlying stories of tragedy. On December 5, 1997, the Cincinnati Police Department was rocked by the sudden loss of Officers Ronald Jeter and Daniel Pope. An individual they were serving a warrant to ambushed the two highly decorated officers, killing them both with gunshot wounds to the head. This story hit hard on the emotions of this town that seemed to be changing its reputation as a rough place to be.
These were the stories crowding the front page of the newspapers, but what about those stories that were hidden in the small box on page one or in section B of the paper? The ones that didn’t seem to draw the same attention. One of those was that of a twenty-three-year-old young woman who had gone missing. On the front page of the Cincinnati Post on December 19, 1997, a small story found on the right side of the page showed a small picture of Alana “Laney” Gwinner with her beautiful smile. At the time, Laney had been missing for nine days with no leads or ideas about where she or her car could be. Her friends and family had been searching every place they could possibly think Laney might go. Hundreds of phone calls to anyone that may have a connection with her had been made. There was still no sign of her.
I noticed that the article wasn’t only about Laney. The article discussed other missing women, whom I later learned were considered deceased because of the time that had gone by since their disappearances. I felt a bit upset that the attention had been taken off Laney. I know that the author of that article was in no way trying to minimize Laney’s story, and I’m not sure why it upset me like it did, other than the fact that her story had now seemed to become personal for Evan and me. Don’t get me wrong, those other stories were extremely tragic in their own right and definitely deserved to have attention drawn to them. At the time, though, Laney was still out there, and finding her was at the top of the list for her family, friends, coworkers, and those who may have seen her that night.
December 9, 1997, was a normal day for Laney: get up early, prepare for work, and start the day like any other. According to her boss, she was a very conscientious, hard-working employee. Laney was always on time and ready to work. He said she would call before leaving home if she thought she was going to be late, even by one minute. This gained her great respect from her boss. These types of characteristics are often rewarded with a promotion, which is exactly what happened for Laney. Things were going well. Her life wasn’t always easy, but for the moment, it appeared as if the stars were aligning for her, at least in her professional life.
Like most of us, distractions occur during the workday. Laney was no different. The morning of December 8th started out with a simple email to a friend, Angie, saying, “What’s up?”
The work day continued, and Laney and Angie corresponded back and forth. Laney ended with telling Angie about having a confrontation with a female at her current boyfriend’s house over the weekend. Angie responded about her day and asked more about the weekend events. Laney expressed her need to study for her accounting exam coming up the next day. She ended the conversation with, “Give me a call later and I will fill you in on his reaction to the whole situation and try to get your input on it. I think Shad, Joy, and I are going to BW3’s tomorrow after my exam, wanna go? Call me.”
It should be noted that in 1997, cell phones were not the extra appendage most people have today. If you had a cell phone, it was considered to be a luxury or it was specifically used for work.
That being said, the conversation ended at the end of the workday, and both went on with their separate lives that evening. Tuesday morning, December 9th, began with a continuation of the conversation from the day before.
Laney wrote, “Nothing is up with Shad… He was out with Eric in Chicago all weekend. Eric said they had a blast, it was just like old times. We are just going to BW3’s to chow down on some wings!!! Maybe shoot a little pool. Sound Good? I have my exam tonight so I don’t know what time we are going.”
Unfortunately, Angie’s son was sick, and she did not want to leave him with anyone, so she had to explain to Laney that she most likely would not make it that evening. That would be the last exchange Angie would have with her beloved friend.
Laney’s day continued like normal. She knew that, at the end of the day, she would have to go take her exam. Like almost all students, she wasn’t that excited to take that test. Did she study enough? Was she prepared, or was this going to turn out badly? Her boss remembered that she left a little early that day to put in a last few minutes studying before the exam.
Laney had made plans with friends to meet at BW3’s near Forest Fair Mall later that evening to celebrate the end of classes. The idea was to meet there to have some dinner and then venture somewhere to play some pool. Laney was an avid pool player. Some might even say she was a bit of a sandbagger. She would act like she didn’t know how to play to lure someone, particularly a man, into a false sense of security, then proceed to kick their ass and take their money. This could be a good thing or it could be a bad thing, depending on who she was playing and how much she had taken from them. From stories I have heard about Laney, she wouldn’t back down from anyone. She may have been small, but she was tough. Playing pool against her could start a ruckus.
During the day leading up to dinner, unfortunately, some of her friends contacted her to let her know that they would not be able to attend the get together. That left only Laney and her friend Shad to go out that evening. They arrived at Bdub’s, as they called it, between eight and eight thirty p.m. They had a few drinks and downed those wings she liked so much. Between nine and nine thirty p.m., they arrived at the Gilmore Bowling Lanes in Fairfield, Ohio. It is not clear who decided to go there, because according to most people who knew her, she had never been to Gilmore Lanes until that night. How did they know that they could play pool there? Was it well known that Gilmore had pool tables? I guess we will never know the answer to that question, but that is where they ended up that night.
Gilmore Bowling Lanes has been in Fairfield for quite a long time. It actually used to go by the name of Coleman Lanes when I was a kid, but more than forty years later, it still looks almost exactly the same with only the name change. It’s kind of funny how some places seem to get trapped in time. Like almost all bowling alleys, there are lanes in the back of the building, and out front there is a bar. Most of the bars I’ve seen in these alleys are not places you would take a date to dinner, but they do have alcohol, which draws all kinds of people. Most of those bars draw the bowlers in there in between frames, and then a few may stop in after bowling to have a nightcap before heading home.
This night seemed different for some reason.
The bar that night was a hopping place with a combination of bowlers, local car salesmen, pool players, and a group of friends partaking in a weeknight drinking party, just for the hell of it. This tiny bar was kind of crowded, especially for a Tuesday night. According to some of the workers, who still work there today, the bar usually closed around eleven thirty p.m. on a weeknight, but that night they stayed open because there were many people still having a good time and, well, that meant they were making a little extra cash. The question is why did everyone stay late that evening? Could it have been that beautiful, twenty-three-year-old woman with the jeans that fit just right and the brilliant smile that lit up a room? Laney was only one of two or possibly three women in that bar that night. There may have been an older woman who was a bit of a regular and an eighteen-year-old who was hiding in the corner drinking beer with her friends hoping that the cops didn’t come in and catch her. The men were from different backgrounds and ages, and having a good time, but all must have noticed that beautiful girl playing pool. One person took a serious interest in the “hot girl” in the room.
As the night began to wind down, Laney had to go to the restroom, considering she’d had quite a few drinks while celebrating with Shad. Someone had stated they saw her stop by the payphone by the front door to make a call. It was later established that she did make a call to her current boyfriend to let him know, “I’m on my way.” There may have been a few other calls made before she made it to the restroom, but she eventually made it there and returned to the bar to quickly say her goodbyes.
She slipped out the door without most people, including Shad, seeing her leave.
Somewhere between twelve thirty a.m. and one a.m., Alana “Laney” Gwinner, now trapped in time, slipped out into the dark, cold December night.
Lauren Samples never planned to become a true crime investigator. But when a podcast she co-hosted led her deep into the world of unsolved cases, she found herself drawn to the voices often overlooked—the families still searching for answers, the victims whose stories had faded from the headlines.
In this compelling blend of memoir and investigative journalism, Samples shares the cases that changed her, from missing persons and cold cases to the complex realities of grief, justice, and advocacy. With a background in law enforcement, a degree in paralegal studies, and a deep commitment to uncovering the truth, she brings a thoughtful and compassionate perspective to the mysteries she explores.
More than a collection of crime stories, this book is about the impact of loss, the resilience of those left behind, and the power of storytelling in the fight for justice.
For readers who seek true crime with heart, Through the Shadows: Unsolved Crimes and the Search for Truth offers an inside look at the pursuit of answers—and the people who refuse to stop searching.
5.0from 9 readers
Chapter 1
Hello, My Name is Lauren
Picture this: It's early 2018, and I'm just minding my own business, maybe binging on too much Netflix. And, suddenly, a metaphorical door swings open—like in those cheesy motivational videos your aunt keeps sharing on Facebook. Except, spoiler alert: Instead of leading to self-discovery or a career in motivational speaking, it invites me into the chaotic world of true crime podcasting. Yes, me. A total amateur.
At first, I thought, “Wow, what a fun little distraction!” Who doesn’t want to delve into the dark corners of human nature? So there I am, diving headfirst into this domain without any training, degrees, or even a clue about audio editing. Just a burning curiosity and a fierce desire to share tales that are equal parts fascinating and disturbing.
Before I dive too far into this story, I need to introduce you to Ken—my knight in shining armor, though his armor is more paint-chipped than polished and his bravery was rooted in the sturdy reliability of a 1998 GMC Sierra pickup truck. Ken has been my unwavering co-host and partner in both my podcasting adventures and the rollercoaster of everyday life.
A chance encounter facilitated by a mutual friend cemented our friendship through shared laughter, effortless conversations, and buffalo chicken wings. At first glance, he was not what I deemed "my type"—he was older, composed, and inherently good-natured. As I reflected on my past romantic entanglements, a pattern emerged, one painted with the hues of heartbreak and mistreatment. Ken stood in stark contrast to the men of my past.
It took a couple of months, but eventually, I made the first move. Believe it or not, Ken is shy, despite what you may think after listening to our podcast! I got tired of waiting for him, so I just went for it, and I am glad I did! He’s stuck with me now.
Enough of the mushy stuff. I convinced Ken to start this true crime podcast with me. We named it Paradise After Dark. You’ll understand the name better as you keep reading. But seriously, how hard could it be? We would research a case and record ourselves talking about it. Pretty simple, right? I bought cheap gaming headphones on Amazon, downloaded a free audio mixer on my laptop, and we got started.
And, oh boy, did I quickly learn that my lack of podcasting credentials raised quite a few eyebrows. Friends probably wondered if I’d lost a bet or if I was experiencing some midlife crisis too soon. Meanwhile, I’m over here thriving on chaos, experimenting with sound bites, and learning about audio editing. What I thought was a podcast could often pass for a crime scene investigation—or at least that’s how my early recordings sounded.
But you know what? Every awkward moment and every editing mishap became a stepping stone. My passion for sharing these stories became my best guide. And while I couldn’t tell you a single thing about “proper” podcasting, I could tell stories that kept listeners on the edge of their seats (or at least awake during their daily commutes).
So here I am, an accidental podcaster, navigating this uncharted territory with way more enthusiasm than technical skill. And honestly? Who needs a textbook when you’ve got a unique fascination with the human psyche and an endless supply of riveting tales to share? Welcome to my world!
But let’s peel back the layers, because it turns out that behind every chilling episode is a world of research that would make a detective proud. Forget just sitting in front of the mic and rolling with it. This job is more like being on a never-ending treasure hunt, where the treasure is buried under mountains of police reports, witness statements, and, oh, let’s not forget, the charming array of YouTube videos and the dreaded Reddit threads discussing the very crimes that haunt my sleep.
Don’t get me wrong; I love diving into the twisted tales of true crime, but have you ever tried sifting through grim details for hours while trying not to lose your mind? Let’s say my laptop and my sanity are in a constant tug-of-war. I’d love to tell you that I was doing it for the love of storytelling, but, eventually, it felt more like a weird form of self-punishment.
But here’s the kicker: Through all the research, the sleepless nights, and the risk of permanent damage to my eyes and wrists, I carved out my niche in this chaotic world of podcasting. And I’ve got to admit it’s empowering. Even with all the hiccups and plot twists along the way, the belief in the stories and the connection with my audience fuels the fire.
I’m getting ahead of myself here. Allow me to introduce myself. Hi, my name is Lauren. I was born and raised in Naples, Florida. First, let's talk about Florida in general. It's the land of sunshine, shrieking cicadas, and the most bizarre news headlines known to humankind. Honestly, if there were a contest for the weirdest stories, I’m sure our little corner of paradise would win first place. "Florida Man" has practically turned into a cultural icon—who needs superheroes when you have someone wrestling an alligator while wearing nothing but flip-flops?
Growing up here, you learn to embrace the eccentricity. Who wouldn’t want to be a proud embodiment of the quirks and oddities that come with the territory? It's as if the state handed me a quirky edge and my driver's license, almost like some rite of passage. You know, “Congratulations! You can legally drive, and here’s a whole bucket of weirdness to go with it!”
And Naples. A little slice of paradise where the beaches are pristine, the sun shines bright, and the darkest secrets lurk just beneath the surface. You know, the kind of place where joggers wave cheerily at each other while sipping overpriced lattes, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding behind the facades of those luxurious mansions.
I became obsessed with uncovering the secrets beneath the surface of this seemingly perfect town. Here I was, revealing stories that would make your jaw drop. You’d think a place like Naples would be all beach days and high tea, but nope! There’s crime, scandal, and a healthy dose of drama lurking around every corner. It’s as if the town dared me to explore its underbelly, like some ironic treasure hunt.
Let’s talk about Port Royal, shall we? The neighborhood practically screams, “Look how fancy I am!” Beneath those elegant roofs and manicured lawns, there are some crazy stories. We’re talking about bombings, suspicious disappearances, and lives shattered by addiction—all swept neatly under the plush Persian rugs, of course. After all, we wouldn’t want to ruin anyone's brunch with the grisly details.
The cases of Terrance Williams and Felipe Santos highlight troubling failures within law enforcement. Both men disappeared in the early 2000s in North Naples after having encounters with Stephen Calkins, a Collier County Sheriff's Deputy.
Santos, involved in a minor car accident in 2003, was cited by Calkins. He was last seen being driven away in the officer's patrol car under dubious circumstances. Calkins claimed he dropped Santos off at a gas station, but no formal booking occurred, and Santos has not been heard from since.
Just months later, Terrance Williams faced a similar fate. After being illuminated by Calkins and pulling into the local cemetery parking lot, cemetery staff observed the officer patting Williams down and placing him in his vehicle. Like Santos, Williams was reportedly dropped off at a gas station; however, again no incident report was filed, and Williams has not been seen since. Calkins was later fired for providing conflicting information regarding both disappearances.
Despite national attention, a wrongful death lawsuit against Calkins lagged in meaningful results, culminating in a judge dismissing the appeal and making Williams' mother pay Calkins’ legal fees.
The question remains painfully obvious: Where are Terrance Williams and Felipe Santos, and how many more cases like theirs are buried beneath bureaucracy and indifference?
And then there’s the unforgettable tale of Stephen Benson, tobacco heir extraordinaire. Who could forget that delightful little family outing on July 9, 1985? A surprise pipe bomb in the family car adds a touch of drama to the typical butterflies and sunshine narrative. Just a little inheritance squabble gone awry—who hasn’t been there?
And speaking of mysterious circumstances, let’s discuss Robert Ludlum, the author who brought us Jason Bourne. Now that’s a plot twist! Did he spontaneously combust while sitting in his recliner in his high-rise apartment? Or was it a case of mixing too much drama with your cocktail, darling? His wife was in the kitchen preparing a fresh drink while the firemen doused her poor husband?
So, here I am—a proud product of Florida. Call me unconventional, call me ironic, call me whatever you want. I’ve learned that, sometimes, the things we can’t have, like a perfectly normal life, are exactly what we need to uncover the fascinating messiness of reality.
As a 12-year-old, I was captivated by shows like Forensic Files and books like Mind Hunter, written by the renowned John Douglas, which sparked my interest in criminal psychology. This has shaped my worldview, as I now see potential profiles and motives in every news story and crime scene. I see it as a puzzle waiting to be solved.
I’ve always loved reading books, so it’s no surprise that I’m now writing one. I started with R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps series—nothing quite screams “I’m a budding horror aficionado” like a green book with a giant eyeball on the cover. We thought that was high literature back in fifth grade, didn’t we? From there, I graduated to the Fear Street series by R.L. Stine, which was essentially the same as Goosebumps but featured teenagers instead of children. I loved it.
And then, in my teen years, I jumped headfirst into the dark, twisting world of Stephen King. The "Master of Horror," they call him. But honestly, it's like calling an entire buffet “just food”—the man does so much more than scare you; he dives deep into the messy, delicious bits of human life with a sprinkle of supernatural chaos. Who knew you could get existential dread while battling a giant spider named "It," right? Sorry, spoiler alert!
But the scariest Stephen King book I have read to date is Mr. Mercedes. It isn’t about the supernatural; it's about a real person—an evil person. Evil exists in our world, and I have definitely discovered that.
Fast forward to today. My interests as a child didn’t just teach me about crime; it instilled confidence in my ability to analyze, empathize, and understand the complexities of human nature. And isn’t that a skill worth having? Whether you end up in law, criminology, or another field, your passion will always set you apart. That drive for more profound understanding makes you a potential profiler and a keen observer of life.
I honestly have no idea when or where Stephen King made this statement, but it’s always stuck with me: “Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” I relate to this in so many ways. I think you will understand once you have read this book.
True crime isn’t merely a hobby for me; it’s woven into the very fabric of my identity. It became my lens, my intrigue, and, ultimately, my calling. Reflecting on my journey, the pivotal four years I spent as a military police officer in the Navy stand out vividly—each memory is a thread intricately tied to my understanding of humanity and morality.
As I donned my uniform each day, I witnessed things that tested every moral fiber within me. From tense military incidents to civilian disputes, each scenario left an indelible mark. The psychological depth I encountered taught me that crime is not simply an act; it’s a complex interplay of choices, circumstances, and the often-overlooked stories behind each individual involved.
Upon transitioning out of the service, I didn’t just hang up my badge; I took my experiences and channeled them into academia. I pursued a degree in paralegal studies, eager to bolster my understanding of the law—an extension of my experiences as a military police officer. This degree didn’t merely add a layer of sophistication to my narrative; it was integral in shaping my worldview.
Having worked closely with prosecutors and defense attorneys, I was granted a front-row seat to the great justice division. The prosecutors painted a world of black and white, where the rules were clear and often unforgiving. In contrast, the defense attorneys navigated the murky waters of “innocent until proven guilty,” prompting me to redefine my perception of right and wrong. This duality became more than just knowledge; it morphed into an intricate dance—a ballet of justice and humanity that I found utterly captivating.
Through these experiences, I understood that law is not a rigid script; it is a living, breathing entity. It reflects our society’s values, fears, and its myriad hypocrisies. I find this dance fascinating, a kaleidoscope of human experiences unfolding right before my eyes.
So here I am, armed with a wealth of knowledge and a passion that ignites my storytelling. As I recount chilling tales, I don’t just narrate, I dissect and analyze. I reveal the layers, exposing how the pieces fit together in a greater narrative. I am not just another voice amidst the clutter of true crime podcasts; I am a storyteller who has lived, seen, and dissected the very essence of this genre.
Ken and I knew we wanted to focus our podcast on Florida. Initially, we covered cases close to home, which inspired the show's name, Paradise After Dark. In the beginning, we didn’t limit ourselves to true crime; we also explored themes like ghosts, urban legends, and unsolved mysteries in the area. As I mentioned earlier, Florida has its quirks, ensuring we will never run out of content in these categories. We decided to kick off our first episode by discussing an urban legend from our own backyard—the legend of the squallies.
Let’s dive into this local legend from Golden Gate Estates, a rural neighborhood located in Naples, Florida. This area is known for its tight-knit working-class and middle-class families, but there’s a side that is definitely a bit more... mysterious.
Legend has it that deep in the woods surrounding this community, there’s a colony of peculiar little creatures called squallies. Imagine short, humanoid beings that sport pig-like snouts—it’s like something straight out of a storybook, right? These little guys have become part of the local folklore, and it’s said that around 40 to 50 of them still roam the woods to this day. But here’s the kicker: If they catch you, you might just end up as their dinner!
There are a couple of spine-chilling theories about how these squallies came to be. One story suggests they are the aftermath of a government experiment that went awry—think mad scientists and top-secret projects gone wrong, much like the premise of the popular Netflix series Stranger Things. The other theory is even wilder, claiming a nutty scientist created them all by himself and still protects them like some mad guardian out in the woods. Both stories agree on one thing: There is an old man who is just as crazy as they come, sitting like a guard dog over the territory where the squallies hang out. If you’re thinking about snooping around, be warned: He’s said to shoot on sight.
The area where these creatures are believed to be lurking is what folks around here call Naithlorendum Sanctuary. It’s a place that sounds enchanted but might hold chilling secrets instead. So, if you’re in Golden Gate Estates and feeling adventurous, think twice before stepping off the beaten path. The squallies might just be keeping a close eye on you!
Reflecting on the evolution of our podcast, I realize that each twist has not only shaped our narrative but also my worldview. As mentioned, initially, we focused on sensational true crime stories featuring notorious figures, ghosts, urban legends, and unsolved mysteries. However, as I delved deeper, I felt a growing responsibility to amplify the voices of those who had been silenced—families yearning for answers and friends holding on to hope amid despair.
This realization spurred a significant transition. We eventually shifted our focus exclusively to missing persons and unsolved crimes, shedding light on often-overlooked tragedies. This was more than a change in content; it was a commitment to fostering awareness and compassion. Our rebranding as Paradise After Dark: Missing & Unsolved encapsulated our mission to invoke action and support.
The overwhelming audience response validated our path. Listeners connected with stories of love and loss, and I found renewed passion—an urge to champion the marginalized. Each episode became a tribute to resilience, a reminder that hope for answers always exists.
The journey transformed me. It morphed from simple storytelling into a deep exploration of humanity and truth. Behind every statistic is a life, a family, a story begging to be heard.
This is one of the concepts that pushed Ken and I to create The Florida Themis Project. Themis, as we call it, is a non-profit organization. Themis, the Greek goddess of wisdom, good counsel, and the interpreter of the other gods' will, is widely recognized as the goddess of justice. We support loved ones and victims of unsolved crimes by providing financial assistance for investigative tools, including DNA testing, carried out by law enforcement professionals and private entities to help resolve these cases. We also assist victims' families by facilitating awareness campaigns, which may include billboards, printed media, flyers, and podcast episodes.
Fun fact: Ken is the reason this book exists. It was the spring of 2023 when I was having an identity crisis of some sort. Who am I, and what am I even doing here? I found myself navigating the complexities of life, character, and purpose—a maze I now recognize as both a blessing and a curse. I am an empath, the type of person who feels deeply and constantly, a bleeding heart that pulses with the hopes and sadness of others. This duality has been my compass, guiding me toward a destiny I have yet to grasp fully.
For so long, I believed that success was synonymous with profit. My ambitions were fueled by the need to amass wealth, to conform to a narrative that equated financial gain with personal worth. Then I stumbled into the world of true crime, and everything shifted.
As Ken and I embarked on our podcasting journey with Paradise After Dark: Missing & Unsolved, it offered us modest financial gains, but it also introduced us to an exhilarating, complex realm of storytelling that resonated with my soul. Although the financial rewards have been modest compared to what we had hoped for, what we have gained is far more immeasurable. We have forged friendships with talented individuals, traveled the world, and gathered an array of experiences that have brought color to our lives.
We had just gotten home after attending a live show featuring a couple of our podcast friends who have soared to great heights in this business. As I watched them bask in their success—crowds eagerly hanging on their every word—I felt not a trace of jealousy, only overwhelming pride. I have thrived in the warmth of their achievements, recognizing the common thread that connects us all: a passion for storytelling and the pursuit of truth.
But even amidst joy, a nagging insecurity found a foothold in my heart. What are we doing wrong? Why haven’t we sold out a live show? Will we truly make it in this industry? These concerns lingered, casting shadows on our journey, but I chose to reflect instead on what we had accomplished up to this point.
Ken provided a much-needed perspective: “You can’t confuse success with money,” he told me. It rang true. Ken reminded me that my path has been filled with incredible endeavors: multiple podcasts, extensive research, and hundreds of episodes that resonate with the voices of lives touched. I’ve fostered meaningful collaborations, traveled to conventions, and even taken the stage in Las Vegas to deliver a presentation. Those moments felt significant, far surpassing any dollar amount.
“I bet you could write a book about the Sims case,” Ken said. Ah, the Sims case. My great white whale. The murders of Robert, Helen, and Joy Sims in Tallahassee, Florida, on October 22, 1966. It was one of those unthinkable incidents that have stuck with me over the years. I will share the entire story later in this book.
After meticulously reporting on the tragic murders of Robert, Helen, and Joy Sims, I found myself ensnared by the intricate mystery surrounding their untimely deaths. Perhaps my involvement was personal—a close friend happens to share a birthday with one of the victims—adding an emotional layer to the case. Furthermore, the unsettling fact that I had engaged in multiple conversations with a primary suspect left me with an eerie feeling, making the whole situation even more consuming. Whatever the underlying reason may be, this perplexing case burrowed deep into my mind, persistently refusing to let go, compelling me to seek answers amidst the shadows.
I never considered writing a book about the infamous Sims case, despite my years of dedicated research into its captivating and perplexing details. During my exploration of the case, I found myself drawn to a different medium: storytelling through a serialized podcast titled Massacre on Muriel Court. In this podcast, I meticulously unraveled the intricate layers of the case, guiding listeners through each episode with gripping narratives and insightful analysis. Although the podcast allowed for a deep dive into the events and characters involved, the concept of transforming my extensive research and rich storytelling into a book format continued to remain an elusive aspiration, just out of reach.
I strongly believe that this case has the potential to be solved; however, I harbor a deep fear that it may never truly achieve the closure it so rightfully deserves. A former prosecutor who worked closely on that case cautioned me, saying, “The only court this case will ever see at this point is the court of public opinion.” His words resonate deeply in my mind, compelling me to reflect on the situation. Yet, despite this weighty realization, I find myself repeatedly asking: What steps can I take to make a difference?
I considered writing a book on the Sims case and capturing the many stories I've encountered. Each case we’ve explored carries significance, painting a portrait of humanity filled with heartache, resilience, and hope. I’ve met individuals whose time with me extended beyond traditional storytelling; their words are engraved in my heart.
So why not take the time to write it all down? Document the invaluable lessons learned throughout the years, account for the shadows that have been tallied, the laughter that has been shared, and the tears that have been shed along the way? I envision a book that encompasses my entire journey—one that not only reflects my personal struggles and growth but also articulates my ultimate purpose. This book would stand as a heartfelt tribute to the countless cases I have encountered, capturing the essence of what it truly means to connect with people. It would delve into the depths of their pain, celebrate their victories, and convey the profound impact that these shared experiences have had on my life and the lives of others.
This book is my roadmap to exploring my quest for value and purpose in a world that often confuses worth with wealth. Ultimately, my true success lies not in financial outcomes but in the stories that endure—that I feel compelled to share with the friends, family, and loved ones I support. The world deserves to hear these stories, and I am ready to share them. Here begins my next chapter.
“A Question Mark” tells the story of the alleged suicide of Elliot Smith, and dives into the circumstances of the case to reveal the truth.
Back in the early 2000s, Elliott Smith was a rising star in the Indie music scene. He was a talented musician, but he carried a heavy burden—a drug addiction and a bleak view of life. His music expressed both his pain and his hopes. Then, in 2003, tragedy struck. Elliott Smith was found dead, and it looked like suicide. The media and his fans were quick to accept this explanation.
However, as more details emerged, things got murkier. His girlfriend claimed they had a heated argument, and while she was locked in the bathroom, Elliott allegedly stabbed himself twice in the chest, ending his life. Hours later, he passed away in the hospital from his injuries. The Los Angeles County Coroner, after examining the evidence, couldn't definitively say it was suicide. Fast forward eighteen years, and the case is still unresolved.
Alyson Camus, a dedicated Elliott Smith fan, couldn't let it rest. She wanted to uncover the truth. "A Question Mark" chronicles her relentless investigation into the alleged suicide of this Oscar-nominated singer. What she discovered reveals that the truth about his death might be an even bigger mystery than anyone could have imagined. This is a story that will keep you guessing until the very end.
In the quiet town of Mount Pleasant, Iowa, the idyllic calm of 1978 was shattered by a series of brutal murders. Karol Beavers, a vivacious high school junior, and her mother, Clementine, became the unsuspecting victims of a heinous act of violence that left the community reeling. For six months, the case went cold, fear gripping a town unaccustomed to locking its doors. Then, another shocking murder occurred, tying the threads of horror together.
A Monster in Mount Pleasant delves into the unraveling of this dark chapter. Drawing from years of meticulous research, the story reveals not just the pursuit of justice, but the profound emotional scars left behind. From the shattered dreams of a bright young girl to the lifelong grief of families torn apart, this book captures the deep humanity behind the headlines.
This compelling narrative is told through the eyes of a classmate of Karol—and the murderer. Now a federal judge, the author unearthed the societal cracks that shaped both the victims and the perpetrator. It’s a haunting journey into a community forever changed by tragedy, where resilience and the quest for truth stand as testaments to those lost too soon.
When two General Motors executives drove into Crater Lake National Park in July 1952, no one could predict they would be dead within an hour—not even their killers. It was a crime of opportunity, a botched robbery during the middle of summer in a crowded national park. When Albert Jones and Charles Culhane were found shot to death two days later, the story became a national obsession. The FBI used every resource and available agent, but as time wore on, the investigation ran out of steam. A lack of evidence worked to the killer’s advantage. He had committed a perfect crime.
The FBI tried hard to solve the case. Their 2,000+ page report details a staggeringly complex, multi-agency effort: 200 ballistic tests, 1,000 interviews, and 466 license plate identifications. The man-hours were beyond calculation and yielded valuable information—buried within the individual reports of the FBI, Oregon State Police, and local agencies are many clues to the nature and identity of the perpetrator.
The FBI file has rarely been seen by anyone outside the Bureau until December 2015, when the author received it on two discs, satisfying a Freedom of Information Act request submitted three years before. This book summarizes all the information: the FBI file, Oregon State Police reports, fresh research and interviews, county records, rare firsthand accounts, reaction from one victim’s family, and an obscure college thesis that first named the killer. Add to this the personal account of a man to whom the killer confessed. Before the confessor died, he swore his wife to secrecy, reminding her about “the things that nobody talks about.”
The Crater Lake Murders tells the true narrative: four men with nothing in common until the day they met and, after that, the Fate all Men share.
In the glitz and glamour of 1960s Hollywood, Jay Sebring stood as an icon of innovation and style. A visionary who invented men's hair care and design concepts, Sebring wasn’t just a hairstylist—he was the architect of a $100-billion-a-year industry. His revolutionary techniques and signature charm drew legends like Frank Sinatra, Steve McQueen, and Paul Newman to his chair, making him a trusted confidant to Hollywood’s elite. From inauspicious roots in Michigan to Hollywood's "star among the stars," Jay Sebring embodied the American Dream.
Yet, in a cruel twist of fate, his extraordinary legacy was overshadowed by the horrifying Manson Family murders. Instead of being remembered for his groundbreaking work and larger-than-life personality, the media painted Sebring as a symbol of Hollywood’s so-called decadence—a distortion that served salacious narratives and tarnished his name.
Jay Sebring….Cutting to the Truth, now illuminated through exclusive insights from Sebring’s family, collaborators, legal and forensic authorities, and criminal perpetrators, reveals the man behind the myth. Discover how Jay Sebring’s influence lives on, shaping our culture in ways we often take for granted. It’s time to reclaim his legacy from the shadows of his tragic end and celebrate the dazzling contributions that made him a Hollywood pioneer and historical figure.
In 1992, a store clerk was found shot to death in broad daylight at the Boot Village in St. Charles, Missouri. Nothing was stolen and there was no sexual assault. This bizarre and seemingly isolated murder was quickly connected with others in Indianapolis, Wichita, Terre Haute, and Raytown. The media dubbed the suspect “The I-70 Serial Killer.” He has never been captured, and the story quickly fell out of the media’s attention. But the cases never went cold for the officers in those cities.
In 2021, with the advancements in DNA, St. Charles Police Captain Raymond Floyd launched a task force, bringing all jurisdictions together along with federal agencies to take one final crack at solving the crimes. The task force selected Bob Cyphers of KMOV-TV to follow them along, city by city, in the hunt for the killer. Cyphers and his KMOV crew produced a seven-part award winning series called “Chasing the I-70 Serial Killer.” Their work led to national exposure of the case in People magazine and on the Discovery Channel, winning an Edward R. Murrow Award and being nominated for an Emmy.
Dead End: Inside the Hunt for the I-70 Serial Killer follows on the work done by the task force with the important goal of keeping the story alive in the public eye. New evidence, never before available to the public, is revealed here, with the hopes of triggering a memory or revealing a new lead. The task force may be closed, but the drive to find this killer is alive and well.
Anyone who may have information about the case should contact the I-70 hotline at 1-800-800-3510.
CHAPTER 1
“And then I started wondering, was Robin really the first? Could there have been others before her?”
The phone rings every April 8 in Susan Fuldauer’s Indianapolis home. She will pause what she is doing, look at the incoming number, glance quickly at the calendar, and smile. Mike Crooke never, ever forgets.
“I just pick up the phone every April 8 and I call her,” Crooke says. “And I say to her ‘Hey Susan, I am not calling you because I have some good news to report about.’ It is more like ‘Hey Susan, I have not forgotten about you, your family or your sister Robin, and I never will. I am still out here plugging away. I am still out here trying to do my best.’ I always call her on the anniversary of that day and just remind her that she and her family are still in my thoughts, and they always will be.”
Crooke, the longtime sergeant of the Indianapolis Police Department, has remembered since April 8, 1992, the day the Robin Fuldauer nightmare began. He is long since retired, but he has never, ever forgotten.
***
November 2021. Our crew left St. Louis in the early morning and headed east, photographer Chuck Delaney driving, producer JJ Bailey riding shotgun, and me in the backseat taking notes of the scenery along Interstate 70. As we drive along the highway I picture in my mind what the killer saw 30 years ago. Pick an exit to get off, quickly find a small store in a strip mall, make sure a woman is working alone, get in and get out without being seen, and leave a body behind. Surely it is not that easy. It simply can’t be.
Our first stop, like the killer’s, was Indianapolis. Interstate 70 east through Indy to the 465 loop, then a quick jaunt north. The killer wasn’t patient, he took the first possible exit, Pendleton Pike. He could have headed east or west. He could have picked any woman, anywhere, to kill. He chose to turn left at the light and go west. And then he immediately had options to kill on both his right and left. He picked the Payless shoe store.
The Indianapolis police detectives still working the Robin Fuldauer case were waiting for us when we arrived. Like other major cities, Indianapolis had seen a huge spike in homicide cases recently. Their staff was spread thin trying to solve not only murders that seemed to be happening daily, but cold cases that had piled up over the years. Clearance rates, or rates of solving homicides, ranged around 50 percent. That meant hundreds of unsolved cases piled up each year. After 30 years, an unsolved homicide is often a file, in a box, in a closet, never to be opened again.
“We have thousands of unsolved cases over the years,” said Captain Roger Spurgeon of the Indianapolis Police Department. “And more are coming every week. It is overwhelming. You do the best you can do, and then another case lands on your desk.”
Spurgeon and I looked around the busy Pendleton Pike area and I knew we were reading each other’s minds: The killer could have stopped anywhere.
“Why here, do you think?” I voiced to the detectives. “He could have stopped anywhere. Why do you think he stopped here?”
The men looked at each other and shook their heads. A question that has never been answered here, or at any of the other crime scenes.
“This would be one of the last places you would think he would strike,” said Columbus Ricks, one of the Indianapolis detectives. “Look at how busy this area is.”
But Spurgeon guessed there was a method in the killer’s madness. “I think there would have been a variety of stores for him to choose from in the area,” Spurgeon said. “It was just a matter of whatever our suspect was looking for at the time. You have all of this busy traffic around this area, all of this movement, all of these people coming and going so quickly. Unless somebody really stood out to someone as behaving oddly or looking oddly, you could really go about your business with relative anonymity and nobody would ever really pay you any attention.”
I pointed to the busy Speedway gas station that was literally steps from the Payless shoe store. Customers were filling their tanks, and numerous people were coming and going inside the store by the minute.
“Was the gas station there in 1992?” I asked Spurgeon.
He nodded yes.
“That does not make any sense,” I said. “You would have to be a fool to kill somebody with this many potential witnesses around.”
Ricks and fellow detective David Ellison both laughed.
Spurgeon nodded again. “Welcome to the world of the I-70 serial killer where nothing makes any sense.”
I walked up to the front door of the gas station, and then took a few steps to the Payless store. It took me less than 20 seconds. Ellison and Ricks stood alongside Spurgeon and watched me make the walk.
“Twenty seconds,” I hollered at them. “No way somebody is killing somebody with all of these people just 20 seconds away.”
I looked at Spurgeon again. He nodded and I shook my head. “No way,” I muttered to myself.
I kept walking between the gas station and shoe store, and then returned to the detectives.
“Let me make sure I have this right,” I said. “He somehow chooses this busy location in the middle of the day. Then he kills Robin with all these people around. And then what, he just disappears?”
“Pretty much,” said Ellison. “Pretty much.”
Robin Fuldauer was not sure where life was taking her yet, but she was moving very quickly. She was the salutatorian of her Lawrence Central High School class, located just down the street from the Payless shoe store. She graduated a few years later from Indiana University. And now she had already risen to become a manager for Payless.
Sometime around 1pm on that April day, a serial killer was about to embark on a month-long journey, one that would take him to five cities, leaving six body bags behind. He was patrolling Pendleton Pike Road, looking for his first victim.
Receipts from the store show the last purchase was made at 1:12pm. Police believe the killer was likely in the store at the time, saw the only other customer leave, and then made his move. He forced Fuldauer into a storage room in the back of the store, made her kneel, then shot her twice in the back of the head, execution style, with a .22 caliber handgun. There was no sign of any struggle inside the store. The killer then rummaged through the cash register, taking less than $100. Police believe he left through a back door by 1:30pm, leaving Fuldauer lying dead behind a closed door. For the next hour, Payless customers would have their run of the store, with nobody in sight.
“I don’t believe there was an opportunity for anybody to go inside the store and observe that there was a body there,” Spurgeon said.
The Payless store had little in the way of store security. Just a bell that would ring when a new customer arrived.
Police records showed a woman named Lucretia Gullett was working at the Speedway gas station the day Fuldauer was killed. It was Gullett who discovered Robin’s body and called police.
Before arriving in Indianapolis, I began the task of searching for Lucretia Gullet.
“Is this Lucretia Gullet?” I asked the woman on the other end of the phone.
“It is,” she said.
“Ma’am,” I said, “I am a reporter working on a serial killer from 1992. And I believe you found the body of his first victim. A woman named Robin Fuldauer in the Payless shoe store.”
Gullett paused on the other end. “I did not really find her body. But yes, I was there, and I called the police. But what did you say about a serial killer?”
I told Gullett her Payless killer went on to kill numerous other women across the country.
“What?!” she screamed into the phone.
And I realized she was unaware. “Do you still live around Indy?” I asked her.
“I do,” she said.
“I am coming to town,” I told her. “Would you meet with me?”
“I will,” she said. “And did you say serial killer?” Apparently, she was still coming to grips with this.
I stood by the Speedway gas station with my crew and the police detectives, and watched as a woman parked her car and walked toward us.
“I am looking for Bob,” she said.
“Hi Lucretia,” I said, and we shook hands.
We began walking around the area. “This brings back a lot of memories,” she said.
“Have you been back here since…?” I asked.
“No,” she said as she looked around. “Thirty years is a long time. I just avoided coming around here.”
I asked Gullett to take me back to that day, as best she could.
“My shift at the Speedway gas station was ending at 3pm. I was almost getting off work to go home when I received a phone call from a man who said he was the district manager of the Payless store. It was probably around 2pm,” Gullett remembered. “He told me that he had been calling the shoe store for quite a while, but that no one was answering the phone there. He was really concerned, so I told him I would go next door to Payless and see what was going on over there.”
Gullett and I made the 20 second walk from one store to the other. “What happened when you walked in?” I asked.
Gullett paused at the door. “This is hard,” she said. “I walked up to the front door, opened it up and looked around. I did not see anybody. No manager, no customers. I looked over to the left and noticed that the cash register was open and then I went through the aisles, but nobody was around. I really was not sure what was going on, but I knew it was not right. Then I heard someone talking in the back of the store, so I went back there and I saw a woman who had a child with her. They were looking at some shoes. I asked her to please leave, and told her something was wrong. I did not know what was happening, but I knew something was wrong. So I just immediately stopped looking around and called the police. I was probably only in the store for about 10 minutes. And then I just waited for the police to arrive.”
Police records show they arrived at the scene around 3pm. When they did, Gullett said she then stood watch over the front door while detectives made their way inside. She watched them search the store before heading towards the back. And then she saw them open a closed door and look inside.
“One officer looked down to the right,” Gullett said, “and I could tell he was shocked at what he saw.”
Incredibly, some 30 years after Robin Fuldauer was murdered, Gullett says she was not aware the homicide scene she walked into three decades ago became linked to a serial killer, or that it was not solved all these years earlier. “I just became aware of that when you called me,” she said.
“You did not follow the case over the years as it exploded?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I was shocked when you told me it was a serial killer. I was like, whoa! That is when I put two and two together, and like, wow!”
Brought back to the scene, and meeting new detectives for the first time. Gullett is now spending time detailing the case to police again.
“They wanted to know if there was anything else I ever came up with or thought about.” And then she winked and smiled. “Maybe. Maybe. It might just be a coincidence. But yes, I hope I can help.”
***
Roger Spurgeon was an Indianapolis police officer at the time of Robin Fuldauer’s murder, not yet working in homicide. Now, he has been with the police department more than 25 years, most of them in the homicide unit. He would inherit the Fuldauer case, and says that in spite of the busy area, and in spite of the busy time of the day, early leads in the case quickly fizzled. “At first, because there was a small amount of cash taken, detectives thought it was likely a robbery that somehow turned into a homicide. They had a variety of potential suspects they were looking at in the very beginning. But If you describe a suspect as somebody you really have a keen interest in because of some sort of an evidentiary link or eyewitnesses, no, there was nothing there which stood out to the investigators at that time.”
Detectives immediately began canvassing the area on Pendleton Pike. The first witness they found was the store manager at MAB paint, across the street from the Payless, He told police he saw a strange looking man carrying a long bag. The witness said he watched the man repeatedly circling the Payless store, and then watched as the man sat down at a curb nearby for nearly 30 minutes. And then around 2pm, he suddenly disappeared from sight. The witness told police the man appeared to either be on drugs or had a mental problem.
Police would only locate less than a half dozen potential witnesses. One of them said they saw a man who matched what the earlier witness said calmly trying to hitch a ride along the highway. Police found a couple of other witnesses in the area who thought they saw something, but none of those leads panned out.
Detective Columbus Ricks is part of the Indianapolis Unsolved Homicide Unit. Like Spurgeon, he was also an Indianapolis police officer at the time of the Fuldauer murder. “The homicide investigators tracked down almost everybody that was said to have seen something in the area or had been seen by someone. They all had enough of an alibi to eliminate them. The descriptions of the suspect were all black males…” Ricks said, shaking his head. “And within days, after Wichita, the detectives knew the killer was a white male.”
I looked at Ricks and laughed. “How stupid,” I said.
“Not as easy as it seems on TV,” Ricks laughed again.
And then came the question: How did the killer get away? How did he simply walk out of the store in the middle of the day, with people all around, and disappear into thin air?
“I think he could have easily parked a vehicle on one of these residential side streets and casually walked to it,” Spurgeon said. “And nobody would have paid any attention to him unless he was acting strangely. Obviously, he had to have some sort of wheels to get from point A to point B. But we still do not have a good handle on that. Detectives had a lot of different theories at the time.”
Our crew walked around the area near the store. Busy streets in front, a side street on the side, and an older residential section behind it. Spurgeon appeared to be on target. The most likely answer was the killer parked a car on one of the residential streets, walked calmly to the Payless store, murdered Robin Fuldauer, and then walked back to his car.
Time moves forward. Today, a Batteries Plus store sits where the Payless Shoe store stood in 1992. But what has not changed is that police departments in five cities are still digging, talking to each other, and hoping for a DNA match.
“Science was not as developed then as it is now,” said Ricks. “We are going to see if DNA and new technology can assist us in solving this case.” Ricks added that another new witness may have recently emerged. Until then, we wait. The police. The families. Everyone. And they all understand that they are waiting for an answer that may never come.
Robin’s sister Susan will never forget that day. You can still hear the sadness in her voice. “My husband found out about Robin first. He came home and told me. It was just so incredibly hard to process. It was something completely out of the realm of expectations. I immediately went to pick up my daughter and then we went to the Payless store. There was so much activity at the scene it was hard to believe. It is just a nightmare that you live through and cannot possibly process. It is just very hard to describe.”
And then just a few days later, the bombshell of Wichita came, where 700 miles away and just three days after Robin Fuldauer was murdered, Patricia Magers and Patricia Smith were killed in the same fashion. And almost immediately, police were hit with a stunning reality: The same gun used in Indianapolis was used in Wichita. It seemed impossible with the time frame. But, suddenly, Indianapolis and Wichita had a serial killer on their hands.
“Then it all became just surreal,” Susan said. “Wichita was connected to my Robin? And again, look at the pattern. So cold blooded. Another busy, noisy store. And then the others soon came rolling in. And then I started wondering, was Robin really the first? Could there have been others before her? This was now totally beyond belief. And then our family began grieving not just for Robin, but for all of these other families going through the same exact nightmare that we were going through.”
There is another heartbreaking twist of fate to Robin’s story. She was not supposed to work that day, but another employee called in sick. The Payless store was
short-staffed, so Robin came in to cover the shift, as she had so many times before.
After all these years, one thought keeps sticking in Susan’s mind. “I know you cannot turn the clock back. But I usually went by Robin’s store on most days after I got off of work, just to make sure she was okay. For some reason, I did not go by that day. And I always ask myself, ‘Could I have possibly done something? Could I have possibly stopped something?’”
Susan Fuldauer is realistic about the chances of finding the killer after all these years. But she says she will always remain hopeful. “We have always maintained hope that Robin’s murder will someday be solved. Maybe the killer is in jail somewhere. Maybe he is no longer alive. But, like the detectives tell us, we have new technology now. We have new DNA techniques. We have hope. It does not bring Robin or the other victims back. But to know that he might be stopped, and he can never do anything like this again, that would be a major victory for our family.”
Mike Crooke, who has seen everything in his 52 years in law enforcement, insists the case can someday be solved. “I am still hopeful we will resolve this. We did not have the advances in science 30 years ago that we have now.”
Robin Fuldauer was 26 years old. She was the first known victim of the I-70 serial killer. And while it all began in Indy, sadly, it did not end there. And on April 8, pick a year, any year, Mike Crooke will pick up the phone and call Susan Fuldauer. She will smile. They will talk. And they will cry. “It is so kind and considerate of Mike to reach out to my family,” Susan said. “He reminds us that Robin will never ever be forgotten. I appreciate that so very much. We do not talk about the what ifs, because this was such a heinous crime. It is just very comforting to know that Mike remembers us each year. That amount of kindness is really wonderful and will never be forgotten.”
Go on call with a homicide detective. Work through thirteen real homicide cases, interviewing witnesses, identifying evidence, and using current technology to identify suspects and ultimately solve a murder. Each case focuses on aspects of the criminal justice system ranging from writing search warrants, to interpreting autopsy reports, to preparing for a complex criminal trial. Experience the stories of the victims and their families as they pursue justice. Each case is broken down in detail, from the detective that actually worked the investigation. You learn the facts of the case as the detective learned the facts of the case. You are on the inside of the homicide investigation, following the facts and evidence to a logical conclusion. No homicide case is cut and dry, these cases are not always what they seem, and there is always a surprise.
On Call: Inside Homicide Investigations is a manual for Homicide Detectives. There is guidance on creating and presenting photo lineups, direction on using the proper verbiage regarding firearms terminology, and advice on dealing with legal challenges like dying declarations, hearsay, and justification of the use of deadly force. Whether you’re a true crime enthusiast, a writer, or an aspiring homicide detective, each case study offers lessons learned and real-world skills that will prepare you to be an experienced and well-versed homicide investigator.
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CHAPTER 1 – THE ONE-ARMED MAN
On Memorial Day weekend in 2012, I was one of three detectives who were on call for all of Mesa, Arizona. I wasn’t in the Homicide Unit; I was in the Robbery Unit. Early in the morning, I was called out to assist the Gang Unit with a shooting that had occurred at a house party. Gang detectives handled the major parts of the investigation, but they needed help with interviewing dozens of witnesses and party attendees. I completed my assigned tasks in the late afternoon and went home to have dinner with my friends. Just as I finished cooking, I received a call on the dreaded department cell phone.
The on-call sergeant told me a male had been stabbed and pushed off the top of a parking garage in downtown Mesa. There were several witnesses, and patrol officers were actively looking for a possible suspect. The victim also told a first responding officer that he knew the suspect; he said his name was Deshawn. I was told the victim was in critical condition and undergoing surgery at a local hospital. I was also informed that I would be the case agent.
To understand criminal investigations, you should know the jargon that is the titles assigned to various functions done by detectives. Case agent is the title given to the lead detective in the case. In the Mesa Police Department, a case agent is always a detective, not a supervisor (such as a sergeant or lieutenant). The supervisors make sure the case agent gets the resources he or she needs and updates executive staff members (assistant chiefs and the chief of police) on the case status. In the Mesa Police Department, supervisors for a specific unit did not have to have experience in that unit’s specialty. In most cases, supervisors did not have any expertise in the units they supervised, so they really relied heavily on the knowledge of their detectives. Supervisors were also responsible for administrative duties, including approving overtime and the verbiage used in charging documents. Supervisors acted as a safeguard to make sure detectives operated within department policies, state laws, and county attorney protocols. As a case agent, your main focus is identifying the person(s) who committed a crime and developing probable cause to support an arrest and conviction. I want to reiterate the word “conviction.” Patrol officers are trained to develop probable cause for an arrest; a professional detective develops probable cause to make an arrest and secure a conviction in court. A professional detective digs deeper into cases and explores every aspect of the case than the average patrol officer. The case agent is responsible for ensuring all the facts in the investigation are accurately presented to the county attorney, who formally charges a potential suspect. The case agent’s role is very demanding as it involves understanding what all the other detectives and units assisting in the case are doing or have done. This can be difficult as most police officers have type-A personalities and will almost always go above and beyond their normal duties.
When I arrived at the crime scene, I was rushed by a flurry of officers and detectives. In the forty-five minutes it took to get from my home to the crime scene, officers and detectives who were on scene had identified a potential suspect and were actively looking for the person. This is when it becomes difficult as a case agent since you have to control everyone else’s overwhelming desire to put handcuffs on a suspect and then hand the individual to you to figure out the probable cause. A professional detective has to be methodical and logical when handling a complex investigation. You also have to be careful not to be dismissive of an officer’s enthusiasm because as a detective you need all the information you can get, in this case and any future cases. Consequently, I listened to everyone shouting out why Deshawn was the suspect and all the places he frequented, his criminal history, and how he matched the physical description given by the victim.
Normal protocol for investigations where detectives are called to the scene hours after the incident occurred calls for the detectives and supervisors to be given a briefing by first responders. This gets all the parties involved in the investigation on the same page so that everyone has the same information.
Over the course of my career, I’ve learned that briefings can be biased in nature. As a detective, you have to take in the information, but without evidence or witness statements to support that information, you cannot take it as a fact. It’s not that you don’t trust your fellow officers, but we’re all subject to confirmation bias. Confirmation bias is when we think we are right about something and then form our explanations around our presumptions to support what we think. This happens all the time in law enforcement and in society.
In the incident briefing, I learned that the Mesa Police received a 911 call stating that a man was yelling for help as he was hanging over the side of a two-story parking garage. Witnesses were walking back to their vehicles after attending a Memorial Day event. As the man was hanging from the side of the parking garage, a one-armed man was hitting or stabbing the victim’s hands in an attempt to make him let go. The victim eventually let go and fell to the ground, and his head struck a concrete curb. The bystanders rushed to the victim’s aid and noticed he was bleeding not just from the head but also from his chest. A SWAT officer was in the area doing directed patrol for the special event; he heard the radio traffic about the injured man and quickly responded to the scene. He was the first officer on scene. Being a SWAT officer, he had been trained in attending to traumatic situations, and he began assessing the victim. The SWAT officer noticed the victim had been stabbed several times in the chest and had stabbing-type wounds on his forearms and hands. The SWAT officer was present in the briefing and told us the victim was conscious when he attended to him. The victim was able to give his name and describe the man who stabbed him as Deshawn, a homeless male who was missing his lower right arm. The victim told the SWAT officer Deshawn had been arrested many times by the Mesa Police and they should know who he is.
A patrol sergeant interjected that the victim was in critical condition and was immediately rushed to surgery when he arrived at the hospital. The extent of his injuries was not known, but hospital staff stated the victim had numerous stab wounds to the upper torso and was bleeding internally.
A fellow detective chimed in that he was in the area when the call was initiated, and he arrived on scene with most of the patrol officers. He identified two witnesses who told him they heard the victim yelling for help and saw him hanging from the side of the garage. As the victim was yelling for help, they saw a male stabbing the victim’s hands. Both witnesses recalled the attacker was using his left hand to stab the victim. Both witnesses stated they would recognize the attacker if they saw him again. The assisting detective continued and said that he created a photo lineup and showed it to the two witnesses, who positively identified the attacker as Deshawn.
As the briefing continued, a patrol officer spoke up that he routinely patrolled this area, and he had contacted Deshawn many times. Deshawn did not have an address and had been arrested several times for trespassing and public intoxication. The officer confirmed Deshawn was missing the lower portion of his right arm. Finally, I was told the victim’s backpack and a lot of blood was on the second floor of the parking garage.
At the conclusion of the incident briefing, the sergeant usually makes case assignments. I was already assigned as a case agent. Normally, a detective would be assigned to conduct the crime scene investigation and another detective would be assigned to interview witnesses. However, since this seemed to be a straightforward case, the sergeant decided to send the other detectives home and I would take care of anything that needed to be done. The sergeant coordinated with the supervisor of the undercover unit that was looking for Deshawn and told them to contact me when they found him. While I was looking at the crime scene and planning the collection of evidence on the top floor of the garage, the sergeant called me and told me he was on his way home for dinner. As I mentioned before, the sergeant in this case was new to investigations.
As a case agent, you have to always be prepared for the next stage in the investigation. I was mentally preparing for Deshawn’s apprehension. I knew once he was in custody I would have to write a physical characteristics search warrant for his fingerprints and DNA. The victim’s property was scattered all around the top floor of the parking garage. There was also a broken pair of eyeglasses that had blood on them. It looked like there was a fight at the top of the garage.
Case agents also have to think about what will be challenged by defense attorneys. In 2012, the Mesa Police Department did not have officer-worn body cameras, and there was not audio or video proof of what the victim told the SWAT officer about his assailant. I met with the SWAT officer and made sure that he understood the importance of his supplemental report. Being that the victim was in surgery and was not fully interviewed, probable cause to arrest Deshawn was primarily derived from what the SWAT officer heard from the victim. I wanted to convey the importance of this fact to the SWAT officer and make sure he fully documented every detail that he recalled about his conversation with the victim.
Police departments are tribal by design. Each division or unit has a very specific function, and the members of those divisions and units are very good at their duties for their particular function. Where law enforcement flounders at times is mixing the mentalities of different units. In the police world, detectives are considered “pencil pushers” and “desk jockeys.” This is true most of the time. For every hour in the field, I would spend double the hours in the office documenting my actions. I rarely put handcuffs on suspects and would only carry a sidearm (no extra magazines) and a cell phone (not a police radio). SWAT officers, on the other hand, spend hours in the field and minutes in the office. Most SWAT officers do not even write reports on their actions because they operate in a group setting. Usually the lowest-ranking SWAT officer will write a report on what the entire team did.
In this case, I explained to the SWAT officer that if the victim were to pass away, his report would be the only documentation of the victim’s statement. Legally, the victim would be making a dying declaration to the officer and the officer could testify to that in court. His conversation with the victim was the probable cause that we had to arrest Deshawn. I also reiterated that this case might not go to trial for several years, and a well-written report now would help the officer’s memory when he had to testify. The SWAT officer admitted he had not considered any of that. We discussed what the victim said, the victim’s voice inflections, and the victim’s mannerisms, and made sure all the details the officer remembered were accurately documented. After speaking with the SWAT officer, I felt confident that the victim believed Deshawn stabbed him.
Next, I met with each witness who had positively identified Deshawn and confirmed where they were standing when they saw the attack. I had photographs taken from the witnesses’ vantage points to prove they could actually see what they said they saw. Information is not a fact until there is evidence to support it.
Finally, I walked through the parking garage, starting at the first level and continuing up to the second level. I learned the parking garage was overflow parking for the Mesa Fire Department vehicles and open to the public. Because it was open to the public, I could search the property and collect any evidence. As I got to the second floor, I noticed there was a large amount of blood where the victim was hanging onto the side of the garage. But there was also blood on almost every vehicle parked on the second level. Every parking spot was occupied with fire department vehicles or personal vehicles, and there was blood and blood smears on a majority of those cars. The victim’s backpack was by a light pole at the entrance ramp to the second level. The nylon backpack had been ripped open, and personal belongings were scattered around the concrete floor. Next to the torn backpack were a lighter and a pair of eyeglasses, and each had blood smears on them. The contents of the backpack identified it as belonging to the victim.
I determined that from the torn backpack to the spot where the victim ultimately fell off the parking garage was over 600 feet. It appeared as though the victim was stabbed and was chased for that distance before he tried to avoid the suspect by jumping over the side of the parking garage. My impression was this was a more violent encounter than previously portrayed. The fact that the victim would risk a jump from the second floor of the garage led me to believe he was desperate to get away from his attacker.
As my crime scene investigation was ending, I got a call from the hospital where the victim was. I was told that he was being moved to “comfort care,” and it was just a matter of time before he passed away. The nurse told me the victim had been stabbed numerous times in the sides and chest; despite several hours in surgery, doctors were unable to control the internal bleeding. At that time, the sun was just coming up, and I had been on this case for about nine hours. I called the sergeant and notified him that the victim was going to die and we should get the Homicide Unit briefed on this case. He instructed me to call him when the victim passed and then he would contact the Homicide Unit.
An hour later, I was notified that the victim had passed away from his injuries. This was no longer an aggravated assault case but was now a homicide investigation. The protocol in this instance was the Homicide Unit sergeant would be contacted by my sergeant. I would give an incident briefing to homicide detectives, and they would take over the investigation. I began preparing my notes and getting all the information I was going to need to get the Homicide Unit up to speed on the case. I was also in constant communication with the detectives looking for Deshawn. However, I did not tell the apprehension detectives that the victim had passed away as I didn’t want them to overreact when confronting Deshawn. I only wanted Deshawn detained for questioning and to obtain fingerprints and DNA from him.
I met with homicide detectives in their conference room. Just as I was preparing to start the briefing, I received a phone call that Deshawn had been located at a hotel less than a mile from the crime scene. He was contacted by detectives and detained without incident. “Without incident” in the police world means a person was put in handcuffs and no force had to be used, the suspect was not injured, and no officers were injured. The detective told me Deshawn’s outer clothing was covered in blood.
After briefing the homicide detectives, I was told I was relieved and could go home. However, the new case agent, a senior homicide detective, complimented me on my attention to detail and suggested that it would be a great help if I monitored his interview as I knew so much about his case. Although I was exhausted, I caught my third wind and stayed to help out.
Deshawn was interviewed about his involvement in this incident and at first denied knowing the victim. Later, he admitted to knowing the victim but said he hadn’t seen him in years. Then he changed his mind and stated he had seen the victim earlier in the day and had an argument with him about a girl they were both dating. However, Deshawn denied being present during the murder and vividly recalled riding his bicycle to a nearby town that was twenty miles away on a day when it was over 100 degrees. He could not recall how he got to the hotel where police found him. In an almost five-hour interview, Deshawn gave inconsistent statements about where he was during the murder, on the day of the murder, and his relationship with the victim. After being confronted with his lies several times, he finally told the detective he wanted a lawyer and didn’t want to talk to police anymore.
Deshawn was booked for second-degree murder. Subsequent forensic processing of the eyeglasses and lighter found near the victim’s torn backpack revealed the blood belonged to the victim, and Deshawn’s fingerprints were found on the lighter. Interviews of the victim’s mother and friends led detectives to believe the motive for the fight was a dispute over a female. The female was interviewed and initially denied knowing the victim or the suspect but later admitted to knowing them both. Due to her heavy intoxication and drug use, she couldn’t remember what exactly the two men were angry with each other about.
Deshawn proclaimed his innocence, and this case went to trial. The trial took place two years after the murder occurred. A jury of his peers found Deshawn guilty of second-degree murder. Several times during my testimony, Deshawn blurted out my last name. When I was answering questions presented by the lawyers, Deshawn would yell out, “Those aren’t even real words! That shit’s made up!” and laugh. Deshawn and his lawyer were warned several times during my portion of testifying to remain quiet. I wasn’t present for all the witness testimony, but the homicide case agent told me Deshawn heckled every witness and despite being warned repeatedly to be respectful to witnesses was never removed from the court.
During the course of the trial, the defense raised two major challenges to the evidence against Deshawn. One of them was the “dying declaration” made by the victim to the SWAT officer. The defense questioned every word the SWAT officer heard and documented in his report, questioning if there was bias in his meaning and understanding of what the victim was saying. The defense wanted to convince the jury the SWAT officer misunderstood what the victim was saying. The second issue presented by the defense was the photo lineups. The defense objected to their use and stated the photographs selected for the lineup were prejudicial and biased the witnesses to inadvertently select Deshawn.
At this point in my career, I hadn’t really considered testing for the Homicide Unit since I didn’t believe I had the experience to handle those types of cases. But after working closely with the homicide detective that took over this case, I learned that I was already doing most of what was done in a homicide case. The detective encouraged me to test for the unit and would later become a mentor and good friend. I tested for the Homicide Unit one month later and four months later was accepted into the unit.
SMITTY: My Marriage to Serial Killer Charles Schmid, the Pied Piper of Tucson unveils an unforgettable tale of love, betrayal, and survival. Diane Schmid thought she had found her Prince Charming when she met Charles Schmid, a charismatic and mysterious man who swept her off her feet as a teenager in the mid-1960s. But her fairytale quickly unraveled when her husband was arrested for multiple shocking murders that captured national attention.
Set against the backdrop of a rapidly changing America, this deeply personal memoir recounts Diane’s journey from a young girl in love to a woman facing unimaginable revelations. Through vivid memories and unflinching honesty, Diane reveals how she navigated a life overshadowed by her husband’s heinous crimes while striving to protect her family and find peace.
Written with co-author Marshall Terrill, this book offers a unique perspective on one of the most infamous cases in American history, shedding light on the devastating human cost of living with such a dark secret. Blending gripping storytelling with heartfelt reflection, SMITTY captures the strength of a survivor who chose to share her voice after decades of silence.
SMITTY is a compelling and haunting read for those who seek a deeper understanding of resilience in the face of unthinkable events.
Chicago Cop Stacey Macbeth had ended Lonnie Huggins’ reign of terror when he sent the vicious criminal to prison. Now, however, a non-for-profit team of investigators has freed him back into the real world on some trumped up allegations of misconduct on the part of Macbeth. Word on the street is that Huggins is out and looking to settle some old scores, starting with Macbeth. With innocents caught in the crosshairs, Macbeth vows once more to bring Huggins to justice, setting the stage for a head-to-head confrontation where the rule book has been hurled from the window. Both men embark on a collision course in which each is seeking his own brand of Chicago Justice, knowing that this time there will be only one left standing.
5.0from 9 readers
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<h1 class="element-title case-mixed">Motives</h1>
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<h2 id="subhead-1" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-mixed">TUESDAY 1330 Hours</h2>
<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-after-subhead first-with-first-letter-t"><span class="first-letter first-letter-t first-letter-without-punctuation">T</span>he door to the 27<sup>th</sup> Ward Alderman’s office on Chicago Avenue opened, jangling the bells behind the glass. A black man in his early thirties stepped through from the street, dressed conservatively in a navy suit. Mavis Stomps watched from the back of the room under the switched-off overhead lights. She knew who he was but had only met him once since he’d come to his church as pastor. By all accounts, people seemed to believe he ran his church in Cabrini-Green for the glory of the Almighty and no personal agenda.</p>
<p class="subsq">He was average height and weight and wore rimless glasses, and no jewelry. He had a smooth, caramel complexion and a close-cut beard matching a trimmed Afro. Everything about him was church conservative. As he stepped up to the receptionist’s desk, she saw that he carried himself with confidence.</p>
<p class="subsq">The girl working the front of the office looked up. Mavis snubbed out her cigarette on the window sill and blew the smoke toward the back of the hallway.</p>
<p class="subsq">“May I help you?” the girl said in a nasally voice that just irked Mavis to no end.</p>
<p class="subsq">“My name is Turner Galbreath. I’m here to see the alderman.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Mavis stepped from the shadows toward him. “Ah, Reverend Galbreath, thank you for coming.” She extended her hand as she got close.</p>
<p class="subsq">His manicured hand took hers, his grip strong and calloused.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Let’s go in back. We can talk.” She gestured for him to follow.</p>
<p class="subsq">Her office, paneled in dark wood, was Spartan, containing a worn desk and a couple of plastic chairs. The desk had come from another closed school, which had been another loss for her ward and her community. The plastic chairs were the white stackable variety. She led Galbreath in and shut the door before taking her seat behind the desk.</p>
<p class="subsq">“I know you’re a busy man. So I really appreciate your stopping by.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He settled into one of the chairs and looked around before nodding.</p>
<p class="subsq">Given his silence, she continued, “I have been a bit slow getting together with my ministers.”</p>
<p class="subsq">His stare bore into her as if she had his undivided, borderline hostile attention. He must be an effective preacher with a look like that. “Your ministers?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“You know, Reverend, the ministers in the ward is what I’m saying.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I see. Please forgive my cautious nature, but I’ve been quite disappointed with public servants of late.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Really?” She found herself wishing she’d taken the opportunity to slam a little more whiskey, but perhaps a clear mind was needed. The good reverend might prove a little challenging.</p>
<p class="subsq">Elbows poised on the arms of the plastic chair, Galbreath steepled his fingers in front of him. “As assistant chairwoman of the police/fire committee, I’m sure you’ve heard about our picketing.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“As a matter of fact, that’s why I wanted to see you.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He settled back into the chair and seemed to want her to continue, but finally went on when she didn’t. “We’ve called and left quite a few messages with your office. We’d like to see you join us on the picket line.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Perhaps.” She weighed the option of a photo op. “But I prefer to work behind the scenes, where I can do more good as an elected official.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s all well and good,” he said. “Your community would benefit by seeing you standing with us. Seeking those very same answers you say you’re looking for.” He made quote marks in the air. “Behind the scenes.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“My people know I’m at work.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do they?” he asked. “I can assure you that those members of our community who stand with me are skeptical.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Mavis felt her blood pressure begin to rise. “I promise you I do labor on behalf of the constituents of my ward and I don’t appreciate anyone saying I don’t.” She crossed her legs under the desk and laid her hands in her lap, to keep them from betraying her rage. “I work tirelessly for my people.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I didn’t come to level allegations.” Galbreath smiled. “Just telling you what some of ‘your people,’”—he made the quotation gesture again—“have said in my presence. Though, I shouldn’t think an alderman as powerful as yourself cares what a few picketers think or say.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I do care, though.” She clinched her hands in front of her face.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Don’t you see?” she said. “That’s how this mayor works, dividing the people.” She pointed at him. “First you’re out there saying the poh-leece did this or the poh-leece did that, but then slowly you start saying, ‘Where’s Alderman Stomps?’ Next thing you know, the poh-leece is all but forgotten and I’m on the hot seat.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Galbreath took a deep breath and slowly released it. “You seem a little defensive, Alderman.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Damn right.” She stood for effect. “Damn right I’m defensive.” She quieted a little. “Wouldn’t you be? Man I invite into my inner sanctum, accuses me of sitting on my hands, letting my people down, when he don’t know jack about what I’m doing or why I asked him to stop by in the first place. But that’s how this mayor likes to divide the people. I can’t stand it and won’t put up with it.” She tried to look like she was calming herself down. “Sorry I cursed, Reverend, but I get riled up.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He watched her, like he was trying to decide to believe her or what to say, maybe both. “Okay. Why did you invite me?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“You are leading the group picketing the poh-leece and I was wondering what is it you want to know?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“It hasn’t changed since we began. We’re demanding answers about the circumstances surrounding the death of Antwan Simms.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I know that part, IAD has reopened the investigation. But you know that, too. What else?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What else?” The man brought a certain majesty to the plastic chair in his lack of movement.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yes, what else are you looking for? You already know the cops have reopened the case. So that’s not what you’re protesting for. What else?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Nothing, other than Antwan’s mother deserves to know how her son died, and the police should know already. That’s it.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“C’mon, don’t play me, Reverend. There’s always some other reason, what’s yours?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I don’t know what you’re driving at.” His head moved very little. “You mean an ulterior motive?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah, something like that. What is it?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I can assure you that we’re seeking answers on behalf of Ms. Collins. She’s a right to know the truth about her son’s death. We know there’s more to the story than we’ve been told, including allegations that Antwan might’ve been thrown from that building. There’s supposedly a witness. If anyone has a right to know the truth, it’s the boy’s mother.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Okay.” Mavis settled back into her chair. The honest and righteous were pretty damned dangerous, but they could be useful. She smiled. “Good. I want to applaud what you’re doing, Reverend. In fact, I asked you in here to encourage you to continue and protest more. Maybe escalate things a little, make the poh-leece and the media recognize that you’re serious. What do you need?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Need?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do you need more people? Signs? A loudspeaker? What do you need?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I think I’ve got all we need. We’re looking for answers, not trouble.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I bet you could use some more bodies. Everyone can use more bodies. I can provide you with those bodies. The media loves to see a crowd. I might be able to arrange a little more coverage, too. You’ve got to work with me is all.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“And you’ll be working behind the scenes?” he asked.</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s right. The more pressure you can bring to bear on the superintendent and the mayor, the easier it’ll be for me to get your answers. And maybe even effect a little change in the process. And I will be there with you as well, tomorrow in fact.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What are <i>your</i> ulterior motives, Alderman, if I may ask?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Sure. Sure, you can ask, Reverend.” She sat forward and put her elbows on the table, leaning toward him like a co-conspirator. “We need to bring some change to the way the poh-leece do business in our community. If we lie down and take it, they’ll just keep on kicking us in the teeth. I think it’s going to remain open season on black people until that change comes about.” <i>Not to mention</i>, she thought, <i>getting rid of that pompous ass white superintendent and getting a right-thinking man of color to replace him</i>. Someone she could exert some control over. “I need for there to be pressure on Plumb and the mayor, both media and community pressure. If we can stir up some interest, we’ll be able to rally others to our cause and that’ll add up to even more pressure from all fronts. That’s the only thing these people respond to.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Really? And what change is it that you hope to inspire?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“That they treat us with the respect we deserve as a community and that our rights aren’t trampled on like just some more garbage in the street. That a black man can leave his home and not be afraid of the poh-leece.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I’m not afraid of the police,” he said. “A lot more innocent people are gunned down by gang members than by police. My issue. Well, our issue, at least the issue we’re trying to address, is about a particular incident, a particular officer, and perhaps a cover-up. I realize the police have their hands full, but on the whole, I have a lot fewer problems with them than those drug dealing, gun toting gangbangers.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Reverend, you mean to tell me that when a poh-leece car drives by you with two white cops in it you don’t get nervous? C’mon now?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I don’t think I’m any more likely to be stopped by white officers than by black officers.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“You’re wrong, sir.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“If anything, it’s a power thing, or a covering for one of your own when something goes wrong thing, not just a black-white thing,” Galbreath said.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Reverend,” Stomps said. “This is Chicago. Everything, and I mean <i>everything</i>, is black and white. You feel me?”</p>
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Baker Street is your ultimate guide to the enduring world of Sherlock Holmes. This comprehensive book explores the original tales by Arthur Conan Doyle, delving into the genius behind the legendary detective. From there, it ventures into the fascinating realm of pastiche novels, tracing their evolution from the early 1900s to the present day. Dive into Holmes’ cinematic journey, from silent-era experiments to today’s sophisticated adaptations, and discover how each era reimagined the detective and his loyal companion, Dr. Watson. A must-read for Holmes enthusiasts, Baker Street celebrates the literary and cultural impact of the world’s greatest consulting detective across generations and mediums.
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In 1891, a new London magazine, The Strand, decided to publish short mysteries in connected series. Arthur Conan Doyle’s short stories about Sherlock Holmes nearly doubled the magazine’s circulation, and Doyle became rich. Other magazines searched for tales with the same kind of appeal. Dozens of men and women began to write detective stories in the series format of the Holmes Adventures.
An enormous flowering of this kind of tale followed, with stories that featured women and men detectives, professionals and amateurs, young and old, aristocrats, gentlefolk, and plain folk. Detectives went rogue and became burglars and conmen. Others developed occult powers. It was a Golden Era of detective fiction, and it lasted for two and a half decades until the First World War. Nothing of its variety had been seen before.
Michael Cohen’s The Golden Era of Sherlock Holmes and His Contemporaries is a guide to this trove of stories that fascinated readers a century and a quarter ago. In clear and crisp prose, Cohen takes you through the variety of stories with brief descriptions, and he shows you where to find the stories online in their original, illustrated magazine versions. Here you’ll find names you knew, such as Chesterton’s Father Brown, and less well-known ones, such as Ernest Bramah’s blind detective Max Carrados, Anna Katherine Green’s debutante detective Violet Strange, and Gelett Burgess’s “Seer of Secrets,” Astro.
"Prescription for Evil" is the story of the most horrifying FBI case in American medical history. It begins on May 27, 2001, when a nurse in a Kansas City doctor's office sends a vial of chemotherapy medicine called Taxol to a lab. When the results come back on June 12, 2001, it's a shocking revelation. The Taxol sample from the lab contains only about one-third of the amount of medication the doctor had prescribed. This is a dangerous situation because diluted medicine could lead to severe, even deadly consequences.
In September 2001, the FBI starts a new case called "Diluted Trust," which quickly became their top priority under the leadership of FBI Director Robert S. Mueller III. As they dig deeper, they uncover a disturbing truth. A pharmacist named Robert Ray Courtney had been diluting chemotherapy drugs for years, making a huge profit. But the real tragedy lies in the human cost. More than 4,200 patients were affected, with at least 40 known deaths. This was an unprecedented case in American medical history.
"Prescription for Evil" takes you on a heart-pounding journey through the FBI's pursuit of Robert Ray Courtney and the devastating impact he had on thousands of patients and their families. “Prescription for Evil” is a must-read that will keep you on the edge of your seat.
Stacey Macbeth knows the streets of Chicago better than anyone, but his beat is like no other—Cabrini Green, one of the most infamous housing projects in America. As a tactical officer, Macbeth works to keep peace in a place ruled by gang violence and a constant undercurrent of fear. But when a major drug shipment disappears, the delicate balance of power shatters. Determined to recover their missing stash, a ruthless gang begins a trail of violence that threatens to spill beyond the neighborhood, endangering the entire city.
Caught in a high-stakes race against time, Macbeth and his team must navigate the treacherous web of Cabrini’s factions to stop the gang before it’s too late. In a world where every decision can mean life or death, Macbeth’s resolve is tested as the streets he’s sworn to protect erupt in chaos.
Drawing on firsthand experience from his years as a Chicago police officer, Dave Case paints a vivid, unflinching portrait of life on the front lines. Gritty, intense, and deeply authentic, Out of Cabrini captures the human drama and explosive action of a city in crisis. With lives hanging in the balance, the story builds to a gripping, unforgettable climax.
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<h2 class="element-subtitle case-mixed">0930 Hours—Monday</h2>
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<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-with-first-letter-i"><span class="first-letter first-letter-i first-letter-without-punctuation">I</span>t was a Monday morning in Branch 42, a satellite felony courtroom at Belmont and Western, part of the Circuit Court of Cook County. It was crowded, but it always was, particularly on a Monday. It stank, too. The heater was going full bore. The place smelled of stale sweat and… funk, and this in the dead of winter, too.</p>
<p class="subsq">Judge Margarette Coleman-Brown slid her reading glasses to the end of her nose. She wanted to take a deep breath, but she didn’t dare. Not when it reeked like it did. Instead, she sat back in her chair. How she hated the beginning of the week.</p>
<p class="subsq">She had recognized that her sour moods were no longer contained to just Monday mornings. Her disposition began to darken as the afternoon waned on Sunday. It wasn’t fair to her family; they were suffering from her crabbiness. She had begun to doubt whether a felony trial room was worth the price, but doing bond hearings and prelims was a necessary step to get there. Yeah, life would be good then. There weren’t many black female trial jurists. She didn’t see how they could pass her again. The next seat had to be hers. It had better come soon, though.</p>
<p class="subsq">She sighed and wondered if a fan might not help with the odor. But stirred-up funk was still just that. It occurred to her that the bench sat up high in the room. Was funk hot air? Or did the hot air rise and bring the odor with it? She could get lower in the room, but then she’d be closer to the source. This wasn’t getting her call handled. She gave a nod to her clerk. “Let’s get the in-custodies out of the way next.”</p>
<p class="subsq">The clerk flipped the last in-custody file open. “Mister Sheriff, bring out Alonzo Huggins.” The holding cell door clanged open and two deputies escorted a black man out. He was wearing a Department of Correction tan jumpsuit with the sleeves ripped off to expose arms that were thick with prison muscle. His hair was pulled tight in cornrows. She hated that style. It looked stupid and was associated too strongly with the whole “thug life” motif. If that wasn’t enough, the man wore on his face an expression of utter contempt. She couldn’t tell if it was meant for her personally or just for the whole legal system in general.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Are you Alonzo Huggins?” she asked, as the man was brought in front of her. Jailhouse tattoos ran up and down his arms. He made her uncomfortable. And that was hard to do. “You will either say yes or no.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.” Huggins flexed his hands. The sheriff’s deputies must’ve felt the same way about him. There were two, where one usually sufficed.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do you live at 1150 North Sedgwick, apartment 1301?” This day couldn’t be over quick enough for her. She had to admit, though, she was glad this asshole wasn’t going anywhere. He looked like a real piece of work.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do you have an attorney, Mr. Huggins?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Who’s your attorney?” She had to admit to being a little surprised. What self-respecting member of the bar would want this guy as a client? Then again, were there any self-respecting attorneys to begin with?</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Sherman Gold.”</p>
<p class="subsq">She raised an eyebrow. Ah, that’s who. Gold was in it for the money. No. Not just the money. He liked the glory, too. The action too, or, as she was sure he would say, the challenge. Huggins must have quite a bit to have Gold for his counsel. “Is Mr. Gold going to be here today?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“He outta town.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Public Defender appointed for the purpose of the preliminary hearing,” she said to the court reporter. But she had briefly entertained the thought of giving Huggins a date. She’d just as soon not see him any more today. It was bad enough, as it was.</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s bullsh… I want my lawyer!” Huggins raised his voice. He turned to the Public Defender’s bench. Steven Reifman, the courtroom’s PD, sat at the table. He was a skinny, nearly-bald white man in a brown, wrinkled suit two sizes too big for him. He looked like what she expected Bob Cratchet to look like. Overworked and underpaid. But, he was still a good, competent attorney.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins, you’re not getting a continuance. Public Defender appointed. Take him in the back, Mr. Sheriff.”</p>
<p class="subsq">She sighed, feeling worn out. Maybe Traffic Court would be a better alternative.</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">Steven Reifman took</span> his stack of court files from the clerk and sat down at the Public Defender’s table. There were a lot of cases, as usual. He was handling the call without a partner, as usual. At least his day wasn’t as bad as it seemed the judge was having. Then again, most of her Mondays were crappy.</p>
<p class="subsq">He quickly looked through the folders. Since he’d worked in the office for twelve years, he’d come to know what to look for. This group of defendants was typical, except for Alonzo Huggins. Maybe it was going to be an interesting call, after all. He put the Huggins file on the top and stood.</p>
<p class="subsq">He walked behind the bench to the detention area. The sheriff just nodded at him as he passed. As he got close to the holding cell, Huggins stood. He’d been sitting on the metal bench: big, mean-looking, muscular, with a face that would freeze the heart of the bravest rabbi, particularly his eyes. Alonzo Huggins had absolutely frightening eyes. Like death whacked-out on crack.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I’m the PD appointed to represent you today. My name is Steven Reifman. I’m going to be your attorney.” He opened the file but couldn’t bring himself to look into those eyes staring at him through the lock-up bars. He waited for some kind of indication that Huggins had heard him. There was none. So he had to look up. Shit. “I said I’m representing you.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What charges?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Two counts Unlawful Use of a Weapon.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What ‘bout my car?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Well, let’s see.” Reifman scanned the case report. “It seems, Mr. Huggins, that your car was towed and impounded. It’s the law now that if you get caught with a gun, they can confiscate your vehicle.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Reifman compared the case and arrest reports for discrepancies. None. Huggins had been caught the day after release from prison with not one, but two, handguns. Reifman became aware of Huggins standing within feet of him, staring. He felt the skin on his forehead start to burn. He knew Huggins could reach through the bars and snap his neck.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Who tricked on me?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Excuse me?” Reifman took a step back.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Who gave me up?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I can’t tell from these reports.” Reifman looked up, but stared at the bridge of Huggins’ nose to avoid eye contact.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Give me some paper and something to write with. I got to get a message to my boys.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins, really.” Reifman grew brave. He lifted the files in front of his chest, as if they would protect him from the cold chill that gripped his heart. “I can’t give you anything to write with while you’re in the bullpen and, even if I did, I would have to read it first. If it contained any criminal content, I’d have to disclose that to the State’s Attorney. I’ll not be a party to a criminal conspiracy.”</p>
<p class="subsq">The clank of the lock-up door echoed throughout the holding area. Reifman took another step back and looked over his shoulder. The man entering the detention area was white, in his middle to late forties, and almost glowed with a golden hue. No salon tan. He had long salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a ponytail and was dressed in a tailored Italian suit. Reifman stole a glance at Huggins. The monster was smiling; one gold tooth showed.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Good morning, Lonnie,” the man said, approaching. “I’m Sherman Gold, Mr. Huggins’ private counsel. Nice to meet you.” He held out his well-tanned hand, decked out in gold and diamond rings.</p>
<p class="subsq">Reifman was surprised. But recovered well enough to hand Gold the Huggins’ court file, instead of his hand. Better to be done with this one, anyway. A little too interesting, thank you very much.</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">Sherman Gold opened</span> the file and read. Finished, he turned to make sure no one was within earshot.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Not good, Lonnie,” he whispered. “Out Friday, pinched Saturday.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I got to get my car back.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“We’re going to have to beat the case first. Might. Might get it back.” Even Gold felt uncomfortable giving Lonnie Huggins bad news. “There’s a different standard at the impound hearing. It’s only a preponderance of the evidence, not beyond a doubt anymore. On the face of it, I’d say that you’re screwed.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Man, fuck all that. I got to get my motherfuckin’ car!”</p>
<p class="subsq">Gold fancied he could feel the heat from Huggins. He’d caught a last-minute flight from his Palm Springs home, cutting short his winter getaway, just to represent this client. He was well aware of the compensation he had received from representing the Mickey Cobras, but the money carried risk. Taking it was dancing with the devil; the fire was always there, so you could get burned by the slightest misstep.</p>
<p class="subsq">“What happens if we lose the case?” Huggins asked.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Well, you’ll go to prison on the violation, and they’ll try you for the gun case.” He looked up at his client, definitely the worst of the worst.</p>
<p class="subsq">“No, what be happenin’ to my car?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Sold at an auction, more than likely.” Gold watched as Huggins grabbed the bars. The muscles in his arms bunched and swelled, but the bars held.</p>
<p class="subsq">“You got to tell my boys something for me,” Huggins said. “We got to be getting’ that car back. Shit still be in the motherfucker. Tell ‘em I be calling Boo’s.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Gold nodded and turned to walk back out to the courtroom. “I’ll tell them,” he said. “I just don’t see them being able to do anything about it. Not right now.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Hold the fuck up,” said Huggins. “Who gave me up?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Says here,” Gold said as he read from the case report, “that a concerned but unknown citizen flagged down the officers, after seeing you get into your car with the gun sticking out of your pants.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Huggins smirked, shaking his head. “Now, ain’t that some motherfuckin’ bullshit.”</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">The hearing took</span> place ten minutes later. There was a finding of Probable Cause and a filing of the Violation of Parole. Gold wasn’t surprised in the least. He’d better plan for a jury. His client would be doomed at a bench trial.</p>
<p class="subsq">He put on his cashmere coat, draped a scarf over his shoulders, packed up his briefcase, and picked up his wool cap off the bench. As he walked out through the courtroom, he nodded at the woman with the swollen face and yellow hair. He remembered her from Huggins’ last court case; she must be his girlfriend. The title apparently carried some penalties. Gold had a hard time looking at her left eye, which was swollen shut.</p>
<p class="subsq">There were two young teenagers with her. They must be the young men Huggins spoke of. Gold couldn’t help but wonder what kind of criminal backgrounds they must possess. Job security, no doubt.</p>
<p class="subsq">The entourage followed him from the courtroom to a secluded corner. The young men stepped in front of the woman. They didn’t identify themselves, nor were they asked to. The young man on the left crossed his arms and stared at him. The one on the right chewed at his thumbnail and looked at Gold with the eyes of a tired, old man.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Boo?” asked Gold. The man on the right nodded, still chewing on his nail.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mr. Huggins asked me to deliver a message to you.” Gold thought for a second. How could he say this without saying it? He was a lawyer; it should be easy. Yet, it had to be within their ability to understand. It’d have to be practically spelled out and that, of course, was a good way to get into trouble. “He wanted me to tell you that he’s concerned about some… property he left in his car. He’s hoping that you’ll be able to get it back for him. He’ll call you at Boo’s apartment.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Boo stopped gnawing his fingernail long enough to shoot a glance at the other man. He nodded back. Boo dropped his hand. As he spoke, he looked away, talking into the corner of the lobby. “So, Lonnie only be charged with them guns, not no drugs, right?”</p>
<p class="subsq">Gold nodded his head. You just couldn’t be subtle these days. The sun of Palm Springs seemed like an eternity ago. He looked out the window and watched the snow fall. Traffic was going to be terrible on his way back to his office, and his calendar was empty for the next two weeks. Wonderful.</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">Latricia Gibbons’</span> swollen mouth twisted into a grin after Boo and Dease had walked by. A trickle of blood ran into her mouth from her split lip. The attorney began to bundle up. He told her that he was doing everything he could for Lonnie. Things was looking up. Shit, things could still be worse; he could get Lonnie out.</p>
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Paul McCartney Was Alive... But Would Anyone Believe It?
In the fall of 1969, a rumor swept across college campuses and airwaves: Paul McCartney of the Beatles had died in a car crash, and the surviving band members had replaced him with a double. Students and disc jockeys poured over album covers and songs claiming to uncover hidden clues. Headlines, radio shows, and late-night debates turned the rumor into a cultural phenomenon.
Turn Me On, Dead Man tells the story of how the “Paul-Is-Dead” hoax spread and why so many people believed it. From a phone call to a Detroit radio station, to a satirical review in The Michigan Daily that became front-page news, the book traces the rumor’s rapid rise. With careful research and rare material from newspapers, radio transcripts, and firsthand accounts, Andru J. Reeve reconstructs how a six-week frenzy convinced thousands that the Beatles were sending secret messages about their fallen bandmate.
More than a simple catalog of supposed “clues,” this book explores the rumor’s social and cultural impact. It examines why people were ready to believe, how the media fueled the fire, and what this phenomenon reveals about fame, rumor, and the power of storytelling in popular culture.
Detailed, witty, and grounded in historical evidence, Turn Me On, Dead Man preserves one of the strangest and most fascinating chapters in the history of rock music and mass media.
Every parent believes they’d sacrifice anything for their children. The Ashes of Us dares readers to explore the true cost of that belief. When Addison McCall, a brilliant college student, is brutally assaulted, she turns to her father with an reprehensible request. She believes that ending her perpetrator’s life is the only way to find peace. Dr. David McCall, a respected clinical pathologist, possesses the means, medical knowledge, and skill to carry out her chilling plea. Driven by love, guilt, and a desperate need to protect his daughter, Dr. McCall steps into a moral abyss that could destroy his soul, and the very bond they share.
In her gripping second novel, The Ashes of Us, Dr. Ashley Baker, PsyD (author and clinical psychologist), navigates themes of generational trauma, the power of paternal love, and the devastating price of seeking justice.
Detective Chris McMullin's career of finding missing people and solving murders wasn't just his job. It was his passion and dedication to helping victims.
For thirty years, Chris worked at the Bensalem Police Department in Pennsylvania. He started as a patrol officer and became a detective in the Special Victims Unit, where he handled cases involving murderers, sexual predators, and violent criminals. Some of his most important cases included Lisa Todd, Christian Rojas, Tracy Byrd, and Barbara Rowan, a 14-year-old girl who was murdered in 1984 and whose case wasn't solved for 31 years. The Rowan case was especially important to Chris and motivated him to work on cold cases.
3 Decades Cold tells the story of Chris's impressive career, from joining the police academy in 1991 to his retirement and beyond.
Today, Chris McMullin works as a Lieutenant for the Bucks County Sheriff's Office in Pennsylvania. He now leads a nonprofit organization to work on cold cases and has a true crime TV show in development.
The ten victims in The Furious Others lived ordinary lives until serial killer Jason LeDown entered stage left, knife in hand, with a belly full of bad intentions. That’s where fear is found, in the space between a typical Friday and a man intent on murder. The fictional characters in The Furious Others depict real people: mothers, lovers, hip-hop aficionados, and green thumbs, united by the tragedy of lost lives.
Author and clinical psychologist Dr. Ashley Baker PSYD envisions a fictional world where the murderer is not the main character in the serial killer trope. Instead of exploring Jason Le Down’s methods of madness, Dr. Baker chooses to honor the victims rather than romanticize monsters.
As a condition of Jason’s LeDown’s purgatory, those he harmed reflect on their humanity, proving they’re more than crime scene photos or roadside crosses. In this multiple point of view novel, the deceased blaze a fast-paced trail, recounting their last moments, with tentacles of grief stretching across timelines.
In The Furious Others, Dr. Baker, drawing from her own experience of devastating loss, paints a vivid picture of collective trauma and sorrow. The quest for closure drives the story to its gripping conclusion, making The Furious Others a powerful testament to the strength of the human spirit.
This is the new Fourth Edition, with extra chapters and more details on this beloved song.
Discover the song that shocked the nation!
Unravel a Musical Mystery: Discover the rich history of "St. James Infirmary," one of the most enduring and influential jazz-blues songs, tracing its roots from folk traditions to its modern cultural impact.
Dive into Jazz Era Intrigue: Follow a cast of fascinating characters—musicians, moguls, and minstrels—who shaped the song and left their mark on American music and culture.
Meticulously Researched, Wryly Told: Authored by Robert W. Harwood, this book blends humor, scholarly rigor, and vivid storytelling to illuminate the song’s origins, evolution, and mysterious allure.
Praise from Critics and Scholars: Called "the definitive statement on the subject," the book has been lauded for its compelling narrative and cultural insight by music historians and fans alike.
A Must-Read for Music Lovers: Whether you're a jazz enthusiast, history buff, or curious reader, this is a fascinating exploration of music’s power to inspire, unite, and endure.
25 Frozen, 1 Thawed (Murder and Mayhem in the Midwest) takes readers deep into the heart of unsolved and unforgettable crimes from America’s Midwest—cases as haunting as the winter nights they were born from. Through meticulous research and vivid storytelling, veteran journalist Bob Cyphers unravels the chilling details behind murders, disappearances, and mysteries that refused to fade with time.
From the quiet streets of St. Louis to small towns where everyone knows everyone—and no one will talk—these true accounts lay bare the human stories behind the headlines. A young mother gunned down steps from her home, her life cut short by a killer who may have been closer than anyone guessed. A teenager snatched from a bike ride and never seen again, her absence still echoing through her community decades later. A journalist-in-training whose promising future ended in a shallow creek, leaving two suspects and questions that still divide a town. And a sorority sister found beaten on her own front lawn just before Christmas break, in a case that still unsettles a college campus.
Blending compassion for the victims with a reporter’s drive for facts, Frozen doesn’t just revisit the evidence—it brings readers into the emotional center of each story. These are not distant, cold cases; they are stories of lives interrupted, families searching for truth, and communities forever changed.
Learn how to spot the signs of truth—and deception.
Have you ever watched someone speak and thought, “Something feels off”? Whether you’re talking to a friend, watching a news interview, or trying to understand a high-profile case, this book gives you the tools to see what’s really going on.
In Uncover the Truth, Mike Ruggiero shares techniques he’s used throughout his 30-year career in law enforcement to evaluate body language and the way people speak. You’ll learn how small changes in posture, word choice, and even eye contact can reveal what someone might be hiding.
This book is filled with real examples—from major cases in Mike’s career to stories in the public eye. Step by step, he explains how to look for clues that often go unnoticed and how to make sense of them.
Whether you’re in law enforcement, work with people every day, or are simply curious about human behavior, these skills can help you better understand the world around you—and the people in it.
From the Low Countries comes a high-stakes collection of crime fiction.
In Dutch Treats, the shadows stretch long and the tension runs deep. This gripping collection brings together twenty-one stories by some of the most celebrated crime writers in The Netherlands and Flanders—authors whose names are household words in Europe and whose work has won top awards like Holland's Golden Noose and Belgium's Hercule Poirot Prize.
These stories are sharp, surprising, and expertly told. Each is a stand-alone mystery, translated with care by editor Josh Pachter, a well-known name in the world of short crime fiction. They explore everything from quiet deception to bold, dangerous choices—with characters who are clever, reckless ... and sometimes just unlucky.
This isn’t merely one more mystery collection. It’s a showcase of major talent, featuring heavy hitters like René Appel, Michael Berg, Dominique Biebau, Bavo Dhooge, Hilde Vandermeeren, and Marion Pauw, to name a few. Their stories have appeared in the world’s most respected mystery magazines, and now, for the first time, they’re gathered in one exciting volume.
For readers who enjoy clever plots, moody settings, and a fresh perspective on crime, Dutch Treats is an unforgettable read.