At that point, Streeter had every reason to believe he’d seen all of Jane Doe’s clothing. He did not know about her cut-up tank top that remained in the freezer at the Sacramento County crime lab.
VITO Bertocchini was impassioned, as usual.
An hour away from the first press conference to alert northern California residents to the possibility of a serial killer in their midst, Bertocchini had taken a last-ditch stand against informing the public.
“And Ray,” Bertocchini added, “I’m dead against giving up the clothes cutting or the scissors.”
Biondi had liked the burly deputy from San Joaquin the first time he met him. Everything the homicide lieutenant had seen and heard since then had led him to believe that Bertocchini was committed to his cases with a capital C. But dammit, the man was new to Homicide. Biondi, who had traveled this way many times, could see where the trail in the Stephanie Brown and Charmaine Sabrah killings had these past few months gone—from lukewarm to ice cold, as it does in any case that isn’t immedia tely solved. And as for Jane Doe, where to start when they didn’t have a clue to her identity?
“We gotta go public with what we know,” said Biondi, figuring his paesano would just have to learn that he wasn’t the only one who carried license to be bullheaded at times.
“But why give up anything?”
Police routinely withheld vital pieces of evidence that only they and the killer knew about. Biondi understood the value in doing so: it could be helpful especially when interrogating a suspect, and also when evaluating tips or leads from informants. Certainly it would be difficult to justify releasing information about specific evidence unless it enhanced rather than weakened the investigation. However, there were times when it was advantageous to release some details of a crime.
“For Christ’s sake,” Bertocchini groaned, “we could end up with copycats out the kazoo.”
Biondi and Bertocchini had boiled over during an otherwise businesslike session at DOJ, Sacramento, with detectives from agencies such as the Alameda County Sheriff’s Department, Antioch Police Department, Nevada County Sheriff’s Office, and the Sacramento Police Department. The new faces had reported on unsolved cases in their jurisdictions that seemed similar to the I-5 series. The strongest candidates had been presented by a sheriff’s homicide detective from Placer County, Sacramento’s neighbor to the north: the murders of two young women that fell about a month apart, both found bound and strangled. Placer County had identified a fugitive suspect who was not yet in custody.
As of now, however, everything in the room aside from the two detectives going at each other had become a sideshow. And not one of the armed observers huddled around the table was prepared to leap in the middle.
“Fuck copycats,” the normally soft-spoken Biondi let loose. “If we give up cutting, maybe somebody out there knows something. Maybe we have an eyewitness we haven’t found yet. Maybe somebody will drop a dime and tell us something we don’t know. And Jesus Almighty, right now that’s one helluva lot.”
For Biondi, this was an old script. For the past year he’d fought unsuccessfully against a similar kind of illogic in the Unabomber investigation. He’d been appalled to learn the previous year that the Sacramento bombing was the eleventh in a series that began in 1978 and which the FBI had kept hush-hush—even after a 1979 incident involving an airborne American Airlines jet that would surely have cost ninety people their lives but for a bomb malfunction. The FBI had kept its dirty little secret for seven long years, during which the bomber perfected his deadly craft. And after the series was forced into the open by the murder of the Sacramento computer store owner, the FBI refused to share important leads with the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department (who had jurisdiction in the local bombing death) or other law enforcement agencies, resisted going to the public with essential information, and failed to honor agreements hammered out during protracted negotiations with locals, who had considerably more experience working homicides (the FBI rarely has jurisdiction in murder cases). Biondi could never figure out why the FBI was so uptight about “tipping off” the bomber. Did they think the bomber didn’t already know the details of his own crimes? The FBI not only persisted in keeping the public in the dark, but in the process managed to create an atmosphere of mistrust among Unabomber investigators.*
Having corralled his share of serial killers, Biondi understood there were certain things that should be done in unsolved cases, whether the suspect was a nationwide mail bomber or a homegrown sex killer:
• Law enforcement’s top priority should be to forewarn and protect the public. This is why we have police, a public service that usually eats up the largest portion of a city or county’s tax revenues. When vital information is withheld from the public, residents are unable to take measures to safeguard themselves and their loved ones. In Biondi’s opinion, whenever law enforcement conspires to keep the citizenry in the dark, it has shirked one of its main duties.
• When a suspect’s identity is unknown, the only avenue to putting pressure on the killer is through the media. Authorities need to let the perpetrator know they’re onto his actions and that he’ll no longer be allowed to operate in a pressure-free environment.
• Identifying an unknown killer is often accomplished by a public plea for assistance as well as providing the public with information that may turn out to be recognition keys for someone who knows something about the killer. It makes for a much broader net to have millions of informed and interested people being on the lookout instead of just a dozen or so investigators.
Biondi laid as much of his philosophy on Bertocchini as he thought the fiery-eyed detective could stomach at one sitting.
Utilizing the media in the early stages of an investigation—particularly before a suspect has been identified—had proven invaluable in solving murders time and again. The reason this resource was overlooked by much of law enforcement was because of their mutual distrust, and the unwillingness of cops to open themselves to public inspection.
Biondi had developed some hard-and-fast rules of his own when dealing with the media. Rule #1: Police should know going in that the media doesn’t care a hoot about police priorities. Cops need to deftly hook their own priorities to the media’s. Rule #2: Avoid raising a red flag by making “no comment” statements to the press, and provide bad news immediately and without excuses. Rule #3: Keep lines of communication open with the press, rather than forcing them to conduct their own investigation, which can result in negative press and derail or damage the investigation.
“Look, Vito”—Biondi took the edge off his voice because, after all, he and Bertocchini were on the same side—“sometimes you have to give up something to get something. Revealing, not concealing, is the name of the game.”
“Suppose we give up the clothes cutting but hold back on saying we found the scissors?” Uncharacteristically, Bertocchini had put out the feeler a bit tentatively.
Biondi realized he was about to win one and lose one, which, given the circumstances, sounded like a reasonable compromise. They had both taken a step back.
Earlier that morning, Biondi had been briefed by Jim Streeter regarding the hair and clothes cutting. The criminalist described much of the clothes cutting as “nonfunctional,” explaining that it hadn’t been necessary in order to undress the victims. He opined that the suspect had cut for other, nefarious reasons.
“As in ritualistic?” Biondi had asked.
“Exactly.”
Through the years, Biondi had beheld a virtual kaleidoscope of ritualistic acts carried out by killers of every ilk. Had the two young women been beaten, tortured, burned, mutilated, disemboweled, or beheaded, he wouldn’t have blinked. Sadly, he was all too accustomed to such inhumanity by man. But hair and clothes cutting? Now that was really deviant.
In his more than 400 murder investigations, Biondi had never seen anything like it.
AN HOUR LATER as he stood before eight microphones, several cameras, and three doze
n reporters, Lt. Ray Biondi reminded himself not to cross the fine line between raising public awareness and terrifying residents.
To his immediate right was an enlarged map marked with the locations in three neighboring counties where the two identified victims had been abducted and their bodies found, and where Jane Doe had been located.
Biondi cleared his throat. “This joint investigation began when the body of Stephanie Brown, nineteen years old, was found July 15th this year in a drainage ditch.”
He turned toward the map and pointed. “Her body was found right here, and her car was about 20 miles away parked here on I-5.”
Keeping his delivery calm and precise, Biondi gave the specifics of Charmaine Sabrah and Jane Doe.
The press, of course, had provided earlier coverage to all three cases—giving special attention to Brown, described as “the-girl-next-door type,” and Sabrah, the “young single mom trying to get home to her baby.” Now, however, they were about to hear a new twist in the cases from Biondi.
“Time factors, geography, cause of death, and other evidence support the theory of a single murderer who lives in one of the three counties or frequently travels through the area. We believe it is the work of a serial killer.
“Among the evidence that supports this,” Biondi went on without skipping a beat, “is the fact that all three victims had been disposed of in an isolated, rural area in an attempt to conceal or prolong discovery of their bodies. At least two of the victims were abducted or confronted by their assailant on Interstate 5. Two of them had their hands tied in a similar matter. All were found partially unclothed and were probably sexually molested. Also, clothing on two of the victims had been cut.”
“Did you say cut?” asked one newspaper reporter without raising his head from his notebook.
“Yes, cut. Probably with scissors.”
Biondi explained that these and other similarities in the crimes made it “highly improbable” that the three victims were each killed by someone different. “More likely it is a single killer who may drive around looking for women with car trouble or in some other situation that makes them opportune victims.”
He ended by asking the public for assistance, giving a hotline number for people to call should they have any information about the crimes or the victims.
Biondi knew that the media could help turn up the heat on the killer, who, so far, had been abducting, abusing, and strangling women with impunity. Once public acknowledgment had been made as to the presence of a serial killer and what his tactics were for finding his victims, a new army of citizens would be on the lookout. Up to now, the killer had been free to roam the highways, hunt for victims, snatch them in one jurisdiction and dump them in another, and carry out his warped fantasies without having been reported by anyone. Now, the killer would have to be worried. Would someone see him and jot down his license number and call police? And what if he made an unsuccessful attempt to lure a victim? He had to realize it would now be far more likely that he would be promptly reported, and that authorities would receive some nature of useful information.
When Robbie Waters, the elected sheriff of Sacramento County and a former homicide lieutenant, came to the podium, he urged women motorists to keep their cars in good repair and fill the gas tank before taking a long trip. Also, he suggested that women tell a friend the route they planned to take and call a relative or friend when they reached their destination “to let them know you have arrived safely.”
In the event of car trouble, the sheriff advised women drivers to turn on their emergency flasher and lock the doors. “Be cautious about accepting help from all strangers. Make an appraisal of each offer for help before stepping out of your vehicle.”
Even though the composite of the suspect in the Sabrah case had been widely used previously by the print and TV press, more copies were distributed, along with a description of the suspect’s vehicle.
“We hope you’ll run the composite again,” Biondi said to the reporters after a question-and-answer period. “Somebody out there must have seen this guy.”
Biondi knew that going public could crank up a stalled investigation. But as he hit the stairwell for the climb back to his third-floor office, he had a nagging concern about putting the cart before the horse.
If the media did its thing, hundreds of new leads in the I-5 series could be generated. That would be the good news.
The bad: How would homicide detectives already working fifty to sixty hours a week just to keep up with their existing caseloads handle the avalanche?
LT. RAY Biondi received a call two days later from the Placer County detective who had been at the DOJ briefing.
The detective told Biondi that their suspect in the killings of the two young women had been arrested in Carson City, Nevada, the day before. The suspect, David Rundle, had already confessed to the Placer murders.
Had Rundle done Brown, Sabrah, and Jane Doe, too? Biondi wondered. If so, since he’d confessed to two murders, might he be ready to open up on any others?
Rundle had already been brought back from Nevada and was in the Placer County Jail in Auburn, 35 miles northeast of Sacramento on Interstate 80.
Biondi contacted Reed at home, directing his most seasoned detective to hightail it to Auburn. He also called Reed’s partner, Bob Bell.
“I’ll meet you guys there,” Biondi added.
By the time Biondi arrived in Auburn, Reed and Bell were coming out of the interrogation room.
“No go,” Reed said.
“What do you mean?”
“He says he didn’t do anyone else.”
Biondi felt himself deflating like a party balloon losing air fast. Reed and Bell explained they had been careful not to discuss the Placer murders in order to avoid interjecting themselves or their department into that investigation. In telling them about his travels and activities, the suspect had given them nothing about any other murders.
Bob Bell and Stan Reed were opposites in almost every respect. Standing next to each other—Reed in his old corduroy coat and Bell in a snazzy blue blazer complete with pin-striped shirt and fashionable silk tie—the partners looked like Felix and Oscar. While Reed was direct and no-nonsense almost to a fault, Bell had an understated, patient way of dealing with people. The style of the partners sometimes clashed. Whereas Reed wasn’t given to wasting time on meaningless theories and could easily lose his patience if he didn’t receive complete answers to his very concise questions, Bell could talk to a suspect or witness for hours on end until he got what he needed.
Biondi, who figured that Reed must have taken the lead on this pedal-to-the-metal interrogation, hadn’t come this far to turn around and go back without facing Rundle.
“Look,” Biondi said, “let’s go back in and give it another shot.”
Reed shrugged and turned around.
Bell, a button-down type with rimless glasses on a cherubic face that looked like it belonged on an accountant more than a cop, lit up at the prospect.
Rundle was younger than Biondi pictured. Barely able to drink legally, he would have been carded by any legitimate bartender. He was pleasant looking, with a college-boy haircut and neatly trimmed beard. He didn’t seem excited, nervous, or remorseful.
“We know what you’ve done, Rundle,” Biondi said evenly, not raising his voice. “Tell us about the others. What happened here in Placer was the end. When did it start?”
Rundle showed a blank expression. “I don’t know about any others,” he answered in a voice so soft that Biondi had to strain to hear him.
“It really won’t do you any good to hold out on us,” Bell added in a sorrowful, almost ministerial tone. He had settled in a chair as if he was going to stay awhile. “Why don’t you get it off your chest?”
Rundle’s baby blues darted from side to side, as if looking for a way out. Finally, with a great sigh, he dropped his head into his arms on the table.
“All right—” His voice cracked.
Was R
undle going to cry? Biondi wondered.
“—I did another one. My first. In May.”
“This year?”
“Yeah.”
Two months before Stephanie Brown.
“Where?” asked Biondi, being careful not to appear surprised.
Rundle raised his head. “Sacramento.”
Biondi nodded as if he’d known all along.
Rundle’s eyes had remained dry, and his voice was steady again. He’d made a speedy recovery.
“Who?” Biondi asked.
“Filipino, I think. Met her down by the river,” Rundle said, as if discussing a prom date.
Filipino?
“Where’d you dump her?”
Right off I-5, came the answer, along the banks of the Sacramento River near the Pioneer Bridge.
I-5 and I-80 met at the Pioneer Bridge over the Sacramento River at the western outskirts of downtown Sacramento—with I-5 heading north and south and I-80 east toward Reno and west into the San Francisco Bay Area. Even though only a couple of miles from the Sacramento County sheriff’s downtown headquarters, this location was within city limits. Therefore, it was the jurisdiction of Sacramento’s municipal police department.
Biondi didn’t recall hearing of a recent murder victim found in that area. Did that mean the young woman’s body was still there?
The detectives pumped the suspect for more admissions, but the well had gone dry. Finally, Bell flipped off his cassette tape recorder and they left the room.
Within minutes, Biondi was on the phone to Sacramento Police Homicide. When he was informed that a dead twenty-one-year-old Filipino woman had indeed been found strangled at that location near I-5 six months earlier, Biondi felt like ripping the phone out of the wall.
He well remembered the two stoic, note-taking representatives of Sacramento P.D. at the DOJ meeting forty-eight hours earlier. A homicide detective had arrived with a deputy chief. They listened, and hadn’t said word one. Biondi now knew they had sat on a very similar case that they should have presented. Obviously, they’d come to find out what everyone else knew. Shades of dealing with the FBI and other alphabet-soup federal agencies.
Trace Evidence: The Hunt for the I-5 Serial Killer Page 11
