Dr. Anne Hill, Chief of Anesthesiology, suspected foul play. She believed that someone was intentionally putting patients at risk with a muscle relaxant, Pavulon. Within minutes, Pavulon deactivates muscles, rendering patients paralyzed but conscious. It’s a terrifying experience and they suffocate. On August 15, Dr. Hill saw three patients experience this. Since the hospital was federal jurisdiction, the FBI was called in.
Special Agent Gene Ward, from the Ann Arbor office responded. He called Assistant U.S. Attorney Richard Delonis. The FBI formed a task force, which undertook a yearlong investigation. Bodies of deceased patients were exhumed and the records of all attending staff were checked.
Immediately obvious was the problem of testing from Pavulon in an embalmed body. There were no such tests. The FBI had to develop one that would be admissible in court. Eventually, they found traces of Pavulon in some of the exhumed bodies. Most had been patients in the Intensive Care Unit. The investigators identified more than 50 suspicious breathing failures. The victim toll was around three-dozen, with some being poisoned several times. Nine had died. None had been prescribed Pavulon. Whoever was doing this had injected full-strength Pavulon into the patients intravenous tubes. This turned the investigative focus on the nursing staff. They had access to the drug, which was generally kept locked up, and they had the three-minute time frame available for the opportunity.
Over 750 people were questioned. A clear picture emerged in a dozen of the incidents. Declaring that a killer was at large among patients, the FBI warned that until they identified this person, any patient was vulnerable.
The investigation continued for months, with suspicion centering on two nurses from the Philippines, Lenora Perez, 31, and Filipina Narciso, 30. They’d been on duty each time the patients in question were stricken. Patient John McCrery recalled seeing a nurse, known to him as “Pia” (Narciso’s nickname), inject something into his IV tube minutes before he went into respiratory arrest. However, he soon had surgery that caused brain damage and he was removed from the witness list. A witness against Perez was hypnotized, but he died prior to trial.
The two nurses were indicted on ten counts of poisoning, five counts of murder and one count of conspiracy to commit murder.
During their trials, several relatives of the deceased were called as witnesses and they recalled seeing these nurses in the vicinity of the patients, and even in their rooms, during the fatal seizures. One man identified Perez as the nurse who’d put something into his father’s IV before he went into cardiac arrest. In addition, both Narciso and Perez made comments that suggested anger over staff shortage. The implication was that they were endangering patients to show the need for more coverage.
However, coincidence and sparse circumstantial evidence made up the prosecutor's case, which was insufficient for convictions. No one could link either nurse to the Pavulon. The judge vacated the murder charge against Perez.
The trial for Narciso took thirteen weeks. Finally, she was acquitted of the murder charge, but both nurses were convicted of conspiracy and poisoning. Yet the convictions were appealed and the appeals court set them aside. At a second trial, the charges were dismissed. (Another version holds that the government declined to undertake a second trial.)
The murders remain unsolved, and many supporters claim that these nurses were scapegoated.
MENTAL TWIST
AS HALLOWEEN APPROACHED IN 1978, a young man grew restless. Billy Hardesty, 20, prepared for a rampage against people who made him mad. As darkness set in on October 18 in Van Buren Township, Hardesty loaded a weapon and took aim at his father, Ronald, and pulled the trigger, shooting him in the back. He then went into the kitchen where his mother was doing the dishes and shot her in the head. But killing them was not enough.
Hardesty then went to Abigail’s Dirty Shame Saloon at 327 E. Michigan Ave in Ypsilanti. He got into a fight with two men, and outside in the parking lot, he shot and killed Troy Curry and Timothy Schofield. Next, Hardesty went to a machine shop in Ypsilanti Township, Stiles-Wood Building. Daniel Wood, the brother of Hardesty’s ex-wife, was there. Hardesty killed him as well. Hardesty left but then returned, just as Tommy Lee Brown emerged to call the police to report the shooting. He was seriously wounded, as was another man, Bobby Joe Baker, who was shot 14 times but survived.
Hardesty returned home, high on Valium. Police arrived shortly thereafter to arrest him. After a two-hour siege in which Hardesty exchanged gunfire with police and was shot twice, officers brought him under control. They found the body of his father, doubled over and frozen stiff, buried beneath some packages of meat in a freezer on the back porch. Altogether, Hardesty had pumped at least fifty rounds into his victims. Those who knew him said he was a troublemaker and a “nutcase” who should have been locked up long ago.
A psychiatric exam was ordered. Two clinicians said Hardesty was not competent to stand trial. He might, however, be rendered competent with treatment. The judge committed Hardesty, with a trial pending his mental recovery. He was given antipsychotic drugs and tranquilizers.
In March 1979, Hardesty was found competent. This decision was reversed in June. By November, a psychiatrist found him competent again. In September 1980, the judge agreed, as long as his drug therapy continued.
However, Hardesty’s attorney wanted him off drugs so the jury could see him in the mental state he’d been in on the night of the shooting. This would present a fairer picture of his condition at the time of the crime. The judge denied the motion.
The eleven-day trial began on February 13, 1981. The prosecutor offered 35 witnesses to the defendant’s nine. One of them was Hardesty himself. He said that he’d killed his father because “I was tired of him calling me queer.” He killed his mother because he was “bloodthirsty.” He added that he’d stabbed a man in California 50 times. That man had died.
Strangely, the trial judge would not allow Hardesty’s primary psychiatrist to testify. Still three mental health experts did testify that Hardesty’s mental state at the time of the crime supported a legal finding of insanity. Yet four had supported the prosecutor’s claim of premeditated first-degree murder.
The concept at stake was whether Hardesty had a thought disorder on October 19, 1978 that had significantly impaired his judgment, behavior, capacity to recognize reality, or ability to cope with the ordinary demands of life. In addition, this disorder had to impair his ability to appreciate the wrongfulness of his conduct or ability to conform his behavior to the law. During this period of time, the burden was on the prosecutor to prove sanity rather than on the defendant to prove insanity.
The jury deliberated for two days. On all counts (four of first-degree, one of second-degree, and two of intent to murder), they found Hardesty guilty but mentally ill. Michigan had instituted this legal standard in 1975 in an attempt to decrease the number of insanity acquittals. Juries are given choices among Guilty, Not Guilty, Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity, and Guilty But Mentally Ill. The latter means that the defendant committed the act, did not meet the standard to be declared insane and thereby acquitted, but nevertheless is mentally ill. They receive the same sentence as if they were found guilty, but might be confined and treated in a forensic hospital instead of prison. Hardesty was sentenced to five life terms plus 150-300 years. His only comment was to ask his attorney to write him a $100 check for cigarette money.
Hardesty filed an appeal on numerous grounds.
THREE LEVELS BELOW DELIVERANCE
DAVID TYLL AND BRIAN OGNJAN, best friends since childhood, had waited until the second weekend of Michigan’s two-week deer season in late November of 1985. Supposedly neither twenty-seven-year-old mechanic actually liked hunting, but they enjoyed the time away from St. Clair Shores to drink and hang out. On November 22, they traveled in Tyll’s1980 Ford Bronco to Mio, Michigan in Oscoda County, where the woods of the Huron National Forest were thick and the deer were plentiful. A number of people saw them. They’d asked one resident for directions when they
got lost one night. They also showed up in several bars, offending a waitress and several female patrons. They reportedly split up at one point and came back together. Sunday, November 24, was the last time they were seen. They never arrived at their ultimate destination or visited a friend who’d expected them. The Ford Bronco disappeared as well.
Neither contacted his family that weekend. Tyll was married and Ognjan had a steady girlfriend. Neither came to work on Monday, although both were reliable employees. Neither had used his credit cards, bank accounts or health insurance after that weekend. Their relatives were certain that something terrible had happened to them. The parents of both filed missing persons reports.
The idea of looking for two lost hunters in the dense woods of northern Michigan in the Lower Peninsula was daunting, but police took it seriously. As they asked around, they found people in local bars who’d seen the young men. They heard about how drunk the guys had been and wondered if they might have driven off the road and landed in one of the deep ponds in the area. One officer had seen a dark-colored Bronco come up out of a ditch and drive off, but he hadn’t pursued it.
Eventually, rumors emerged about the Duvall brothers, Raymond “J.R.” and Donald “Coco.” They were two of seven brothers, known for their backwoods ways. They raised pigs “parted out” stolen cars, stole electricity, and with their long hair and beards looked like a cross between a ‘60s hippie and a tough biker “They’re three levels below Deliverance,” one police officer reportedly said. People around the area feared them, including wives and ex-girlfriends. Even some of their brothers were afraid. Coco and J.R. drank heavily and got into frequent brawls.
Several officers tracked down leads, most of which went nowhere. Even psychics weighed in, but nothing materialized from their supposed visions except wasted manpower. Weeks passed, then months.
The rumors had it that three of the Duvall brothers had entered the Linker’s Lost Creek Lodge near Mio, where Tyll and Ognjan were drinking. They seemed to recognize the out-of-towners and one woman in particular, Barbara Boudro, believed that trouble was brewing. She was in the bar every day and she knew when the air crackled with male tension. Someone called the police, just in case, but got the one patrol officer who preferred to let bar fights take care of themselves. Thus, no one responded.
Coco reportedly called for reinforcements and more guys showed up. Some rumors placed this gang out in the parking lot with the missing hunters. Detectives learned that numerous people had heard the Duvalls brag that they’d killed the hunters from Detroit, cut them up and fed them to their pigs. The trick would be finding evidence. Supposedly, they’d also either sunk the Bronco into a deep lake (of which there were many possibilities) or had cut it up and sold off the parts. Some rumors had it that they’d buried parts of the car on their property, which might be traced with a metal detector. However, there was no probable cause for a warrant to search.
Detective Sergeant Curtis Schram stayed on the case as it grew colder and colder, and updated the families. But despite chasing down every lead, no matter how fragile, he could not solve this case. The puzzle attracted the attention of producers for Unsolved Mysteries and Missing: Reward. In fact, the reward steadily rose until it was $100,000. Every significant anniversary brought a retelling of the tale in the media and a slew of new tips, none of which amounted to anything.
AFTER A DECADE, SCHRAM WAS TRANSFERRED. The case went through several hands before former State Trooper Robert “Bronco” Lesneski, a triathlete and SWAT member, inherited it. He proved to be just as dogged. To him, the missing men became like his own family members. He brought in a cadaver dog team, used forward-looking infrared from the air, patrolled by helicopter, searched numerous lakes, and knocked endlessly on doors to ask residents what they knew about the night the hunters had disappeared. The years passed. He kept revisiting the case. Somewhere, he believed, was someone who knew something that could be checked out.
One day in 1999, Barbara Boudro opened the door. According to Tom Henderson in his true crime book, Darker than Night, when she saw Lesneski she said, “You’re going to get me killed.”
Lesneski sensed he’d finally struck gold. But Boudro resisted. She offered a few tidbits but minimized her role. It took a lot of coaxing on Lesneski’s part, but finally Boudro admitted that she’d seen what had happened to the missing deer hunters. She was an actual eyewitness. It still gave her nightmares, and the Duvalls had threatened her with becoming pig food if she ever talked with the police. Both of her dogs had been killed: one was shot and the other was run over while in her yard. There were rumors that others who knew the story had ended up dead, either murdered or in “accidents.” Boudro anticipated the day when she would become one of them.
But as an eyewitness, her story allowed Lesneski to get arrest warrants. Once Coco and J.R. were locked up, more people called to say what they knew. All these years, they’d been too scared of the brothers to come forward. It was enough to go to trial.
Donna Pendergast, the tough daughter of a Detroit cop, was the prosecutor. The Duvalls tried to stare her down, to scare her, but she let them know they didn’t fool her. When Tyll’s brother walked in, his resemblance to his murdered kin was so striking the Duvalls glanced at each other as if spooked.
The star witness was Barbara Boudro. Terrified of being in the same room with the Duvalls, she initially tried to flee. Back on the stand, she told the jury about seeing Tyll and Ognjan in the bar on the day they went missing. They’d been quite annoying. She’d watched the build-up of tension and believed that a fight between these out-of-towners and the Duvall brothers was inevitable.
Boudro then went home with a friend. They were watching a movie when they heard men yelling in the clearing not far from her house. Someone parked a truck in her driveway. She also heard a “pinging” sound, like an aluminum bat. Her friend wanted to see the fight, so they went out a back window to avoid anyone in front and took a secluded path down to the clearing. Boudro was stunned by what she saw.
Illuminated with headlights, the Duvalls and a few other men were beating the hunters. Tyll was on the ground. Coco swung a bat or a pipe, splitting open his head. Ognjan managed to break away and flee, but the brothers caught him and kicked him to death. Boudro left, terrified, but the next day she retuned to the clearing. She could see the dark patches of blood on the snow. In addition, the Duvalls had threatened her right away, as if they realized she must have at least heard the altercation.
It was stunning testimony, shored up by a parade of witnesses – including the Duvalls’ relatives – who said that the brothers had often bragged about killing the men and feeding them to the pigs. Coco often liked to say, “His head had split open like a melon.” Sometimes when he was drunk, he blurted things out and then threatened those who’d heard him.
The Duvalls’ defense attorneys emphasized the complete lack of physical evidence, along with the lack of credibility of a woman who drank heavily back then, but the witnesses they used – including Coco and J.R. – were so lame, the prosecution’s witnesses looked good by sheer contrast. The totality of the testimony added up to a region dominated by nasty ruffians who threatened anyone who might stand against them.
The jury didn’t take long to return a verdict. On October 30, 2003, nearly 18 years after Tyll and Ognjan had disappeared, Coco and J. R. Duvall, now 51 and 52, respectively, were found guilty of first-degree murder. Whether they’d intended to kill Tyll and Ojngan or had just acted on drunken bloodlust, it was clear that they’d enjoyed the murders that night and had used them to boost their reputations in the area for being tough. Both received life sentences without the possibility of parole. The residents who’d lived near them breathed easier, and the families of the victims were pleased that at last someone would pay for what they’d done.
“They took my son. It doesn't bring him back, but it's something,” said Tyll's father. “I was glad to see them cuffed, and I can't wait to see them in chains.”
&nbs
p; THE MURDER GAME
CATHERINE MAY WOOD WAS A FLIGHTY, HIGHLY SENSITIVE WOMAN, according to her ex-husband, Ken. He thought, she was both needy and insecure. The Woods separated in 1986, just after Ken learned about Cathy’s affair with a coworker at the Alpine Manor nursing home in Walker, where she was a supervisor.
Cathy was in love with an aide, Gwendolyn Gail Graham, a tough-talking Texas girl. Graham often displayed the scars on her arms, sometimes lying about how she got them. She apparently had severe reactions to abandonment, which included the type of self-mutilation common to people with borderline personality disorder.
With over 200 beds, Alpine Manor, averaged about forty deaths annually. Graham noticed this and she suggested a game to Wood. They had practiced sexual asphyxia to achieve greater orgasms, so Wood thought Graham was kidding when she suggested that they kill a patient together. Yet talking about murder excited them both. Finally, with Graham’s goading, in 1987, Wood decided to do it.
The M-U-R-D-E-R Game worked like this: Alpine Manor recorded the names of patients who had died or were discharged in a book. Wood and Graham decided to kill patients in a way to make the first initial of the last names of six patients, when read down the page, spell MURDER. So, for example, Murray, Usher, Rogers, Drake, Elliott, and Ritter would work, as long as they were killed in the right order, and before someone else died or was discharged.
It would be tricky, they thought, but fun. And it was. The first murder was exhilarating. The victim was suffering from Alzheimer's disease. Placing a washcloth over the woman's nose and mouth, Graham pressed down until the woman stopped struggling. Then they washed the body down together, reveling in their power.
The Murder Game (Michigan, Notorious USA) Page 6