by Ann Rule
“Daniel walked down this trail from the parking lot”—Jennifer pointed—“until he disappeared. He was gone for at least five minutes. He told me he went to a ledge over the water, and he threw the gun in. He told me that he was afraid the gun hadn’t made it to the water.”
The parking lot where they stood started at the Vashon Island Viewpoint, and the northernmost trail, close by Commencement Bay, passed by a clearing. Beyond that a cliff overlooks Commencement Bay. About fifty feet down, there was a thick cluster of brushy vegetation before the land dropped off some forty feet into the bay.
Lindt and Bomkamp scrambled down the path to the greenery that seemed to get its energy from the air itself; there was precious little dirt there. But they couldn’t find the gun. It might have been hidden among the Scotch broom and blackberry bushes, or it could have been on the bottom of the bay.
Or maybe Tavares hadn’t thrown the weapon at all but only wanted Jennifer to think he had?
Under the M’Naughton Rule, a killer who has made an effort to cover up his crime is deemed to be sane and cognizant of the difference between right and wrong. For the sadistic sociopath, the delineation between the two is perfectly clear; it just doesn’t matter to him because he answers only to himself. Daniel Tavares, who was fully aware that he had a history of reacting violently to heedless combinations of drugs and alcohol, might have seemed totally insane after he used them, but he knew full well that he was doing wrong. He made several attempts to cover up his vicious acts. He had always blamed others for making him do what he did, or he denied committing his crimes at all. He blamed his mother for sexually molesting both himself and his daughter, although no one else was ever aware of that. He denied any guilt in the murder of Gayle Botelho, and he said Brian Mauck had insulted him and refused to pay him the fifty dollars he allegedly owed for a tattoo. And he attempted to cover up his crime in the deaths of Bev and Brian Mauck.
Although his crimes and alleged crimes were horrific and seemed to have no logical motivation, Daniel Tavares wasn’t insane under the law, or even medically. His own father called him “evil.” And maybe he was.
There was more evidence that Tavares had attempted to cover up the murders of his neighbors. On December 16, Jeff Freitas called the sheriff’s office to report that he had made a startling discovery when he moved his riding lawn mower out of his shed and began to dump the grass clippings out of the grass catcher. Some clothing dropped out, too: a pair of pants and a pillowcase, both of which had dried bloodstains on them. The jeans were splotched white where Tavares had poured bleach over them. Detectives finally located a burn pile near the Tavares trailer. It had a partially burned blue shirt tangled in it.
Although he had denied it, Tavares had changed his clothes and hidden them to keep the investigators from finding his victims’ bloodstains there. He had gotten rid of the gun. He had made up a wildly untrue story to explain his facial injuries. He had told Jennifer exactly what to say to back up his story. He had lied and lied and lied.
Although he avoided the death penalty, it is unlikely that Daniel Tavares will ever again see the world outside prison walls. For her part in helping him cover up the Mauck murders, Jennifer Lynn Tavares is serving a year in the Pierce County Jail.
It wasn’t until after Tavares pleaded guilty to the Maucks’ murders, and received his life sentences, that Detective Sergeant Ben Benson glimpsed the rage that others had described. Benson and Tom Catey had spent many hours interviewing Tavares the Sunday after the homicides were discovered. And through it all, the suspect had been remarkably civil.
“After he confessed,” Benson recalled, “Daniel sat back and smiled. He didn’t even seem angry or upset.”
But Benson had Tavares brought to his office after his sentencing.
“I asked him if there was anything more he wanted to tell me. He was evasive, and he lied about having a fistfight with Brian Mauck. I corrected him, telling him I knew that wasn’t the truth.
“He came out of his chair in a complete rage, headed right for me. Finally, I saw the monster that his victims must have seen. It was shocking—more so than any reaction I’ve ever witnessed. That, I believe, was the real Daniel Tavares.”
It’s only natural to wonder if things could have been different. If time could be rewound, and if information had been shared and red flags given proper attention, are there many lives that would not have ended so soon, and many careers that would not be blemished?
Karen Slater, Bev Mauck’s mother, takes some comfort in her belief that her small but feisty daughter did some damage to her killer. “He had to shoot her between the eyes to stop her,” Karen says. “I know in my heart that it was Bev who gave him that black eye and left bruises and cuts on his face with her elbow. Somehow, that makes me feel a little better.”
Back in Massachusetts, Danny Tavares was allowed to plead guilty to lesser charges of manslaughter and attempted manslaughter in the savage murder of his mother and the attack on George Latsis, and he was never charged with Gayle Botelho’s murder.
Many citizens of Bristol County, were horrified when they learned that Daniel Tavares had known all along where Gayle’s body was.
If only he had been arrested in 1988, his mother might still be alive.
If only he hadn’t been released from prison—despite his disruptive behavior—the Maucks might be alive.
If he is, indeed, the Highway Killer of New Bedford—which is a more remote possibility—some of the eleven young women tossed away in the bushes and wild grass beside the roads might have survived.
That is, of course, hindsight.
The current district attorney of Bristol County, Sam Sutter, has reopened the investigation into the Highway Murders and the death of Gayle Botelho.
And so the story of Daniel Tavares may be far from over.
IF I CAN’T HAVE YOU…
It has been said—and often—that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I suspect there is a fury that far exceeds that of a woman rejected by her man, and that is the rage of a cuckolded male, or one who believes that his mate has been unfaithful. Every day I get at least one e-mail from a woman somewhere in the world who is struggling to be free of her “prison of love.”
Most days, I get three or four.
As we’ve seen in the first case in this book, it is far easier to fall in love than it is to abandon a love that is not what it seemed to be. Many men still consider that a woman, once pledged to him, is his personal property, his chattel and possession forever. He would rather see her dead—violently dead—than picture her making love with someone else.
In one Seattle homicide, a fifty-three-year-old man proved once again that some men cannot let go gracefully. His name was Melvin, and his former wife, Kathryn, was fifteen years younger than he was. He’d always believed that she would leave him one day, and it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. His jealousy and suspicion ruined his marriage. Kathryn had tired of him long before their divorce decree was final.
She moved forward in her life, and some months later, she had a new love whom she hoped to marry. Melvin was enraged when he learned that.
In the fall of 1976, he lay in wait and shot and wounded Kathryn’s lover. The wounds weren’t critical, and Melvin received little more than a slap on the hand and a suspended sentence from the judge. Although Kathryn was still afraid of him, no one else involved—except for her lover—believed that Melvin would act out violently again.
Within days of his release from jail, Melvin decided to break up Kathryn’s romance in a most final way.
On February 5, 1977, he loaded his shotgun and carried it stealthily up the alley behind his ex-wife’s home. He then dragged a garbage can beneath the kitchen window so he could look inside. What he saw seared an unforgettable image in his brain. Why his wife and her lover weren’t more afraid is puzzling. They should have moved into a bedroom, or at least pulled the blinds—but they didn’t.
Unaware that they were being watched, his wif
e and her lover were making love on top of the dining room table.
Melvin leveled his weapon on the windowsill and called out, “Move—and you’re dead!”
Involuntarily, the lover drew back and Melvin’s slender, beautiful ex-wife started to sit up. Had she remained still, she might have lived.
The shotgun blast reverberated throughout the house, its full force piercing the helpless woman in one breast and tearing completely through her body, taking out her heart and both her lungs in its lethal course. She was dead instantly, senselessly, forever.
Seattle homicide detectives had no trouble locating Melvin; neighbors who ran out of their homes at the sound of the shotgun had spotted his car license as he drove away. And, of course, many of them recognized him and his vehicle.
Booked into jail, Melvin had very little to say. He seemed oddly satisfied that Kathryn was dead and no longer in the arms of another man. If he thought at all of their three children who were now virtually orphaned, he didn’t comment on it to the detectives. In his mind, Kathryn had been his to do with as he saw fit, and he saw fit to destroy her.
But he also destroyed what was left of his own life. Tried and convicted, Melvin was sentenced to serve a hundred years in prison for murder in the first degree, plus another twenty years for assault against his rival, who lived.
Melvin’s motivation was not unlike that behind another tragedy brought about by suspicion, jealousy, and a sense of possession of another human being. This murder occurred four months after Melvin shot his ex-wife’s boyfriend, and eight months before he killed the woman he swore he loved more than anything.
Although it’s been thirty-two years since I first wrote about the case of Amelia Jager, her story is one of a small percentage that refuses to leave my conscious memory. Cruel fate somehow brought the principals together, and it was a sorry thing that they ever met at all.
Amelia Jager, twenty-seven, was a flowerlike Eurasian woman, a small and fragile brunette with lovely eyes whose beauty combined the best of both the East and West. She weighed barely 100 pounds and stood about five foot two. She was stronger than she looked, but she was no match for a man, especially for an irrational stalker.
Ironically, Amelia had never loved anyone with the intensity she felt for the man who would eventually destroy her; she had never been unfaithful to him, and she had left him only because she feared his dark side. Nothing in her former life had prepared her for the sudden waves of blackness and hate that washed over him, mercurial emotions she neither foresaw nor understood.
Except for the unpredictable vicissitudes of fate or karma or whatever it can be called, Amelia would never have met Heinz Jager at all. She grew up a world, an ocean, many continents away from the native of Bern, Switzerland. Amelia had never known anything but a peaceful, loving family life with her parents and her sisters and brother.
Amelia had no prejudices against anyone. Her parents’ marriage had shown her that different cultures and different racial backgrounds could blend into a strong, fine union. She and her siblings had been blessed with beauty and brains, and there were real bonds among them. Their home in one of Seattle’s finest suburbs was charming and gracious. That was all Amelia had ever known. Perhaps if she had been brought up in turmoil, she might have recognized the danger signs sooner.
Amelia was a teacher in California. Her summers belonged to her after she’d completed her mandatory “fifth-year” postgraduate courses in education, and she was free to travel during her vacation time. In 1973, she embarked on a tour of Europe. Although she enjoyed the whole trip, it was Switzerland that attracted her the most. That was probably because of the man she met there: Heinz Jager. Heinz was a tall, handsome Swiss with startling clear blue eyes, thick brown hair, and a beard. He was a theatrical engineer, successful and much admired for his work. He towered over Amelia’s petite frame and made her feel safe and protected.
Although they had some language difficulties, Heinz seemed to know what she felt and what she thought, and she believed she understood him, too. Although her family and friends back home called her Amy, Heinz liked the more formal Amelia; he said it suited her.
When Amy reluctantly returned to California to honor her teaching contract in the fall, she missed Heinz, far more than she had expected. Their correspondence became increasingly frequent and intimate. It was only natural that she go back to Switzerland the next summer to be with him.
This time, in 1974, Amy’s sister Jill went along with her, intrigued by her sister’s glowing reports of Switzerland. Jill was younger than Amy, but taller and stronger, a statuesque woman, very attractive in her own way. She took a job as a waitress and bartender in Bern and both sisters had a wonderful summer.
Amy and Heinz communicated in French, although her native language was English and his German. They both became more fluent in French, and their second summer together convinced Amy that this was the man she had dreamed of all her life.
He was eight years older than she was and had been married once before, but that didn’t matter to Amy. Many men learned from the mistakes of a first marriage, and it often made their second marriages stronger. When she and Jill left Switzerland, Amy knew that she would be back again. She hoped that the next time they were together, she might never have to leave Heinz again.
No one could say that they rushed into a committed relationship. They’d grown to know each other not just in person but also through hundreds of letters.
When Amy returned to Bern in the summer of 1975, her love for Heinz had not diminished; it had grown. She wrote happily to her family and friends in America that she would not be coming home in the fall because she and Heinz were to be married in October. She planned to give up teaching and work hard to adapt completely to her new country. And to her marriage.
It was difficult for her family to think of their daughter so very far away, but, as always, they wanted her happiness. That that happiness meant they would see Amy rarely, and probably that their grandchildren would be born and grow up in Switzerland, was bittersweet.
And Amy was happy, but only for a short time. As her lover and suitor, Heinz had been considerate and nothing she’d done ever seemed to annoy him. But Heinz appeared to change on their wedding day. It was almost as if someone had flicked off a light switch. Everything was different now that they were married, and Amy was stunned. As long as Amy remained at home, catering to Heinz’s every need, she pleased him.
She thought he would be happy when she signed up to take German lessons. She wanted to become a real part of his homeland, and to do that, she would have to learn to speak the language. And their own communication would be so much better if she was able to speak his native language. Perhaps there were shadings of meaning, slang terms, vocabulary that meant something other than Amy thought they did, and that was causing their difficulties.
But something was wrong. Heinz didn’t want Amy to go to class. He didn’t like the idea of Amelia having friends other than himself. He frowned when she told him of the new friends she was making at school. He became sullen, then jealous, if he saw her talking even casually to other men. She tried to tell him that they were only students at the school who meant nothing to her except as acquaintances.
She assured Heinz that she had never loved anyone but him and that she never could love any other man.
He appeared not to hear and turned away from her, pouting like an angry child.
During the weeks before their first Christmas, Amelia stopped being puzzled at Heinz’s actions. She became afraid. If she hoped to remain in his good graces, she realized that she would have to stay in their home, a virtual recluse. She wouldn’t be able to speak to anyone at all, or have any friends.
The man she had married was gone. The “new” Heinz was terrifying in his alternating jealous rages and coldness. To her horror, Amy discovered that he kept a collection of knives and swords, as if to ward off everyone in the world outside their home. And now he threatened her, accusing her of liai
sons and treachery—ugly things she had never done, or even dreamed of doing.
But Amy was a proud woman and, despite everything, one who still tried to be optimistic about the future. She didn’t write home about her situation; she had loved this man for years, had chosen to turn her back on the United States, to make a marriage and a home for him. She still hoped that somehow she could make it work, and she could not bear to tell anyone of her marital troubles. That would be a betrayal of Heinz and an admission that she had made a dreadful mistake.
In January 1976—after only three months of marriage—Heinz’s behavior and his erratic mood swings became untenable, and Amy sought medical help for her husband. The doctors who examined him agreed that he was not rational. He was admitted to the Bern Psychiatric Hospital because of his volatile behavior and his threats to Amy. It broke her heart to see him locked in a mental hospital, but, if possible, she still hoped to save her marriage. They were barely out of what should have been the honeymoon stage. She visited him faithfully, did what the psychiatrists suggested, and avoided discussing anything that seemed to upset him.
Treatment didn’t help him at all. He resisted all efforts to medicate him and would not talk to the therapists who tried to reach him. Heinz Jager’s pathological obsessions about Amy had gone much too far. She wondered how he could have maintained such a normal façade during the summer months they were together and then become Mr. Hyde to the warm Dr. Jekyll she had fallen in love with.
Amy didn’t know his history yet, possibly because of the language barriers and because Heinz had forbidden her to make friends, but he had always taken this approach to women. Once he had taken lovers, they became trapped like butterflies in a glass jar, beating their wings hopelessly as they tried to escape.
