1 Salem, Oregon, January 18, 1981, 21:45 hours. The big man ran fluidly and easily, an athlete''s effortless movement. Through the dark streets he ran, turning here, turning again, leaving the bleeding women behind him. The adrenaline he''d always felt on the playing field when the pressure was on coursed full strength through his blood, making him feel as though he could run ten miles, twenty miles, without stopping. He could do anything! He had done it; he had orchestrated the whole scene to his own plan. He had found the girls there, just as if they were waiting for him, and he had made them do all the things he liked. He had humbled them, and toyed with them, and finally he had destroyed them. He felt as if he were the most powerful male who had ever lived; he was consumed with his own power.
No woman would ever, ever control him again. The streets were so quiet, as quiet as death itself. No one had seen him. No one would ever know that he had been the one. It was cold, but he was perspiring, just the way he always did in sports. This was a kind of sport, if you looked at it from the proper perspective. Stalking the women, finding them, and then being so strong and confident that they obeyed his orders. But this game had been the best game so far; this was the first time he had killed women simply because they were female.
Strangers. Nobodies. If they weren''t dead by now, they soon would be. They wouldn''t tell on him the way girls always tattled. They could only lie there in pools of their own blood, silenced . punished. He allowed himself to stop running. He walked easily now, pulling his hood closer around his face.
He felt invisible. He didn''t even need to look away from the headlights that were bearing down on him. He was invisible. Salem, Oregon, January 18, 1981, 21:54 hours. Salem Fire and Ambulance Dispatch Hot Line: 911. Zena Harp and Dave Cameron were working the late-evening shift on this black, moonless Sunday. A quiet night; there was time to talk, time to complain desultorily about the weather-as if the threat of rain were not the expected, accepted condition for January in Oregon. And yet, they were not bored.
No one is ever bored while manning an emergency hot line. The next call-or the one after that-may signal catastrophe. Now, just six minutes before ten P.M., the phone brrr-ed, its red bubble light blinking frantically. Zena Harp reached for the receiver, and Dave Cameron picked up another to monitor the call. And, instantly, each of them tensed. This was not a routine call; this was trouble.
They heard a woman''s voice, a faint voice, full of pain and terror. "We''ve been shot . please help us!" Zena Harp kept her own voice calm; she had to find out location, specifics, before she could send help. "Where are you?" There was a long pause, so long that Ms. Harp thought the caller had gone off the line. And then the voice came again, more faint, if possible, than it had been before. ". River Road .
or Commercial Street." "What address?" ". near the Fun Machine." Dave Cameron had heard enough; he knew where the Fun Machine was-on the outskirts of Salem near Keizer-and he could pinpoint the location enough to dial the telephone operator and ask for an emergency trace. Within moments the operator reported that the call was coming in from the TransAmerica Title Building. Now Cameron reacted almost automatically, asking the operator to patch the call into the Salem Police Department''s Communications Center. And then he dispatched paramedics from the Keizer Fire Department and an ambulance to the building where the woman waited. While this was being done, Zena Harp talked to the terrified woman.
"Please hurry," the girl begged. "He''s gonna come back and kill me. I think she''s dead." "Do you want me to stay on the line?" Ms. Harp soothed. "An ambulance is on the way." The girl on the other end was drifting away. Her voice was thready, and her answers weren''t responsive.
"Oh . oh, I think she''s dead." The patch had been made within a matter of a few minutes. Zena Harp handed the caller over to the Salem Police dispatcher. Liz Cameron, the Com Center operator for the Salem Police Department, spoke to the woman in the TransAmerica Title Building. There was no time now to speculate on why anyone would be in the office building late on a Sunday evening. Liz knew that an ambulance and Marion County Sheriff''s squad cars were on the way. She had to find out as much as she could.
If the gunman was still in the building, the officers had to be warned. "Ma''am," Liz Cameron began, "what is your name?" "Beth Wilmot. I''ve been shot in the head. Hurry!" "We have an ambulance on the way. Who shot you?" "Some man . I don''t know . with a gun." "Okay.
" "We were cleaning the office, and he came in." "Okay. We have somebody on the way. Can you tell me what he looked like at all?" "Ah . Oh, my God. He had dark brown hair." "Dark brown hair." "And he had .
he had a Band-Aid on his nose." "Okay. Was he a white man?" "Yes." "About how old would you say he is?" "Oh, I don''t know. Around twenty-seven." "Okay, and how tall?" "Oh, I . ah, five ah nine, six foot, I don''t know. Something like that.
Five-nine, a little over the average size of a-" "Do you remember what he was wearing?" To a layman, Cameron''s questions might seem harsh, but she was sending policemen into an area where they might well be perfect targets. They had to know who their enemy was. The woman on the phone sounded weak but rational. Later, Liz Cameron would marvel at the victim''s ability to respond-later, when she learned the extent of the girl''s injuries. "Do you remember what he was wearing?" Liz Cameron probed. "Oh . ah . ah .
a coat . ah." "A coat." "Ah . leather coat, or something." "A leather coat." "And a pair of cheap jeans." "And jeans.
Okay, you stay right on this phone with me. We have several people on the way." "I''ll wait." "And we have an ambulance coming too." "Could I just give you a number so you . so I could call home, please, just call them ." "I''d like to keep you on the line, if I could, until a deputy arrives and makes sure you are all right." "Oh, my head .
Hurry. It hurts." There was another long pause. Liz wondered if Beth had lost consciousness, and then her voice came again, pleading for help. "I hurt . I hear the ambulance." "Just a minute more." "Poor Shari is going to die.
" "The lady who was shot?" The police dispatcher thought that Beth was talking about her own injuries. The whole conversation was garbled-the frantic girl on the phone, and Liz Cameron trying to keep a lid on the hysteria she could hear bubbling up. "She is going to die. We didn''t do anything." "Okay. The ambulance should be there anytime." "Talk to me," the girl pleaded. "So you''ll make me feel better, please.
" "Okay. I''ll talk to you, Beth. How do you feel now? Any better?" ". ah . ah, a little better." "Okay. You just calm down. There''s going to be somebody there shortly.
Is there anyone else there with-?" "I should go home now, but I hurt." "Is there anybody else there with you?" "Yes, my girlfriend." "Okay, what''s your girlfriend''s name?" "Shari Hull." "Is she waiting for the ambulance to let them in?" "It''s open. The door''s open." "Okay. Which way did the man go when he left? Did you see?" "I don''t know-my head was down. I was on the ground when he shot us.
He told us to put our heads down." "Okay. Well, we have somebody almost there. We are going to let them talk to you . and is your friend there? I could talk to her too." "Oh," the girl cried, "I don''t know what happened. She''s on the ground. Please don''t talk to her.
She''s . I think . almost dead." "Did he shoot her?" Liz Cameron had thus far thought that Beth Wilmot was the only victim-that Beth''s friend was waiting to signal in the deputies and the ambulance. Now the situation sounded even more desperate than it had first appeared. "Yes." "He shot-" "He shot five times," the girl blurted. "He shot her as well?" "Yes.
Yes, three times. I can hear her breathing really hard. I''m afraid he''s going to come back. Please hurry!"