From Boss Detective magazine, December 28, 1974 issue:
Without the keen nose of Buford, a three-year-old basset hound, the bodies of Karen Roget and Todd Millard, missing since Thanksgiving Day, might never have been found. Buford, who belongs to Mr. and Mrs. J. Bradley Streep of Sacramento, California, was frolicking off his leash near a campground adjacent to U.S. 66 outside Hastings, Nevada, when, according to Mr. Streep, “He started yapping like crazy and started to dig in the dirt. When he came up with that first bone, I almost dropped my cookies!”
The bone was human, and Mr. Streep (who briefly attended chiropractic college some years before) recognized it as such and ran for the campground and his C.B. Meanwhile, while his owner contacted the authorities, Buford continued to dig, and soon unearthed the skeletal remains of two bodies, along with their clothing and backpacks containing ID, spare clothing and a collapsible tent. The keen-snouted hound was happily munching on a footbone when Mr. Streep returned with Lewis County Sheriff’s Deputy J. V. McClain, who gasped at the positions of the skeletons.
“The bodies were arranged in a... uh... posture suggesting sexual intercourse,” Deputy McClain told Boss Detective correspondent Robert Rice. “Even though decomposition was complete, you could tell what the killer had done.”
Shocked though he was, Deputy McClain radioed for reinforcements and checked the clothing lying underneath the bodies in their grave. After discovering driver’s licenses belonging to Sacramento residents Todd Thomas Millard, 17, and Karen Nancy Roget, 16, he recalled a missing-persons bulletin on the two. “They were last seen in Hastings on November 24, Thanksgiving Day,” he said. “Almost a month ago, and from the condition of the bodies I knew they were dead that long.”
The Lewis County coroner soon arrived and deduced the means of death. “From rips and bloodstains on their clothing and backpacks, it is safe to assume that the two were shot.”
A team of late-arriving officers made a search of the area but could not find expended bullets, and the scene was roped off while the remains of the teenagers were removed and technicians looked for other clues. The Streeps and Buford continued on their vacation, with hearty kudos from Lewis County authorities, who immediately launched an investigation. Three days later Sheriff Roger D. Norman told reporters:
“We have few clues in the vicious murders of Todd Millard and Karen Roget. The time that elapsed between the killings and the discovery of the bodies has hindered us severely. We have not been able to turn up any witnesses, and the known associates of the deceased have provided us with no real leads. We have, however, ruled out robbery as a motive, and we are now centering our efforts on combing the files of known sex deviates.”
Meanwhile, bereaved family and friends mourn Todd and Karen, and pray for the police to find the fiend who killed them.
From True Life Sleuth, March 1975 issue:
Police continue to be baffled by a rash of fiendishly clever, seemingly random killings throughout Utah and Nevada. Since New Year’s, four young men, all runaways from wealthy homes, have been found murdered. The common denominators have been robbery as the presumed sole motive, the affluence of the victims and their “runaway” status. Aside from those factors, the killings differ so markedly that investigating agencies are not sure whether the crimes are connected. The four dead are:
Randall Hosford, 18, discovered in a culvert outside Carson City, Nevada, on January 2. The youth was a “remittance man” living off stipends from his wealthy Northern California family, and was known to roam the western states by thumb, always carrying credit cards and large amounts of cash. His wallet had been picked clean when police discovered his strangled body, and the current disposition of the investigation into his murder is — no clues.
Lee Richard Webb, 20, of Las Vegas. The son of a casino owner, young Webb was last seen hitchhiking outside Las Vegas on January 19. His body was found a week later, in the desert forty miles from the gambling mecca. The youth had been robbed and strangled. Disposition — no clues.
Coleman Loring, 19, and his friend Ralph De Santis, 21, the sons of wealthy Moab, Utah, mining contractors, found bound together, robbed and shot through the hearts in a cave outside Moab on January 26. No expended shells were found, although the large entry and exit wounds point to a large-caliber murder weapon. The boys were hitching to Las Vegas for a weekend of gambling, and were known to be carrying over two thousand dollars in cash. Disposition — no clues.
Postcript: At press time, our Carson City correspondent reports this flash bulletin:
Police have recovered credit cards belonging to the late Randall Hosford. An unidentified man (who has been cleared as a murder suspect) told C.C.P.D. detectives that he met a “tall, nondescript man in his late twenties” named “Shifter” in a bar, and the man sold him the cards for a hundred dollars apiece, promising that they were “stone cold.” The C.C.P.D. as yet has no line on “Shifter,” and the man he sold the cards to has been charged with receiving, stolen goods.
From the Have You Seen These People? column of True Life Sleuth magazine, June 1975 issue:
Editor’s Note— Normally, this feature displays Motor Vehicle Department photographs of people reported missing, but since all of the people listed are either below the minimum age required for a license in their state, or do not possess a license, we are running their physical stats and last-known whereabouts only. We at True Life Sleuth wish to alert the proper authorities to the fact that these five people disappeared from two adjoining states within an eight-week period.
Everett Bigelow, white male, of Provo, Utah. Last seen in Provo on 3/4/75. Age — 71, height — 5'11", weight — 155 lbs. Gray hair, blue eyes, slight build. Known to frequent beer bars, no identifying marks or tattoos.
Hazel Leffler, white female, age 67, of Bostang, Utah. Last seen talking to unidentified white male outside Bostang shopping center on March 11. Dyed black hair, brown eyes, 5'6", 170 lbs. Build — portly. Wears glasses and uses a cane to walk.
Wendy Grace Sanderson, 14, and her neighbor Carl Sudequist, 16, both of Putnamville, Nevada. Last seen together at a picnic area near Putnamville on 4/9/75. Both Caucasian. The girl is described as 4'6", 88 lbs., blond hair, green eyes; the boy as 5'8", 140, brown hair and eyes. At last sighting, both youths were wearing the navy blue uniforms of Saint Mary’s School, Putnamville.
Gregory Hall, 37, of South Las Vegas, Nevada. White male, 6'1", 190 lbs., brown hair, blue eyes. Last seen hitchhiking near Northern Utah/Nevada border on April 30, 1975. Recently paroled from the Nevada State Prison, and now on record as a possible parole absconder. (Prison photos to appear in the next issue of True Life Sleuth to feature Have You Seen These People?)
Editor’s note— any Information regarding the current whereabouts of the above-listed people should be directed to the Utah State Police, Nevada State Police and the Missing Persons Hotline of True Life Sleuth — Toll Free 1-800-MISSING.
From True Crime Detective, July 1975 issue:
Dateline — Salt Lake City, Utah, June 16, 1975:
The body of a deaf and dumb Salt Lake City youth was discovered on the salt flats surrounding the Great Salt Lake early this morning. The victim, Robert Masskie, 18, worked as a dishwasher at Colonial Joe’s Restaurant, Salt Lake City, and had just cashed his two-week paycheck. No money was found on his person, and at this early hour of the investigation police are assuming robbery as the motive. Coworkers of the friendly handicapped lad expressed shock at his death, and fry cook Martin Plunkett, 27, said, “Bobby was an inveterate hitchhiker, and that’s dangerous. Please tell your readers to be careful and not hitchhike.”
Sound advice. There are no clues as yet, but we will update the investigation’s progress in next month’s issue of True Crime Detective.
From Boss Detective magazine’s “Missing!” feature, December 1975 issue:
Last seen 10/30/75 on I-95 on the outskirts of Ogden, Utah, “talking to a tall young white male” who may be the owner of a late-model grayish van.
Kenneth Neufeld, 41, white male, 6'0", 175, brown hair and eyes, Marine Corps tattoo on right forearm.
Cynthia Neufeld, 39, white female, 5'4", 130, blond hair, brown eyes, no identifying marks.
Reported missing on 12/1/75 by their teenaged children. Their abandoned vehicle was discovered in woods outside Ogden, 12/4/ 75. Extensive search of area yielded no clues. Photographs of Mr. & Mrs. Neufeld available from Missing Persons Bureau, Ogden Police Department, and from Utah State Police. Direct all queries and information regarding Mr. & Mrs. Neufeld to those agencies.
From Boss Detective, April, 1977 issue:
Aspen, Colorado, is a year-round mecca for young people seeking good times, and it is the undisputed winter “party capital” of the United States, renowned for its skiing and ski-lodge bonhomie. Young people come to Aspen to cut loose and get away from the grind of college and jobs. You can bargain on a good lime in Aspen, but since January 1976, eight college students have gotten more than they bargained for — they disappeared from the face of the earth. The eight are:
Cindy Keneally, 72, of Chicago, Illinois, last seen 1/18/76;
George Keneally, 20, of Chicago, her husband, last seen 1/18/76;
Gustavo Torres, 23, of Sao Paulo, Brazil, last seen 1/26/76;
Mills Jensen, 24, of Aspen, last seen 3/1/76;
Craig Richardson, 17, of Glenwood Springs, Colorado, last seen 4/1/76;
Maria Kaltenborn, 21, of Akron, Ohio, last seen 6/2/76;
John Kaltenborn, 22, Maria’s husband, last seen 6/2/76;
Timothy Bay, 16, of Glenwood Springs, last seen 8/18/76.
Police investigating the disappearances were (at first) quick to point out the transient nature of pleasure spas like Aspen, and last year, in the spring of ’76, when the number of vanished people stood at five, they pooh-poohed the idea of massive foul play. But then, during the spring of ’76 thaw, melted snowbanks yielded the mutilated bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Keneally and Mr. Torres, and they knew a fiend was on the prowl.
The subzero temperatures that had prevailed all winter preserved the bodies to gruesome effect. Mr. & Mrs. Keneally were nude and arranged in an explicitly sexual posture, and Mr. Torres (who disappeared eight days after the Keneallys) was positioned a few feet away. All three victims died from slashed throats and were marked about the torsos with “S.S.”
Authorities thought at first that the markings indicated a Nazi killer — “S.S.” being the initials of Hitler’s secret police. But then that theory was dropped in favor of attributing the murders to the “Zodiac” killer, a mass murderer active in Northern California in the late ’60’s-early ’70’s. The “S.S.” body markings were aslant, so that they resembled “Z’s”; and the Zodiac killer (who sent messages to San Francisco-area police stating that he was “claiming slaves for my afterlife”) sometimes marked his victims that way.
An entirely different theory was advanced by Glenwood Springs resident Martin Plunkett, the assistant librarian at the local library. Plunkett, 28, a crime buff and childhood comic-book collector, said that the markings could be a reference to the “Shroud Shifter,” a comic-book villain popular in the 1950’s and ’60’s. The Aspen police thanked Mr. Plunkett for his phoned-in theory, and local comic-book collectors were investigated and cleared, bringing the long, frustrating case of murder/disappearances back to its current state — no clues.
In a press conference held last month, Aspen Chief of Police Arthur Whittinghill stated, “The Keneally/Torres murders were certainly the work of one person or persons, and I suspect the sexual aspects of the crime were subterfuge — the work of a killer or killers bent on obscuring motive. The other five disappearances may or may not be related, and since no other bodies have turned up, I lean to the theory of separate killer-abductors. The Zodiac-Comic Book speculation I view as nonsense, and the important thing now is for all Colorado residents and visitors below the age of twenty-five to be wary of strangers.”
From Boss Detective, November 1978 issue, the “Missing!” feature:
The nine people listed below have vanished between April 1977 and our press time of October 15, 1978. All were last seen in various parts of Kansas and Missouri, all are Caucasians and college students. Photos are available from the Missing Persons Divisions of the Kansas and Missouri State Police. Direct all inquiries to those agencies. The missing are:
Janet Cahill, 21, 5'3", 116 lbs., brown, blue. Last seen in Holcomb, Kan., 4/16/77;
Walker Cahill, 17, (Miss Cahill’s brother), 5'8", 135 lbs., brown, blue. Last seen in Holcomb, 4/16/77;
James Brownmuller, 24, 6'3", 205 lbs., blond, blue. Last seen outside Wichita Falls, Kan., 6/9/77;
Mary Kilpatrick, 20, 5'1", 95 lbs., blond, blue, last seen in Wichita Falls, 6/11/77;
Thomas Briscoe, 22, 5'11", 175 lbs., brown, brown. Last seen in Wichita Falls, 7/7/77;
Karsten Hanala, 26, 6'1", 200 lbs., brown, hazel. Last seen outside Tompkinsville, Kan., “speaking to large white man driving van,” 8/6/77;
Christine Muldowney, 19, 5'9", 135 lbs., blond, blue. Last seen in Joplin, Mo., 3/13/78;
Lawrence Muldowney, 17, 6'2", 185, blond, hazel. Last seen in Joplin, Mo., 3/13/78;
Nancy De Fazio, 20, 5'4", 125, black, brown. Last seen near Blue Lake, Mo., 10/1/78.
Concluding note: Assumptions of death aside, credit cards belonging to several of the above-mentioned people have turned up in “hot” transactions all over America, and the two card-frauders thus far apprehended have airtight alibis for the times of the card-owners’ disappearances. Those two men have been cleared as suspects after rigorous polygraph examinations, and one man (during polygraphing) stated that, “I bought my card from a guy who got it from another guy — a guy with a weird name like Stick Shifter.”
I killed them all, and the murder/disappearances mentioned in the preceding articles comprised approximately two-thirds of my 1974-78 body count.
Some were crimes of opportunity and convenience; some were assaults against waking and sleeping nightmares and the occasionally recurring urge to live in childhood fantasies. All were perfectly carried out.
My basic tool was the Deathmobile, and my basic means of avoiding capture was the complete eschewing of criminal patterns. I never spoke of my exploits. I never used drugs or alcohol; I never made purchases with the credit cards I stole, and I only sold them to drunken and drug-wasted lowlifes I met in bars — men who later identified me as “big,” “tall,” “young,” and “the Shifter,” but who would never be able to pick me out of a police lineup. I never killed when there was the remotest possibility of eyewitnesses, and the few partial witnesses who spotted me talking to roadside acquaintances I would later kill would never be able to ID me, because I always kept my back to the highway. “Big,” “tall,” “white” — certainly. Martin Michael Plunkett — no.
Caution.
Between 1974 and 1978 the gross yield from my robbery-murders was $11,147.00. I did not, of course, carry that amount of cash on my person — I kept it in bank safe-deposit boxes, the banks themselves spread across the western half of America, the rent on them paid for ten years in advance, the keys safely hidden in wooded areas nearby, so that the final key was my memory.
Ultra-caution.
Deathmobile II, purchased in Denver with the proceeds from my Aspen killings, replaced Deathmobile I when I realised the imprudence of driving with an illegal handgun clipped under the seat. The .357, the detective magazines I kept as mementos of my exploits and the marijuana I habitually harbored to seduce hippie types with would, if subjected to police scrutiny, arouse suspicion of the worst sort. I needed to keep them within a few moments’ reach, but out of reach of the most heavy-duty cop shakedown. Deathmobile I had no suitable hiding places, but studying the owner’s manuals of various make vans revealed that late-model Dodges had an undercarriage made up of metal “pockets,” rectangular-shaped, with openings on the side. I surmised that two or three of the pockets would hold all my contraband items. In order to achieve a look of uniformity I would have to cover all the ends with wire or steel, but the peace of mind I would gain would make the effort worthwhile.
So, in March of ’77, I bought a ’76 Dodge 300 van and performed major surgery on the undercarriage, blocking off all twenty pockets with wire mesh. Inside four of them I kept my .357, my magazines, and my drug supply. Behind the seats, along with my legal belongings, I kept a supply of tools and flares to aid me in my role of Good Samaritan motorist, and my Polaroid was always up front with me, loaded.
Caution.
Ultra-caution.
Preparedness.
Those three watchwords combined to italicize, bracket and underline methodology. Within that word, conjugations of the first three combined to form rules:
Wipe all van surfaces victims might have touched.
Kill with the magnum only as a last resort, and try to retrieve the spent rounds.
Bury all victims as deep as the ten-minute stopwatch will allow.
Sex-kill only when the nightmares and fantasies start to hurt, and tear up the snapshots within four hours, after memorizing and mentally cataloguing the most minute details.
During ’74-’78, I was only to sex-kill/strip/position/photograph a total of four times. The first time, after leaving San Francisco, I acted out of a need to rectify the disarray of Eversall/Sifakis; the following instances were fueled by nightmares and impacted sexual longing. Still, I knew instinctively that what I was looking for was beyond relief and orgasm, and I had enough presence of mind to carefully choose my victims — their selection based on an instinct as to what their bodies would look like together.
The Keneallys nude in the Colorado snow killed my nightmares and made me come, but did not ease my curiosity, so eight days later I placed Gustavo Torres beside them, and felt an ancient third party knock at the door of my memory. Dimly afraid of what the knocker might say, I retreated until the nightmares got terrible and my groin felt like it was holding back bomb bursts; then I found the Kaltenborns hiking near Glenwood Springs and spent hours arranging them and snapping pictures, myself nude as the third party. Again there was instant release and weeks of comfort, but no penetration of the memory.
Sensing that the memory originated in my childhood and corresponded to my old demon of blondness, I waited for two years, until I found a pair of potential lovers who were perfect beyond perfect — the Muldowney siblings of Joplin, Missouri — blond, blue-eyed and lovely. Promising hashish, I lured them out to a deserted stretch of hills, strangled them and stripped them and took pictures of them and touched them and touched myself and even risked my own safety by staying past dark with their bodies.
The effort did not enlighten me.
The effort did not enlighten me because, at base, I was killing for monetary caprice, biological gratification and to make the hurt go away. The nine months after the Muldowneys went by in a blur, and then even my memory exploration was rendered capricious, for a nightmare materialized in live human form, and I had to kill for survival.