My point is not to declare a plague but to underscore prominence : in a city inhabited by tough locals and lousy with violent offenders, one predator stood out.
It might help convey what Sacramento was like in the 1970s, and something about the EAR, to know that whenever I tell an inquiring native that I’m writing about a serial rapist from Sacramento, no one has ever asked which one.
OceanofPDF.com
Visalia
[EDITOR’S NOTE: The following chapter was pieced together from Michelle’s notes and early drafts of “In the Footsteps of a Killer,” a piece Michelle wrote for Los Angeles magazine, originally published in February 2013 and later supplemented online.]
ONE FRIDAY MORNING IN LATE FEBRUARY OF 1977, RICHARD SHELBY was at his desk at the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department when his phone rang. On the other end was a Sergeant Vaughan of the Visalia PD. Vaughan thought he had potentially useful information for their EAR investigation.
From April 1974 until December of the following year, Visalia had been plagued by a rash of bizarre burglaries committed by a young offender they dubbed the Ransacker. The Ransacker struck as many as 130 times over a period of less than two years, but there had been no activity since December of 1975, and the EAR series began in Sacramento just six months later. Moreover, there seemed to be a host of similarities between the two offenders. Perhaps it was an angle worth exploring.
THE RANSACKER WAS AS PROLIFIC AS HE WAS WEIRD. HE OFTEN HIT multiple homes in one night—sometimes four, sometimes five, once as many as a dozen. The Ransacker targeted the same four residential neighborhoods repeatedly. He preferred personal items like photographs and wedding rings, leaving behind things of greater value. Investigators noted that he seemed to have a thing for hand lotion.
But he was a perv with a mean streak, and with an apparent bone to pick with the domestic unit. If there were family photos around, he’d tear them up or hide them, sometimes breaking the picture frames, sometimes stealing the photos entirely. He’d pour orange juice from the refrigerator onto clothing from the closet, like a bratty child with a bad temper. He’d thoroughly trash the place. This seemed to be his paramount objective over theft, hence his moniker. For good measure, he’d remove cash from its hiding places and leave it on the bed. He’d stick to stealing trinkets and personalized jewelry, piggy banks and redeemable Blue Chip stamps. He unplugged appliances and clock radios. He liked to take single earrings from pairs. The Ransacker was big on spite.
The sexual element of the Ransacker’s burglaries was evident in his penchant for rifling through female undergarments, often leaving them strewn about or posed. In one instance, he piled them in a baby’s crib. On another occasion, he neatly laid out the man’s underwear in a line down the hallway, extending from the bedroom to the bathroom. He had a knack for knowing where to find anything in the house that could be used as lubricant—with a particular affinity for Vaseline Intensive Care hand lotion. He was also shrewd; he’d almost always leave more than one point of escape open so that if the homeowners returned before he was finished, he’d have multiple exit options. He’d implement his own makeshift alarm system by placing items like perfume bottles or spray cans on the doorknobs.
In the early morning hours of September 11, 1975, the Ransacker’s criminal path made a frightening pivot.
It was around two a.m. The sixteen-year-old daughter of Claude Snelling, a journalism professor at College of the Sequoias, awoke to find a man straddling her, his gloved hand cupped tightly over her mouth. A knife was pressed against her neck. “You’re coming with me, don’t scream or I’ll stab you,” the ski-masked intruder whispered in a raspy voice. As she began to resist, he produced a gun: “Don’t scream, or I’ll shoot you.” He led her out the back door.
Snelling, alerted by the noise, ran out onto the patio.
“Hey what are you doing, where are you taking my daughter?” he shouted.
The intruder took aim and fired one round. It hit Snelling in the right side of his chest and spun him around. Another shot was fired, and this bullet struck Snelling in his left side, traveling through his arm before piercing his heart and both lungs. He staggered into the house and was dead within minutes. The assailant kicked his victim three times in the face before running away. He was a white male, about five ten, with “angry eyes,” the intended victim reported to police.
Ballistics tests revealed that the handgun used in the crime was a Miroku .38 that had been stolen in a Ransacker burglary ten days earlier. Investigators also learned that in February of that year, Claude Snelling had returned home to find a peeper crouched beneath his daughter’s window. He chased the subject, but lost him in the darkness.
*
EVIDENCE STRONGLY POINTED TO THE RANSACKER. NIGHTTIME police presence was ramped up, with surveillance units assigned for nocturnal stakeouts. One residence of particular interest was a house that had been targeted three times before on West Kaweah Avenue, in an area of heavy Ransacker activity. On December 10, Detective Bill McGowen startled the Ransacker outside of the house; the suspect vaulted a fence and a chase ensued. When McGowen fired a warning shot the suspect gestured in surrender.
“Oh my God, don’t hurt me,” he squeaked in an oddly mannered, high-pitched voice. “See? My hands are up!”
The baby-faced man turned slightly, sneakily, and drew a gun from his coat pocket, promptly firing it at McGowen. McGowen fell backward and things suddenly went dark. The bullet had struck the officer’s flashlight.
*
ON JANUARY 9, 1976, VISALIA POLICE DETECTIVES BILL MCGOWEN and John Vaughan rose early and drove three hours south to Parker Center, the LAPD’s headquarters in downtown Los Angeles. McGowen had recently come face-to-face with a criminal whose ability to elude authorities defied the laws of logic and whose capture, it’s fair to say, consumed the entire Visalia Police Department. His encounter with the Ransacker was considered an important break in the case, and so arrangements were made with a special investigative unit of the LAPD for McGowen to undergo hypnosis, with the hope that new details might be elicited.
At Parker Center, the two Visalia detectives met with Captain Richard Sandstrom, director of the LAPD’s hypnosis unit. They briefed Sandstrom on the details. McGowen drew a diagram of the residential neighborhood where his confrontation with the Ransacker took place. A police artist created a composite sketch based on McGowen’s input. The group then convened to room 309. Diagram and composite were laid on the table in front of McGowen. At 11:10 a.m., the hypnosis session began.
Sandstrom quietly encouraged McGowen to relax. Legs were uncrossed, fists unclenched, breathing deepened. He directed the detective’s memory back a month, to the evening of December 10, 1975. That night a half-dozen police officers had been deployed in the neighborhood around Mt. Whitney High School, some in fixed, hidden locations, others on foot, and one in an unmarked vehicle. The goal of the coordinated stakeout was to “detect and apprehend” their greatest adversary, the Visalia Ransacker.
The night before, McGowen had taken a call of particular interest. The caller identified herself as Mrs. Hanley* from West Kaweah Avenue. She was calling about shoe tracks. Did he remember what he’d told her about checking around for shoe tracks? He did.
In July the Hanleys’ nineteen-year-old daughter, Donna,* had encountered a ski-masked intruder in their backyard. Upon reporting the incident, she was advised by McGowen to check her backyard periodically for shoe tracks and alert him if any turned up. Well, they had.
On the basis of this information, McGowen was assigned to stake out the residence the following evening.