TRACE EVIDENCE: The Hunt for the I-5 Serial Killer (17 page)

• 8 points if he was between forty and sixty years of age and had gray straight hair and a large nose;

• 8 points if he could be placed in the I-5 area;

• 8 points if he made a sudden, unexplained departure from the area after Sabrah’s abduction or the press conference;

• 6 points if he had a violent background and/or had committed similar crimes;

• 6 points if he was familiar with the areas where the crime scenes were located;

• 6 points if he had ever attempted to pick up females on freeways or other roadways;

• 6 points if he had recent behavioral changes that coincided with the murders, dates of press releases, or at any time during the summer of 1986.

P
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would be considered “most viable leads,” which had earned more than 40 points. They would be the first leads worked by detectives. Priority Two leads, which earned 35 to 40 points, would only be worked in absence of any Priority One leads. Priority Three leads, with between 20 and 35 points, were “informational leads” that “lacked significant detail to follow up.” And Priority Four leads of less than 20 points were for “information only.”

An hour later, Biondi released the two hungry detectives for lunch. Then he picked up the phone and went to work on the computer-literate types at DOJ’s
Homicide Analysis Unit to set up a program using the criteria. He explained that every lead sheet sent into DOJ would have a point value attached to it. DOJ agreed to tabulate the numbers and print out the names of possible suspects according to their cumulated point total.
DOJ would update the list—based on new information—as often as required.

Biondi circulated the proposed criteria to other departments. Within a couple of days, he had the promise of all departments involved in the investigation that they would use the criteria table for assigning a numerical value to each suspect lead before sending the lead sheets to DOJ. Copies of the resultant computer printout would be sent to all departments.

Nobody seriously thought that the list would tell them who the killer was; its main purpose, rather, was to bring some order to the many hundreds of leads that had already been accumulated. The list would be a system, then, that would be used for assignments when and if there were ever enough detectives to work all the I-5 leads.

Biondi’s sense of accomplishment didn’t last long, for his fears concerning
insufficient manpower to follow up on all the new leads generated by the media exposure had already materialized. Having a computerized list of prioritized leads would be fine and dandy, but what if there were no detectives free to work the phones and knock on doors?

Already stretched to the limit, the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Homicide Bureau could not spare a single detective to work the I-5 series full-time. Stan Reed had only been able to spend a day here and there on
Heedick, and that had been it. Other jurisdictions, Biondi knew, were in the same predicament.

Sacramento County had finished the year (1986) with a record forty-five homicides. In addition to having worked those cases—nine were still unsolved, including Heedick—the Bureau’s four detectives were also responsible for the investigation of all the county’s suspicious deaths, kidnappings, adult missing persons, and officer-involved shootings that resulted in injury or death.

To support his request for four new detectives beginning in 1987 (he intended to place two on the I-5 series), Biondi discovered that his bureau had an unusually high annual ratio of 11 homicides per investigator.
Orange County Sheriff’s Department had 7.5 homicides per investigator, while the
San Diego County Sheriff’s Department had 5 homicides per investigator. Closer to home, the
Sacramento Police Department had 7 homicides per investigator.

“Due to a dramatic increase in workload, the Homicide Bureau needs immediate assistance,” Biondi wrote in his year-end budget request. He warned that homicides were occurring in the county at such a rate that the Bureau was “struggling just to complete the preliminary investigation.
Unsolved murders are not getting the continuous investigation required to resolve the cases.”

In addition to the four new detectives—he acknowledged they would have to go through a period of training in order to be brought up to full speed—he requested the immediate temporary assistance of experienced investigators to help “stabilize the current workload.” He wanted, in other words, both a tourniquet and Band-Aids.

Biondi was the first to admit that homicide investigations were costly programs for a law enforcement agency to operate. As manager of a homicide unit that never had enough people, office space, desks, cars, radios, tape recorders, and other support equipment, he constantly found himself facing moral-versus-practical questions: What price is human life worth? How far do we stretch our resources to solve a murder case?

While homicide investigations were never cost-effective in any measurable way, murder was a highly visible event that directly impacted the public’s perception of a law enforcement agency. He reminded his superiors that the reputation of a law enforcement agency was often based on its handling of murder cases alone. Although the logic was faulty considering the many other accomplishments a well-run department could achieve, the nearly 100 percent blanket coverage afforded murder by the local media made this perception an indisputable fact.

To his bosses, Biondi beseeched: “Do we ignore viable leads in this serial killer case or do we seize the chance to demonstrate the excellence of this department?”

In going public with the I-5 series at the
press conference in November, Biondi had an ulterior motive: with the murder series in the public eye, he hoped that administrators would be less likely to drag their feet when it came to providing manpower and equipment to put together a coordinated investigation.

But it wasn’t to be. Biondi’s impressive statistics and strongly worded memos could have been filed under the heading: NICE TRY. His call for help was turned down by budget-minded administrators with little serious discussion.

In the days of shrinking municipal budgets that affected virtually every public service from law enforcement to education to filling potholes in our roadways, the
Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department Homicide Bureau would enter the new year with its existing complement of four detectives—unchanged from a decade earlier when the county’s murder rate had been about half what it was now.

Biondi was alarmed about what this would mean to the I-5 series
investigation, given that his four detectives had been bogged down
before
the series began to unfold in their backyard. Even though his bureau was officially working only one of the suspected serial killer cases (Heedick), the other two dead women had been, after all, Sacramento County residents. Sabrah, as far as Biondi could tell, had already become an inactive case for tiny
Amador County. At least the Brown case had been actively worked by
San Joaquin, although Biondi knew that the irrepressible Vito Bertocchini was dealing with his own heavy
caseload of new murders.

At such times, Biondi tried hard to remember why he had ever wanted to head the Homicide Bureau. He could have finished out his years to retirement as a supervisor in Patrol or Jails with a lot fewer headaches. He was in the midst of such a melancholy moment a couple of weeks before Christmas (1986) when there was a soft rap on his door.

“It’s open,” he said, not turning around.

“Ray, it’s
Kay Maulsby.”

Glad for the intrusion, he spun around and with the sweep of a long arm invited Maulsby in, even though he knew why she was there and that he didn’t have good news for her.

“Hi. Sorry to keep bugging you,” she said.

“No problem.”

Maulsby sat down across from Biondi. She was, as usual, sharply attired; today, in a blue business suit with white blouse. At forty-two, her only concession to age was the gray she allowed to streak her light brown hair. Her 5-foot-4 frame carried the same weight (123 pounds) as when she had graduated from Sacramento State two decades earlier with a degree in sociology and double minors in psychology and anthropology. Considering stamina important in her line of work, she kept her build trim and sinewy by watching what she ate, without being obsessive, and hour-long aerobics and weight-training workouts three times a week.

She was all business as she sat across from Biondi, not invincible, but definitely a compact force to be reckoned with. She could have been a high-level banker or a successful real estate broker, but she was neither. Maulsby was a cop.

“They turned me down,” said Biondi, not given to sugarcoating. “Not even any temps.”

Maulsby tried not to look disappointed, but her eyes gave her away.

“I’m sorry, Kay. I’d have you here in a NewYork minute if I could.”

“I appreciate that.”

Maulsby had wanted to work Homicide for a long time. She had been interested in law enforcement in college, but had been steered away from it
by a school counselor because then—in the late 1960s—police work was still a male bastion. Instead, she became a social worker, although she considered those five years to be mostly biding her time until law enforcement opened up for women, as she knew it must. When the
Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department advertised to fill “deputy-female” positions needed for a new women’s detention facility, Maulsby took the test, scored high, and was hired. Three years later, when the department opened up Patrol to women for the first time, Maulsby was among the first wave of what some old-timers in law enforcement considered a noble experiment doomed to fail. Some of the new women patrol deputies were average, some not so good, and some, like Maulsby, outstanding—pretty much in equal proportion to the performances of their male counterparts. She stayed in Patrol for five years, during which time she earned a reputation as being compassionate when appropriate and fearless when required. She had been known to stop a carload of bad guys alone and wrestle resisting suspects to the ground. She became a detective in 1981, working burglary A year later she made sergeant. Typically, a promotion put the recipient back at square one to build seniority in rank again, and Maulsby was no different. She went back to Jails with her new stripes and waited two years before a sergeant detective position opened in Special Investigations, where she worked Vice.

From the day she had taken the test to join the department, Maulsby had wanted to be a homicide detective, generally considered to be the most important position in police work and one reserved for the best of the best. At the time, it had been a seemingly unreachable dream for a young woman. But she had closed in on her goal: with eleven years on the force and having achieved the rank of sergeant detective, Maulsby felt qualified to work Homicide. By then, she had learned that 90 percent of police work was talking to people, and she was good at getting people—suspects as well as witnesses—to open up under the most difficult circumstances. Her tack was never to be disrespectful to even the slimiest of individuals, nor to badger anyone. Instead of spouting angrily, “You’re a lying scumbag,” she’d be more inclined to say calmly, “I’d rather have it a lot clearer than that and I know you can do it.”

Maulsby had long let it be known throughout the department that she coveted Homicide. Ironically, she came to find her success in the ranks to be holding her back. Within the Homicide Bureau, there was one lieutenant position, one sergeant detective spot, and three detective billets to fill. Waiting for that one sergeant position to open up could—and often did—take years. The careers of many qualified detectives ended without their ever working Homicide.

In 1985, reasoning that her chances of getting to Homicide would be three times greater if she wasn’t a sergeant,
Maulsby had given up her stripes and taken a voluntary demotion—a $300 monthly pay cut, not to mention lost retirement benefits based on an employee’s last pay rate. Her husband, Norman, had supported her decision. She had already been a cop when they’d met, and Norman was in law enforcement himself—he worked for
DOJ and was a lieutenant in the
Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department reserve officer program. They did not have children, and he told her that money should not be an issue; she should feel free to take her career wherever she wanted to. Not many of her colleagues in the department thought she had done the right thing, however, as no one was able to promise Maulsby even then that she would ever make Homicide.

Biondi needed no convincing that Kay Maulsby would be an excellent homicide detective. He had enlisted her and several other detectives to do some legwork in a murder series six years earlier when a landscape gardener was breaking into homes and killing elderly women. Maulsby had proven herself a very capable investigator, excelling, in particular, Biondi thought, in interviewing and interrogation techniques, which he considered vital for Homicide. He found her very straightforward, willing to talk as openly about her abilities as about any shortcomings she might have. He was also struck by her eagerness. The fact that she had taken a demotion a year earlier to increase her chances at getting into Homicide still amazed him. It wasn’t something he would have done.

Having Kay Maulsby in the unit was a no-brainer for Biondi. Back in the days when he first became a cop, police work had been a male-only world full of military-like camaraderie and closed to outsiders and the opposite sex. The few females allowed in a department—matrons, dispatchers, clerks—were expected to function only in secondary and supporting roles. After all, how could a woman break up a bar fight or subdue a violent criminal? Biondi had his head turned around when he worked as a supervisor in Patrol in the mid-1970s when women deputies first began working the streets. In no time, he came to realize that it was the individual, not the gender, that made a good cop.

Biondi planned to make Maulsby one of the four new detectives, had his request for increased manpower gone through. Already, Detective Bob Bell had requested Maulsby for a partner—she was that well regarded.