TRACE EVIDENCE: The Hunt for the I-5 Serial Killer (9 page)

Carmen found herself with dance partners her own age, and the festive evening slipped by all too quickly. When the house lights came on, she couldn’t believe it was almost 2:00
A.M.
She had drunk too much, and felt woozy under the glaring lights. It was good that Charmaine was driving—not that driving was an option for Carmen, as she had never learned how. Charmaine had sipped Coke throughout the evening, politely declining all drink offers as she was still breast-feeding.

They were both hungry. As they had already made arrangements for the teenage sitter to spend the night, they decided to indulge themselves and go next door to Arroyo’s, an all-night diner, for a snack.

Around 3:00
A.M.
, they began what should have been a forty-five-minute drive home. They hadn’t been on Interstate 5 long before the engine began sputtering.

“This has never happened before,” Charmaine said. The car lost power and wouldn’t go any faster than 40 miles per hour. They continued on because there was no place to stop on the dark, desolate highway.

Some 20 miles north of Stockton—about halfway home—the engine quit altogether. They coasted over to the right shoulder of the road. Charmaine tried several times to restart the car. The engine would turn over, but not catch. Finally, she flooded it.

There wasn’t a gas station, store, or pay phone in sight.

Although both women had heard of the I-5 murder—as had virtually everyone in the Greater Sacramento area who read a newspaper or watched television—neither of them realized that their car had broken down not far from where Stephanie Brown had been abducted from her car a month earlier.

Charmaine turned on the emergency flashers and got out. She opened the hood, but couldn’t see a thing in the dark. She knew very little about engines anyway.

Back inside the car, Charmaine turned on the overhead dome light so they wouldn’t be in the dark and rolled down the driver’s window. Whenever a vehicle whizzed by, she put her arm out the window and waved, hoping to attract a passing Good Samaritan.

After thirty minutes and no luck, she rolled up the window. They discussed trying to reach a residence on foot—they could see a light far off in the distance—but decided to stay put. With Charmaine fighting back
tears, they agreed their best option—since Charmaine didn’t have auto club towing service—was to wait for a
Highway Patrol unit to come along and take them to a phone, where they could call
Carlos, who lived in Stockton, for a ride home.

“But you know, Mom, when you really want a cop they’re never there,” Charmaine bravely joked.

Carmen could see how anxious her daughter was. They had shared their concerns about the car being struck by a passing vehicle. Yet, it seemed safer to remain inside than to stand or walk on the dark roadside. The baby was clearly on Charmaine’s mind, too, and she expressed regret for having left him. She had already missed one nursing at his bedtime, and had complained at the restaurant about tenderness in her breasts.

Sleepy and cold, they were startled about thirty minutes later when a pair of headlights shone brightly through the car’s rear window. Though they hadn’t heard the vehicle approaching, someone had pulled up right behind them. Carmen turned in her seat to see if she could tell whether or not it was a police car. Blinded by the bright lights, she couldn’t make out anything.

Charmaine, who had been nestled in the middle of the bench-style front seat next to her mother, slid over to the driver’s side and, without hesitation, climbed out.

Carmen was not about to let her daughter go alone. Once she was outside, a brisk wind hit her like a welcome slap in the face. She was glad to see Charmaine cut between the vehicles and approach the other car from the passenger’s side. With speeding traffic barreling by only a few steps away, it was the safe thing to do.

Carmen could now see it was not a police car, but a dark sports car of some kind with one person inside. She stayed near the back bumper of their car while Charmaine leaned in the open passenger’s window of the other vehicle.

After a few seconds, Charmaine straightened up. “He wants to know if we need any help,” she said.

Carmen came up behind her daughter and bent toward the open window. “Yes, we could use a ride to a phone. But I don’t know where one is. …”

“I know where there’s a phone close by,” said the man behind the wheel.

“Okay, then.”

As there was only room for one passenger, Carmen said she would go.

“You sure, Mom?” Charmaine asked.

“Yes. I want you to go back to the car and lock yourself in.”

They returned to the Pontiac, Carmen to get her purse, which Charmaine handed to her.

“Will you be all right?” Carmen asked.

“Sure. I’ll lock the doors.”

As she turned away, Carmen was pleased to hear the comforting click of a door lock.

The ride up the highway was uneventful. The man, in his forties or fifties with graying hair and wearing a dingy T-shirt, said very little. When he did speak, such as to mention that he had a business in Sacramento, his voice was so low that Carmen had difficulty hearing him, even sitting so close to him in the cramped two-seater.

Carmen told him about the dance that night, confessing that some members of her family would not have approved because they were “missionary Christians.”

The man snickered.

He was familiar with this area, he had assured her, and knew exactly where the nearest pay phone was located. They passed one or two exits before taking an off-ramp. Carmen was not nervous, as the man seemed calm and well-intentioned. As a matter of fact, she felt very lucky that he had stopped for them.

Sure enough, not far off the highway he drove directly to some kind of store with a pay phone out front. Although the store was closed, an overhead light lit the area. He parked alongside and Carmen got out.

She dialed Carlos’s number and let it ring at least a dozen times before hanging up. She tried again, in case she had misdialed. There was still no answer. Next, she tried her daughter in Sacramento who was engaged to the band leader. No answer. Her grown son,
Bruce, still lived with her at home, but Carmen didn’t have a phone. It was too late to call a neighbor to awaken her son, or to phone any of her friends for help. Standing in the phone booth at four o’clock in the morning with a stranger waiting to take her back down the highway, she couldn’t think of anyone else to call at this hour. The thought flitted through her mind to phone the Highway Patrol, but she had no idea where she was or how to explain their location. She didn’t even know the license number of Charmaine’s car. Saying that they were broken down in a brown car “halfway between Stockton and Sacramento” probably wouldn’t be enough.

She could see that the man, obscured by shadows inside his darkened car, was still waiting patiently. Suppose he changed his mind and drove away? It was late for him, too, and he probably wanted to get home. If he
left her here, how would she get back? She couldn’t leave Charmaine
alone
on the interstate.

So, Carmen did the only thing she could think of at that moment: she left the phone booth and hurried back to the sports car. She wanted very much to rejoin her daughter. Together, they would figure something out.

The man started his car without saying anything. Carmen volunteered that she hadn’t been able to reach anyone. She asked him to please take her back.

He took the next exit south of where they had broken down, crossed over the overpass, and took a long, lazy circle to merge with northbound traffic. When they came upon Charmaine’s car, he pulled up behind it and cut his engine, which he hadn’t done the first time.

When Carmen got out, Charmaine was already heading her way. Carmen explained that she hadn’t been able to reach Carlos, and didn’t know who else to call.

“What are we going to do, Mom?” Charmaine asked.

“I can take you home,” offered the man, still sitting behind the wheel. “One at a time. That’s all I have room for.”

“That’s so nice of you,” said Carmen, genuinely impressed with the man’s helpfulness.

Standing next to the sports car, mother and daughter talked. It was close to 5:00
A.M.
, and the sun would be up soon. Once home, they could certainly round up Bruce and Carlos to help with the car. They decided to take the nice man up on his offer to get them off the interstate.

“I think you should go first, honey,” Carmen said. “I know you’re worried about the baby. You need to get back to feed him when he wakes up.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll lock myself in. It’ll be light soon. You need to get back.”

Charmaine seemed relieved. She grabbed her purse and got into the man’s car.

Carmen watched as they pulled away, exchanging brief waves with her daughter.

It was the last time she saw Charmaine.

Four

S
urrendering to a bone-deep fatigue,
Carmen
Anselmi settled into the backseat soon after her daughter left, and stretched out as best she could.

About 9:00
A.M.
, she awoke with a start to the sound of a man’s voice.

Turning in the seat, she saw that a black-and-white Highway Patrol car had pulled up close on the right side of the car. The officer had his window down.

With some effort, Carmen rolled down hers.

“Hello,” she said groggily.

“Do you need assistance, ma’am?”

“I think someone is coming. At least, I
hope
they are,” she said, smiling weakly.

“I can take you to a phone if you’d like,” the officer said.

Carmen checked her watch. She was surprised to see that four hours had passed. Probably the man had decided he didn’t have time to come back for her. She couldn’t blame him.

It was getting so late now, Carmen figured her son would show up sometime soon. But weary of waiting in the car, she accepted the offer, and left a note on the windshield.

The officer drove Carmen to the same pay phone that the man in the sports car had taken her to hours earlier. This time she noticed that it was directly off the Walnut Grove Road exit of I-5. In the daylight, she was also able to see that the store, although not yet open, was a large produce mart.

She called her kindly neighbor,
Walter Hicks, who was accustomed to taking messages for the family. Telling him exactly where she was, she asked him to tell her son to pick her up not at Charmaine’s car, but at the phone
she was calling from. She gave him the number in case her son had already left. If he had left, the neighbor promised, he’d call her back right away. In that event, Carmen would know she’d have to find a way back to the car.

After the CHP left, Carmen waited by herself. She was glad the phone didn’t ring. About forty-five minutes later, her son pulled up.

Once she was inside the car, Bruce told his mother how confused he’d been by her message. “What’s this about Charmaine’s car? And where’s Charmaine?”

Carmen went numb.

When they returned home and found that Charmaine had still not shown up—a neighbor lady was watching the baby at Carmen’s—she had Bruce take her to Charmaine’s apartment. Using a key her daughter had given her some time back, Carmen went inside but could find no sign that her daughter had come home. They went directly to the nearest police station, where Carmen filed a
missing persons report.

Given the nature of Charmaine’s disappearance and the high probability of foul play, the normal twenty-four-hour waiting period for adult
missing persons was not observed. Immediately, a statewide teletype was sent out providing law enforcement agencies with a
description of the missing young woman, her attire, the dark sports car she rode off in, and the quiet man behind the wheel who had seemed so helpful.

Based on Carmen’s information, the driver was described as a white man in his forties or fifties, about 5-foot-8 to 5–10, between 150 and 180 pounds, gray or graying hair, and clean shaven. When last seen, he was wearing a T-shirt and some kind of dark-colored pants.

Carmen was beside herself for letting her daughter get into the stranger’s car. She had been disarmed, Carmen realized, not only by the man’s having been so nice but also because he brought her back to the car without trying any funny business. She was haunted by her motherly words of advice to Charmaine: “You should go first, honey.… You need to get back …”

Now home, Carmen broke down soon after her neighbor left. When her infant grandson began fussing, she pulled herself together. Warming the last of the mother’s milk Charmaine had expressed the night before, Carmen sat down and fed the baby.

Struggling under a heavy canopy of remorse and helplessness, Carmen willed herself to remain hopeful. She prayed that her daughter would be found alive, somehow, somewhere.
Maybe
, she thought,
the man had dropped Charmaine off in an isolated area and she was at that very moment hiking out to find help.

As she fed the infant in her arms, Carmen could not possibly know then that she would end up raising this little grandson of hers.

C
HARMAINE
S
ABRAH
had vanished without a trace in
San Joaquin County, three miles south of the Sacramento County line.

The missing persons case was assigned to Vito Bertocchini due to the possibility that it was the work of whoever had abducted and killed Stephanie Brown. Brown’s body had been found right away, and Bertocchini had known it was murder from the beginning. Stephanie had been his unidentified murder victim and someone else’s missing person. This time, he had a missing person but no body.

Bertocchini considered the similarities in the cases striking. Both young women had disappeared on Interstate 5 within 15 miles of each other during the wee hours of the morning after pulling their cars over to the shoulder of the road. The main difference (and it
was
significant): in
Sabrah, there had been an eyewitness. That, the detective thought, had been a very bold move whether or not it was the work of Brown’s killer.