The Mad Chopper

by Fred Rosen

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  The Mad Chopper

  How the Justice System Let a Mutilator Free, This Time to Kill

  Fred Rosen

  In memoriam:

  Wayde Preston, Doug McClure, John Russell, Chuck Connors and Roy Rogers.

  A Word About Sources

  The story you are about to read is true. It spans two states and twenty years.

  Interviews, official documents, statements to police and reporters, as well as newspaper articles, have all been used in the writing of this book. In the event that two participants offer differing, noncorroborating accounts of the same event, the author has used his journalistic prerogative to choose which version to present.

  Dialogue has been extracted from the author’s interviews, court documents, Singleton’s murder trial, and newspaper articles. Some scenes have been dramatically recreated to portray episodes that occurred. A few scenes might be presented out of chronological order to simplify the narrative. Likewise, the Singleton investigation involved many police officers and for the sake of clarity, the story is presented principally through the eyes of the lead police officers.

  The author has chosen to change the names of some individuals to afford them privacy. Any similarity between those fictitious names used and those of living persons or dead is purely coincidental.

  I’d like to thank Captain Richard Breshears of the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Office in California, and Vilma Bean of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office in Florida for their invaluable assistance in writing this book, and Kensington Editor-in-chief Paul Dinas for his patience and guidance.

  PROLOGUE

  Tampa, Florida

  February 9, 1997

  The 911 call came through at 6:07 P.M.

  “He’s beating a woman, he’s beating a woman,” the caller said frantically.

  “Where is this, sir, and—”

  “Listen, we just went up to the house and there was this guy inside and he was beating this woman.”

  “What’s your name, sir?” asked the operator, speaking in the rational tone she had been trained to use when someone half crazy with fear called.

  “My name’s Gene Reynolds. And it’s that guy, that guy—”

  “What guy sir? Take your time, just calm down.” Her training included calming people down when they were excited.

  “Okay, okay,” and Gene slowed down a little. “Okay, now I don’t know what the deal is, but the person that lives in that house is the same guy that cut that girl’s arms off, that fifteen-year-old in California.”

  The operator didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but she still didn’t have an address. After Reynolds gave it to her, she said the police would be there immediately. That was another thing 911 operators were trained to do. Say that the cops would be there immediately.

  Hillsborough County, of which Tampa is a part, claims that the average response time to emergency calls is 9.1 minutes. It took thirty-four minutes for the first police car, with one Hillsborough County deputy, to arrive at the address. The cops would later explain the delay by saying it was “shift-change time and it was rush hour traffic.” Besides, no matter how fast they had arrived, the girl would have been dead anyway. Or so they would claim.

  The murder had occurred in Orient Park, a neighborhood best described as the armpit of Tampa. Rundown, one-family houses lined the narrow streets, but the one Deputy Paul Robbins stopped at was nicer than the rest. It looked as though someone had put a lot of money into renovating it.

  Robbins didn’t know it, but he was right. Ninety grand had been sunk into what had once been a rundown bungalow to make it what it was now, a jewel of a house, the nicest in the neighborhood, which literally shone in the blue light of dusk. But Robbins didn’t really care about its appearance. His eyes were trained on the vicious-looking Rottweiler that was guarding the door. It wasn’t on a leash and it was barking its head off.

  Stu Simon, who lived across the street, heard the barking and came out on his porch. He saw the dog barking and the police car parked in front of the house and immediately knew it was big trouble. Stu quickly walked across the street.

  “I’ll tie Kayla up, officer,” he said and approached the dog without any fear He tied her to the front fence and turned back to the cop.

  “We have a report of a domestic disturbance here,” said Robbins.

  Stu went up to the front door and knocked without hesitation.

  “Bill, the law’s here,” he said and knocked again.

  The door was answered by a naked man covered with blood and wearing a condom. He was staggering as though he was drunk. Before he could say anything, the phone rang. He didn’t seem to hear it. Bill always responded quickly to phone calls, Stu thought “Bill, the phone’s ringing,” Stu said gently.

  The naked man went back into the house to answer it. Hand on his weapon, Robbins hesitantly followed him.

  On a sofa at the other side of the narrow room the deputy saw the body of a woman. He went over to look and saw that she was covered in blood. She was dead. He looked up. The naked man was standing over him. He had a mournful look on his face and he said nothing.

  “What happened here?” Robbins asked.

  The man still said nothing. Robbins reached to the back of his belt, pulled off his cuffs, then spun the guy around.

  “You’re under arrest,” he said, then added, “for murder.”

  There was no need to frisk him.

  PART ONE

  The Mutilation

  Chapter One

  Berkeley, California

  1978

  The University of California at Berkeley is situated across the bay from San Francisco. A hotbed of radicalism in the 1960s, Berkeley, as the school was commonly known, clung to its radical reputation in the 1970s like a baby to its bottle.

  The reputation fed the school’s popularity and as such, its radical past, and present, provided a haven for those free-thinking academics who would have found it difficult to teach at most other universities. Students knew this, and those who wanted to be taught in a different way, free from the rhetoric and mores of contemporary society, still flocked to Berkeley. Enrollment was also helped by the fact that it was a great party school.

  There weren’t too many places more interesting than the San Francisco Bay area. The heavy gay population, and the strip clubs that dotted the landscape contributed to the feeling that San Francisco was a place where you could and would find anything and everything. At Berkeley itself, drug use was still de rigueur if you were a student, and sexy—well, all you had to do was look around at the sun-kissed bodies of men and women in tank tops and shorts, and if you didn’t get turned on, then you were surely asexual.

  This casual attitude toward sex, and the free-form education structure, contributed to an attitude of permissiveness that blanketed the campus. The last thing on anyone’s mind was danger. How could it be, if you spent most of your time partying? But in Berkeley, there was a corner where crime, major crime, was just waiting to happen.

  The students called it “Hitchhiker’s Corner” on University Avenue. It was the place you went to in order to hitch a ride anywhere in the state. Often it would be a student who’d pick you up. But there wasn’t anything to stop anyone else from driving there, someone who wanted to take advantage of, say, some young coed, or some runaway who happened to float into Berkeley. Luckily, nothing major had ever happened that anyone could remember.

  Sure, maybe some kid had gotten picked up by some weirdo and been roughed up a bit, and maybe some poor girl had been picked up by some frustrated suburban husband who ha
d forced himself on her. But for the most part, everyone who didn’t have a car just hitched and didn’t think twice about his or her safety.

  Soon, they would.

  September 30, 1978

  In Rome, the Pope had just died. The College of Cardinals was meeting to anoint a new Pope. In Northern California, Mary Vincent was hitchhiking.

  Vincent was a fifteen-year-old teenager with a troubled present. She had a “companion,” twenty-six-year-old Diego Montoya, who had been arrested the previous month on a charge of raping another fifteen-year-old girl in Sausalito. Mary relied on Diego, and with him behind bars, she just didn’t know what to do. Her solution was to try to help her friend. Maybe she could help find a way to get him out. Toward that end, Mary traveled to see his lawyer at the Marin County Civic Center.

  There, Mary spoke with Diego’s attorney. It didn’t do any good. Unsuccessful at resolving her friend’s legal problems, and therefore her personal ones, Mary needed to find a way to live. She applied for emergency public housing. That didn’t work either. Finally, with her options for survival dwindling, with no place to go and no way to support herself, she placed a long-distance phone call to her grandfather, Ricker Vincent, in Los Angeles.

  She said that she was coming down to visit him, and asked him to get some money. Mary had little or no money in her pockets, which was why she had to hitchhike to Los Angeles.

  Beginning her trek in San Rafael that morning, she was first picked up by a man who was alone in his car. He drove her north across San Pablo Bay on Highway 37. He dropped her off someplace around Vallejo, but not before giving her written directions on how to get to Los Angeles.

  Next, she was picked up by a woman who had two men and a dog with her. Traveling south and west on Interstate 80 for approximately fifteen miles, the woman left her off at Hitchhiker’s Corner in downtown Berkeley.

  Wearing a light pink top, blue jeans, and white tennis shoes, carrying a green backpack and reddish-purple knit purse, Mary looked like the archetypal Northern California—Berkeley hippie. She waited at Hitchhiker’s Corner with her thumb out for someone to stop and pick her up. Someone did. A burly-looking guy, with a bulbous nose, driving a blue 1974 Ford Econoline van.

  “I’ll give you a ride where you’re going, if you’ll help me load my van at my house,” the guy said.

  He was vague about where that was, but said it was somewhere “nearby.” Mary agreed and off they went.

  “My name’s Larry,” he said.

  “I’m Mary.”

  They drove for a while, up toward the north bay area, until they got to his house, a neat little clapboard number. Mary helped him load up the van with his stuff and once again, they were off.

  “You know, I have a daughter,” Larry said wistfully. He did not say that he had been accused of beating her, and that his daughter had little or no contact with him, a fact that hurt him deeply.

  Mary listened to the man talk about his second home in Nevada, and other facets of his life. After a while, the man’s conversation turned boring and ran out of steam. Just as they hit the freeway, Mary dozed off.

  It was hard for her to measure how long she had been asleep, but Mary reckoned later it was just a catnap. Yet when she awakened, it was to a tremendous shock.

  Instead of being greeted by the lights of the San Francisco Bay area, Mary awoke to see that they had passed Sacramento and were on their way east to Nevada, not south to Los Angeles.

  “Hey, you’re going in the wrong direction,” Mary shouted.

  “No, I’m not,” Larry answered reasonably.

  Whatever he was up to, he tried to stall, to make Mary believe that they were on the right route. Mary, though, was too bright for him and repeated her protest: “Los Angeles is in the other direction!”

  Larry stopped the van and forced Mary into the back. Mary was a feisty girl. She picked up a stick from the floor of the van and whacked the man with it. Suddenly ashamed of his conduct, Larry backed off.

  “I apologize for my behavior,” Larry said sheepishly. “I’ll take you where you want to go.”

  Driving south on Interstate 99, he pulled in at a greasy spoon, in the Sacramento area, where they both got out to get something to eat. Considering the guy’s strange behavior, Mary would have been smart to escape from the stranger at that point, but she was clearly not experienced enough and decided to travel on with him.

  After the meal, the guy headed out onto Interstate 5 and turned south, toward Modesto. It was a round-about way to get back to San Francisco, but Mary was still not suspicious.

  At the greasy spoon, the guy had bought a soft drink. As he drove, he drained some of it and then pulled a bottle of whiskey out from under his seat. While driving, he uncorked it, filled the soft-drink container to the brim with the booze, and continued to drink.

  A short time later, outside Modesto, he had found the way into Del Puerto Canyon, a barren, deserted landscape, so isolated it might have been on the far side of the moon. The night was pitch black, and the only sounds were cicadas clicking in the darkness. The sky was like black velvet with diamondlike stars set upon its surface.

  Larry put his foot on the brake.

  “I gotta go take a leak,” he said and pulled over.

  “Well, I gotta go do that myself,” said Mary.

  They both got out of the car to heed nature’s call. Mary was just about to take down her pants when Larry came up behind her. He knocked her senseless and then dragged her into the back of the van.

  Screaming, trying to resist, but powerless against the man’s massive strength, Mary was forced to the floor of the van. Larry loomed over her like some monster, powerful shoulders and chest flexing, rough, callused hands holding her down. He seemed to get off on the power he had over her. He brutally raped her.

  Afterward, to show he wasn’t all bad, he gave her a drink of whiskey. More likely, he was trying to calm her down just in case she screamed and someone nearby happened to hear her.

  Drained, Mary expected that the worst was over when the guy started up the van and drove farther into the canyon. She figured he was looking for the way out. But he wasn’t and she knew that when he pulled to the side again.

  Her worst fears were realized when he pulled her out of the van and raped her again, only this time, he wasn’t content to merely force himself on her sexually. Larry put his hands around her throat and began to squeeze, harder and harder and harder, squeezing the life out of the poor, defenseless fifteen-year-old, who happened to be hitching at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Suddenly, Larry stopped and looked down at her. The girl seemed dead, and his hands were around her throat. He had killed her. He had to think fast.

  Larry carried her back into the van. He drove farther into the canyon and then stopped beside a drainage pipe. The pipe ran under the two-lane road. It was a good place to stash a body. Chances were, the girl was one of those troubled runaways whom no one ever missed.

  But wait a minute, Larry thought, what if someone did discover her? Yeah, you always had to think about the “what ifs” if you were a smart dude. Larry thought of himself that way.

  He was smart all right. Hadn’t he chosen to rape the girl in an isolated, out-of-the-way canyon where no one else was around? Hadn’t he figured out how to get rid of her after he killed her? But he came back to that question of discovery. And fingerprints. If the cops did find the girl, her fingerprints would identify her and then maybe they could figure it all out.

  Fingerprints. Get rid of the fingerprints and no one could identify her. No one could get to him. He’d get off scot free.

  It was the booze talking, but Larry didn’t know that. Or didn’t care. No matter. A plan had formed in his mind and Larry was nothing if not thorough.

  Larry hit the brakes. The van coasted to a stop. By this time, he was so far into the canyon, the blacktop had ended and a dirt road had taken its place.

  He jumped out, the door closing with a crash, and he went arou
nd back to take the body out. He reached in with one arm and draped the body over his shoulder, and with the other, reached under a tarp and took out a hatchet.

  Mary opened her eyes and groaned. From that moment on, Mary Vincent was fully conscious and understood everything that was happening to her.

  Now he really had to kill her. Otherwise it was prison for raping her. But he had to remember about the prints. The prints. The hatchet.

  Larry forced her down onto the gravel, then took her right arm and held it down. He raised up the hatchet and slammed its sharp edge into the flesh of her arm. Not once, but repeatedly until he had hacked off her right arm below the elbow.

  Barely conscious, Mary felt the pain and the blood flowing out of her. She felt him spinning her around. She felt the hatchet blade again, this time on her left arm. After several vicious chops, her left arm fell off below the elbow. Mary collapsed from the shock and blood loss and again lost consciousness.

  That’s good, real good, thought Larry. Without hands, there were no fingerprints. And no identification.

  Larry picked her up like a rag doll and tossed her over the embankment. Then he climbed down and pulled her into the ditch and started kicking and shoving her into the drainage pipe until he was satisfied that she was safely hidden. Leaving Mary to die, Larry retrieved the two bloody hands and drove off.

  What seemed like hours later, Mary regained consciousness and tried crawling out of the drainage pipe and was almost all the way out before she collapsed again. Weighed down by her body, her bloody stumps were immersed in the cool mud.

  Mary had had enough trauma for one lifetime. She needed escape and the only escape available to her now was sleep. Soon her eyes closed and she drifted off.

  Larry made his way back west through the San Joaquin Valley, through the San Joaquin Pass, until he got to the Oakland Bay Bridge. It was early, the empty hours of the morning, with little or no traffic. That was why the next part would be easy.