We began a systematic search of the area. We found ribs in one area and vertebral bones from her back in another. There were parts of her pelvis scattered about with the bones from her arms, legs, and hands. The bones were strewn over an area that would easily accommodate twenty to thirty parked cars. And, to complicate matters even more, there were also animal bones—mostly chicken and turtle bones—in various places around the church. Poor Phideaux (or so we had dubbed him) was taken into custody by animal control. I doubt there was a happy outcome for him.
If I ever had a need for a forensic anthropologist, it was now. I called Mary Manheim and laid it out. As usual, she responded to the situation right away. She would grid it all out and process the remains in her lab.
By now, we all had a high index of suspicion that we were dealing with the remains of Christine Moore. At least, it was more probable than not.
I had read about Christine Moore in the newspaper. She had gone missing some three weeks earlier, on May 23, 2002. Her car had been found ten miles away from this area, at Farr Park. A five-foot, one-inch twenty-three-year-old black female, she was in graduate school at LSU, studying to be a social worker. Her weight was reported as 115 to 130 pounds. She was a jogger. She was the oldest of seven children and the valedictorian of her class at Xavier Preparatory School. Her father called her a trailblazer.
How can a young girl’s bones be strewn about a churchyard and nobody notices it? Is it just me? Am I the crazy one? Actually, I found it a bit reassuring that DeAnn was experiencing the same level of disbelief. Of course, there is the phenomenon of shared paranoid disorder, but . . . Enough! Back to business.
We needed to find the primary site where the body had been dumped and where it had subsequently decomposed. Unfortunately, our best witness was the dog. We tried to search the area but came up with only a decomposing deer in the field behind the church and a dead dog in a ditch up the road. We decided to call in a dog of our own—a “cadaver dog,” one specially trained to seek out human remains.
Christine’s body had been out here for about a month. Decomposition is a relatively rapid process in Louisiana. Between insects, carnivores, and the temperate climate, skeletonization can be accomplished within that time frame. Somebody must have smelled the decomposing remains, but they must never have considered the possibility that it was a human that was decomposing. Actually, given the fact that we had come upon the two aforementioned animal carcasses, it was possible that the odor could be mistaken for just another animal. Still, it still seemed illogical that no one would investigate it, especially in lieu of the publicity about the missing girl. Did no one around here keep track of current events?
The specialized cadaver dog had arrived. The dog, a German shepherd, lived up to its reputation and soon led his handler to the decomposition site. It was there that another horror scene awaited us.
We followed along a rudimentary path that ran from the rutted road to a small clearing about six feet in diameter, and when we got close, the odor was unmistakable. And the physical evidence further supported the fact that this was where Christine had lain for the past four weeks. Specifically, her hair had fallen off her head here during decomposition, and the ground was discolored from the leakage of body fluids as she decayed and the dog feasted on internal organs.
The rain was letting up now but the humidity was still high and we were all drenched with rain and perspiration. Our hair was matted down. Our clothes were wet and frumpy, and we looked like we had just crawled out of the swamps. I noticed that we had inadvertently formed a sort of odd circle around the spot. No one talked for what seemed like an eternity. The horror of it all was still sinking in. We may have looked like defeated swamp rats but the atrocity before us only made us more determined to get justice for the victim. We systematically began to investigate this part of the crime scene.
Her jogging shoes were to the south. Her hair was to the west. It was black, the color we would expect to find if this was Christine. Several other of her bones were recovered. In the end, we would find about seventy-five percent of her skeleton. Some of her clothing was also recovered.
We trudged back to the churchyard. Thirty or so little yellow marker flags were rippling in the breeze. They fanned out over the green grass and past the picnic tables, reminding me of some sort of field game that children who were members of the church might play on family day. But these flags were not festive in nature; these were morbid in that each marked a bone or bone fragment—evidence to be collected.
The autopsy confirmed what we had suspected: the dead body was Christine Moore’s, a positive ID having been made based on dental records. A skull fracture indicated that severe head trauma was the probable cause of death.
I could envision her being preoccupied with whatever she was doing. Maybe she was just getting out of her car when he surprised her. Maybe she was preparing to clear her mind with a long jog on that river road. In that split second before she became unconscious, she would have known that she was in trouble— indeed, from that moment on he was in total control and she was doomed.
Christine’s hair was sent to the crime lab for trace evidence analysis. Her father had requested a lock of hair, but we could not comply with his wishes at the time because it was evidence. He understood. I first met Tony Moore, Christine’s father, in the morgue, about a week after the autopsy. He came with the funeral home people to retrieve her bones. A local priest was there to bless her remains prior to her journey home. We placed her bones in a pink coffin. I remember thinking that I wished there were more remains that I could give him, and instantly realizing what a strange thought that was.
I wondered just how much pain one man could stand. First he endured the fear and uncertainty of having a missing daughter. Then, on Father’s Day, of all days, he hears that the body we had found could be that of his daughter. Then it is confirmed that she had been murdered and her bones scattered and eaten by a dog. He obviously is a man of strong faith.
He was quoted in an interview as saying, “If Christine is alive, she will walk toward me. If she’s coming from the other path, someone else will bring her to me.” It was with great sorrow that I brought her back to him, in a small body bag.
To this day, we do not know who murdered Christine Moore. We still talk of her case, and our guts tend to knot up a little when we cruise by the church now and then. But her murder remains unsolved. Of course, that’s the official stance. I, for one, would sure like to hear the truth from Derrick Lee about this case, but he ain’t talking.
Whaddya expect, Lou. He’s a sociopath.
ARE WE SAFE?
Neither Geralyn’s nor Christine’s death was linked to Gina Green’s. Then came the call. It was May 31, 2002. “We have the body of a white female student on Sharlo Avenue. It’s over near LSU.”
I know where it is because my older sons lived nearby when they were in college. I am also informed that a roommate discovered the victim’s body at about two P.M.
It is a beautiful summer day. The oaks in the area are offering ample shade to the crowd that had gathered at the little grouping of student townhouses near the LSU campus. Inside the first townhouse to the left is the body of Charlotte Murray Pace. A person poised to make a difference in our world, Pace was the youngest person in campus history to earn a master’s degree in business administration. She was a vivacious young woman who enjoyed life and was on her way to making a contribution to our society. She was well liked and family oriented. But all that was moot now. Her potential had died with her in a violent struggle that ended in rape and mutilation.
The lawn between the townhouses is crowded with various police officers, local PD crime-scene techs, state police crime-scene investigators, and our ubiquitous coroner van. I had been forced to relinquish my tired-out old Green Hornet to the government auction lot and was now driving a newer black Crown Victoria, which I parked under one of the oaks near the road.
As soon as I exit the car, I hear my name being c
alled out. The voice is that of a longtime friend who lives in the area.
“Lou! Lou, over here!” Kandi runs toward me. “What happened? I hear a girl was killed. Are we safe? What do we do?” She’s scared. It’s an appropriate response, given the situation.
I tell her that I will get back to her.
De is with me as I walk up to the townhouse. The detective tells me we have a bad situation—one of the worst he has ever seen. I wait outside. There is no rush. I want them to have everything processed—except the body—before I go in.
There is a white wooden swing on the little porch. I enter and notice a small plate on the sofa arm, the one farthest from the door. There is a half-eaten sandwich on the plate and half a bottle of Diet Dr Pepper on the table. She was eating when he first confronted her. Did she open the door, or was the door unlocked?
There is a small amount of blood on the carpet. The attack started here, by the couch. It makes me think the door was not locked and he barged in, but that is supposition. In any case, it was more than he counted on—she fought back. The blitz had not worked. Did she deflect the blow? Did he miss?
I follow the fight trail into a small hallway to the right. The drywall is caved in at the lower third of the far wall. There is evidence of smeared blood. Were you trying to escape? Were you going for a weapon or just trying to get away? Did he catch you and bang your head against the wall? That didn’t stop you, did it? You fought your way into the bedroom. Brave girl!
The whole bedroom looks crimson, reflecting the ugly bloodbath that took place here. She is on the floor, near the door, on her back. Her head is nearest to the door and her legs are apart. I cannot see her eyes due to the swelling. She is nude from the waist down with her bra pushed up over her breasts. Her throat is cut deeply—there are several slashes to the area. Overkill. Rage.
As I step closer, I can see that her body is riddled with dozens of stab wounds, to her face, eyes, ears, and other parts of her body. Some are blunt at both ends—screwdriver! Did you try to defend yourself with the screwdriver and he wrestled it from you? What about the knife? You have defense wounds on your arms. You tried to block the blows from the knife and the screwdriver. Did he take a break once you were unconscious and go to find the knife to cut your throat? What are you telling us?
In conjunction with the state police crime lab techs, we collect the evidence with painstaking precision. We have no concept of time. We are frozen in the moments of her death. We are there with her as best we can be. We rely on time-tested techniques, and with our alternate light source we gather the trace evidence from her brutalized remains. It will seal the killer’s fate. I cannot shake the image of the crimson room.
De tells me she feels proud that Murray put up such a fight. She identifies with the victim—that could have some adverse effects on her later, but that will have to wait. Surely she marked him. Yes. He must have been a bloody mess when he was through. How did he just walk out like that? Even more amazing, considering the horrific life-and-death struggle that went on here, is that the neighbor, who was at home at the time, and whose townhouse shared a common wall with Murray’s, did not hear anything.
De is standing against the wall nearest the door when she makes that prophetic statement: “He’s done it again. First it was Gina, now her.” Those words still ring in my ears. De, surrounded by seasoned investigators, finds that her opinion is pretty much discounted. She is even told, patronizingly, why her supposition is flawed. If there were ever two diametrically opposed scenes, these two are it. This crime scene is bloodier and different from anything that I’d seen to date—so much so that admittedly, I did not connect the two murders at that time.
The sort of behavior on display here seemed so unlike what we’d seen in Gina’s murder. From what I’d read in the serial killer books, I expected the same modus operandi. I’m reminded of a lesson I had along those lines in medical school. While discussing a surgical case with one of my professors, I commented that the patient’s symptoms did not follow the book. My professor’s response was: “I guess he didn’t read the book.”
But DeAnn made the connection. I’m not sure how she knew—female intuition, I guess. Had we known the details of Geralyn DeSoto’s murder and the crime scene, we might have been more open to De’s input at the time. But we were not, and, unfortunately, there is not much communication across jurisdictions.
We place Murray in a fresh homicide sheet that will retain any trace evidence. It’s almost like putting her in a burial shroud of old.
There were bloody footprints in the house, so the crime-scene tech was out front photographing the soles of everyone’s boots who had been in the house. Was it crime-scene contamination from one of us tromping through the house or did the killer leave his tracks? We emerged into the sunlight and the staring eyes.
We escort Murray to the van and on to the morgue. There we will listen even more intently to what she has to tell us. I walk over to inform the detectives about the time of the autopsy. Somewhere in the background I am aware of some residents in the area telling the police about a suspicious dark-skinned male who was hanging around and looking at Murray’s townhouse. It’s police business. I head off for the morgue.
During the autopsy, we would find that Charlotte Murray Pace had sustained eighty-one stab wounds. Many of them were blunt on each end, indicating that a screwdriver was indeed one of the weapons used on her. Murray had just moved into the townhouse and there were tools about. A blue, foot-long, flat-headed screwdriver was found at the scene. She was also stabbed with a knife. I suspect he may have gotten it, too, from her house. He stabbed her repeatedly about the face, neck, chest, and hands.
On July 9, authorities announced that it was indeed the same man. DNA evidence obtained from the murder of Charlotte Murray Pace proved to match that obtained from the Gina Green case. A monster was loose in the city. DeAnn was right. “He’s done it again!”
This tragic news confirmed our worst fears: we had another series of female murders. A different series, the major difference being the victims’ profiles. These were not black prostitute homicides, these were attractive, decent, career-oriented women; women who did not put themselves in harm’s way. Other women in the community identified with them. Not only was there public outcry but there was also public outrage and panic. This vile creature who killed and raped these women would become known as the Baton Rouge Serial Killer.
As more information came in, the links between Gina and Murray grew stronger, and maybe that would lead us to who killed them. Of course, the greatest clue, the dark-skinned man seen at Sharlo, had evidently fallen by the wayside, or under the Sharlo oaks. It was certainly significant to learn that Murray had moved to Sharlo Avenue only two days before her death. Oddly, her previous address was only three doors down from Gina Green’s home on Stanford! Also missing from Murray’s house was her cell phone.
When I was a kid, my grandma used to say: “The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Perhaps the wisdom of that saying did not really hit me until I visited with Murray’s mother, Ann Pace. She’s an attractive lady with style and poise who had her world shattered. But she’s the kind of woman who picks up the pieces and does what she has to do. I remember it like it was yesterday: We were in my office, Ann, her daughter Sam, and me. Ann wanted to know everything about her baby. Grief is a complex issue and different people handle it in different ways. Some folks don’t want to know any specifics and choose to remember their loved ones as they were, not as they died. Others want to know every detail so they can experience the pain their loved one went through. It is a way of being there for them. Ann chose the latter way—she wanted to know. So I went over the autopsy with Ann Pace. It was tough for both of us, but much tougher for her. Still, it hurt to see her in so much pain. The clinician in me realizes that you cannot take away people’s pain; you must let them have it. But I also realize that honesty without compassion is brutality. You can only be there for them during the process. H
er other daughter, Sam, has been there for her and is “cut from the same cloth,” as my grandma would say. As I have come to know more about Murray, primarily through her mom, I’m sure she did put up a valiant effort to thwart her killer, and that she never surrendered or gave up. He killed her body but not her spirit. That must have enraged him even more. Regretfully, I came to know Charlotte Murray Pace only posthumously, through her family and friends, but I see where she got her courage.
I think Ann Pace summed it up for all of us in late April of 2003: “There is nothing left to seek but justice.”
TAKEN
On July 12, 2002, three days after the DNA link between Gina and Murray was announced, Pam Kinamore, dedicated mother and wife, was abducted from her Briarwood Place home. She lived with her husband, Byron, and their twelve-year-old son in an upscale neighborhood off of the southern part of Airline Highway. Pam was an attractive dark-haired lady who grew up in New Orleans and put herself through college with the aid of money she won in the Miss Jefferson Parish beauty contest. A decorator, Pam owned her own business, an antiques store called Comforts and Joys, in the small town of Denham Springs, Louisiana, which is just over the Amite River from Baton Rouge. I say all this because the crime showed no apparent LSU connection at the time. Gina and Murray lived near LSU; Murray was a student there; lots of career-oriented women walk around there on a daily basis; thousands of them, in fact. What better place?
When Pam’s husband came home from work later that evening, her car was there, but she was not. He waited for her to show up and became worried as time passed. It was not like her to disappear without saying where she was going. Later that evening he called the police and reported her missing. Her mother, Lynne Marino, drove in from her home in New Orleans and was appropriately distraught over the situation. There is still concern among family members that the police tended to discount Pam’s disappearance during the first critical hours of her abduction. The sheriff’s deputy even opined that she might be missing because she was having an affair and that there could be a simple explanation for her absence. The family knew better.
Coroner's Journal: Forensics and the Art of Stalking Death Page 18
