Blood Lust: Portrait of a Serial Sex Killer Page 6

  Another witness, Kurt Thielke, had provided a similar description of the suspect, but added that he had a square build. Thielke had told Tutmark that the suspect was not fat or muscular. He said he didn't think the suspect had any facial hair. He remembered him as being clean-shaven.

  As Tutmark was concluding his sketchy briefing, Strovink found them and interrupted. A team of patrol deputies, he said, had run the suspect vehicle's license number through the Department of Motor Vehicles computer and had come up with a name and address. The vehicle registered to license CYW 194 was a 1985 Nissan pickup, just like the witnesses had said, and the registered owner's name was Dayton Leroy Rogers, date of birth September 30, 1953. Motor Vehicles, said Strovink, had provided an address of 10518 S. Heinz Road in Canby, a small town south of Portland. To get there from the crime scene, Turner knew, all one had to do was head due south on McLoughlin Boulevard, also known as Highway 99E, the direction the suspect's vehicle was last seen heading.

  Turner welcomed the development, especially so soon in the investigation. The lead was a luxury, he knew, the type of clue that often only comes as a result of many interviews and tedious hours, if at all. He only hoped that Richard Bergio had written the number down correctly. Bergio had been adamant that he had, said Strovink, who brought Bergio over to talk with Turner. Bergio insisted to Turner that he had followed the suspect's truck until he was certain that he had the complete plate number.

  "As soon as he passed me, I jumped into my truck," said Bergio. "I backed out and proceeded up to McLoughlin Boulevard." He had even pulled off the road, he added, and wrote the number down while it was still fresh in his memory.

  Even if the number was correct, Turner decided, there was still a lot of legwork to be done. Turner knew from prior experience that it was going to be a long, long day.

  While Turner and Strovink remained at the crime scene, Lieutenant Detloff sent Deputy Mike Helmstadt and Reserve Deputy Ed Schroeder to the Canby address. Their instructions were to take no action at that time, but to only determine whether or not the suspect's blue Nissan pickup was parked there and report back. When they arrived at 10518 South Heinz Road, a darkened mobile home, they noted that the vehicle they sought was not there, or at least it wasn't parked where they could see it. Not wanting to unduly disturb anyone prematurely or make their presence known to the suspect if he was hiding somewhere in the vicinity, the deputies pulled into the driveway as quietly as possible, their lights off.

  Suddenly, and without warning, Helmstadt and Schroeder heard shots fired, apparently from a location across the road. Both took cover behind their car, and they listened and watched as additional shots were fired. Keeping as low as possible, Helmstadt reached inside his car and broadcast that it appeared they were being shot at and asked for backup. Moments later everything was quiet, and they could see that lights had come on inside the mobile home.

  Soon a woman came to the door and called out to them. She identified herself as Sherry Rogers and, apologetically, explained that there had been a misunderstanding. Seeing that the deputies had their own weapons drawn, she tried to assure them that they weren't being shot at. She said that the shots they had heard had only been fired into the air by her father, Roy Miller, who lived just down the road, on the other side. He had seen the deputies' cars in the driveway area, she said, but in the darkness had not been able to tell that they were sheriff's office vehicles. He had mistaken the deputies for prowlers, she said, and called her on the telephone to tell her about it. But when she peeked out of a window, she recognized the cars as patrol vehicles and cautioned her father not to fire any more shots.

  Visibly shaken but grateful that the shots had only been fired into the air, Helmstadt and Schroeder reholstered their own weapons. At least they hadn't been shot at, and that seemed to serve as a consolation of sorts. But due to the nature of their visit, they weren't going to take any chances. They obtained Roy Miller's telephone number from his daughter and, using their radios, were patched through by their dispatcher. As they talked with Mr. Miller and realized that he seemed sincere and was apologetic about what he'd done, the traumatized deputies began to calm down a bit. Someone else, however, would have to take over for them to keep objectivity in the investigation and to allow them time to recover their nerves.

  A short time later Deputies Larry Beckwith and Kevin Layng, assigned to the patrol division's south county area, were detailed to assist at the suspect's address in Canby. They arrived at the mobile home at 4:56 A.M. and relieved Helmstadt and Schroeder, who were still unnerved over what they felt had been a potentially life-threatening situation. With everything now calm and apparently safe, Beckwith and Layng determined that the light-blue pickup was not on the premises, nor was it at the relative's home on the other side of the road.

  After checking in with their dispatcher, Beckwith and Layng approached the mobile home and knocked on the front door. Mrs. Rogers, still sleepy and bleary-eyed, eventually came to the door again, her youthful and attractive face reflecting a look of helplessness and wonderment at why more deputies from the sheriff's department had come to her home at such an ungodly hour of the morning. She knew that something very serious must have happened, but she didn't know what. Following depart mental procedure, Beckwith and Layng weren't going to provide her many clues. Looking at them quizzically, she apologized again for her father's actions and repeated her explanation about why he had fired off his gun. When Beckwith told her that they weren't there about her father but were instead looking for a 1985 Nissan pickup registered at her address, she haltingly invited the deputies inside.

  "I'm the co-owner of the truck," she said, obviously frightened. "I'm on the registration with my husband, Dayton."

  In response to Beckwith's questions, Mrs. Rogers said that Dayton had worked all day and that the pickup was at his place of business in nearby Woodburn. She knew this, she said, because she had called her husband there after her father had called her when he saw the cars in the driveway. The business was known as Small Engine Repair Unlimited, located at 11635 Pacific Court N.E. She told the lawmen that Dayton had come home at about 8:30 P.M. to eat dinner. Half an hour or so later, he left after saying that he was going back to the shop to catch up on some work. She said that Dayton often worked late hours.

  "Was he driving the blue Nissan pickup when he left?" asked Layng.

  "Yes."

  "How was he dressed?"

  "He was wearing blue jeans. What's this all about, anyway?" She was worried and wanted to know why the sheriff's department was so interested in hers and Dayton's truck.

  Beckwith and Layng looked at each other briefly without answering her question, and they left the residence momentarily so they could confer with each other privately and relay their information to Lieutenant Detloff. When they returned, Mrs. Rogers told them that she had just called her husband again while the deputies were outside. She said that Dayton, however, wasn't worried about the police because he didn't have anything to hide.

  While Beckwith and Layng wrote down the information, the telephone rang. As Mrs. Rogers spoke, the deputies discerned that she was talking with her husband again. After a few moments, she indicated to Beckwith that Dayton wanted to talk to him. Beckwith took the phone.

  Why was the sheriff's office interested in his pickup? Dayton wanted to know. Beckwith politely offered that the vehicle in question had been described as leaving the scene of a very serious incident, and that his department had been assigned to check it out to determine if Dayton's pickup was in fact the same one. Beckwith said that a witness had provided the sheriff's department with a license plate number of a vehicle involved in the incident, and they subsequently learned that the number was registered to Dayton's pickup.

  Dayton promptly stated that he had been at his shop all night, but added that he would be happy to help the police in any way that he could. While they were on the telephone, Beckwith felt that it was significant that Dayton did not express any curiosity regar
ding the nature of the serious incident. Likewise, he never expressed much resistance to the fact that detectives believed that he and/or his pickup had been involved. Beckwith informed Dayton that investigators would be on their way to Woodburn to talk to him soon and that he could then ask them more questions.

  Upon learning that Beckwith and Layng had determined the location of their suspect, Turner and Lieutenant Detloff promptly left the Denny's crime scene in the capable hands of criminologist Deputy John Gilliland and headed for the municipality of Woodburn.

  Chapter 3

  It was 5:35 A.M. when Detective Turner and Lieutenant Detloff arrived at 11635 Pacific Court N.E. in Woodburn, in neighboring Marion County. The lights were on inside the single-story building, a shop-type structure that was light brown, almost beige in color, situated on the northwest corner of the intersection of Pacific Court and Highway 99E. Displayed on the east wall of the building was a sign that read, SMALL ENGINE REPAIR UNLIMITED. A light blue Nissan pickup, bearing Oregon license plate CYW 194, was parked directly in front of the business.

  Turner walked to the front of the Nissan. He placed his hand in front of the grill and felt heat emanating from the radiator. As they approached the front door, Turner quietly pointed to a droplet of blood on the sidewalk near the building's entrance. Detloff made a note to construct an A-frame over it from a sheet of his yellow legal pad as soon as opportunity allowed, to serve as a protective covering until the blood could be properly collected.

  There were two sliding, garage-type overhead doors on either side of the entry door, and Turner peered through the glass of one of them. He saw a single occupant inside, approximately five feet nine inches tall, brown collar-length hair, wearing blue coveralls. Turner made a mental note of the blue coveralls. The man was standing in front of a vise attached to a workbench, apparently tightening the vise down onto a bolt. He was dressed differently from the suspect described by witnesses at the crime scene. But he would have had plenty of time to change his clothing between the time he fled the crime scene and the time the detectives arrived at his shop, decided Turner. Turner knocked on the front door.

  "Who is it?" came the voice from inside.

  "Sheriff's office."

  "Come on in."

  Turner tried the doorknob, but it was locked from the inside.

  "Is it locked?"

  "Yes, it is," responded Turner dryly.

  "Just a minute."

  Turner moved to one of the overhead doors and watched the lone occupant walk toward the front door. When the man opened it, Turner showed him his photo identification.

  "Are you Dayton Rogers?"

  "Yes." The slightly built man invited the two detectives inside. Turner noted that Dayton, aside from the blue coveralls he was wearing, basically fit the description of the suspect seen fleeing the crime scene. He also immediately detected an odor of alcohol on Dayton's breath and saw that his eyes were bloodshot. As they followed the suspect, Turner and Detloff carefully observed the building's layout. They also looked for obvious clues, such as additional droplets of blood or bloodstained clothes.

  The interior consisted of a vast room with workbenches to the left, several storage bins to the right, and a reception counter directly in front of the entrance door. In a large area directly behind the counter there were lawn mowers, chain saws, mechanical weed cutters, Rototillers, and various other types of electrical and gas-operated machinery lined up in a long row side by side in varying states of disrepair. A wood stove sat in front of the counter, apparently used for heating the building during the winter months.

  In the work area to the rear, tools hung on the wall in a very sequential order. The workbenches were clear of all tools that weren't being used or worked on. For a repair shop, it struck Turner as somewhat unusual that the building was so clean—immaculate, in fact— and that it was so very well maintained.

  Turner observed two doors along the north wall. As he followed Dayton, he noticed that one of the doors led into an area which appeared to be the business office. It, too, seemed very orderly, everything in its place. The other room, next to the business office, was equipped with a countertop and a sink, and on the countertop was a Mr. Coffee machine, which was just beginning the brewing cycle. As Turner followed Dayton to the center of the area behind the front counter, he observed while standing amid all the machinery that Dayton's right hand had several bandages on it.

  When he turned to face the detectives, Turner informed Dayton that they were there because his pickup had been described as leaving the scene of a "very serious incident." Rather than go into detail, Turner left it at that, purposely withholding information known only to the perpetrator and the police. Instead, he unobtrusively focused his attention on every movement, every action and reaction of his suspect to see if he would inadvertently give anything away.

  "I've been here all night working," said Dayton calmly. He was almost too composed, reckoned Turner. It seemed unusual, just as it had with Deputy Beckwith, that Dayton didn't press him for details about the crime he was investigating.

  "Have you loaned your truck to anyone tonight?"

  "No. The truck has been right here all night, too."

  Turner stood approximately two to three feet from Dayton and again recognized the strong odor of alcohol that came from Dayton's breath. When he mentioned it and asked Dayton to account for his whereabouts the previous several hours, Dayton coolly explained that he had been at his shop all night drinking bourbon and strawberry mixer. Turner noted that Dayton's pupils were dilated, but his speech was not slurred and he spoke and walked without difficulty. Turner concluded to himself that Dayton had been drinking but was clearly not drunk.

  "Mind if I check your truck?" asked Turner.

  "No, go ahead."

  Turner went outside and opened the hood of the pickup. He placed his right hand on top of the engine's valve cover, but quickly took it away. It was still hot, too hot to touch. Dayton, or at least somebody, had recently run the engine hard, decided Turner. Very hard. The detective went back inside the shop.

  "Been here all night, huh? Haven't gone out all night, have you? So why is the engine so hot?"

  "I forgot. I let it run for a while."

  "Why did you let it run for a while?"

  Dayton said that he had gone to a nearby Safeway store earlier that morning to get a cup of coffee. Turner, however, quickly pointed out the pot of coffee that was brewing inside his shop.

  Realizing his mistake, Rogers instantly retracted and explained that he really hadn't gone to the Safeway store to get coffee, but had only started to go. As he was getting ready to leave, he had heard the telephone ring. Since he had already started the truck, he let the engine run while he went back inside to answer the phone. The phone call, he said, had been from his wife, informing him that investigators from the sheriff's office were on their way to talk to him. He seemed to have an answer for everything.

  "How long did you let the engine run?"

  "Just a few minutes."

  "The valve cover was still hot, not just warm," responded Turner. "Your story just doesn't make sense."

  "What do you want?" Dayton angrily rebutted. "I haven't left here all night."

  "Mr. Rogers," said Turner deliberately, "the incident that we're investigating is a murder, and we believe that it was your vehicle seen leaving the scene of this murder." Turner was trying to rattle him now, shake his story loose. But Dayton remained steadfast.

  "I haven't been anywhere. I've been here all night." Dayton saw Turner eyeing his right hand. Okay, reasoned Turner, they could play it Dayton's way, for the time being.

  "What happened to your hand?" asked the detective. "Cut yourself ?"

  "I cut it with a hacksaw," he stated matter-of-factly.

  "Are you right-handed or left-handed?"

  "Left-handed."

  "Where were you when you cut it?"

  Dayton pointed to a hacksaw lying on a toolbox next to the workbench where he
had originally been standing when Turner first saw him while looking through the glass portion of the overhead door. Turner seized the hacksaw, but detected no blood anywhere on it.

  "Mind if I take the hacksaw into custody? I'll give you a receipt for it."

  "No, I don't care."

  Turner changed the subject by asking Dayton where he had been drinking. Dayton replied that he had bought some wine at a nearby Safeway supermarket and mixed it together to make a concoction, the name of which he couldn't recall. He said he purchased the wine around 11 P.M. and drank it at his shop.

  Hadn't he said earlier that he had been mixing bourbon with strawberry mixer? Now he was talking about drinking wine. Turner continued to make mental notes of the inconsistencies in Dayton's statements. He must have been getting tired, his mind fatigued from all his activities of the past few hours. Turner pressed on with his probing, aware that it was harder for a suspect to keep his story straight when tired and under tremendous pressure of continued questioning.

  "Where did you put all the empty bottles?" asked Turner.

  "I bought miniatures at the liquor store," he replied, trying to avoid the question. Another inconsistency. Miniature bottles of wine? Or miniature bottles of liquor? As far as Turner knew, the only miniature bottles containing alcoholic beverages sold at state-run liquor outlets were the one-shot hard liquor types, like those served on airlines. He decided not to press that issue just yet. Besides, regulated by state law, liquor stores close at 7 P.M. in Oregon and were not open at 11 P.M. That was inconsistent enough for him. It was clear that Dayton was lying.

  Turner remained silent. Dayton, however, continued to talk, saying that he liked to drink but that his wife didn't approve of it. On the evenings he chose to drink, he said, he did so at his shop.

  "Where are the bottles, Dayton?" Turner abruptly asked again. Dayton didn't respond, however. He only stared at the detective.