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  HOMETOWN KILLER

  The big, old house on South Fountain had been empty for about five years when Robert and Molly Warner moved there in 1994. On Saturday, July 8, 1995, Molly decided to participate in a “neighborhood cleanup” by cleaning out the debris-filled, double-car garage. While working in the south bay of the dilapidated garage, she moved an old wooden door and saw part of a tennis shoe stuck in the dirt floor. She reached down to pick it up and realized, to her horror, there was something inside of it.

  She quickly ran out of the garage to find her husband. Frantic, she told him about the discovery, “There’s something inside that shoe, Robert! I think it’s a body.”

  When the officers and detectives arrived they cordoned off the area with crime scene tape, and began the gruesome job of uncovering the body.

  The tennis shoes had torn through the large trash bags that the body had been buried in.

  HOMETOWN KILLER

  CAROL J. ROTHGEB

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  HOMETOWN KILLER

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  FOREWORD

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Prologue

  Part 1 - The Murders

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Part 2 - The Serial Killer

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Epilogue

  Afterthoughts

  Copyright Page

  Notes

  This book is dedicated to the memory of the victims and their families . . .

  . . . and to Sergeant Al Graeber, who died five hours after his retirement, and before the conclusion of this case. He dreamed of writing a book about it and never got the chance.

  I hope he would have approved of this one.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am so grateful to my family and my friends for their incredible support and encouragement (and patience) during the writing of this book—especially my children, Jeanne, David, and Dana, who never seemed to doubt that I could do it.

  To my granddaughters—Mallory, Chelsea, Miranda, and Sarah: you can make your dreams come true.

  Chief Steve Moody, Sergeant Barry Eggers, Sergeant Michael Haytas, and Captain Rapp became my heroes—and my friends—during this time. They seemed to recognize the sincerity and passion I had to complete this task, and they embraced me and opened their hearts and memories to me.

  I deeply regret that I never had the chance to meet Sergeant Al Graeber, but through the eyes of others who were fortunate enough to know him, I can see that he, too, was a hero.

  Steve Schumaker is a very interesting man. In fact, one of the most interesting I’ve ever met. He, too, was extremely helpful and forthcoming.

  “I will be forever grateful to all of them” sounds like a cliché, but I mean every word of it.

  To Rocky: thank you for encouraging me to “go for it.”

  To Artie, Lynn, Dave and Shirley, Dick and Dari: I thank you for being “family.” And for being interested. And just for being there.

  Thank you, Linda and Tammy, for your flexibility, making it possible for me to attend William Sapp’s trial. And for your understanding and support.

  To the “smoking room” at the Springfield News-Sun: I know there must have been times you got tired of listening, but you did anyway—and understood. Thank you for helping me through the “ups and downs.”

  And to all “the other people” at the Springfield News-Sun: thank you for your enthusiasm and support.

  To Wes: thank you for keeping me informed of hearing and trial dates, etc., especially your phone call the night the jury recommendation came in.

  To my agents—Ron and Mary Lee Laitsch of Authentic Creations Literary Agency: a standing ovation . . . you’re the greatest!

  To Ann LaFarge, my editor: Three cheers! I have truly enjoyed working with you!

  And to the victims’ family members: thank you. . . .

  FOREWORD

  The events of processing the crime scene behind 17 Penn Street are just as vivid to me today as they were then—over ten years ago. All the people involved in the case worked extremely hard to bring it to a successful closure. It was the most intensive and emotional case that I worked on during my career with the Springfield Police Division.

  It began as a typical August day in Ohio—sunny, hot, and humid. I was floating in our swimming pool, seeking relief from the afternoon heat. I was enjoying my vacation and anticipating another few days home with my family.

  What transpired next would shock the community and produce the largest criminal investigation in the history of the Springfield Police Division. That lazy Sunday afternoon was suddenly shattered by a single phone call. The evening-shift supervisor abruptly canceled my vacation: “We have a mess out here.”

  My unit, Crime Scene/Evidence Collection, was needed to process the scene.

  I did not realize just how bad it would be until I arrived at the scene and saw it for myself. It was bad—real bad.

  Captain David Walters informed me that two female bodies had been found on a small area of land adjacent to a small pond. They were, possibly, those of Phree Morrow and Martha Leach, two young girls who had gone missing the day before.

  The missing girls happened to be the same age as my daughter, Heather, and I began to think, How am I going to handle this?

  As the coroner’s investigator and I waded across the pond and approached the bodies, thoughts raced through my mind about the victims, their families, and my own daughter: What were the victims doing to get themselves in this situation and how were they murdered? The anguish and grief the family members must be feeling now—and of the days to come. The safety of my own daughter and of the other children of the community.

  I put those thoughts behind me and began to process the scene—carefully, methodically, and with dignity for the victims.

  As I was photographing the scene, I thought, How can one person lure, control, and murder two girls? How did one person manage to spend so much time concealing their bodies? And yet, not be seen? How did one person dispose of all the evidence?

  It would take years of relentless investigation by the Crimes Against Persons Unit before I got my answers.

  The hardest thing I had to deal with was removing the young girls’ bodies from their positions, placing them in body bags, and carrying them through the pond to waiting officers. The vision of those girls is etched in my mind forever. What could these girls have done to be brutally murdered this way?

  No parent should have to go through this ordeal. The scene was hard on all the officers who were there—but especially those who had children.

  In all, over 450 items of evidence—and possible evidence—were collected. To this day, all the items collected are in the custody of the Springfield Police Department or the Clark County Common Pleas Court.

  Over time—through other criminal investigations and the exhaustive work of the Crimes Against Persons Unit—the perpetrators of these murders were apprehended and charged. I cannot
speak highly enough of the dedication these officers had in resolving this case and bringing those involved to justice.

  I think about the girls’ murders from time to time—and how it changed my life. As my daughter was growing up, I kept an “extra eye out” for her safety and well-being. Today she is a grown woman and a young mother and I still have contact with her on a daily basis to check on her. I am sure other parents in this community have done the same—since the incident.

  Whenever I drive by Penn Street, I have vivid memories of that day in August 1992—the scene, the girls, and all the lives that have been forever changed by the cruel actions of others.

  Sergeant Michael J. Haytas (retired),

  Springfield Police Division,

  Crime Scene/Evidence Collection Unit

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The following story is true. I have tried to do my very best to tell it exactly the way it happened. My sources include written and taped statements, interoffice communications (police), inquests, newspaper accounts, tip sheets, property receipts, diagrams and narrative (crime scene), arrest reports, and letters.

  I conducted personal interviews and was present in the courtroom for most of the arraignments, hearings, and trials.

  When there were conflicting statements or time frames, I studied them closely and chose the most logical.

  Most of the time real names are used, but at times I felt the need to use fictitious ones. There will be an asterisk beside the fictitious names the first time the name is used.

  My goal has been to write this rather complicated and very controversial story as factually as humanly possible. I also endeavored to tell it in a straightforward manner that would be clear to the reader. To meet those goals is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.

  When I read In Cold Blood at the age of nineteen, a seed was planted. Over the years I have read dozens of true-crime books and somewhere, in the back of my mind, the seed was growing. I knew that I wanted to write a book “someday.” Finally I came to believe that I could write a book—if I wanted to badly enough—and “someday” finally came.

  Carol J. Rothgeb

  Prologue

  With clothes half torn from her body, the thin, pale woman ran for her life. She ran toward the highway—toward the sounds of cars and trucks—toward the hope that someone would save her. She stumbled and ran though the brush with blood and tears mixing together, streaming down her face and neck. She ran, with her head throbbing and her heart pounding, away from the terror. Was he following her? Was he right behind her? If he caught her, he would finish what he had started. She had fought him wildly and managed to escape his deadly grip, but she was bleeding profusely and she could feel herself growing weaker by the moment. She didn’t have the strength to fight him a second time. She had to make it to the highway—or die.

  Motorists traveling east on the interstate were shocked to see the bleeding, beaten woman emerge from the brush along the side of the road and collapse. Many of them pulled over and ran to the hysterical woman. One man didn’t even bother to get out of his car. He got off at the next exit ramp, found the nearest phone, and dialed 911.

  Within minutes the grateful motorists, who were trying desperately to stop the bleeding on the woman’s face, could hear the wail of sirens in the distance. They assured her that help was on the way.

  Part 1

  The Murders

  1

  She didn’t struggle. . . . She acquiesces . . . but Phree,

  I think, fought him a little bit. . . . But I think Martha

  was just . . . she didn’t have a chance. . . . She just gave

  up. . . .

  —Captain Steve Moody1

  The bodies were almost completely hidden beneath the skids and the brush, but the boys could see patches of clothing and flesh as they circled around to the far side of the pile. After wading through the knee-deep water, and climbing ashore on the other side of the pond, they were met with the gruesome sight that would forever be burned into their memories.

  As they inched closer through the thick brush, hoping against hope that some of their friends were playing a very cruel joke, they could see the blood-soaked hair of what appeared to be the body of a young girl, facedown. Next to her, their arms almost touching, was the body of another young girl. A huge rock was completely covering her head. She was also facedown.

  They had no way of knowing that two girls about their age who lived in this neighborhood had been reported missing the night before. But the stillness—and the buzzing of the flies— whispered to the boys that this was not a hoax. It was painfully real.

  It was the last weekend of summer vacation—the last Sunday afternoon before homework and teachers and early bedtime. It was a perfect day for the two young brothers until they left a picnic at a nearby church and rode their bikes to the wooded area near the man-made pond behind the bakery, an amazingly secluded area only one short block from a busy street.

  A small sign on a nearby tree read NO FISHING, but the boys just wanted to watch the goldfish in the tiny pond. They had been there many times before and they were curious when they saw two wooden pallets at the edge of the water on the other side. There were dozens of pallets on the loading dock of the redbrick warehouse next door, but these two were definitely out of place.

  The L-shaped pond, which sits in an alcove with stone walls on both sides and a hill to the back, had been peaceful and serene earlier in the day. But then the boys discovered the terrifying secret.

  Alarmed, the boys quickly made their way back to the other side of the pond and back to the church. They searched frantically for their father, but they couldn’t find him, so the older boy—not knowing what else to do—coaxed a friend into going back to the pond with him. When they were almost there, they saw a fire truck up on the hill, past the warehouse. They left their bikes and ran up the very steep hill. By then, Keith was almost hysterical, but, with the help of his friend Jay, he managed to tell the firemen what he and his brother had seen.

  The borrowed bicycle that the missing girls had been riding the previous afternoon had been found about two blocks from the pond in a sewer tunnel nicknamed the “Lion’s Cage.” The firefighters had been called to assist the police in retrieving it.

  Springfield, Ohio, was once known as the “Rose Capital of the World.” With a population of about seventy thousand, it is located in the southwestern quarter of the state, forty-five miles west of the state capital of Columbus.

  In 1983, in the special anniversary issue of Newsweek magazine, Springfield, Ohio, was selected as the example of “the American Dream.” According to the cover: “Our anniversary issue celebrates the men and women who live the news, the unsung people who make our country. . . . It is the true story of America.”

  Springfield is probably very much like most other Midwestern towns of its size. The old mixed with the new—and the good with the bad.

  Nowhere in town is the mixture of old and new more obvious than in the center of town. The “old” consists of the post office, the courthouse, the county building, and the News-Sun building. The “new” includes city hall, the Clark County Library, the Springfield Inn, Kuss Auditorium, and the Public Safety Building, which also houses the new county jail.

  Schuler’s Bakery, “Home of the Homemade,” is located a few blocks east of the center of town on the southwest corner of East Main Street and Penn Street. Everyone in town knows where it is, because they have the best doughnuts for miles around. The bakery is one of the “old, good” places in town.

  Beside Schuler’s Bakery, “Penn Street Hill” runs uphill south from East Main Street to East High Street. It is probably the steepest hill in town. A third of the way up the hill is Section Street, running east and west behind the bakery. Strahler’s Food Warehouse is on the southwest corner of Penn Street and Section Street.

  It was behind this warehouse, at the edge of the pond, that the search for Phree Morrow and Martha Leach ended. The tragedy and the heartac
he for their families and friends, and this town, had just begun.

  At 3:27 P.M. on August 23, 1992, the chilling message went out over the police radios that two bodies had been found behind Schuler’s Bakery. Although the crime scene was actually adjacent to Strahler’s Food Warehouse, the bakery (the more familiar site) became an easy reference point.

  Soon the wail of sirens filled the beautiful Sunday afternoon as emergency and law enforcement personnel converged on the area. Within minutes of being dispatched, Lieutenant John Schrader and Detective Al Graeber, from the Crimes Against Persons Unit, arrived on the scene.

  Word spread quickly. Neighbors came. The concerned came. The curious came. And family members of the missing girls came, visibly anxious and distraught, and were kept at bay by the police officers.

  The uncaring also came. As they mingled, they drank beer and laughed, caught up in the excitement. At one point Detective Graeber even saw a young man sitting on one of the police cars. He asked him to move.

  Soon additional officers were needed at the top and the bottom of the hill. There were hundreds of people trying to find out what had happened.

  Meanwhile, two blocks away, the police officers and firemen were finally able to retrieve the bicycle. They also recovered a pair of flowered shorts, a pair of cutoff blue jeans, and a silver hair barrette from the bottom of the Lion’s Cage.