by Ann Rule
On June 11, the ex-con moved across the lineup stage with several other men who looked a great deal like him. He had always been very careful to cover the eyes of his victims, nearly smothering some of them, but they had seen him, and they had remembered his face well.
Kitty Amela, the young nurse, recognized the man who had beaten her nearly unconscious. Carol Brasser, raped, beaten, and tormented, had his face emblazoned on her brain. Moira Drew, his last victim, picked him out of the lineup instantly. Lynn Rutledge, kidnapped from Northgate and raped twice, would never forget him. The children who were witnesses to the attack on Carol Brasser also identified Grant Wilson.
Cory Bixler, whose attacker had thrown dirt on her after the rape and tried to bury her, was not positive; she had only seen him briefly in the blackness of night. The other young women who had been attacked where there was little light couldn’t be sure either—but they all recognized his voice.
It didn’t matter. There were enough victims who were absolutely sure that Grant Wilson was the man who had raped and beaten them. In Lynn Rutledge’s case, King County deputy prosecutors Paul Bernstein and Lee Yates filed charges of rape, robbery, and kidnapping. In three other cases where victims had picked Grant Wilson from the lineup, rape and/or sexual assault charges were filed.
With the arrest and confinement of Grant Wilson, who was held under $100,000 bail, there were no more attacks that fit the parameters of the rapist who had stalked women in the north end.
Direct physical evidence was piling up on the man who raped Carol Brasser. He had cut his feet on the picket fence as he ran from the sound of approaching police sirens; Grant John Wilson’s feet showed healing nail punctures.
Bill Berg knew where the bloody male clothing Wilson had discarded was. Semen samples taken from the rape victims matched Wilson’s blood type.
Grant Wilson had no alibis for the dates and times the attacks had occurred. In addition, the burglary charge Bill Berg had arrested Grant Wilson for in February had many aspects that made it look much more like a rape attempt than a burglary.
Pry marks were visible around the windows of the home where Wilson was caught. Inside that house, a particularly beautiful woman lived alone. Wilson claimed that he had only been siphoning gas at that address. His trial on that charge had ended in a hung jury.
Detective Bill Berg wanted Wilson, and he had long believed the handsome suspect was potentially very dangerous. Now, Berg worked countless off-duty hours to help prosecutors Bernstein and Yates build their case. The investigative trio revisited each attack site and took photographs. They interviewed and reinterviewed the victims—all young women who were not only intelligent but had fantastic memories for detail as well. The case file grew as the prosecuting attorneys and the burglary detective gave their own free time to compile a loophole-free dossier against the brutal rape suspect.
As they learned more about Wilson’s relationships with women, an interesting psychological profile emerged. There had been no dearth of women in the ex-con’s life, but Grant Wilson had fought with most of them, beaten one severely, and had never taken even a hint of rejection without seeking revenge.
Strangely, he didn’t fight any rejection by the women in his life by hurting them. Instead, he had taken his rage out on the victims of his sexual attacks, on hapless women who were complete strangers.
After each fight or breakup, Grant Wilson had gone prowling, looking for a pretty woman on whom he would vent his wrath.
Interesting, too, was the fact that most of the attacks had taken place in the same neighborhood where Grant Wilson had grown up—one directly across the street from his boyhood home. Since his release from prison, he had been on the move, living with one friend or another in the north end of Seattle.
Grant Wilson was slated to go on trial for attacking the four young women in August. But when Wilson was faced with the voluminous evidence that detectives Joyce Johnson, Bill Fenkner, and Bill Berg, along with prosecutors Bernstein and Yates, had gathered against him, he changed his mind about going to trial.
He was allowed to plea bargain, to plead guilty to a charge of first-degree kidnapping and robbery in the case of Lynn Rutledge. The other charges were dropped. The kidnapping charge meant a mandatory life sentence.
Grant Wilson is safely behind bars for a long, long time. But the scars on his victims will not soon fade. One young woman is afraid to walk on the street by herself—even in the daytime. She no longer feels safe to live alone. Another suffers from painful recurring migraine headaches. Rape is a crime that often leaves lifetime nightmares for its victims.
And yet Grant Wilson’s victims were lucky. They escaped with their lives. If he hadn’t been captured when he was, forensic psychologists believe it was only a matter of time before his sexual attacks escalated to murder.
As girls grow up, at least a quarter of us have had some kind of encounter with sexually deviant offenders. Most often, we are not in physical danger, but it is shocking to be approached by a flasher—who seems to get satisfaction by exposing his genitals. Police call them “Lily Wavers,” and they come from every level of society.
There are also the voyeurs—the window peepers—who stare into windows, hoping to see a female in some state of undress. Those who do not know better say that exposers and voyeurs are not dangerous, but they are wrong. Almost every sex killer I have written about began with these seemingly “safe” intrusions into victims’ lives.
I was accosted by a flasher in a movie theater when I was twelve, and it scared me half to death—scared me so much that I didn’t even tell my mother for three years!
Perverts like Jerome Brudos (the Lust Killer) began as a voyeur and an exposer. Then he progressed to stealing hundreds of pieces of women’s undergarments from their bedrooms as they slept unaware.
Rape was his next step, and finally, a series of gruesome homicides.
I don’t want to frighten women—but I certainly want them to be aware and alert, especially when they are having a bad day. Ted Bundy, like many serial killers, had the ability to perceive vulnerability in his prospective targets. The hapless young women he killed all encountered him when they were temporarily distracted. They had the flu, they were suffering from premenstrual tension, they had just flunked tests or had been up all night studying for a final, their hearts were broken because they had just severed romantic ties with a boyfriend, or they were running away from home. Some weren’t wearing their glasses—and vanity cost them their lives.
The list is endless. We all make mistakes in judgment—especially when our lives have gone off the tracks for a time. We must be extra cautious during those times in our lives.
The sex killers I have written about for the last three decades are coyotes, watching for the crippled lambs that they can easily cut out of the flock even though they wear charming masks.
The title of this book is Don’t Look Behind You. My message to you is do be aware of what is happening around you. Look back, to the side, and straight ahead with your head held high and walk with purpose. Do look behind you, and have your subconscious programmed so that you will react automatically should danger suddenly confront you.
You are the very first line of your own defense, and you can save your own life.
Acknowledgments
So many people opened their hearts and searched their memories to help me reconstruct mysteries of long ago in this book. For many, this meant opening old wounds and bringing up heartbreaks of the past, recollections that were, perhaps, best left alone. And yet the victims and the families they left behind need to be remembered.
My deep gratitude to: Gypsy Tarricone, Gina Tarricone, Claire Evans, Dean Tarricone, Rosemary Tarricone, Ben Benson, Denny Wood, Dawn Farina, Mark Lindquist, Marjean Denison, Rhonda Miller, Diane Benson, Curtis Wright, Jan Rhodes, Bill Haglund, Jerry Burger, Travis Haney, and Matt Haney.
And to: Ty Hansen, Nicole Hansen, Kathleen and Jeff Huget, Cindy Tyler Wilkinson, Patricia Martin, Duncan B
onjorni, King County detective sergeant Jim Allen, deputy prosecutor Jeff Baird, LaVonne and Marvin Milosevich, Barbara Kuehne Snyder, Chris Hansen, King County captain Frank Adamson, and profilers John Douglas and John Kelly.
I learned the ins and outs of included cases from King County sheriff’s detectives DuWayne Harrison, Dan Nolan, Ben Colwell, Bob Schmitz, and James McGonagle, and sheriff’s divers George Zimmerman and Joseph Dollinger. Seattle police detective Joyce Johnson, an expert on sexually motivated crimes, taught me the ropes when I was a young rookie. She and Bill Fenkner, along with Edmonds Police detective Marian McCann, caught a serial rapist who believed he was invincible.
Thanks once again to Gerry Brittingham Hay, my designated first reader, and tender critic.
And blessings to Andy, Lindsay, Laura, Rebecca, Matt, Miya Dawn, and Amari Violet, Leslie, Mike, Marie, Holland Rae, and Bruce, Machell, Olivia, Tyra, and Logan. I love you all very much.
Keep a-goin’ to Donna Anders, Kate Jewell, Shirley Hickman, Sue Harms, and Barb Thompson, who have all proved that starting over and succeeding is possible if you believe in yourself. I’m proud to have you as friends! To the Boeing Ladies Who Lunch, and the forever young Jolly Matrons.
For Pat Kelly, Matt Parker, and Mike Morrow. Just Because.
To my ARFs (self-declared Ann Rule Fans): I love and appreciate all of you!
I always thank my lifetime literary agents, Joan and Joe Foley—who have been with me for many decades—because they deserve my sincere appreciation, as does my theatrical agent, Ron Bernstein of International Creative Management!
To the gang at Waters and Wood who demolished my kitchen and living room and then remodeled them to rooms more beautiful than I could have imagined. The remodel and this book ended on the same day! Thanks to Bryan Christensen, Bryce Salzman, Eric Hamilton, Mark Rice and his second-in-command, Dan, Mark Kerkof, Francisco Diaz, Dave Myers, John Edwards, Bobbi Fritcher, Tara Foster, and Joy Mitchell!
And when I say, “I couldn’t have done this without them,” I mean my treasured team at Pocket Books: my publisher, Louise Burke; my editor, Mitchell Ivers, and his able assistant, Natasha Simons. The production crew keeps me on time and accurate, even when I keep thinking I need a vacation! They are production manager Liangela Cabrera, production editor Stephen Llano, managing editor Sally Franklin, copyeditor Ela Schwartz, proofreaders Adrian C. James, Wendy Warren Keebler, and Laura Cherkas, and book designer Meghan Day Healey.
NORTH TO ALASKA
Joe Tarricone had a thriving meat sales and delivery business that took him all over Alaska. His clients were glad to see him. He was a gregarious man and his life was good until he met a pretty and seductive younger woman.
Joe Tarricone at about 10. He’s standing with his two sisters perched on the running board of their family’s new car in the thirties. The Tarricones lived in New York, and they were a typical loving Italian family. Born in 1925, Joe was the oldest child and only son. He would always keep in touch with his parents no matter how far he roamed.
Joe and Rose fell in love when they were in their teens in the forties. Even though Rose was not Catholic, there was no question that they would marry one day.
Joe Tarricone in 1953, when he was 28. He’s wearing a “loafer jacket,” very fashionable for men in the fifties.
Rose and Joe on their honeymoon. She was sweet and pretty and wore her hair in a “Betty Grable” pompadour. Joe was handsome. The future stretched brightly ahead of them, and they were anxious to have children. Joe was a man with itchy feet, and Rose wanted a home in one place, but they didn’t think about that then.
A teenage Joe Tarricone with his parents at a beach cottage in New York State.
Rose and Joe pose in a photo booth where pictures were four for a dollar. They had a lot of fun together and were so in love.
Joe Tarricone was a great cook and his fellow soldiers appreciated the meals he prepared. He loved to cook as a civilian, too, and devised a way to make giant pizzas for his whole neighborhood.
A very young couple—Joe and Rose Tarricone with their firstborn, their daughter Claire. Joe loved being a father and was thrilled when each of his seven children was born.
Joe Tarricone with his first four children. From left, Aldo, Joey, Claire, and Gypsy as a baby. The photographer was obviously focused on the children in this picture.
Joe wrestles with three of his seven children. He was always there for them—until one day he wasn’t. They searched for him for three decades.
Joe and Rose Tarricone with their seven children: Claire, Aldo, Joey, Gypsy, Gina, Rosemary, and Dean. All the kids in the Tarricones’ Albuquerque neighborhood followed Joe as if he were their own special Pied Piper.
Joe Tarricone was happiest when he was cooking for his family and friends—the more the better!
One of the last photos ever taken of Joe Tarricone. He was an ebullient and magnanimous man who was unaware of the danger he faced from a surprising source.
Rose Tarricone was Joe’s high school sweetheart, the mother of his seven children, but after thirty years, Rose wanted to put down roots, while Joe was always looking for the next place to move. Divorced, they remained good friends.
Joseph Anthony Tarricone in a rare pensive mood. There wasn’t much that could get him down, but the end of an affair did. And then his eyes were opened.
Dr. Katherine Taylor demonstrates where some of the buried bones in Puyallup would fit into a human body. Many of the bones had been sawed in two, and a number of them were missing completely.
Dr. Taylor examined the shoulder blade and partial humerus bone of the nameless man found in Puyallup, Washington, and saw that a power saw had been used to dissect the body.
Dr. Taylor assembles the bones found on a deserted property in Puyallup, Washington. It was like a puzzle for her—where she put together parts that resembled a full skeleton. This was the first step in a very long and tedious investigation. Was the deceased male or female? How long had the bones lain undetected in a shallow grave? In time, all the questions were answered.
Renee Curtiss was in her twenties when she met Joe Tarricone. She had a pretty, guileless face then, almost pixielike. Joe loved and trusted her for a long time and took her into his business and his heart.
Nick Notaro, Renee’s adopted brother, would do anything for his two sisters—anything. He had many secrets in his past, but they came to light because he was a very inept liar.
Nick Notaro’s first wife, Vickie (left) and her daughter (right). Nick lied about Vickie’s sudden disappearance in Alaska. The last time she was seen was when she went to bring Nick home from the hospital after an emergency appendectomy.
Renee Curtiss, looking stunned, after she was arrested in Henry’s Bail Bonds in the Skid Row district of Seattle. Pierce County sheriff’s sergeant Denny Wood is on her right, and Sergeant Ben Benson is on her left. She expected to bail out of jail within hours.
Renee Curtiss was living in this condo in Seattle with her husband, Henry Lewis, at the time she was arrested. She had a lovely home, and Henry was quite wealthy. At last, she seemed to have everything she wanted.
Benson in Baltimore, Maryland, with a Baltimore detective and that city’s helicopter. Ben was trying to find one of Nick Notaro’s former cellmates.
The author and Detective Sergeant Ben Benson at a party to celebrate the finished manuscript of Don’t Look Behind You.
Detective Sergeant Denny Wood, usually Ben Benson’s partner, was on active duty with the reserves when the Tarricone case broke. He returned to the Pierce County Sheriff’s Department in time to join Benson in interviewing two homicide suspects.
Dawn Farina, the Pierce County prosecutor who faced two defendants charged with murder in the courtroom. Gypsy Tarricone called Dawn “the little spitfire,” and it fit her when she was cross-examining Renee Curtiss.
Gypsy Tarricone at her father’s grave in Mount Calvary Cemetery. Joe’s seven children chose this cemetery in Albuquerque because it is a
lways “full of life,” with families visiting, luminarias to light the pathways, and the laughter of children and old friends.
TOO LATE FOR THE FAIR
Robert Milton Hansen (left) and his older brother, Kenneth, pose for a Eugene, Oregon, photographer in 1926. The two brothers grew up to be total opposites.
Bob Hansen in Ledo, India, assigned to the Burma Road project. He hated his long chin, hid it when he could, and later had plastic surgery.
Lester and Helen Hansen pose with their sons in front of the Danish Home in February 1929. Robert is sitting on his mother’s lap, and Kenneth sits between their parents. During the Great Depression, the couple separated—but only in order to survive. Robert went with his father to the “Stump Farm” in Kent, Washington, and Kenneth with his mother and sisters to Seattle.
Bob Hansen in the army in 1945 in Ledo, India, working under the command of General “Vinegar Joe” Stilwell on the Burma Road.