As Flores entered the room he immediately noticed the reddish brown stains on the carpet. Instantly he knew it was dried blood. Instead of traipsing over it, the detectives walked through the narrow walk-in closet, which was neatly organized with color-coordinated men’s clothing, shoes, ties, and belts. Flores stepped into the bathroom through the door on the opposite end of the closet.
He paused for a moment to take note of the carnage. Dried blood covered the walls, mirror, and sink and had pooled in thick puddles on the floor. The body coiled in the shower was well into the stages of decomposition. The corpse was grotesquely bloated, the skin marbled with discoloration.
Approaching the body, Flores noted the deep laceration across Travis’s neck—his throat had been slit open in a gruesome gaping grin. Dried blood caked his nose and mouth. A thick dark fluid oozed from a puncture wound in the center of his chest.
“This guy didn’t go quietly,” Flores said softly.
The crime scene told the story of a victim who fought back. Such a profuse amount of blood spatter was an obvious sign of a violent assault.
“The large amount of blood throughout the bathroom and bedroom areas indicated to me there was either a struggle or the victim was attempting to flee his attacker,” Flores later recalled. “He had numerous injuries and trauma to his body, which indicated he had attempted to defend himself.”
Travis Alexander had suffered an agonizing, cruel death. Right away Flores knew he was searching for a cold-blooded killer, someone who likely knew the victim and wanted him to suffer.
The medical examiner would later determine Travis had been shot in the face, stabbed twenty-seven times, and his throat had been slit from ear to ear. The cause of death: rapid blood loss.
There was no question—it was homicide. And this was now a crime scene.
“Let’s get out of here and come back with a warrant,” Flores told the detectives.
A search warrant would ensure the integrity of the investigation and any ensuing criminal charges. They left the corpse where he lay, curled in the shower.
Retreating out of the master bedroom, the detectives descended the staircase and passed through the kitchen and living room, heading toward the garage door in the laundry room. As they were exiting the house, a curious stain caught Flores’s attention. On the washing machine was a small reddish-brown smear. It appeared to be blood—unusual since nearly all the other evidence had been confined to the upstairs.
Flores made a note of the stain. He would wait to sift through the contents of the machine until he obtained the warrant.
As Detective Flores left the crime scene that evening, he had no way of knowing that lurking inside was a peculiar piece of evidence that would come to play a crucial role in untangling the twisted murder mystery—a camera.
CHAPTER 2
It would take months for Travis’s friends to fully comprehend the staggering loss. It was an unspeakable tragedy. Travis was only thirty years old and so full of life—so driven, so accomplished.
Tall and broad-shouldered with bright green eyes, Travis was a handsome young entrepreneur who appeared to have the world at his feet—a lifetime away from his impoverished beginnings.
Travis Victor Alexander was born on July 28, 1977, in Riverside, a large city in Southern California. He was one of eight children born to Gary and Pamela Alexander. He had two older brothers: Gary Jr. and Greg, and was followed by sisters Tanisha, Samantha, Hillary, Allie, and a younger brother, Steven.
With a population of more than 300,000, Riverside was a diverse community with pockets of upscale suburban homes checkered by sections of concentrated poverty. The hilly landscapes and palm tree–lined streets were interspersed with luxury condos and sprawling estates. The poor areas were bursting with crumbling properties and illegal trailer parks, where residents lived in squalor.
Flipping through the pages of his family album, Travis’s childhood appeared like that of any large brood. In one photo, a young Travis, doe-eyed with pouting lips, grinned mischievously, crowded on a small leather couch with his three brothers and one of his sisters. In another, he stared fretfully at the ground as his older brothers cradled him in their arms. In yet another, Travis was wide-eyed, his palms splayed around his face in a moment of elation.
These photos showed some of the happier times, the picture-perfect moments suitable for framing. The camera’s lens wasn’t there to capture the abuse.
In the slums of Riverside, in a shabby house on Allwood Drive, Travis’s childhood was consumed with violence, poverty, and neglect. At the time of his birth, Travis’s parents were already poverty stricken and both addicted to crystal meth. When the children were still very young Gary and Pamela divorced. Gary was largely absent and for the most part the children were left in the care of their drug-addicted mother.
In the months before his murder, Travis had started writing a book about his life, which he intended to call Raising You. In it, he recounted his own tragic upbringing.
“My childhood, unfortunately, was very much like any child’s that had drug addict parents,” he wrote. “My father was never around which left my siblings and I to the fate given by my mother—a good woman, with the intent at an early age to be a loving mom. A few poor decisions changed that.”
As Travis’s mother progressively became more involved in drugs, she became less capable of raising children. Pamela was often prone to violent outbursts, staying awake high on crystal meth for up to a week at a time. When she ran out of meth, she would sleep for days. If one of the children woke her up from her drug-induced state, they were beaten.
“Most commonly was a beating for waking her up. It hurt but we got used to it,” Travis wrote. “I learned how to turn so that when she hit me she would strike my back and arms, the pain was less there. If it was just that I think it would have been relatively manageable. It was not just there, however.”
While their mom was high on meth, the children were neglected. They consumed almost everything edible within reach, and after several days whatever remained had begun to rot, attracting cockroaches that infested the home. Many times Travis would wake to bugs crawling on his body. He developed an intense phobia of roaches that would stay with him his entire adult life.
“I don’t remember much of this, I can only think of one instance where I found a moldy piece of bread on the side of the fridge that represented the last thing we could eat. I remember being teased by canned food. Knowing full well what was in the can but not knowing how to use a can opener,” he wrote. “I remember the filth, admittedly caused by us kids, which compounded on itself for weeks and months at a time. With that came thousands and thousands of roaches.”
For years, the Alexander family lived in a tiny, deteriorated house. When Travis was a toddler, his family was evicted and forced to move into a camper, parked in their aunt’s garage alongside a washer and dryer. The conditions in the camper were squalid. The washer wasn’t hooked up to the plumbing and the dirty water would drain into the backyard and stagnate. The camper was just four feet tall, five feet wide, and six feet long. For more than a year Travis, his seven siblings, and his mother lived in the cramped quarters.
Without being able to bathe, the children tended to stink. As a boy, Travis didn’t mind being dirty. He was actually scared of bathing, because if he got the bathroom floor wet, his mother accused him of urinating on the ground and threw him against the wall. Not just physically violent, his mother was cruelly mentally abusive as well.
“I have never heard in any movie, on any street corner, or amongst the vilest of men any string of words so offensive and hateful, said with such disgust as was the words that my mother said to my sisters and me,” he wrote.
On the occasions when his father was around, his parents’ fights would turn violent. Once, during an argument, Pamela emptied a revolver into Gary’s car. Subsequently, Gary took an ax and destroyed her belongings. That night he burst into the home while Travis was on the other side of the
front door. The police were called, as they so often were.
While Travis didn’t mind being dirty when he was young, he and his siblings were mocked for their filthy clothes. After school Travis and his sisters found small comforts in watching Sesame Street. It helped them escape into a world of fantasy where children were happy and learning.
Among the few fond memories Travis cherished from his childhood were occasional visits with his great grandfather Vic. His mother didn’t have much family but about twice a year she would fix herself up enough for a visit with her grandfather, who lived an hour away from their home in Southern California.
All the children adored Great Grandpa Vic. Visits with him were one of the few times in Travis’s young life when he got to be a child. Grandpa Vic would play checkers, take the children out for pizza, and entertain them with a trunk full of toys he kept for their visits. He taught the children to read and write the alphabet.
Despite Pamela’s attempts at concealing their horrid living conditions, their great grandfather knew what the children endured. At the end of each visit Grandpa Vic would grab Travis by the shoulder and shake him, his tone suddenly becoming serious. “Travis, you need to know that you are special, that there is not anything that you can’t do. There is something great inside you,” his great grandfather said. “You’re special, Travis, don’t you ever forget it.”
That was quickly followed by a rigid hug. For Travis, those words would alter every aspect of his life.
“The words my grandfather said were spoken with such conviction that I believed him,” Travis wrote. “You see what I wasn’t aware of then, that I have since figured out was my grandfather was savvy to the way mother was raising her children. She would often make remarks while coming down from drugs about how miserable we all were, that we ruined her life, that we were worthless. Although those words hurt very deeply, as you could imagine, every time she would scream those words I would hear his words instead, every time I would feel her fist sink into my back, I could feel my grandfather’s hands on my shoulders, and I knew she couldn’t reach what was great inside of me.”
* * *
When Travis was six, he came to the conclusion that there was a God. In anguish he screamed all day, begging the Lord for his grandmother Norma to hear his cries and take him away for the weekend.
“I screamed so long and loud that I actually woke up my comatose mother long enough to beat me for waking her up. When she went back to bed I went back to screaming to God,” he wrote. “Sure enough that evening my Grandma came and picked me up while my mother slept.”
Grandma Norma would become one of the most influential people in his life. Travis’s abuse at the hands of his mother continued until he was eight, when he ran away and never looked back. He went straight to his grandmother Norma’s house.
“I’m going to live with you now,” he told her.
Travis and his younger siblings were taken in by their father’s parents, Jim and Norma Sarvey. Shortly after, Pamela died of a drug overdose. Living with their grandparents, the children experienced having a loving, functional family for the first time in their lives. Grandma Norma became like a second mom and the children affectionately called her Mum Mum.
A devout Mormon, Norma introduced them to her faith. It was a turning point in Travis’s life.
Also known as the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Mormonism is the fourth largest religious body in the United States, with more than fourteen million members across the world. Adhering to the gospel in The Book of Mormon, church members believe, first and foremost, that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world and the Son of God.
Among the main tenants of Mormonism is the belief that a person’s existence doesn’t begin with birth on this earth. Rather, Mormons consider that all people lived as spirits before being born and receiving a physical body.
The purpose of an earthly life is to learn, grow, and progress in knowledge and worthiness. The temporary trials of life represent a mere blink of an eye on an eternal scale for Mormons. Once a person passes, their spirit spends eternity in one of three heavenly kingdoms.
Given his cruel upbringing, Travis felt a strong connection to the Mormon faith. His past wasn’t a punishment, it was a lesson—one that strengthened his spirit and character. It was now up to him to decide his fate. If he wanted a different destiny, a better life than his mother and father had provided, it was in his power to make it happen.
By accepting Jesus Christ, fully and completely, living the gospel and receiving the proper ordinances—including baptism, confirmation, sacrament, endowment, and celestial marriage—Travis’s life, and afterlife, would be blessed.
At ten years old, Travis was baptized. When he was sixteen, he became fully active in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. His faith guided his life.
Attending Rubidoux High School in Riverside, at first Travis was uncharacteristically shy, at times eating lunch in the library alone. As he became active in the church, however, Travis flourished. He became social and outgoing—personality traits that would stay with him throughout his life.
As he reached adolescence, Travis grew tall and brawny, his chin strong and defined. He used his newfound physical strength as a member of the high school wrestling team.
While the Alexander children were living with their grandparents, their father came back into their lives, having since recovered from his drug addiction. With Gary, Travis and his older brothers would engage in push-up, sit-up, and arm wrestling matches.
As he invested in his faith, Travis became inspired to better himself, and began working part time after school. In 1995, he graduated high school. The following year he used his savings to serve a two-year mission to spread the Mormon message.
Mormons believe it is essential to disseminate the word of God and the church maintains a large missionary program that proselytizes and conducts humanitarian services worldwide. To serve as a missionary is considered a rite of passage for young Latter-day Saints, both men and women, although the majority are young, unmarried men.
Travis was called to serve his mission in Denver, Colorado, a Rocky Mountain city with a population of more than five million. Dressed according to the required code—conservative dark trousers, white dress shirts, and ties for men—Travis traveled across Denver with another young male missionary, his companion, switching companions every few months as part of the Mormon custom.
As a missionary, Travis was known as Elder Alexander. Each morning he and his companion woke at dawn, ate breakfast, exercised, and spent two hours studying the scriptures. The remainder of the day was spent knocking on doors, attempting to convert non-Mormons to their faith.
Travis considered this time among the best two years of his life, said his sister Hillary Wilcox, a blonde with big green eyes who closely resembles her brother.
“Travis loved his mission. He loved the people there in Colorado. He actually wanted to move there one day,” Hillary recalled. “He truly loved to serve the Lord.”
On July 28, 1997, while still on his mission, Travis turned twenty. That same day his father died in a car accident. Travis flew back to Riverside to be with his family for the funeral. When he returned to Denver just one week after his father’s death, Travis showed tremendous strength and resolve, according to his companion at the time.
“We had talked a lot about death, and what our purposes were here on earth in the weeks to come, but never did he let his father’s passing or grief stop him in his pursuit to help others,” recalled Hyrum Dean Nichols. “I really do not think there was a day that went by that Travis did not seek out someone to help, whether with service, work, or spiritual help.”
Travis refused to let his life’s tragedies haunt him. He viewed the early trauma he had endured as transformative, rather than destructive, and eventually came to believe that there had to be a reason for everything that happened in life.
“I would change nothing. I have thanked and continue to thank
the Lord for these experiences,” Travis later wrote. “I see them strictly as blessings and count myself fortunate for them.”
In spite of his humble beginnings, Travis was determined to do great things. Success, however, would not come easily.
CHAPTER 3
Travis Alexander had ambitious goals for his life. He wanted to be independently wealthy, travel the world, and get involved in politics. Near the end of his life, his main aspiration was to get married and have a family.
Tragically, Travis wouldn’t live long enough to kiss his bride at his wedding or cradle his firstborn child in his arms. His murderer cut short his life, robbing him of the chance to fulfill many of his dreams.
Still, Travis squeezed an extraordinary amount of life into his thirty short years on earth. He approached each day as opportunity for discovery, soaking up as many experiences as possible. Determined and goal oriented, Travis continuously strove to improve himself—to do better, be better.
“Travis thrived on thinking big and achieving his goals,” recalled his friend Aaron Mortensen. “He wanted to see the world, challenge his fears, and help others on a grander scale than most permit themselves to aspire.”
Throughout his adult life Travis devoured personal development books, over time building an impressive library. His favorite titles included Think and Grow Rich, How to Win Friends and Influence People, The Slight Edge, The Richest Man in Babylon, You Were Born Rich, The Greatest Salesman in the World, and Atlas Shrugged.
But Travis not only wanted to be inspired, he wanted to inspire others.
“He was so hungry to change the world,” said Taylor Searle, a close friend and business partner. “He was all about, ‘How can I create change?’ ‘How will I become my best self?’ ‘How do I influence people around me?’”
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