wondered where he'd gotten the girdle and bra, but she didn't ask him. She didn't want to make him angry or upset. Because it made her worry when she thought about her husband dressing up like a girl, she put it out of her mind. She had enough to worry about: money for bills, and keeping the children quiet, and trying not to irritate Jerry.
She could not have known, could never have visualized in her worst nightmares, just how bad things were going to get.
CHAPTER FOUR
As the Brudoses settled into their Center Street home in Salem in the summer of 1968, a detective worked in his offices in Salem's hundred-year-old city hall, perhaps a dozen blocks northwest of them. Though he was a twenty-year police veteran, and though fifteen years of that time had been spent in the detective unit, where he'd seen his share of violent crimes, Jim Stovall could not foresee how bad things would get either. And when it was over, he would deem the Brudos case the most shocking of his long career.
Every heinous criminal has his nemesis, his alter ego—the one detective out of dozens whose whole existence is taken up for a time with catching his quarry. Jerry Brudos—for all of his macabre fantasies—was a most intelligent man, a planner and a schemer. He would not be caught easily, and, once caught, he would be difficult to break.
If there is a working detective in America who could be the model for the brilliant investigators portrayed in fiction, it would be Jim Stovall. That he happened to be living and working in Salem, Oregon, in the black period of killings in 1968 and 1969 was one of the few bright spots in a terrible story.
In the summer of 1968, Brudos and Stovall did not know each other, although it is very possible that they passed each other on the streets of Salem, that Brudos drove past the looming old city hall, that Stovall drove past the gray house on Center Street. And, oddly but not mystically, long before he ever confronted Jerry Brudos, Stovall would draw up a psychological profile of the killer he sought that was as clear and detailed as if he were psychic.
But that was later, much later than the sunny, rose-filled days of mid-1968—because, at that time, Brudos had not yet begun to carry out the rest of his killing plans. He still waited, basking in the afterglow of the perfection of Linda Slawson's murder.
Jim Stovall and Jerry Brudos had a few things in common. They each had a wife and a son and a daughter. Both of them had been in the armed services at one time. And both of them were planners and given to attention to detail. That was all. One of them worked to save lives. The other …
Some good cops are cerebral and some work with gut feelings-—the "seat-of-the-pants" cop who knows what he knows but cannot tell you why. Stovall is that rare cop who is both, and woe to the criminal who wanders into his line of vision.
Jim Stovall is a tall, handsome man with clear gray eyes, waving iron-gray hair, and the physique of the athlete he is. He looks like a bank president, or a TV newsman, or—yes—the glorified image of a slick detective. He looks a great deal like the actor Rory Calhoun, but would be embarrassed if someone should mention it to him.
In the Second World War, Stovall served in both the U.S. Army and the U.S. Marine Corps, where he was a rifle-range coach. When the armistice was declared, it seemed a natural progression that he should sign up with the Salem Police Department.
Like most veteran cops, Stovall has lived through hairy incidents. As a rookie with less than a year on the force, he responded to the most dangerous radio squawk an officer can get: "Family fight." An enraged husband had left the family home after threatening to come back and kill his wife. Since a fair percentage of angry husbands do just that, there was a "want" on the suspect's vehicle. Stovall spotted the car, signaled it to move over to the side of the road, and approached the driver's door from the rear,
She could not have known, could never have visualized in her worst nightmares, just how bad things were going to get.
CHAPTER FOUR
As the Brudoses settled into their Center Street home in Salem in the summer of 1968, a detective worked in his offices in Salem's hundred-year-old city hall, perhaps a dozen blocks northwest of them. Though he was a twenty-year police veteran, and though fifteen years of that time had been spent in the detective unit, where he'd seen his share of violent crimes, Jim Stovall could not foresee how bad things would get either. And when it was over, he would deem the Brudos case the most shocking of his long career.
Every heinous criminal has his nemesis, his alter ego—the one detective out of dozens whose whole existence is taken up for a time with catching his quarry. Jerry Brudos—for all of his macabre fantasies—was a most intelligent man, a planner and a schemer. He would not be caught easily, and, once caught, he would be difficult to break.
If there is a working detective in America who could be the model for the brilliant investigators portrayed in fiction, it would be Jim Stovall. That he happened to be living and working in Salem, Oregon, in the black period of killings in 1968 and 1969 was one of the few bright spots in a terrible story.
In the summer of 1968, Brudos and Stovall did not know each other, although it is very possible that they passed each other on the streets of Salem, that Brudos drove past the looming old city hall, that Stovall drove past the gray house on Center Street. And, oddly but not mystically, long before he ever confronted Jerry Brudos, Stovall would draw up a psychological profile of the killer he sought that was as clear and detailed as if he were psychic.
But that was later, much later than the sunny, rose-filled days of mid-1968—because, at that time, Brudos had not yet begun to carry out the rest of his killing plans. He still waited, basking in the afterglow of the perfection of Linda Slawson's murder.
Jim Stovall and Jerry Brudos had a few things in common. They each had a wife and a son and a daughter. Both of them had been in the armed services at one time. And both of them were planners and given to attention to detail. That was all. One of them worked to save lives. The other …
Some good cops are cerebral and some work with gut feelings-—the "seat-of-the-pants" cop who knows what he knows but cannot tell you why. Stovall is that rare cop who is both, and woe to the criminal who wanders into his line of vision.
Jim Stovall is a tall, handsome man with clear gray eyes, waving iron-gray hair, and the physique of the athlete he is. He looks like a bank president, or a TV newsman, or—yes—the glorified image of a slick detective. He looks a great deal like the actor Rory Calhoun, but would be embarrassed if someone should mention it to him.
In the Second World War, Stovall served in both the U.S. Army and the U.S. Marine Corps, where he was a rifle-range coach. When the armistice was declared, it seemed a natural progression that he should sign up with the Salem Police Department.
Like most veteran cops, Stovall has lived through hairy incidents. As a rookie with less than a year on the force, he responded to the most dangerous radio squawk an officer can get: "Family fight." An enraged husband had left the family home after threatening to come back and kill his wife. Since a fair percentage of angry husbands do just that, there was a "want" on the suspect's vehicle. Stovall spotted the car, signaled it to move over to the side of the road, and approached the driver's door from the rear,
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