Trace Evidence: The Hunt for the I-5 Serial Killer

by Bruce Henderson

  Even though the lights in the Kibbe residence went out before 10:00 P.M., the surveillance team stayed in place until after midnight before reluctantly calling it a night.

  So much for the Harriet-as-a-trigger theory.

  AT 10:00 A.M. the next morning, Detective Kay Maulsby picked up Carmen Anselmi at her apartment for a tour of a dozen Public Storage rental businesses.

  In setting up the tour, Maulsby had explained to Carmen that she was going to be shown a group of people working in storage rental businesses around the city. In viewing these individuals, Maulsby counseled, it was important to keep in mind that the man who drove off with Charmaine might or might not be in this group of people.

  In the car, Maulsby went back over everything, as Carmen, obviously nervous, nodded her assent.

  “You’re in no way obligated to identify anyone today,” Maulsby said. “Study each person carefully. Remember that hairstyles change and beards can come and go.”

  Maulsby further cautioned Carmen that if she saw anyone who looked like the suspect, she should wait until they were back in the car before commenting. The detective had Carmen bring a hat and dark glasses to disguise her own features so that recognition wouldn’t be a two-way street.

  “Remember now, you may not see anyone who looks like him and that’s okay, too,” Maulsby said before they got out of the car at the first location on Folsom Street.

  After they spoke to a man who identified himself as Frank and he showed them a storage space, they got back into the car to debrief. “His hair has too much gray,” Carmen said. “And he’s heavier.”

  At the second stop, on San Juan Avenue, the man behind the counter, Ken, was “too pudgy.”

  At the next stop, a woman was working the counter.

  At the fourth location, on Vernon Boulevard, the manager’s name was R.J. “He doesn’t look like him at all.”

  Women were managing the next three locations.

  On Howe Avenue, George came next. “No, no.”

  Tony, on Auburn Boulevard, was “out of the question” because he was “too dark and too fat.”

  Then another woman.

  They arrived at Tupelo at 2:15 P.M. Working behind the counter was a soft-spoken man with a closely cropped salt-and-pepper beard. He identified himself as Roger, and answered their questions about space sizes and prices. He took them out back and showed them a few storage spaces.

  Back in the car, Carmen said the man who took her daughter away had straighter hair and a lighter complexion.

  “This guy is not the one.”

  THAT NIGHT, Kay Maulsby was awakened by the phone.

  As she reached for the bedside phone, she saw on the illuminated clock dial that it was past midnight.

  A deputy was calling to advise her that Debra Ann Guffie had been arrested and was being processed at the downtown county jail facility.

  “Thanks very much,” said Maulsby, whose feet were on the floor by the time she hung up.

  Anxious to speak to Guffie, who had gone back out on the streets since her run-in with Roger Kibbe, Maulsby had asked the warrant bureau to contact her in the event Guffie ended up back in custody. Guffie had failed to appear for a court date on a medical fraud misdemeanor involving her using someone else’s insurance card for medical treatment, and a bench warrant had been issued for her arrest. Maulsby had given them not only her office and pager numbers, but her home number as well, with instructions to call day or night. It had been a long shot—Guffie might or might not be arrested in the near future, and some deskbound deputy might or might not notice the flag to call Maulsby before Guffie was kicked back out the revolving jailhouse door.

  After the booking process was completed, Maulsby signed for Guffie and drove her the two short blocks to the Homicide Bureau. It was 1:45 A.M. when they sat down in an interview room.

  Guffie, who on the ride over easily admitted to supporting herself through prostitution, had the wasted heroin junkie look Maulsby had seen so often working Vice. The emaciated blonde with sunken cheeks and a pointed jaw didn’t look at all well, and Maulsby knew she’d be feeling even worse in a few hours. Nevertheless, as Guffie recounted the incident at the golf course parking lot a month earlier, her memory proved sharp and detailed. There were no obvious inconsistencies with what she’d previously told police.

  “Did he make any threats?” Maulsby asked.

  “When he slammed my face down he said, ‘Don’t struggle and you won’t get hurt, cunt.’ He said it only once but he said it real hateful-like. He didn’t raise his voice, but it was hateful. He said it very slowly and calmly and pronounced each word distinctly.”

  Individuals who had been on the street as long as Guffie could easily become hardened and cynical about what life threw in their direction. But Guffie was obviously still very shaken by the experience in the parking lot, and well aware of what a near miss it had been. She was motivated to help the police and even testify, she explained to Maulsby, because she didn’t want to see other women go through what she went through, or worse.

  “Was there any sexual touching or talk?”

  “We didn’t get that far,” Guffie said. “He hadn’t even unfastened his pants yet so I can’t tell you if he had an erection or not.”

  Maulsby understood why the district attorney’s office hadn’t filed assault with intent to commit rape, the felony for which Kibbe had been arrested. As he hadn’t had time to make any overt attempts to rape Guffie, it would be an uphill battle to pursue felonious assault, which by statute required an “overt intent” to commit a further crime, such as rape, great bodily harm, robbery, etc. Instead, the D.A. had filed two misdemeanor counts: battery and soliciting prostitution—each punishable by up to a year in jail.

  “You know what I think was going to happen?” Guffie said, biting her lip. “I think he was going to handcuff me there in the parking lot and drive me off somewhere else. It was dark there but we weren’t hidden. The way he acted and the way he looked, I think he’s really sick and that he probably has hurt or killed someone before.”

  Maulsby knew Kibbe had pleaded not guilty to the charges and that a trial was scheduled for the following month in Sacramento Municipal Court. As they still lacked the evidence necessary to link him to murder, the Guffie assault case was shaping up as their best shot for getting Kibbe off the street quickly. Assuming he was convicted, his subsequent stay in county jail would give them the precious time they needed to try to build a winnable murder case.

  The detective could see that Guffie would make an articulate and credible witness despite her lifestyle. But it had taken an arrest warrant to round her up for this interview, and she’d soon be back in her element on the street.

  What were the chances that Debra Guffie would show up at trial and point an accusatory finger at Roger Kibbe?

  FOR THE surveillance team, the days came and went.

  One evening Roger Kibbe went for a stroll through the shopping center. As he exited the store, an attractive young woman passed by. He turned and gave her a long look.

  There was a break in the boredom one afternoon when Vito Bertocchini, who happened to look down into a car in the lot, suddenly bellowed: “You son of a bitch! I’m going to fuckin’ bust your pervert ass!” He flew out of the motor home, gun in hand, with the other cops scrambling to follow.

  Bertocchini had noticed a young man, who turned out to be a police officer’s son, sitting in the car masturbating to the sight of women walking through the parking lot.

  The detective already had the embarrassed man up against his car. “Zip up and get your hands in the air,” he said. “I’d shoot it off but it’s too small a target.”

  Another evening, Kibbe walked to a video store in the shopping center. Larry Ferrari followed him inside. He watched as Kibbe showed keen interest in the adult movie section, frequently going close to the area but never close enough to pick up a film. He left the store empty-handed.

  On October 25, Kay Maulsby joined the
stakeout team. Wading into the midst of a bunch of bored male cops stuck inside a motor home watching the seventh game of the World Series, she felt like the token “girl” allowed to play a pickup baseball game only because she had a big brother. But after a while, she too put her feet up, grabbed a beer, and started rooting for the Twins, who ended up winning 4–2.

  In the meantime, Roger spent the afternoon mopping and cleaning and fussing around the office, all to great hoots from the guys: “His wife puts an apron on him during the last game of the World Series? No wonder he kills women.”

  Early the next afternoon, there was an inspection of the facility by Public Storage supervisory personnel. After they left, Harriet departed, too. Roger walked to the video store and rented a war movie. He went to Taco Bell, then back home.

  Four hours later, detectives noticed Kibbe pacing the floor in the office. He walked back and forth to the front door, opening and closing it several times, and kept looking out the window every few minutes.

  The watchful detectives agreed:

  Roger Kibbe was acting very restless.

  AT 12:20 P.M. the following afternoon, detectives Kay Maulsby, Joe Dean, Vito Bertocchini, and Pete Rosenquist walked into the Public Storage on Tupelo armed with a search warrant duly signed by a municipal court judge.

  Roger Kibbe was alone in the office. He showed a flash of recognition when Maulsby stepped up and explained the purpose of their visit.

  When she handed him a copy of the search warrant, Kibbe expressed no surprise, nor did he inquire as to what they would be searching for.

  “Okay, go ahead,” he said.

  Maulsby turned to the other detectives. “Call in the troops,” she said.

  They were joined by detectives Larry Ferrari (San Joaquin) and Jim Watson (El Dorado), and several investigators from the Department of Justice, including criminalist Jim Streeter. Someone was designated the recorder, who would write down a complete inventory of all the evidence seized, and another had a camera to photograph pieces of evidence in place before they were picked up.

  As the others spread out to conduct a thorough search of the office and adjoining residence, Bertocchini had more bad news for Kibbe.

  “The warrant empowers us to take your fingerprints,” he explained to Kibbe, “and to get samples of your hair, saliva, and blood. We’ll be taking you downtown.”

  Kibbe shrugged as if this kind of thing happened to him all the time. He stepped forward meekly and was escorted to an unmarked car by Bertocchini and Rosenquist.

  A six-page list of “items to be searched for” was attached to the warrant. It included: unaccounted personal belongings of Stephanie Brown, Charmaine Sabrah, and Karen Finch (Lora Heedick was not included because it was believed her clothes had not been cut); hair, blood, body fluids, fibers, and latent prints from the Hyundai and the old pickup; white nylon cord; knife or scissors; duct tape; photos of the victims and any sexually explicit photos of women involving bondage and/or sadomasochism (justified to the judge by Kibbe’s having asked Debra Guffie to pose for nude pictures); rental records of storage spaces to determine if Kibbe had his own spaces that might contain “souvenirs” of his crimes; records of gasoline purchases that might provide dates and geographic locations; telephone toll records in the event Kibbe called his wife from different locations to explain his absences from home; checkbook and charge receipts; and—from the person of Roger Kibbe—blood, saliva, pubic and head hair, and fingerprints.

  The detectives split up for the scavenger hunt; each was wearing a new pair of gray funeral gloves used by pallbearers.

  Watson took the bedroom. He found in the closet a “peep show” key ring, a copy of Adam men’s magazine, and two X-rated films entitled “Pretty Girls #68 and #28,” and numerous reels of old 8mm home movies.

  In a hallway closet, Dean found some traveler’s check receipts and Kibbe’s U.S. Parachute Association card.

  In the kitchen, Ferrari found a pair of black-handled scissors with blades about 5 inches long. He also found two rolls of tape; neither was duct tape.

  A detective going over the rental records in the office—he called customers listed in the books to verify their locker numbers—determined that Kibbe had two lockers in his own name. With the help of Dennis Kissinger, the Public Storage general manager who happened to show up in the middle of the search, the keys were located in the office.

  Dean took locker 428. Inside, he found several cardboard boxes and some old clothes. Going through the boxes, he found an X-rated striptease video entitled “Fleshdance,” and several books, including Parachuting, The Parachute Manual, and Sport Parachuting.

  Maulsby opened storage locker 427. Inside, she found a shoe box filled with receipts and tax records. Her next find was more interesting: four pieces of wooden doweling. To Maulsby, they looked exactly like the pieces of doweling she’d seen in the crime kit.

  A piece of tree branch had been used to tighten the garrote around the neck of El Dorado’s Jane Doe. Had Kibbe fashioned the smooth, solid dowels since then as a procedural improvement? The theory around the cop shop was that the dowels and nylon cordage represented a devilish “progression” by the killer. Several pieces of cordage had been brought to the Jane Doe scene for some other reason—as bindings?—but by the time of the attack on Debra Guffie, cordage had been strung between two dowels, ready for use as a sophisticated gar rote that could be easily tightened and loosened around the neck of the victim.

  The doweling was photographed and bagged.

  A few minutes later, bent over digging through a cardboard box, she suddenly straightened up. “We’ll need a picture of this,” she announced.

  Maulsby had located two coils of white nylon cord that looked similar to the cordage found at the murder scene and in the Guffie crime kit.

  DETECTIVES Vito Bertocchini and Pete Rosenquist transported Roger Kibbe to the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department. On the way, he refused to answer any questions.

  Not about to give up so easily, the detectives led him into an interview room at the Homicide Bureau.

  Although cops on television and in the movies seem to have almost unlimited power to question and hold suspects before an arrest, real-life police officers are required to observe the rights of citizens, or suspects, as guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution. Unless someone is under arrest, for example, he can refuse to go to a police station to answer questions.

  In Kibbe’s situation, the search warrant compelled him to come to the station for the collection of various bodily evidence, but he was not required to speak to detectives. Most suspects, however, did volunteer to speak—innocent ones, in particular, to clear matters up, but also a surprising number of guilty suspects, many of whom believe they’re smarter than the cops. Detectives like nothing better than the talkative, deceitful ones, who before long will usually be well trussed up by their own tangled webs.

  They all took seats and the veteran, Rosenquist, began by explaining to Kibbe that additional investigative work had been conducted since he’d come in and talked to Bertocchini the previous December.

  “You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have something,” Rosenquist said bluntly. “It’s that simple. Now, we want to go over a few things. How do you feel today? Are you ill?”

  “No,” Kibbe said.

  “Are you under a doctor’s care?”

  “No.”

  “On any medication at all?”

  “No.”

  “Do you take drugs?”

  “I’ve never taken drugs,” Kibbe said. “Don’t smoke, don’t drink. Never have.”

  Rosenquist read Kibbe his Miranda rights. “Having those rights in mind, do you want to talk with us?”

  Kibbe shrugged. “There’s nothing to-to discuss.”

  “Do you mind if we talk to you?”

  “You can talk. Name and address, that’s all I can give you.”

  Unlike Kibbe’s previous interview in December 1986, which had been voluntary on his par
t and did not require a waiver of his Miranda rights in order to gather admissible information from him—the theory being that he was free to walk out any time—this visit was not voluntary. Most of what is seen on TV police dramas about Miranda is wrong: reading a suspect his rights is not required at the time of arrest but only before the suspect is questioned while in custody. The search warrant allowed for the search of Kibbe’s person for the purpose of collecting hair, blood, and other samples, and therefore he was properly taken into custody. As a result, the only way police would ever be able to use in court anything Kibbe said to them now would be in the event he waived his rights to remain silent and have an attorney present. Clearly, by his response, Kibbe had not done so. The detectives proceeded knowing that anything he told them would most likely be inadmissible in a court of law. They did so for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, if he confessed, they would know they had the right person—case solved. Second, if Kibbe ever took the stand at trial, the prosecutor could use what he’d told the detectives for impeachment purposes on cross-examination. Therefore, the interview proceeded, and was tape-recorded.

  “That’s all you can give us?” Rosenquist said.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “How about parachuting?” Bertocchini said.

  The detectives had already cooked up a plan to try to draw Kibbe into a conversation on skydiving, which they knew, from comments he’d made in December, to be a favorite hobby. Once they had him talking, they would try to switch him to other topics.

  “I signed up for jump school when I was in the service and then chickened out,” Rosenquist said. “How did you get started? In the military?”

  “Never in the military,” Kibbe said.