Almost Trailside: A True Story (11 page)

T
he Roaring Camp and Big Trees Railroad is a narrow gauge tourist railroad that starts from the Roaring Camp depot in Felton and runs up steep grades to the top of a nearby mountain, traveling a distance of 3.25 miles through a redwood forest or down the hill through the Henry Cowell Redwood Forest six miles to the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk. Roaring Camp is a re-creation of an 1880’s logging town. It operates trains every day of the year except for Christmas Day. The steam engines date from the 1890’s. They are the oldest and most authentically preserved narrow gauge steam engines still providing regular passenger service in the United States. The Park’s popular Redwood Grove walking trail, known to locals as “the loop”, circles 0.8 miles through tall Redwood trees which have stood well over a thousand years. A featured tree on “the loop” is the John C. Fremont tree, a tree hollowed out by fire that was once used as a resort honeymoon room
.

It was early evening when we arrived back at our campsite in Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park to the pleasing smell of new campfires. We were surprised at the many travel trailers, small motor homes, and tent campers that had joined our section in the Park while we were away. The area was nearly full.

Right away, Tommy started a campfire, and got the charcoals going on the grill. We wanted to eat dinner out on the picnic table but it was too cold so we moved inside our travel trailer to eat at the dining table where it was much more comfortable.

Tommy carried in the small television from the back of the station wagon and hooked it up to see if we were lucky enough to get any reception. We did get two or three channels, not crystal clear but good enough to watch a little television while we ate dinner.

I finished cleaning up the kitchen and stored everything securely. The boys happily were coloring and drawing at the table. Tommy was outside securing the awning and putting everything else away in preparation for the drive home. Tommy poked his head in to make sure he could disconnect from the water, electricity, and sewer hook-up. I told him to give me ten more minutes and then I would be ready.

The new travel trailer allowed us to have all of the comforts of home while camping. We were able to shower or bathe in a real tub and use the bathroom right in our own travel trailer. I could prepare meals, do dishes, and have good hot water at my disposal any time I wanted it. The boys were able to read, draw, or play games. It was roomy, and comfortable, and the best purchase, ever, for our young family.

Chapter VII

I
t was Sunday, March 29, 1981 before 6:00 p.m. when we headed out of Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park past the ranger station toward the main road for the drive home. Upon entering the highway, we heard sirens. We didn’t see any police cars or emergency vehicles but the sirens sounded close by.

The gently winding roads and highways in the Santa Cruz Mountains appeared damp in the early evening light. We took our time driving. The ride was mostly down hill through lush green forest land.

Because Henry Cowell Park wasn’t very far away, we were home within the hour. We slowly rounded the corner of our cul-de-sac. Tommy angled the car and travel trailer so he could back up into our driveway. This time, he did a good job and only needed me to tell him when he was close enough to the garage door to stop. It was much smoother than the first back up
parking attempt at Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park on Saturday night.

Tommy unhooked the station wagon and leveled the travel trailer in our driveway. We all took our clothes and other belongings into the house and put them away. Right away I started a load of laundry. Usually, being gone on the weekend would put me behind on things I needed to get done around the house. But because the Park was so close and we were home early, this gave us plenty of time to get everything ready for the upcoming week, take our baths and showers, and finish in time to watch our favorite Sunday evening television programs. It was the best of both worlds.

On Monday morning we were right on schedule. Tommy was off to work at his usual time. The boys were out of the house and walking to school a few short blocks away with their group of friends and a couple of neighborhood parents who walked with them. I was able to leave the house on time and arrived at my job at the school a few minutes early. By all accounts, it was a normal busy Monday.

At 5:30 p.m. I had dinner ready and the table set. The boys were washed up and eagerly waiting. I made one of their favorite dinners; sloppy Joes, French fries, green beans, and a fruited jello salad. We waited for Tommy to come through the door from his long drive home. He entered right on time, with lunch box in hand, gave me a hug and a kiss, and placed his empty lunch box on the kitchen counter. Then he headed for the bathroom to wash up before joining us at the table. Star Trek was on television. We usually watched it while
we ate dinner. Tommy and the boys enjoyed it…me, not so much, but it was okay since there wasn’t anything good on television at that time. During commercials we visited. Conversation was all about our great camping trip and how much fun it was.

Tommy said that his friend at work was talking about what happened in Henry Cowell Park over the weekend and asked Tommy if we saw anything. Tommy told him he didn’t know what he was talking about. His friend said he “thought someone was killed” but he didn’t have any details. We decided that maybe something about it would be on the 10:00 p.m. news, which we watched every night before we went to bed. We didn’t take the newspaper because we didn’t have time to read it, but we did make it a point to watch the 10:00 p.m. news. If we weren’t too tired after the news, we liked to watch the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and his pal, Ed McMahon.

The boys were fast asleep. We were ready for bed, under the covers, and nestled against our bed rests just in time for the 10:00 p.m. news to begin. This was our nightly routine. We had a television in our bedroom set on the shelf of our sturdy armoire.

Right away at the top of the news was the story we were waiting for. “The Trailside Killer takes another victim.” A young woman had been killed and her boyfriend seriously wounded and left for dead over the weekend at Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park in the Santa Cruz Mountains. The killer was still at large. They were asking anyone who saw this man to come forward with information. Then they showed a good sketch of the man, a detailed map of the hiking trail, and
pinpointed the observation area in the Park. It was
him
. It was the man we spoke with on the hiking trail. The map shown was exactly where we were on the hiking trail and at the observation area.

Immediately, we were terrified. Our eyes were glued to the television waiting for more information, but there wasn’t any more. The newsman went on to other local and national news.

We were frantic. We wanted more details.

Tommy threw on his pants and a shirt, drove to the neighborhood grocery store, and bought a newspaper from the stand out in front. At 11:00 p.m. we spread the newspaper out on our bed, reading and searching every page hungry for information.

The thought of what happened made us sick. The reality was that we were there. We saw the Trailside Killer and the young woman that he killed. We saw them together sitting alongside the hiking trail. We
spoke
to them. No wonder she looked so pale and withdrawn, but where was her boyfriend? We had a million questions, but no answers.

We thought about calling the Santa Cruz police department to tell them that we saw the man on the hiking trail, but we hesitated. We didn’t know what to do. Our beautiful perfect weekend in nature was shattered. I didn’t ever want to go out camping in the woods again.

We sat up talking about it and tried to calm ourselves. We went over and over the events of the hike in Henry Cowell Park. We couldn’t sleep. We couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Too soon, the alarm went off to start the next new day.

We decided to wait a few days and watch the news to see if anything else developed. The Trailside Killer topped the news every day but the police still did not know his identity. He had eluded the authorities for years, but this time was different. A young man who he shot and left for dead was able to recover and provide the police with a good description. Now they had a sketch of the Trailside Killer, but he was still out there free to kill again.

On Thursday morning, Tommy was off to work and the boys just left for school. I was about ready to head out the door myself, when the phone rang. I answered the ring thinking it was my mother calling. She sometimes called at this time in the morning.

“Hello!” I said, brightly on this beautiful sunny morning, expecting it to be her.

“Is this Mrs. Stonewall?” The man on the other end sounded professional.

“Yes, it is.” I answered, rather hesitantly, wondering who this person could be, calling me so early in the morning.

“Mrs. Stonewall, this is Art Danner with the Santa Cruz District Attorneys Office. I need to ask you some questions. Do you own a 1979 gold colored Ford station wagon?”

“Yes, we do. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Mrs. Stonewall, your station wagon was seen parked in the Roaring Camp Railroad parking lot over the weekend. Were you there?”

“Yes, we were there on Sunday afternoon.”

“You, your husband, and your two young boys, is that right?”

“Yes, but how do you know that?” I was feeling uneasy. How could he know what our family looked like? How did he know so much about our weekend? I didn’t make the connection until he continued.

“People saw you there, Mrs. Stonewall. Do you know what happened in Henry Cowell Park over the weekend? Do you know that there was a murder on the hiking trail, on the same hiking trail that you and your family were on? A young man was shot and a young woman was killed…a woman who looked very much like you.”

“Like
me
? What are you talking about?” I sat down on the edge of the bed looking out the window at my beautiful Santa Cruz Mountains.

“Your dark shoulder length hair… You’re what he likes. He was
stalking
you, Mrs. Stonewall. He was in the picnic area of the Roaring Camp Railroad when you were there. He was in the gift shop when you were there. He was on the walking trail and in the tree when you were there. If it weren’t for your two young boys being with you on the hiking trails, I think it’s fair to say…that they probably saved your life.”

I couldn’t speak. The hair on my arms stood on end, tears filled my eyes, fear and terror ran wild within me. What he said consumed me in a way that no other words in my lifetime ever had. He sensed I was crying.

“Mrs. Stonewall. Are you there? Are you with me? I’m sorry I had to tell you this but I need to know if you saw him. Exactly when and where and anything else you can tell me about him.” Art Danner’s voice was consoling now.

I knew he had a job to do, and that was to find the Trailside Killer before he could hurt or kill anyone else.

“But how do you know he was stalking me?” I managed to say, weakly.

“Other people saw you and they reported seeing him following you. He wore a backpack and a baseball cap. Didn’t you see him, Mrs. Stonewall? Didn’t you see him following you?”

“No, I didn’t see him at
all
at Roaring Camp. I only saw him on the hiking trail in Henry Cowell Park. I saw him and the girl and he spoke to us.” And then through my tears, I told Art Danner every detail of our hike, of what we saw, and what was said.

Talking to Art Danner about it was liberating, but I was shaken to know that
I
was being stalked by a serial killer and rapist. I could have been his next victim. He could have easily taken me, the boys, and even Tommy. He had a gun. He could have destroyed us that very afternoon.

“I appreciate you talking with me this morning, Mrs. Stonewall. What you’ve told me is important. We need to catch this guy, the sooner the better. We have to investigate each and every lead that could take us closer to getting to him. I’m sure you understand.”

“Mr. Danner, before you hang up, I have a question. In the newspaper, it said the car was white, but the little car we saw through the trees parked out on the main road was red. So, maybe that wasn’t his car.” Reeling with such emotion, I don’t know how I even thought to ask the question.