by Ann Rule
Or perhaps he'd been so cocky that he didn't care if her body was found. Perhaps something in him made him seek discovery of his terrible handiwork.
Linda Salee's body had been bound to the auto transmission with nylon cord and copper wire. A reddish fabric resembling a mechanic's industrial cloth was caught in her bonds. That might prove to be a valuable clue. A mass-produced item certainly, but something that must be saved along with the cord and wire.
The cause of death? Dr. Brady found the classic signs of traumatic asphyxiation. There were the petechial hemorrhages (pinpoint hemorrhages) of the strap muscles of the neck, the lungs, the heart, and the eyes, that occur when the lungs cannot take in air. The hyoid bone at the back of the tongue, that fragile u-shaped bone, was fractured. There was the broad, flat mark of some kind of ligature around the slender neck.
And, with these signs, there would be a faint bit of comfort for Linda Salee's family. Death by traumatic asphyxiation, by strangling, is quick. Loss of consciousness occurs very rapidly, and death itself follows quietly.
Had Linda Salee been raped? That was impossible to determine. Long immersion in water dilutes any semen that may be present, so that no absolute tests can be made.
There was something else found during the postmortem on Linda Salee, something that would be kept from the media because it was so bizarre and unexplainable at the moment.
Dr. Brady found two needle marks in the victim's rib cage, one on each side, three or four inches below the armpit. The skin surrounding the needle punctures was marked by postmortem burns. Dr. Brady had never seen anything quite like it before.
There were some bruises, some contusions and abrasions. Linda Salee, the spunky little bowler, had fought her killer ferociously. But she had been too tiny and he had won.
The activity at the Long Tom River continued throughout the weekend. Reserve sheriff's officers—skilled scuba divers—combed the river from shore to shore and north and south of the Bundy Bridge. A half-dozen of the black-rubber-suited swimmers dived again and again into the muddy river to find … what? Perhaps the clothing that was missing when Linda Salee was found. Perhaps her purse. Possibly even something left behind by her killer.
They came up with old tires, junk, and tangled clots of weeds that had felt like cloth in the depths of the water. They grew chilled and exhausted, and still they dived, carefully working the river in a grid pattern, covering every inch of it. It was dangerous, macabre work. Sometimes the divers surfaced and felt the tree snags clutching at them. Sometimes they worked in rat's nests of debris, feeling claustrophobic.
But none of them quit.
What had happened to Linda Salee enraged normal men. Especially police officers. If they could not have saved her, they would now find her killer and hand him over to the judicial system.
On Monday the horror accelerated into nightmare. Fifty feet from where Linda Salee's body had been found, a diver discovered another figure floating beneath the surface. A figure bound to something that held it down.
He headed for the pale light above him and surfaced with a shout, signaling his fellow divers to join him.
There was indeed a second body in the river.
The news was flashed immediately to Salem police headquarters, and Jim Stovall and Salem Detective Jerry Frazier ran for their car and sped toward the Long Tom. They were there when the divers brought up Karen Sprinker.
Karen had been missing for forty-six days. Forty-six days of agony for her parents. Forty-six days of hoping against hope that she might come back to them. With the latest discovery, that hope was gone.
When the divers carried Karen to the banks of the Long Tom, there was no doubt that her death had been similar to Linda Salee's. Her body was weighted down with the head of a six-cylinder engine. It had been lashed to her body with nylon cord and copper wiring like that used to tie the other body to the auto transmission. There was also a red mechanic's cloth tied to the engine head.
The Oregon investigators, working their individual cases—but conferring with one another—had begun to think that the girls' disappearances might be part of a common plan, and had approached their probe that way. But the knowledge that they had been right was more alarming than reassuring; they did, clearly, have a maniac loose in the state, a lust killer, moving undetected, the worst kind of killer because he does not stop killing until either he is apprehended or is himself dead.
Karen Sprinker's body was autopsied by Dr. William Brady, and on preliminary examination the cause of death seemed the same as Linda Salee's: traumatic asphyxiation.
The term "autopsy," loosely defined, means "to find out for oneself." Homicide detectives and forensic pathologists must set their minds on two levels. Their job—and their duty—is to consider their cases scientifically, to maintain a kind of objectivity into which none of their own emotions intrude. If they are not able to suspend feelings, they cannot do their jobs. What they have to cope with is too tragic. Later, when the killer has been caught, they can afford the luxury of rage and tears. While the search for clues is going on, they must be clinical and detached.
It was extremely difficult to be detached about Karen Sprinker, the innocent young woman whose dreams of becoming a doctor had been wiped out by the killer who left her body floating in the Long Tom.
Lieutenant Jim Stovall and Lieutenant Gene Daugherty of the Oregon State Police—who would work closely together in the intense probe that lay ahead—were present at the postmortem examination of Karen Sprinker.
From this point on, Jim Stovall and Gene Daugherty would be the two investigators at the head of the probe into the search for the killer of Linda Salee and Karen Sprinker—and perhaps of other young women still missing. Daugherty, stationed at the Oregon State Police headquarters in Salem, is a big man, well over six feet, muscular, with the sandy hair and ruddy complexion of a true Irishman. Like Stovall, he was one of the best detectives in the state of Oregon. They would work exceptionally well together, sharing a belief in the power of physical evidence and the necessity to find some common denominator that would link a suspect to the crimes. Neither of them would see much of their wives and families for a long time to come. Nor would Jerry Frazier, the dark-haired, compactly built Salem police detective who had been assigned to work with Stovall. Other detectives in many Oregon jurisdictions would be drawn into the probe as it moved inexorably forward, but Daugherty, Stovall, and Frazier would continue to be at its center until the end.
Any reputable pathologist insists that reverence for the dead be maintained during autopsy; although the body must be examined to determine cause of death and to search for possible vital physical evidence, those in attendance never forget that the deceased deserves respect. Dr. Brady is a stickler about this, and Stovall and Daugherty agree with him. The men were silent as Brady began.
Although Karen Sprinker had also succumbed to asphyxiation, the ligature marks left on her neck were somewhat different from those on Linda Salee's throat. In Karen's case, the ligature had been a narrow band—probably a rope. Again, it had been a rapid death; young women do not have the throat musculature to stave off strangulation. And, again, it was small comfort.
Karen Sprinker had been fully clothed when she was discovered in the Long Tom. She wore the green skirt and sweater that her mother had described on the missing-persons report. She wore cotton panties, but, surprisingly, the simple cotton bra she usually wore had been replaced by a waist-length black bra that was far too big for her.
Odd.
The bra could not have been Karen Sprinker's; her mother had inventoried all of her clothing to see what was missing when Karen had vanished, and she owned no underwear such as this. Further, Karen's bra size was 34 A or B, and this long-line black bra had to be at least a 38 D.
As Brady removed the brassiere, sodden lumps of brown paper toweling dropped out.
Karen had no breasts; her killer had removed them after death.
And then he had fashioned the illusion of
breasts by stuffing the cups of the black brassiere with wadded paper towels.
There were indications that Karen Sprinker had been sexually assaulted by her killer, but, again, it was impossible to tell absolutely because of her long immersion in the river. There were no other obvious wounds on her body.
The results of the autopsy on Karen Sprinker were withheld from the press. Again, only the terse "death by traumatic asphyxiation" was given to the media.
Karen Sprinker and Linda Salee had been stalked and abducted by a lust killer. Stovall and Daugherty had little hope that Linda Slawson and Jan Whitney would ever be found alive. They stood by while the divers continued their combing of the depths of the Long Tom, half-expecting a shout of discovery that meant those girls too were hidden there.
After days, however, the search was suspended. The river was empty of bodies now, and would give up nothing more to aid in the investigation.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jerry Brudos read about the discovery of the bodies in the Long Tom River. He was not particularly concerned. The cops didn't know anything, really. The papers weren't telling everything; the cops had to know a few more details than the paper was giving—but not that much more. He had been very careful. He had planned it all well. Actually, he figured the cops had to be pretty stupid. They'd been right there with their noses poking through the hole in his garage, and they hadn't seen anything at all. They'd only thanked him for his time and signed the forms for the insurance claims. He had to smile when he heard Darcie dithering about the dead girls and how frightened she was. Darcie didn't know anything either.
He felt quite magical, and full of power. Well, he'd waited long enough to exert his power, and now, nobody was going to stop him. Not his mother, or his wife, or the police. Not anyone.
Even Darcie was being nicer to him, beginning to do the things that he'd begged her to do for years. He thought she must sense his new confidence, and he loved her more than ever, if possible. She was really the only woman he had ever loved.
Darcie had started taking dancing lessons! Now they would be able to get dressed up and go out dancing together and she would wear high heels and pretty clothes and every man on the dance floor would be jealous because she would dance with no one but him.
All the shrinks over the years had insisted that his thinking wasn't normal, that he needed therapy. He had the last laugh now; his thought processes were as smooth as tumblers in a lock. He could plan and carry out whatever he wanted to do, and it all worked. He didn't need a shrink to tell his troubles to. He didn't need to "grow up," and he didn't have to bow down to anyone.
The thing was that, once he started on one of his prowling plans, and once he had a woman, he was seized with a feeling that what he was doing was right, that there was no need for him to consider if he should stop or go ahead. He just let the fantasy take him over.
He reveled in having control. He could move about at his own whim. The one thing he could not bear was to have someone else decide what he should do and where he should be at any given time. He was in charge of his own destiny. That was important.
Sometimes he still had his dizzy spells and sometimes he still got depressed, an overwhelming black depression that settled over him and made him too sad for words. Then he would begin to wonder why Darcie had waited so long to take dancing lessons. He had asked her to dance with him for years, and she wouldn't. He wondered if it was too late now.
And he couldn't enjoy sex with her the way he once had. It left him feeling empty, and she didn't seem very enthusiastic or satisfied with him. If she knew how strong and important he was, she might be more sensual. But he couldn't tell her; she might not understand.
Damn. That forced him to remember his failures. Before the short little girl at Lloyd Center, he had struck out twice. It made him feel bad to think about it.
He had to think about his few failures; he needed to evaluate what had gone wrong and correct it. There was that blonde bitch in Portland. He was still furious with her.
On the twenty-first of April, Jerry had gone to the parking garage at Portland State University to look for a girl. He had his toy pistol and he'd thought that would make a girl frightened enough to go with him.
He'd found himself a prime lookout point, watched women crossing the street far below his perch in the parking lot, and finally chose the one he wanted—a slender woman with long red-gold hair and very full breasts. She wore a bright red linen dress, the hemline stopping at mid thigh, and tantalizing high-heeled pumps.
He didn't know it, nor would it have mattered to him, but her name was Sharon Wood and she was twenty-four years old. She was, on that gloriously warm April day, a perfect target for Jerry Brudos. Actually a gutsy, intelligent young woman, Sharon was having a bad day on April 21. The last thing on her mind was caution. She had far too many other things to worry about. Her abduction should have gone smoothly.
Jerry Brudos, like the majority of serial killers, could pick up on that temporary vulnerability almost as a wolf catches the scent of fear in his prey. The distracted victim is the ideal victim for a predator.
It was three-thirty that afternoon when Sharon left the Portland State history department where she worked as a secretary. She had been married for seven years, had two little children, and her marriage was about to blow all to smithereens. On this afternoon, her about-to-be-ex-husband had agreed to meet with her, and her mind was on that meeting.
She was feeling lousy physically, too, suffering with a middle-ear infection and using antibiotics; her hearing, at best, was not acute. Now sounds came to her muffled and indistinct. She was near-sighted, and adjusting to newly prescribed contact lenses. The senses she needed most were blurred that afternoon.
It wasn't surprising that Sharon was distracted and depressed. She couldn't even find her damned car keys, and she'd had to dump out the contents of her purse on her desk before she left her office. She hoped she could find the extra key she'd hidden in a magnetic box under the car frame.
Sharon tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for the "Walk" sign to flash at the corner of Broadway and Harrison in downtown Portland. She hadn't the vaguest awareness of the big man watching her from his perch high up in the parking garage across the street. Eight stories high with open sides, packed with cars belonging to some of the 9,000 Portland State students and faculty, the parking garage had always seemed safe enough to Sharon.
And it was broad daylight. People streamed by her on either side as she waited.
As Sharon Wood headed across the street, she hoped that she could find the spare key, and then she realized she wasn't even sure on which level she'd parked that morning. She was going to be late meeting her estranged husband.
Sharon would recall years later that she had never before in her life encountered any manner of sexual violence. …
"As I sped down the steps into the basement level, my high heels clicked on the concrete," she recalled. "The heavy doors shut automatically behind me, cutting me off from daylight and the campus population. I walked about fifteen feet forward and looked around for my car, and realized I was on the wrong level."
Sharon turned to go back up the dead-space area between the parking levels, and sensed—if only obliquely-—that someone was behind her. She recalls it was only an awareness of someone in back of her, not a distinct impression of a man or a woman.
"Instinct told me not to return to the more isolated stair area, so I pivoted and started for the daylight entrance on the far side of the building," she said.
Sharon still had not looked around, but she walked rapidly, giving into that "gut feeling" that warns of nameless, faceless danger. But she had walked only a few steps when she felt a light tap on her shoulder.
She turned her head and looked directly into Jerry Brudos' pale blue eyes.
"I could sense the evil and I knew I was going to die. …"
And then she saw the pistol. The big, freckled man promised her, "If you don't scream, I w
on't shoot you."
Almost unconsciously, Sharon Wood made a choice. "No!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, at the same time backing away from the man with the gun. Undeterred, Jerry Brudos stepped quickly behind her again and grabbed her in an arm-lock around her neck. She was five feet four inches tall, and weighed 118 pounds. The man who held her in a "half nelson" was over six feet tall and weighed 210 pounds.
Kicking and screaming, Sharon continued to shout "No!" She tried to grab for the gun that was right in front of her face, twisting and pulling at the fat fingers that held it.
The man's huge hand passed close to her mouth, and she bit into the fleshy thickness of his thumb as hard as she could. She tasted blood, his blood, and she tried to let go. But, in her terror, her jaw had locked. She could not release his hand, and they danced a kind of crazy dance in the dimness of the parking garage as Jerry Brudos tried to free himself of the kicking, biting blonde who had seemed such an easy target.
In desperation, he wound his free hand around and around in Sharon Wood's long strawberry blonde hair and pulled her head toward the concrete, forcing her body to the ground.
"Oh, God," she thought. "Now, he's going to rape me right here."
Brudos still had a grip on Sharon's hair, and began to beat her head against the floor. Hazily, she saw a Volkswagen "Bug" driving toward them as she began to lose consciousness. Only then did her jaw relax from its muscle spasm and her attacker pull his thumb free. Through bleared eyes she saw him pick up his gun and run. How odd, she thought hazily: Once he became the captive, he acted scared to death … he was fighting to get away from me.
And then she passed out.
Portland police patrolmen arrived at the parking garage to take Sharon Wood's statement about the crime, which was listed as "aggravated assault." Tragically, no connection was made at the time between the attack on Sharon in Portland and the dead girls found floating in the river near Corvallis.
Of the two officers responding, one told Sharon, " Don't you think you took a hell of a chance—fighting a man with a gun?" His partner disagreed, "I think you did the right thing."