MORNING OF FEAR AND TERROR

It was about six thirty in the morning when my husband, Bill, left for work and my three-year-old son, Paul, climbed into bed with me. I heard the garage door close and then saw a light flashing down the hall. My first thoughts were, What has Bill forgotten? Why the light? Why is he running? My questions were answered immediately when I looked up and saw a ski-masked man with a large butcher knife shining a light in my face. I started to scream while the intruder put his knife to my chest, making some small cuts in my skin. Then, in a muffled voice, through clenched teeth, he said, "Shut up, or I will kill you! I just want your money."

Okay, I thought, maybe he just wants to rob me and be out of here. I knew he was lying about just wanting money when his next step was to tightly tie both our hands and feet with shoelaces, gagging my son and me with cloths, and also blindfolding us. Paralyzed with fear, I felt my heart racing so fast that I thought it would explode straight through my chest. Here we were, completely defenseless, completely vulnerable, and utterly terrified. My precious son, Paul, was lying next to me. What was the intruder going to do next? Was he going to rape me or maybe kill us? I did not have the strength or opportunity to overcome him. He had the power, and he had the control. We were at his mercy, totally his victims with no way to defend ourselves. Before tying us, he ripped sheets in a quiet, ritualistic manner. Why was he so quiet? What was he thinking? What was he planning? I heard him rummaging through my dresser drawers. He would leave the room and then return. What was this SOB after? What did he want from us? These questions were soon answered. As he started untying my feet, I knew he was after more than money. Before he got on top of me, I slid over to touch Paul, but he was gone.

Oh my God! What has he done with my son? Where is Paul? Has the intruder hurt him too? Is Paul still alive? I thought maybe Paul was moved back to his bedroom so the rapist would have more room to maneuver on the bed while he raped me.

When I tried to speak through my gagged mouth, the rapist again repeated, "Shut up, or I will kill you." Due to my overwhelming fear and state of shock, I do not remember much about the rape. I do not recall if he climaxed, but I do remember that he had a small penis. Afterward, the rapist brought my son back into the bedroom with me and threatened to kill us if he heard a sound. The rapist then proceeded to the kitchen where I could hear the refrigerator door being opened and the rattling of pots and pans. Was he really going to eat something now? How sick!

After lying there for what seemed like hours, I spit the cloth out of my mouth and pulled the blindfold down with my tongue. I could see the light coming through the blinds. I did not hear any more noise in the kitchen, and I knew I had to get up. I was too scared to make a move, as the rapist could reappear and perhaps follow through on his earlier threat to kill us or to rape me again. I woke up Paul, who was sound asleep, and told him to be quiet and follow me, not knowing what to expect around the corner. We hobbled down the hall, ankles still tied, and around to the back sliding glass door. We could not exit through the front door, as the rapist had propped up a kitchen chair under the door handle. We circled the house, and as we reached the side gate, I screamed for help at the top of my lungs. A neighbor came quickly. She took us into her house, called the police, and called my husband at work. Male officers arrived quickly and started to ask me a million questions, none of which I was ready to answer. I was still in shock. I thought to myself, Was this just a bad dream? Was I really just raped? Oh my God, you saved us. We're okay; we're alive.

In answering a few of the officers' questions, I was able to tell them about the rapist wearing a black ski mask, holding a knife to my throat, and wearing a black or brown leather jacket and black high-top sneakers. I did not like talking to the officers. They were men, and a man had just raped me. Finally, after answering a slew of questions, a kind, pretty female detective by the name of Carol Daly arrived and took me to an emergency room in Sacramento, California. Another nightmare was about to begin. Carol stayed with me about an hour, and then I was left alone. It seemed like hours before I was taken into a room to be examined. As I sat there looking torn and battered, people stared at me like I was some kind of freak. My hair was a matted mess, and my face was streaked with tears. Blood could be seen through my top garment where the rapist had scraped my chest with his knife. I was all alone and waiting. I did not have the comfort of having a counselor from the Rape Crisis Center by my side.

After a few hours, I was taken to the exam room where a male doctor was ready to start my exam. He must have thought I was nuts. One minute, I was crying hysterically, and the next minute, I was smiling, happy and overwhelmed with joy. He did not realize that my emotions ran from the horror of just being raped and almost killed to being so grateful that my son and I were both alive. Having a male doctor do the exam was not much fun, as I hated all men now—and the doctor was one of them. After the humiliating exam, I had to endure a painful shot of penicillin. Could this pervert possibly have a venereal disease? Then I had to take the morning-after pill. Oh, yes. After all, I could get pregnant.

As much as I disliked being in the emergency room, I was not in a hurry to return home. I hated it now and did not want to go there. My home was supposed to be my safe haven. Instead, it was a place where I had just been physically, emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually violated. Would I be safe? Would he return?

WHO WAS IT WHO RAPED ME?

The East Area Rapist (EAR) has been referred to as the following: the most prolific serial rapist in California's history; a methodical killer; the worst sexual predator in California's history; evil; a monster; the original night stalker; a skilled burglar; a sex pervert; a sexual psychopath; someone in a homosexual panic; a paranoid schizophrenic; a crafty, ingenious, psychotic, sexual deviant; a sociopath; and a rapist-turned-killer.

In her Los Angeles Magazine article, "In the Footsteps of a Killer," March 2013, writer Michelle McNamara describes the EAR as "the most violent serial criminal in American history."

Even if he is caught, he will never go on trial for the rapes he committed because the time limit for arresting him—the statute of limitations—has long since expired. However, murder has no time limit, so he could be arrested, charged, and spend the rest of his life in prison. I thought about writing this book thirty-eight years ago. Who Was It Who Raped Me? was going to be the title. Who was this creep who raped fifty women and murdered ten innocent people? Who was this pervert who went from raping a woman alone in her house to having her husband present? Who was this psycho who wanted to degrade, humiliate, and create unrelenting fear in those he terrorized? Who was this maniac who went from committing rape to committing brutal murder? I could not answer these questions then, and I am no closer now. Was he a grocery clerk, a deliveryman, a student, a neighbor, a teacher, a bartender, or a military man? His athletic ability to leap fences, to tie sophisticated ornate knots such as the diamond knot, to attack at different times of the day, and to escape so easily while never getting caught gave me the idea that maybe he was a former police officer or a Special Forces trained soldier. What job would allow him to relocate and end up in Southern California? Descriptions of his age, height, weight, build, hair color, skin color, shoe size, penis size, breath odor, voice quality, and body odor all differed. Most agreed he spoke through clenched teeth to disguise his voice, wore a mask, and carried a weapon—sometimes a knife, and at other times, a gun. Hoping to pinpoint the rapist's occupation, victims were asked where they went to school, where they worked, names of restaurants or bars they frequented, churches they attended, and whether they had any connection to the military. A few common threads were found but not many. The nameless, faceless criminal that raped so many and murdered a dozen people can only be identified today by his DNA, which is collected through semen and hair at some crime scenes. But who is he?

Retired Contra Costa County Detective Larry Crompton described in his book, Sudden Terror, a thorough description of the EAR's modus operandi and appearance.

* probably white, fair to light olive complexion, 5'9" to 5'11"; 150 to 170 pounds, dark hair, and dark eyes

* possibly has a tattoo of a bull on his left or right forearm

* wore a ski mask and gloves and generally wore dark clothing and long sleeves

* usually wore tennis shoes or military-style boots

* generally brought a knife and gun (.45 or .357) and controlled the victims utilizing the firearm

* usually selected single-story detached dwellings, opening sliding glass doors with a screwdriver

* attacked during the hours of darkness but most often attacked between midnight and 4:00 a.m.

* would attack even though children or dogs were present within the victim's home

* began attacking single females but evolved into attacking male/female couples after they fell asleep

When confronting the victims, the suspect

* habitually talked/whispered to the victims through clenched teeth;

* generally confronted the victims while they were sleeping;

* woke the victim(s) by shining the flashlight beam on them or by speaking to them, telling them to wake up;

* initially told the victims all he wanted was money and food;

* often pressed his gun or knife against the victim's skin when threatening;

* brought ligatures with him, generally using shoestrings, twine, or cord;

* threw ligatures to the female and made her tie the male victim's wrists behind his back;

* bound the female's wrists behind her back and her ankles together;

* subsequently tied the male's ankles together and retied the male's wrist ligatures extremely tightly;

* covered the victims' heads with an object or blindfolded them with a towel;

* separated the female from the male, moving her into another room of the house where he raped and sometimes sodomized her and sometimes made the victim orally copulate him;

* often placed dishes, or similar objects, on the male victim's back prior to moving the female and told the male that if the dishes moved and made a sound, he would kill everyone;

* often sexually assaulted the female victim several times;

* repeatedly threatened to kill the victims and often said, "Muthafucka" and "Bitch";

* initially told the victims all he wanted was food and money. Repeatedly asked where money was located but seldom took much of value;

* took some money, jewelry, and food items from the refrigerator before leaving;

* lubricated himself with lotions he brought with him or obtained within the victim's home;

* masturbated and had difficulty obtaining and maintaining an erection;

* straddled the female victims as they lay face down and had them rub his penis with their hands, which were tied tightly behind their backs;

* spent a significant amount of time in the victim's kitchen, drinking and eating;

* spent between five minutes to four hours with the victims; and

* left all ligatures tied tightly on the victims.

The suspect evolved into a killer. He generally bludgeoned his victims to death, striking them in the head multiple times with a blunt object. Victims of whom he lost control were evidently shot. He appeared to become more evidence conscious as he evolved and began removing ligatures from the victims' bodies before he departed from the crime scenes.

Still today many people, both in and outside of the police force, are trying to find this vicious murderer. They have his MO and his DNA, but not him. Not yet, anyway.

As the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, "Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase." He drew on his faith to overcome seemingly insurmountable challenges. Now, I am drawing on mine, still believing that the EAR will eventually be caught.

ARMED AND WAITING

Anything we run from has power over us like fear. Yet, my husband and I were running from that fear. Would the rapist return, and when? We did not get a good night's sleep for months, in spite of having an expensive alarm system installed the day after my rape. Not only were the windows and doors wired, a button alarm was placed beneath our headboard for quick access. Every night my husband, my son, and I snuggled together for comfort and safety. Helicopters were hovering overhead with their light beams flashing through the neighborhoods in search of the East Area Rapist. We did not have a gun in the house but had thought about getting a pistol and keeping it under the pillow. We were so afraid that he might return. We were not the only ones living in fear; the entire Sacramento community felt traumatized and was arming itself with every firearm and deadbolt lock available. Hardware stores were sold out. The daily newspaper headlines were frightening.

* "Man Hunted as Suspect in 8 Rapes"

* "Rapist Strikes Again, 12th time in 15 Months"

* "East Area Rapist Claims 15th Victim"

* "Rapist Hits 17th Victim"

* "Rapist Claims 19th Victim After Tying Woman, Mate"

* "East Area Rapist Attacks No. 23"

The headlines went on like that for months. Citizens were scared, frustrated, and angry that he could not be caught. Self-defense classes were encouraged, and public meetings were held to discuss the EAR and how to protect oneself. A group of volunteer citizen band operators, known as the EARS Patrol (East Area Rapist Surveillance), was formed after the twenty-first victim was raped. It is no wonder that porch lights burned all night and private homes became armed camps. Everyone was living in fear. One woman who was interviewed claimed she was having nightmares and slept with a billy club while her husband slept with a gun next to his head. False rumors regarding what the rapist was doing to his victims just added more fear.

I remember attending a military wives' club party at a private home where the conversation was strictly on the rapes that had been occurring. One wife stated that she heard he was cutting off women's nipples. I knew her tale was not true, as I was his fifth victim and was quite aware of his routine. Only my immediate family and two best friends knew about my rape. I wanted so badly to stand up and scream, "That's not true. He raped me. I should know." I could not reveal what had happened. I did not want to own the fact that I had been raped. I did not want to make it part of my identity. I felt shame and guilt like damaged goods. There was so much social stigma attached to this type of crime, and I was not about to expose myself.

All of his attacks took place in the area bounded by Citrus Heights, Orangevale, Rancho Cordova, and the Del Dayo neighborhoods. Would he attack again and where? were the big questions.

FEAR REVISITED

Just when I thought I was getting over the hump of dealing with daily thoughts of the EAR, a situation came about bringing paralyzing fear and terror in the forefront. It was a sunny afternoon in the spring of 1977. My husband was away on temporary duty for an air force assignment. My son and I were alone for the weekend. I had mostly overcome the fear of being left alone, especially with all the security devices we had in place. The weather was nice, so I thought I would sunbathe in the backyard while my son took a nap. I put on a two-piece swimsuit and stretched out on my stomach in a recliner in the middle of the backyard. I untied my top so my back could get an even tan. Suddenly, I felt something hit my back like a small pebble, but I ignored the feeling initially. Maybe the wind had blown something on me or maybe a large bug had landed. Soon after, a few more small objects struck me; I knew something strange was happening. I jumped up, held my bikini top to my chest, ran into the house, locked the doors, and immediately called the police. My first thought, of course, was that the East Area Rapist was back and trying to get my attention. The police arrived in less than ten minutes, but it seemed like hours. They knew I had been one of the EAR's victims, so when I told them what had happened, they raced out the back door and jumped over the back fence, looking for the suspect. Was someone hurling small rocks or pebbles at me in hopes that I would stand up without my top and they would get a thrill of seeing my breasts? How degrading, how humiliating! My adrenaline must have been pumping because I also jumped the six-foot fence, hoping to see the EAR's capture. In my pursuit, I cut my third digit on my left hand near the palm. It bled quite a bit and probably needed a stitch or two, but I refused to get care. I was afraid that returning to an emergency room would open old wounds, especially after this frightening episode. I still have the scar on my palm to remind me of that day. I did not have to repeat my heroic leap back over the fence, as the police drove me home from a street near the back fence. When I returned home, I immediately woke up my son and drove to a friend's home where we spent the rest of the evening. The police searched the orchard area behind our home for the suspect and finally came across an elderly man who lived in a trailer who confessed. I do not think he was ever charged with any crime. After the incident, I was afraid again and angry at the same time. How dare this creep terrorize me? Did he not know that I was a victim of the EAR and did not need any more turmoil or fear added to my life right now? Of course, he did not know my situation, and if he had, he probably would not have thrown the pebbles. The whole fiasco did not sit very well with my husband, Bill. Just when he thought I was well on my way to recovery, I was an emotional wreck again.