Schuster suggested they look for a white male, early twenties, with a history of sexual offenses such as obscene phone calls, exposing himself, peeping into houses. He would have an extensive collection of pornography, probably emphasizing sadomasochistic themes, and have at least one camera with telephoto lenses. I’d have said the same thing.
The police put that together with the commonalities of the locations and began to look at delivery men, cable installers, cleaning services, utility repairmen, mailmen. They were linking the profile to those who had the opportunity to get into the locations with the bodies. They also videotaped the crowds that showed up at each crime scene.
There at the intersection of history, opportunity, and obsession stood Earl Munsey, a vocational-school work-study employee of Beauty Kleen Restorations, Inc., a cleaning service with contracts that included all three locations. At fifteen, Earl had been arrested on a charge that he had spied on a neighbor going from her bedroom to her shower. That charge brought forth three other complainants. He was convicted and given a suspended sentence and placed in a residential facility for a year. He continued with outpatient counseling and community-service hours cleaning the bathrooms at the city park. That led to his employment with Beauty Kleen. A search warrant of his parents’ home turned up dozens of bondage magazines and videos, but no cameras. He also had a file about all the crimes sealed in a plastic bag and suspended from the floor vent in his bedroom into the ductwork. Earl had keys to all the locations, and although he was not assigned to the crews that were cleaning them, he could have easily gained access with the bodies. He was in the videotapes of the crowds at all three crime scenes. The neighbors all described Earl as a “strange duck,” a “lurker,” not a stalker, but always in the background, watching women, then scurrying off when their eyes met his.
I flipped over to the counseling notes from the residential facility. Psychological testing showed that Earl had an IQ of 82, was dyslexic, learning disabled by a sequential processing disorder, and attention deficit disordered. He had poor impulse controls, was often flooded by his feelings, used fantasy to excess to relieve chronic feelings of depression and emptiness. He was passive, easily suggestible, quite concrete in his thinking and rigid in his judgments. The therapist noted that Earl was unable to articulate why he had been watching the women and denied doing it even though there had been numerous witnesses. Therapy was eventually terminated as unproductive, and he was recommended for a job that was structured and did not involve contact with the public. That was the last anyone heard of Earl Munsey for three years.
The police had all they needed for an arrest. Earl was Mirandized and waived having an attorney present. Prosecutors would later argue that his psychological evaluation was not known to them at the time and that the standard error of the measure of an IQ of 82 could place it in the average range and his consent should have been considered competent. He was questioned by Detectives Ermentraut and Bigelow for almost forty-eight straight hours. At the end of which Earl Munsey signed a confession to the three murders.
I read the confession. There was no mention of how Earl Munsey lured the women into his van, which was presumed to be where the killings took place, or managed to keep from leaving a single piece of forensic evidence tying him to the crime. Earl claimed to have been in a fog and that it “wasn’t him” who had picked up the women. The murders, however, were described in gruesome detail.
The prosecution charged Earl with capital murder while committing felony sexual assault, attempted rape, and sodomy and asked for the death penalty. Without too much protest from Otis Weems, they got it.
Clipped to the back of the file was a bag of photographs from the crime scenes. I looked at the backs and arranged them in order. There was no identification of who took the photos, Ermentraut or Bigelow.
First was Joleen Pennybacker on the floor in front of a makeup mirror. Perfumes and potpourri were spilled on the floor. She was nude except for a pair of fur wraps around her neck. Next to her was a bloody wooden stick matted with her hair and brains.
Martha Dombrowski lay on the kitchen floor clad only in a college T-shirt. Food from the open refrigerator lay around her, a can, ground meat, donuts, and a .32-caliber pistol that had left her with a small round hole in the middle of her forehead.
Eleanor Gelman was in the entrance foyer, also clad only in a college T-shirt. She had a twenty-dollar bill in her right hand, and there were some coins around her left hand. Next to her was a bloody, crusted dumbbell with five-pound plates.
I closed the file. Monica Chao had things to work with, especially the confession, but I didn’t see how I could help her. The profile and crime-scene analysis made sense to me. I could see Earl Munsey doing this crime. Maybe the confession was coerced and there were gaps in it. Maybe they shouldn’t have convicted him. Maybe she could parlay that into a new trial. That didn’t mean he didn’t do it. Not in the post-O. J. world.
I called Monica Chao and told her I had no ideas and that I would return the file to her. She asked if I could come by tonight. She had some more information that she had received by court order and she didn’t want to waste time. I got directions to her place and drove over.
She opened the door and motioned me inside. Monica wore running shoes, jean skirt, and a cream-colored blouse knotted at the midriff. Her hair was pulled back into a glossy ponytail. A young boy, perhaps five, stood in the center of the living room.
“This is my son, Justin. Justin, say hello to Dr. Triplett.” Justin approached with his hand out but a somber look on his face. We shook hands and he turned back to his game on the floor.
“Listen, I just wanted to drop this off. I’ll let you get back to whatever...”
She ushered me into the kitchen. “Justin’s upset right now. His father and I separated a couple of months ago. He keeps hoping we’ll get back together again. Whenever somebody comes over, he’s hoping it’s his dad. When it’s not, he’s disappointed.”
“Listen, I don’t have anything to tell you. Not from a psychological point of view. You have the confession to work with...”
“No, I don’t. Weems argued that on the first appeal. That and the consent. He lost. I don’t have anything. Before you give up on this, look at what I got today at the office. It’s the photos from Ermentraut and Bigelow. Along with their notes. The photos you saw were from the first officers on the scene, the patrolmen.”
“Okay, I’ll look at them,” I said resentfully, ready to be out from under one of her rocks. “How late are you going to be up tonight? I’ll drop them back when I’m done.”
“You can do it here. I’ve got an office set up next to the living room. Justin and I were about to eat. Why don’t you look at the stuff, stay for dinner, and tell me what you think. I’m making hot-and-sour soup and Dan Dan noodles, it’s Justin’s favorite.”
“What’s Dan Dan noodles?”
“It’s a spicy chili peanut sauce over noodles. Very good.”
“Okay. Where are the photos?” The sooner I started, the sooner I was done.
“In my office, on the desk. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to eat.”
I walked out of the kitchen and across the living room. Justin was on his elbows and knees, staring down at a board on the floor before him. His chin rested in the cup of his palms.