by Ann Rule
"We don't really know," Don Cameron replied calmly. "Oh, yeah— that reminds me, we've heard you're telling people that you're a suspect and will be arrested any day. Why is that?"
"Well, I was his roommate," Liefbach said. "It's only logical. Roommates are always the main suspect."
"No, that's not always the case."
"I got another threatening phone call," Leifbach offered. "I got mad and told the guy that his threats didn't scare me, called him an s.o.b. and said I'd take care of him myself. He hasn't called since."
Leifbach was protesting too much. The Seattle detectives felt certain he had invented his shadowy stalker.
Two investigators showed a collage of photographs to Lorraine Lacey, the only witness to the shooting. Gareth Leifbach's image was among the eight men pictured. She wrinkled her forehead and sighed. She could not say for sure— she could only narrow her identification down to two men. One of them was Leifbach.
The detectives were positive now that Leifbach was their man, but they needed something more to take to the prosecutor's office. They called the Yellow Cab office and asked that a renewed search of the company's records be made for the time between 5:00 and 8:00 P.M. on the evening Duerksen died.
"Maybe you missed something?" Tando asked.
A few hours later the dispatcher called back excitedly, "I found two trips to the Duerksen apartment on the fourteenth— one in the morning to the Central Loan and one at 7:17 P.M."
It was a very important discovery; by 7:17 on that night, Larry Duerksen was already dead, and Gareth Liefbach swore he had never left his apartment. The second driver called to the victim's apartment remembered his fare. The man who got in his cab had a mustache and was wearing a fleece-lined brown jacket. "I drove him to the south end of the University Bridge. I took the guy to the Red Robin Tavern just across the bridge from the U District," he said. "He was gonna meet a friend there. I let him off. Anyway, I let him off at the tavern. It's maybe a five- to seven-minute ride when there's no traffic. I turned around and just got to the north end of the bridge when I got the call to go back to the Red Robin. The guy told me his friend didn't show up and he wanted me to take him back to his place."
Asked if there was anything unusual about his fare, the driver nodded. "He was soaking wet when I picked him up at his apartment— a lot wetter than he would have gotten just running from the apartment to the cab."
"Anything else you might remember about him?" the detectives asked.
"Well, like I said, he was sopping wet when I picked him up at 7:17, and he was really excited and jumpy. He sure didn't wait long for his friend to show up."
It was one mile from Duerksen's apartment to the Red Robin Tavern. The popular spot backed up to the Lake Washington Ship Canal, a waterway that was very deep— deep enough to accommodate large ships that passed under the drawbridge a few hundred feet to the west. It took the investigators exactly four and a half minutes to retrace the route from Duerksen's apartment to the tavern.
They knew now what led up to the events of the night of December 14. Gareth Leifbach had led Larry Duerksen to believe they would be together forever, promising him a life of adventure and commitment, the things Larry had always longed for. Then, on December 7, Gareth persuaded Larry to have his life insured for half a million dollars. The policy became 50 percent effective on December 12.
On December 14, Larry told friends that he and Gareth were to have a secret meeting with someone from the Dorian Society on campus. Shortly before 7:00 P.M., Lorraine Lacey saw two men walking toward the George Washington statue. She heard gunfire and saw a flash as the shorter of the two— the man wearing a fleece-lined jacket— reached toward the other, who had fallen to the ground. Then she watched the shorter man run away.
The movements had been choreographed perfectly, down to the minute, if not the second. At 7:12, Gareth Leifbach called a cab. He took that cab to the University Bridge area at 7:17. At 7:22, he left the cab, walked behind the tavern, and in all likelihood, threw the Beretta into the ship canal. At 7:29 the cab picked him up again and brought him back to Larry's apartment by 7:34.
Gareth was there moments after 8:00, when the hospital called to tell him that his roommate had been shot and killed. Leifbach reacted with appropriate shock and began to sob. He then called Larry's women friends to come over to help him "cope with my sorrow."
When the campus police arrived to question Leifbach, they noted that his coat was still soaking wet, although he claimed to have been inside the apartment since 2:30 P.M.
Leifbach continued to perpetuate the myth of threats against Larry Duerksen. Was it possible that he'd listened to Larry's tall stories and decided his roommate's exaggerations provided the perfect setup? Perhaps, but more likely, someone had tortured Larry with scary phone calls and threats, and that someone was Gareth Leifbach. If everyone believed that Larry had been threatened, there would be a good reason to take out a huge insurance policy on him. More important, there would be a built-in suspect if something should happen to Larry.
Detectives now felt they had probable cause to arrest Gareth Leifbach for the murder of Larry Duerksen. After discussing it with Chief Criminal Deputy Prosecutor Phil Killien, an arrest warrant was issued. It was one week almost to the minute after the murder when Seattle police and University of Washington investigators knocked on the door of Larry's apartment. Leifbach answered the door and invited them in.
"Remember us?" a detective asked. Leifbach nodded apprehensively. "We're placing you under arrest for the murder of Larry Duerksen."
After listening to his Miranda rights, Leifbach stated only that he wanted his attorney. He was no longer bragging about his celebrity or giving his theories about "the real killer."
Police divers searched the Lake Washington Ship Canal for three days, but found nothing they could link to the murder case. The water was too murky and far too deep to locate one Beretta semiautomatic.
Gareth Leifbach spoke intensely to a reporter, his expansive charm regained. He said he had refused to take a polygraph test on the advice of his lawyer. "I hired one of the best lawyers in town because this is a serious offense," he said. "I told my lawyer that I know I didn't do it, and if I end up going to jail for something I didn't do, then I want the gas chamber because I couldn't live in jail knowing I was there for something I didn't do. I've been framed. The evidence is against me. The government is framing me in an attempt to stop my lawsuit against the army. I'm mystified that there is no cab record showing when I went to the Aurora Bridge early in the afternoon of the fourteenth to throw the gun away. I only went to the Red Robin to buy a couple of cheeseburgers for Larry and me, but when I saw the long line, I decided not to wait. I'm not ashamed to say that Larry and I were just roommates and very good friends." If Gareth Leifbach hoped for a groundswell of support from the gay community, he was disappointed. Larry Duerksen had led a homosexual lifestyle, too, and the evidence against Leifbach was so strong that the community's sympathy went to Duerksen, not Leifbach.
On January 2, 1980, Gareth Leifbach pleaded not guilty to the charge of first-degree murder. In February, he was found guilty of first-degree murder in Judge James Dore's courtroom.
After serving twenty years in prison, Leifbach was due for his first parole hearing in the summer of 2000. He has served his time as a loner, with no family visiting or writing. His reputation faded away years ago, and few remember the man who claimed to have an honorable reason to challenge the army and who said over and over that he only wanted justice for himself and for others who wanted the right to be good soldiers, despite their sexual orientation. During his two decades in prison, his cause was taken up by others far more trustworthy than he.
Ironically, Larry Duerksen always wanted to be the center of attention. And he wanted to find true love with a man he admired and cared for. It was the answer to Larry's fondest dream when Gareth Liefbach allowed him into his life. But it was all a setup. Duerksen was murdered by the man he loved and tr
usted the most. Larry Duerksen did make headlines, but in the most heartbreaking way.
The Gentler Sex
"Divortium (Latin): separation, divorce, a fork in the road." By its very definition, divorce is not a particularly amicable transaction, but it was never designed to be deadly. As they come to a fork in the road, the wife goes her way, the husband goes his way, and the community property gets split in a relatively equitable fashion down the middle. Alas, there are those husbands who provided for their wives in happier days by taking out large life insurance policies, and when these marriages break down, friendly divorce is not a part of some wives' plans. The thought of all that money just lying fallow is more than an embittered wife can bear. No one will ever know how many ex-husbands die accidentally, leaving distraught widows to collect on insurance policies that let them grieve in comfort.
Throughout the annals of crime, there have been women bright enough and devious enough not only to get away with murder but also to collect on double- and triple-indemnity policies. And then there are other widows who are so unbelievably klutzy in their attempts to commit murder for profit that they might as well have the word "Murderess" tattooed on their foreheads.
Of course it's not just wives who look to murder as a way to avoid divorce; there are faithless husbands who are more interested in financial gain than in honeymooning. We are more disturbed when women kill because we believe that the female is the kinder, softer, and gentler sex. And as far as statistics go, they are. According to the Diagnostic Statistical Manual— the bible of psychiatrists— three percent of all males are deemed to be antisocial and without conscience, while only one percent of females seem to lack compassion for others. But the icy manipulations of that one percent are utterly fascinating. No one can be crueler than a woman without a conscience. Very clever bad girls rarely get caught; only the dumber femme fatales make headlines. In the running for Klutzy Killers of the Millennium are two San Diego, California, women— Carole Hargis and Teri Depew.
In the mid-seventies, the Vietnam War raged and disco fever prevailed at the nightspots that Carole Hargis frequented. Carole was very feminine-looking, with a delicate but well-proportioned figure and long, wavy golden hair. She looked much younger than her thirty-six years. She met Marine Corps Sergeant David Hargis in the mid-seventies. He was a handsome drill instructor at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. David was thirteen years younger than she was, but he assured Carole that age didn't matter— he loved her. He wanted to marry her and he accepted her two sons from a previous marriage as his own. The only problem the couple had was an accumulation of debt. David reenlisted in the marines because they needed the bonus that came with re-upping. He paid off their pressing bills and, with careful budgeting, was chipping away at the remaining debt.
Carole, David, and her sons lived on Laurel Street in a typical Spanish-style home with a terra-cotta tile roof. It was close to Balboa Park and their little house was high on the hilly street so they had a wonderful view of San Diego Bay.
The Hargis marriage might have succeeded— but for Carole's good friend, twenty-seven-year-old Teri Depew, who lived next door. Where Carole was blond and willowy, Teri was short and chunky and she cropped her hair as short as a boy's. Her arms were covered with tattoos, and she occasionally wore a buck knife on her hip. A physical therapist who was temporarily out of work, Teri was proud of her physical strength.
Teri had never married and didn't intend to; she preferred girls, and she especially preferred Carole. Carole liked Teri, and they spent a lot of time together. Teri figured everything would have been perfect if it were not for David, who had to be the most trusting, naïve man ever to come out of marine boot camp. He was never concerned about his wife's friendship with Teri; he considered them best friends who spent time together sipping coffee and exchanging girl talk.
Soon after he married Carole, David took out a $20,000 double-indemnity insurance policy, naming Carole and her two sons as beneficiaries. He was in a very dangerous profession and he wanted to be sure they were taken care of if he should be sent to Vietnam and not make it back.
But David wasn't ordered overseas; he was so superior at training troops that he was much more valuable Stateside. Marine Corps drill instructors are among the toughest military men around. As they march recruits through deserts and swamps and lead them over obstacle courses, the DIs have to be in such good shape that they can run rings around the rookies. David was muscular and perfectly coordinated, and he could run for miles with his gear on his back. But he was softhearted when it came to Carole, and he was grateful when orders kept him in San Diego.
Teri, Carole, and David got along as neighbors and even got together for beers and board games on the evenings when David was home. He liked Teri well enough, and she seemed to like him, although her opinion of men in general wasn't favorable. She didn't care much for the male sex.
As time went on, Carole and Teri grew closer. They waited impatiently for David to be sent overseas and became frustrated when that didn't happen. They were romantically involved and David was in the way. Carole had no skills or training and Teri was unemployed, and besides, they didn't want to get jobs.
Carole told Teri about the insurance policy David had purchased. It seemed the perfect answer for them; they wanted to enjoy a comfortable life without David, but even if he was sent overseas, there was no guarantee that he would be killed in battle.
The women have never agreed about which of them suggested the first plan designed to give them the easy life they envisioned. Later, each would blame the other for coming up with the idea of killing David for his insurance money.
Teri and Carole realized they would have to make his death look like an accident— both to fool the police and to qualify under the double-indemnity clause in his policy. Killing a big husky marine drill instructor wasn't going to be that easy. The only thing they had going for them was the fact that David was a home-loving, doting stepfather who never doubted his wife. He never asked why Teri was always around; he just figured Carole got lonesome while he was off training recruits.
The first plan to kill David came from a television program they watched— an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. David always took a shower after a day's duty out in the scorching California sun. They decided Carole would leave her hair dryer plugged in and throw it into the shower while David was standing there naked and wet. They knew this would work better if David was in the habit of taking a bath, but the shower would have to do.
Carole did her part. She started to dry her hair and then pretended to stumble, and the hair dryer flew out of her hand and landed in the shower stall with David. Fortunately for him, there wasn't much water in the bottom of the stall and David was standing on a rubber mat. He didn't die. He didn't even get a shock. He did give Carole a stern lecture on home safety, reminding her that it could have been one of her children taking a shower.
The second plan to do away with David involved putting a hefty dose of LSD in David's French toast. Carole and Teri had plenty of time to find and buy the hallucinogen while David was away on a bivouac. When he returned, they beat the LSD in with the eggs and milk and dipped slices of French bread in the mixture before they fried them in butter. David ate two helpings with plenty of maple syrup. They watched him expectantly, but he seemed fine. When he got to work that morning, though, he became nauseated. The medic said he just had a case of twenty-four-hour stomach flu.
The general philosophy of their essential plan wasn't what was wrong. Teri always maintained that they had to work David's murder into his regular routine. They had to study things he did every day so that his death would seem, if not natural, a tragic accident. Up till that point, that's what they had done. But David was proving to be far more impervious to attack than they had reckoned him to be.
"Martinis!" Teri cried one night. "He drinks a martini every night of his life— sometimes two."
The two woman put household lye into David's gin bottle, hop
ing that his next martini would be his last. Carole thought he'd probably spit it out when he realized he wasn't drinking gin and vermouth, but Teri had an answer for that, too: "He'll surely ask for water, and then you can hand him a glass full of lye water and he'll swallow it. Then he'll die and we can pour some gin on him and tell the doctor that he was drunk and accidentally drank out of the wrong bottle."
Carole didn't think the plan would work. What if he didn't die? Surely, after this he would be suspicious. As good-natured as he was, he wasn't stupid— and once David lost his trust in her, their marriage would probably end. Then she would lose the insurance money even if he ever did die.
Teri grudgingly agreed that this was something to think about. Carole said she had a plan of her own, and it was far more subtle than putting lye in David's gin. She had owned a pet tarantula for some time, long enough that it was a familiar sight in its glass cage. (It was an apt pet for a woman with homicidal tendencies, given that many female spiders eat their mates after their union is consummated.) Carole said her spider still had an intact venom sac. She suggested they wait until David went to bed, and when he was asleep, they could slip the tarantula into bed with him. Sometime during the night, he was bound to roll over on the furry spider and be bitten. In light of his wife's plans for him, David Hargis might have been better off going to bed with the tarantula than with Carole.
