I knew from the reports, Cynthia Wilcox had been found 150 yards (three times the distance) south of the building, in a field, underneath a walnut tree. According to the reports, during his first interview about his Turlock/Blueberry Hill victim, Jesperson said that “he placed the victim’s body on the ground . . . facedown amongst some tumbleweeds near the tree . . . stood on the back of the victim’s head to make sure she was dead . . . and may have kicked some dirt on the victim.” The reporting detective had questions, indicating how “Jesperson’s statements were completely inconsistent with the facts of the case.”
The tree was on the edge of the parking lot, Jesperson told me. Nowhere near where he positioned his victim facedown in the dirt. Jesperson drew police a map showing where the café was located, the parking lot, and where he put his victim.
“Again inconsistent with the facts of the case,” the detective concluded.
Jesperson pushed me to go out there and dig. He was desperate for me to find his Turlock victim. Was he setting me up? I considered. In bed one sleepless night, my anxiety projected a situation on the ceiling: Me in Livingston with a shovel, standing behind the Blueberry Hill Café, cameras over my shoulder, digging and digging, not finding anything. This would be my Al Capone/Geraldo Rivera empty-vault moment. I’d be ridiculed and laughed at by trolls and true-crime aficionados.
“Come on, dude, you expect me to believe this bullshit?” I said. Whenever he’d bring it up, the same thoughts plagued me: A serial killer saying he didn’t kill one of his victims—que sera, sera. He wants more publicity.
“I have no reason to lie to you about this,” he insisted.
I thought about his answer. He’s not saying he didn’t kill the woman; he’s saying the woman he killed was not the same victim he’s accused of killing. Maybe he was confused?
“Why now?” I asked. “Just because your dad is dead?”
Jesperson wanted this resolved, he explained, all these years later, for the purpose of transparency: “Growing up, kids would say, ‘Keith did this . . . Keith did that.’ Then my father . . . I was blamed for things I never did. I took it. I was even punished for what I didn’t do. And that kind of ran into this part of my life after I gave myself up. All of a sudden, they’re coming to me saying I did this and that. And I’m saying no, I didn’t. I had a Florida cop come visit me once. He asked me to admit to a body he found in Florida so he could close the case. He came over three thousand miles to ask me to lie. He said I would be more famous if I admitted it. That’s ridiculous.”
I understood his argument. His obsession with “righting these wrongs” stemmed from being blamed throughout his youth and into early adulthood for things he didn’t do. Psychologically speaking, it made sense. It was how he was raised. His brothers were given cars and boats by Dad; Keith had to earn money and buy his own. He was viewed as an outcast, not a true family member. When there was a problem, “Keith was always to blame,” he claimed.
Whether blaming his family was irrelevant or they saw it a different way, it was Jesperson’s truth. It shaped who he became. Thus, it didn’t matter to me why he needed to do this, or if his retrospective view of childhood was accurate. If I could prove a missing person was actually one of his victims, and the woman everyone thought he’d killed wasn’t, it was worth listening to whatever twisted logic he spewed. Bottom line: was the Happy Face Killer telling me the body of a woman he’d murdered was still where he dumped her and Cynthia Wilcox’s killer—if, in fact, she had been murdered—had not answered for that crime?
36
TRUE BLUE
“We are all in the same boat, in a stormy sea, and we owe
each other a terrible loyalty.”
—G.K. Chesterton
WHENEVER DARK MINDS AIRED, I RECEIVED SCORES OF FACEBOOK and Twitter messages, voice-and e-mail from fans, armchair and Web sleuths, viewers interested in pursuing careers as investigative journalists and in law enforcement, along with people who wanted nothing more than to poke fun at aspects of the show (along with my hair, clothes, how I pronounced certain words, and just about everything in between). There were trolls, tipsters, and knuckleheads, some of whom threatened me. But also caring people looking to vent their opinions and frustrations, not to mention many well-balanced, inspiring individuals looking to help make the world a better place by reporting a neighbor, friend, family member, or spouse as a potential serial killer.
During the winter of 2014, one such message came from Ken Robinson, a retired twenty-plus-year New York Police Department (NYPD) detective, first grade. At one time, Ken, a hulking man of six-three, 275 pounds, blue eyes and short-cropped, brown cop hair, had worked security for Lenny Kravitz, Sheryl Crow, Stevie Nicks, and a host of other celebrities. Ken is one of those “just-in-case” guys anyone in my business loves to have backing him up. Once, Ken was the face of the NYPD, his picture plastered on the sides of buses and across billboards, his gentle personality, insightful spirit, and traditional “New Yawk” accent heard on radio and television ads, encouraging those searching for a career in the nation’s most recognized police force to sign up.
In that first, brief e-mail, Ken offered to help. The idleness of forced retirement had gotten to him. He was still young, just under fifty. He’d hurt his hand, arm, back, and suffered severely from post-9/11 breathing issues. But his mind had not stopped working; he was interested in sharing and offering his expertise and experience as a mentor, which can be a blessing or a curse for a guy in my position, depending on who the individual making the offer is.
Over the course of that winter and spring, Ken and I talked many times, and communicated almost daily by e-mail. Even though Dark Minds was over, I brought Ken in on several cases from the series I felt his vast knowledge and contacts could help. Ken developed new threads and came up with new theories. He was a godsend.
As we chatted, I recognized his integrity and loyalty. For one, I’d checked Ken out with a source close to the department. Within twelve hours, the report back was flawless: “Ken is a top-notch cop. You won’t find a better person or investigator anywhere.”
A partnership was born.
I’d kept the secret of Raven’s identity from many in my inner circle. My road crew knew. Execs at Investigation Discovery and my production company knew. A few immediate family members knew. But that was it. After several months, I let Ken in on everything I’d been working on regarding Jesperson—and that one gesture, by itself, built a level of trust between us that has only grown.