Smoke, Mirrors, and Murder and Other True Cases

by Ann Rule

In the mid-fifties, Frank Sinatra played against type as a home invader in the movie Suddenly. His character was an insane fanatic who held a family captive as he waited in their home to shoot the president as he made a whistle-stop speech.

  Perhaps the most frightening pair of same-titled movies about a criminal stalking and threatening a family are the two versions of Cape Fear. The 1962 version starred Gregory Peck as a prosecutor and a father trying to protect his family. Robert Mitchum was the alleged rapist who was out for revenge. In 1991, Martin Scorcese’s production of Cape Fear starred Nick Nolte as the father and Robert De Niro as the heartless convict who insinuated himself into Nolte’s home.

  I happen to love these movies, probably because they scared me. I was suitably afraid and in suspense as I watched them.

  However, what happened to a real family who lived in a quiet neighborhood in eastern Washington State is more compelling—simply because this is a factual story that seemed certain to end in horror.

  Even though many years have passed, I have changed the names of the actual victims who survived to save them embarrassment and to avoid invading their privacy.

  Tuesday, April 18, 1978, was a warm spring day in Pasco, Washington, but few residents in Pasco left their doors or windows open. They were all afraid, and the comfortable home of Martha and John Carelli* was closed up as tightly as their neighbors’. The Carellis were aware that four prisoners had escaped from the Franklin County Jail on Sunday, two days earlier. They kept close track of what was happening at the jail because they lived only six blocks away. Actually, everyone in the Tri-Cities area—which includes Richland, Pasco, and Kennewick—knew of the escape because it had been featured on the news as the headline story for days. The prisoners had managed to hide a razor blade, which one of them had held to the throat of a jailer. Once out of their cells, they waited while twenty-four-year-old Michael Anderson (AKA Johnny Hart, AKA Johnny Mimms) used the code he had memorized to operate the jail elevator. In a calm voice, he shouted, “Coming down,” into the intercom, and unfortunately, an officer on duty pushed three door buzzers, not realizing it was four escapees and not corrections officers who were descending.

  The newly free prisoners walked out and disappeared into the streets of Pasco.

  The community had reason to be nervous. Anderson had been in jail awaiting trial for an armed robbery of a Safeway store, where he’d netted $21,000. He was also charged with sexual attacks on couples who had unwittingly opened their doors in local motels, and for credit card theft. He was on parole from prison in Joliet, Illinois, having completed a sentence for robbery and attempted murder in that state.

  Although people in Franklin County were jittery, they had begun to relax a little. Two days had passed with no sightings of the tall, husky Anderson; the other fugitives’ crimes hadn’t been as serious, but they appeared to have gone underground too. Probably, people figured, all four of the men had left the Tri-Cities region, heading east toward Spokane, west to Seattle, or even south to cross into Oregon, across the Columbia River.

  If they were smart, they wouldn’t want to stay around Franklin County, where their mug shots had been flashed on television screens and printed on the front page of the Tri-City Herald.

  On that Tuesday morning, April 18, Martha Carelli had seen her sons and husband off to school and work as usual, cleaned the house, and then gone off to join her bowling team. She had no inkling that someone who didn’t belong there was in her house. Without knowing it, her family hadn’t been alone there for the past thirty-six hours.

  Michael Anderson had spent his first night out of captivity at a friend’s home, and the friend had thoughtfully provided him with a gun and holster. But when a massive police door-to-door search got too close, Anderson left his friend’s house and searched for another hiding place.

  The Carellis’ garage was the first spot he’d chosen. Martha had almost discovered him—although she wasn’t aware of it—when she’d noticed the garage door wasn’t quite closed. She’d tugged at the handle, straining to pull the door down, while Anderson waited only a few feet away, holding his breath, on the other side.

  By Monday night, Anderson grew chilly as rain began to fall. He’d noticed that one of the boys who lived there had left the Carellis’ back door ajar. When it was completely dark, he slipped in and crept downstairs to the basement.

  The Carellis’ home was quite large, with three bedrooms on the main floor and two unused bedrooms on the basement level. Anderson chose one of those, and he listened to the family’s footsteps overhead. He wondered if anyone had heard him. Apparently not, because nobody came downstairs.

  The basement bedroom was much more comfortable than the garage. Late that night, when he was sure the Carellis and their two sons were asleep, Anderson went upstairs to the kitchen and helped himself to some cake. He also made himself a strong drink with some rum he found in their bar. His hunger satisfied and his nerves eased by the alcohol, he returned to his hiding place in the basement.

  With two sons in the house, Martha Carelli thought nothing about the missing cake. She had no reason to check the liquor cabinet.

  While Martha Carelli was bowling the next day, Anderson leisurely prowled the house. He even used the phone to make some calls to facilitate his leaving town. When Martha returned around five, Anderson was almost caught upstairs, but he quickly fled back to the basement.

  Martha didn’t see him, and she didn’t notice that more food was missing from the refrigerator and pantry. He’d been careful not to gobble down obvious things, and he’d thrown away empty cans that might raise her suspicions.

  Still unaware that there was a stranger in her house, Martha hurried down the stairs. She wanted to get a load of laundry in before she started to fix dinner. As she emptied a hamper of soiled clothes into the washer, she heard a noise she couldn’t identify. She thought it odd because she knew her sons were outside playing ball.

  More curious than frightened, she noticed that the laundry room window was open, and decided the boys were probably planning to sneak in—or out—that way for one of their pranks. They were known for that.

  Half smiling, she began a search of the basement rooms.

  She had almost forgotten about the jailbreak.

  As Martha walked into one of the unused bedrooms, she suddenly felt prickles of alarm, goose bumps dotting the flesh of her arms. The big man appeared in front of her, and he was holding a gun in his hand. For a moment, she froze with shock and disbelief, and then she screamed. She whirled and tried to run to the stairs, but Anderson snaked out a muscular arm and held her fast.

  “Shut up!” he barked as he threw her to the floor. “You know I just got out of jail. You read the papers.”

  Martha Carelli continued to scream, hoping her sons might hear her and run for help, or that her husband might be coming home from work. But her cries only served to anger the stranger.

  Mike Anderson kicked her viciously and repeatedly in the head until she saw waves of blackness, and then passed out. When she came to—she didn’t know how long later—one of her eyes had begun to swell, and blood coursed down her face.

  Fighting to stay conscious, she tried to think. Of course she had read about the escape. She knew that two of the escapees had just been captured and that two were still at large. She was most afraid for her family, and wondered frantically how she could warn them.

  It was too late. Her eleven-year-old son and a neighbor boy came running down the stairs. They had heard her screams, and now they stopped short at the sight of her bleeding face and the man who stood over her. He held his gun on the boys and forced them into the bedroom, ordering them to lie on the bed next to Martha. Then he opened the cylinder of the pistol and showed them that it was fully loaded with six bullets.

  They were sixth-graders, and they knew they couldn’t fight him, or run for help before he caught them. Anderson tore sheets from the bed into strips, and he used them to gag and hogtie the youngsters.

&nb
sp; “Don’t look at me,” he said to Martha. She wondered why he bothered to say that; he knew she had already seen him, and that she knew who he was. She wished mightily that she hadn’t screamed. If she had just kept quiet, the boys wouldn’t have come downstairs.

  But now, things just kept getting worse. Her fourteen-year-old son walked into the bedroom, calling out her name. Anderson quickly overpowered him, too, tied him up as he had the others, and told him to lie on the floor.

  Six bullets. Their captor had made a point of counting them out as he showed them his gun’s cylinder. There were more than enough to kill all of them, Martha thought hopelessly.

  “Who else is due home?” Anderson asked.

  “Just my husband—but I don’t know when he’ll be home.”

  That was true. John Carelli was a painting contractor, and his work meant irregular hours. His wife prayed that he would be late on this night. Perhaps if he tried to telephone and got no answer, he might be forewarned. He was the only one left who could save them, but she knew there were enough bullets for him, too, if he should be ambushed the way the rest of them had been.

  Her heart sank as she heard the door upstairs open and her husband’s voice calling for her. Moments later, John Carelli came bounding down the stairs. His eyes widened with shock as they grew accustomed to the dim light in the bedroom. The gunman loomed over him, aiming at his heart.

  Carelli’s eyes darted around the room, and he saw his injured wife, his two sons, and the neighbor boy—all of them bound and gagged. He realized instantly that if he tried to fight the man, there was a good chance that one of more of them might die. So Carelli stood helplessly as Anderson tied his hands behind him. Then, the huge convict picked Carelli up effortlessly, slung him over his shoulder, and started to carry him upstairs. Before he left the room, he turned back to Martha Carelli.

  “Stay here. My friend is in the garage,” he warned. “If you move, everybody’s going to get it.”

  She nodded her head. But then he changed his mind and ordered the bleeding woman to walk slowly ahead of him as he carried her husband upstairs. Once on the main floor, he dumped John Carelli in a bedroom.

  Nudging Martha with his gun, he ordered, “Now we go to the kitchen. I want you to cook me that steak you’ve got thawing on the counter.”

  Trembling, she obeyed. She broiled the steak and fried some potatoes. Anderson wolfed the food down, but managed to eat with one hand while he held the gun in the other. When he’d finished, he instructed Martha to fix a plate of food for his “buddy.” After she’d dished up more food, he told her to get the rum out and make two rum and Cokes. But she didn’t have any Coca-Cola, and he was visibly annoyed. She grabbed some pineapple juice as a substitute. He swigged that down, and then headed out toward the garage with the second plate of food and a drink.

  “And don’t try anything while I’m gone,” he warned gruffly. “My buddy has a police scanner and if you call for help, he’ll know right away. If you want to see your family again, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

  Martha Carelli believed him. Why would he bother to ask for extra food and drinks if there wasn’t another man hiding in the garage?

  As Anderson walked back into her kitchen, they both jumped when a knock sounded at the front door. Her captor led Martha into a bedroom where she could look out and see who was there. It was a only a neighbor boy. They waited until the child stopped knocking and walked away.

  A little later, someone else knocked at the door. Martha peeked out through a crack in the drapes and saw it was a man whose pickup truck was parked in the driveway. She didn’t recognize him. Her sons had a paper route, and of course they hadn’t delivered their papers. Maybe the stranger was a customer wondering where his evening paper was.

  At length, he too got back in his truck and drove away.

  “How about that other kid downstairs—the neighbor boy?”

  Martha realized that Anderson must have been watching her family for some time. It was obvious he knew just who was supposed to be there and who didn’t belong.

  “Is anybody home at his place? Anybody who will miss him?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. His mother works nights,” she said faintly. “His little brothers and sisters are over there alone.”

  “Good. When it gets dark, we’re getting the hell out of here—and you’re going to drive me. You just remember that my buddy’s staying here with your family. You mess up or try to get away, and all it will take is one phone call back here and he’ll take care of them.”

  Martha was sick and dizzy from the concussion she’d suffered. Her nose was broken and it throbbed with pain. One of her eyes was swollen shut, making her half blind. She had to do what he said.

  Despite the strong drink, Anderson began to get jumpy, and he told her he’d decided they would leave before it got dark.

  “We’re going now.”

  Like a mother bird leading a predator away from her nest, Martha Carelli was almost relieved when they left her house. At least her captor wouldn’t be able to shoot her family. She hoped his accomplice wasn’t as jumpy as he was. She got behind the wheel of her car while the big man crouched down below the car windows.

  He instructed her to head out over the old bridge to Kennewick. She had no idea where they were going.

  Back in the house, John Carelli heard the back door shut. It was very quiet. Tied up and gagged in the bedroom, he had no way of knowing if his wife and children were still alive. He hadn’t heard a gunshot or any outcries, but he had heard the stranger go down to the basement twice.

  Carelli prayed the stranger hadn’t harmed the boys tied and gagged down there. He struggled with his bonds, and eventually managed to get his feet partially free. Stumbling and falling, with his hands still bound fast behind him, he made his way to the front door and somehow managed to get it open. Painfully, he crawled across the street and kicked at his neighbors’ door. They were shocked to find him crumpled there.

  “Call the police,” he gasped. “My wife—my children! There’s a killer in my house!”

  Carelli didn’t know yet that the “killer” had left his house or that his wife was gone too, hurtling at eighty miles an hour on the freeway, putting as much distance as possible between their car and Pasco.

  Acting Pasco police chief Lew Smathers and Franklin County sheriff Dick Boyles knew at once who the man in the Carellis’ house was. Their street was soon alive with squad cars, and officers crept stealthily toward the house where Anderson had warned that his buddy was holding the youngsters at gunpoint.

  But as the task force members prepared to storm the house, something happened. Thinking it was funny, teenagers drove by and threw out firecrackers. They sounded just like gunfire, and people hiding inside their houses thought that the jail escapees were shooting at the police. Fortunately the cops held their fire until they determined the source of the noise. But if the accomplice Anderson had warned Martha about had a gun, too, the pranksters’ totally stupid and heedless act could have resulted in her family’s deaths.

  The Pasco officers checked the garage—and found no one. They entered the Carelli home and searched it room by room, including the closets.

  They found no stranger there, either. The three boys were still in the basement, unable to call out because of their gags. Frightened but uninjured, they were found and led to safety.

  Mike Anderson had pulled off a highly successful sham. It was clear now that he’d been alone, probably from the beginning. Still, his threats about leaving someone behind to kill Martha’s family if she didn’t do what he said had worked.

  She had no way of knowing that her family was safe, and she still believed they were being held at gunpoint.

  As she drove, Anderson regaled her with the details of the time he’d spent hiding in her house. He told her he had watched them as she and her family had gone about their usual routine, completely unaware of him.

  “I watched you play with your dog.
How come your husband didn’t go shopping with you yesterday? I was watching you and listening all the time.”

  She realized with horror that Anderson had been in her home all during the previous evening and night. She had been all alone in the house with him. That gave her such a sick feeling—to know that someone had watched her when she had no idea he was there.

  He gave her directions to a deserted fairgrounds, but when they got there, they found the gates were locked. Next he ordered her to drive to an area behind the Kennewick Hospital. Here he reminded her with a strange grin that she had promised to do anything to assure her family’s safety.

  She realized that he intended to rape her. She pleaded with him while he obviously enjoyed the thought that she was completely helpless. Finally, he let her alone, but she felt no sense of safety at all. He was as changeable as the wind that blew across the nearby desert.

  “Now,” he said. “you get in the trunk. You make a sound and you’ll get it.”

  She crawled in and huddled in the trunk, her body aching as he gunned the motor and drove wildly, bumping over a rocky area. Then she felt the tires spin as if they were in mud. She held her breath as he drove a short distance and stopped.

  She heard a woman scream, “Get out of here! Don’t kill my baby!” My God, she thought, where were they and what was he doing? She heard a horn honking frantically. The screaming and honking continued until she heard his feet running back to the car and he started the engine again. He must have been trying to steal another vehicle and take another hostage.

  They drove on over bumpy roads for a while, and then the car stopped again. This time he opened the trunk and she could see cars and lights, but again she had no idea where she was.

  “You make any goddamn noise and you’ve had it,” he growled. And then he slammed the trunk lid shut.

  Martha tried to think. She knew she was in a fairly well-populated area. She could hear cars stopping, doors slamming, people moving about, but she didn’t dare call out for help because she was afraid for her family. Anderson had told her one phone call would be their death sentence.