It was, of course, Ted Bundy. It was Sunday night, June 4,th 1972. I remember the date because I had just been to my first rock concert. I was fourteen, and my two best friends and I saw The Rolling Stones at the Seattle Coliseum. My mom thought it was dangerous for us to wait for the bus at night, so after the concert, she drove down the hill to pick us up, and brought us back to The Crisis Clinic where we would be safe with her and Ted.
While I was struck by the coldness of the lady hit man’s stare, I was baffled by Ted’s refusal to meet my gaze. Ted got up to greet us, and I remember standing there with my friends as my mom introduced us. Someone mentioned that Stevie Wonder had opened for the Stones, and Ted asked, “Do they still call him Little Stevie Wonder?” He smiled, but he ducked his head and looked down.
I was immediately aware that something was amiss, but I didn’t know what. I wasn’t afraid. I just thought it was odd that he would not look at me. My friends and I had the typical hairstyle of the day, long hair, parted in the middle. We usually turned heads, and this was the first time I’d met a young man who avoided looking at me.
Ted and my mom went back to their alcove to wait for the phones to ring, and my friends and I played Chinese checkers and drank Dr. Pepper. My friends spent the next hour giggling and gushing about how “cute” Ted was. I sat there quietly, wondering what I was missing. I didn’t find him attractive and I couldn’t figure out what they saw in him. I remember thinking that maybe there was something wrong with me because I thought he was “icky.”
When I think back to that time and the dark story that unfolded over the next several years, I remember the intensity. I watched each of my parents deal with death. My mother was drawn into one of the most tragic and shocking cases Seattle had ever seen. My father was a victim himself. The cancer raged within him about the same time that Ted Bundy’s first known victims vanished.
A high school English teacher, and aspiring novelist, my dad was overcome by a brain tumor in the spring of 1974. He had surgery and the prognosis was optimistic, though he was paralyzed on one side of his body. He was only 41, and he was determined to recover. A longtime distance swimmer, he was soon swimming laps again. He remarried in April of 1974.
The next year felt surreal. I was worried about my father, and my mother was worried about me. As more girls disappeared, a mass hysteria followed. Parents seemed overly concerned about their daughters, and I was thoroughly annoyed when my mother tried to curb my walking. I walked miles each day, and I liked my freedom. She suspiciously eyed my long haired male friends and wondered about each person I met.
I had briefly encountered one of the soon to be missing girls when she was hanging out with friends of mine near the Des Moines Marina. When that girl vanished and her photo appeared in the newspaper, beside those of the other victims, her friends did not believe that anything bad could have happened to her. One of them told me, “I think she just took off. She’s probably off somewhere, laughing at everyone.”
She was a free spirit, and that didn’t seem out of the realm of possibilities. I’ll never forget the dread in my friend’s voice as she added, “But what if she didn’t run off? What if she is lying dead somewhere?” We didn’t know it yet, but she was dead, a victim of Ted Bundy.
Detectives toyed with the idea that a cult was behind the abductions—that maybe they were “sacrificing maidens.” Around the time my mother signed a contract to write a book about the abductions, that theory prevailed. My mom was horrified at the tragedy but excited about her first book. We didn’t know if she would ever see it in print, as the publisher had stipulated that it would not be published unless the case was solved. There was no guarantee that it would be.
The public was afraid, but the tragedy also brought dark humor. After the news came out that witnesses had overheard the suspect introduce himself as Ted, young men liked to joke that they were “Ted.” This made girls squeal and squirm and burst into giggles.
But no one thought that the killer was actually named Ted. The consensus was that a man intent on murder would not give his real name within earshot of dozens of people. “Ted” was simply a pseudonym.
I remember my mother’s worried frown as she scrutinized the Sunday newspaper. She walked into the room, holding the paper open in front of her, unable to tear her eyes from it. The week before, two girls had been snatched from Lake Sammamish State Park, and now, The Seattle Times featured a huge article, complete with the composite drawing of the suspect. The caption was in big black letters. Ted.
My mother’s voice was strained as she said, “This looks like my friend Ted.”
My siblings scoffed. One of them said, “You’re crazy!”
It was crazy.
What were the odds that she would know the killer in the unsolved murders she was writing about?
Still, I watched her face and saw her shock. It troubled her.
It was difficult to comprehend the events that followed. My mom’s suspicions about Ted, her embarrassed call to her detective friend, and, finally, her stark realization that her friend was indeed a killer, played out as my dad got sicker.
The cancer spread to my father’s lungs. He was treated and seemed to be recovering, but then it spread to his liver. He died on December 5,th 1975.
The world felt very cold and very black that winter. I was worried about my mom and her association with Ted Bundy. I didn’t like it when she met him for lunch. A few weeks after my father died, Ted phoned the house when my mother was not home. My sister answered, heard Ted’s voice, clapped a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and in a terrified whisper, told us, “It’s Ted! It’s Ted!”
My little brother’s mouth fell open and he turned pale as he backed up against the wall. He had heard, “It’s Dad! It’s Dad!” and thought my father was calling from the grave.
In retrospect, that would have been less frightening than the reality.
Though I’ve always written, I’ve never wanted to be a true crime writer. Still, my closeness with my mom has often immersed me in her work. I’ve traveled with her when she is researching, and I’ve met many families of victims. About twenty years ago, I collaborated on an article with Eleanore Rose, the mother of Denise Naslund.
Eleanore had called my mom to ask her to write something more about Denise. My mom had a book deadline, so she suggested me. At the time I was writing weekly articles for Woman’s World magazine. My editors assigned the article as a “My Story” by Eleanore Rose as told to Leslie Rule. It was called, “Ted Bundy Ruined My Life.”
I lived in the Portland, Oregon, area at the time, so I took the train to Seattle to meet Eleanore. I spent the morning at the courthouse, taking notes for my mom’s book, A Rose for her Grave, at the Randy Roth trial. Afterward, I took photos of him in the corridor. He was handcuffed and flanked by two officers as they led him down the hall, and he glared at me as I snapped pictures. Coincidentally, he was on trial for drowning his wife at Lake Sammamish State Park—the very place where Denise was abducted.
I spent the afternoon with Eleanore Rose, and she told me that Denise had not even wanted to go to Lake Sammamish State Park the day she disappeared. Eleanore had told her, “Don’t go if you don’t feel like it.”
I don’t know if Denise had a premonition or if she was not in the mood for a day at the park. It didn’t matter. She went, and it ended tragically.
I felt for Eleanore. She was frail and sad and dressed in black, as she always was. She showed me Denise’s room. Denise’s clothes still hung in the closet, and her car was parked outside the house.
Denise had been gone for nearly two decades. Eleanore was still in mourning but she had found inspiration in her grief. She had campaigned to bring back the death penalty in Washington State. She told me of going door to door with her story, and that she knew she was a pathetic figure as she gathered signatures. She rapped on doors and she was not turned away. “They felt sorry for me,” she confided.
Her efforts helped to reinstate the d
eath penalty in 1981.
While Eleanore grieved until she died, she took some comfort in the fact that Denise’s remains were found. In a devastating twist, what was left of Denise was accidentally destroyed before Eleanore could bury her.
It was horrible. But, at least, Eleanore knew her daughter no longer suffered. Not all families have that small comfort.
Ted Bundy went to his grave with selfish secrets. He refused to reveal the names of all of his victims. He refused to tell families where they could find their lost loved ones. He refused to give them one shred of peace.
As Ann mentioned in The Stranger Beside Me, Ted had told Bob Keppel there were three Washington victims that the detective was unaware of, and she initially deduced they were Lonnie Trumbull, Anne Marie Burr, and Katherine Devine. Katherine Devine, however, has since been ruled out. If Ted was telling the truth, that means there is one other Washington victim Bob Keppel did not know of.
Who is she?
She may be Laurie Partridge.
On December 4, 1974, 17-year-old Laurie Lynn Partridge vanished while walking home from school in Spokane, Washington. Petite at just five feet tall and 110 pounds, the lovely, blue-eyed blonde was the oldest of six children. She was engaged and excited about plans with her fiancée to pick out rings the next day.
Laurie was a devout Christian who played the guitar, was the advertising editor of her school newspaper and was a member of the drill team. She dreamed of having many children, and was adored by her younger siblings.
Laurie left Joel E. Ferris High School in the middle of the day. She had bad cramps, and when her parents were unable to pick her up, she set out to walk the two plus miles home. Witnesses saw her enroute, but she did not make it home. No one was alarmed until she did not show up at her job that evening at the Lincoln Heights Theater.
Nearly forty years later, there has been no sign of Laurie, and there are few clues to the tragic mystery. On the day Laurie vanished, a young girl on horseback saw someone who resembled Laurie. The sighting was during the right time frame and took place on a rural road on the route to the Partridge home. The witness saw a blond teen, standing with a man beside a white truck.
No one can say for certain if the witness did indeed see Laurie. But there is no question that someone had access to Laurie’s purse, which she carried the day she disappeared. It was a brown leather purse with a blue flower design and a braided shoulder strap. Inside were two general seating tickets to a Beachboys’ concert at the Spokane Coliseum for December 9, 1974. While the purse was never found, the tickets were used.
Laurie’s frantic parents had asked to have screeners stationed at the Coliseum entryways, watching for the numbered tickets. Law enforcement officials balked. They had not excluded the possibility that Laurie had run away. The task requested would take too much manpower, they said. But they did assign officers to attend to see if Laurie showed up. She did not.
Though the tickets were used, no one knows who used them.
While Spokane detectives did not consider Laurie Partridge to be a viable Bundy victim, the timing of her abduction, her location, and the circumstances of her disappearances, cause her family to question why. “We were told he was ruled out because of gasoline receipts, but I’ve never seen the documentation,” said Laurie’s sister, Kimberly Carroll. In fact, the only documentation Kimberly has seen, gave the prolific killer time to drive from Salt Lake City to Spokane, abduct Laurie, and drive back home, with hours to spare.
An FBI file that Kimberly accessed includes a timeline for Ted Bundy’s activities. It indicates that he bought gas in Salt Lake City on December 2nd, 1974, and that a phone call was made from his apartment in Salt Lake City at 2:24 p.m on December 5th. The hours in between appear to be unaccounted for. “If there is more documentation,” I’d like to see it,” Kimberly said, stressing that Bundy is not the only suspect in her sister’s disappearance. Kimberly was just ten years old the day her sister vanished, and though nearly four decades have passed, the pain has not faded.
Kimberly and her family are hoping that someone will come forward with information about Laurie’s disappearance. They would like to know who used Laurie’s concert tickets. Whoever used the tickets may have a vital clue.
It is possible that Laurie either dropped her purse when she was taken, or that the abductor tossed her purse out of a car window. Someone may have found it on the side of the road, with the tickets inside. The family holds no ill will toward the users of the tickets. “We just want answers,” said Kimberly Carroll.
The detectives who handled Laurie’s disappearance have since retired. But detectives at the Spokane County Sherriff’s office regularly review the cold case and are eager to see it solved.
Laurie Partridge was last seen at 37th and Havana Streets on Spokane’s South Hill on December 4, 1974. The 17-year-old blue-eyed blonde was five feet tall and 110 pounds. She had a large, brown mole on her right cheek. She was wearing a tan v-neck sweater, plaid pants in burgundy and tan, and a long, navy blue coat with a hood. Her shoes were blue oxford denim with a crepe sole. Her brown leather purse had a braided shoulder strap and a blue flower design.
Laurie’s purse and its contents have never been found, despite false information posted on the web. If you have information about Laurie’s disappearance please call one of the following.
(You may remain anonymous)
Spokane Crime Check (509) 456-2233
National Center for Missing and Exploited Children (800) 843-5678
The Tip Line (509) 242-TIPS
Laurie Lynn Partridge in 1974
For more information on Laurie Lynn Partridge visit her Facebook page: www.Facebook.com/LaurieMissing1974
The following websites include case files on missing and unidentified people. Be advised that some may find images on these websites disturbing, but they have been instrumental in indentifying the lost and, in some cases, bringing killers to justice. Law enforcement officials are strongly encouraged to submit information on unidentified remains to both The Doe Network and NamUs.
www.NamUs.gov/
www.doenetwork.org/
MORE…
Ann Rule and her daughter, author Leslie Rule. (Photo by Glenn Scott)
Ann Rule Bio
Ann Rule is regarded by many as the foremost true crime writer in America, and the author responsible for the genre as it exists today. She came to her career with a solid background in law enforcement and the criminal justice system. Both her grandfather and her uncle were Michigan sheriffs, her cousin was a Prosecuting Attorney, and another uncle was the Medical Examiner.
She is a former Seattle Policewoman, former caseworker for the Washington State Department of Public Assistance, and a former student intern at the Oregon State Training School for Girls.
Ann has been a full-time true crime writer since 1969. Over the past 30 years, she has published 33 books and 1400 articles, mostly on criminal cases. Ann has a BA from the University of Washington in Creative Writing, with minors in Psychology, Criminology and Penology. She has completed courses in Crime Scene Investigation, Police Administration, Crime Scene Photography and Arrest, Search, and Seizure, earning her an Associates Degree from Highline Community College. She also has a Master’s Degree in Compassionate Letters from Willamette University.
Ann has attended every seminar that police organizations invite her to, including those on organized crime, arson, bomb search, and DNA. She has 30 hours credit at the University of Washington Medical School earned by attending the National Medical Examiners’ Conference. She also attended the King County Police Basic Homicide School. Today, she teaches seminars to many law enforcement groups. She is a certified instructor in many states on subjects such as: Serial Murder, Sadistic Sociopaths, Women Who Kill, and High Profile Offenders. She was on the U.S. Justice Department Task Force that set up the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program (VI-CAP), now in place at FBI Headquarters in Quantico, Virginia. VI-CAP is a computer tracking system to help
identify and trap serial killers. She has testified twice before Senate Judiciary Sub-committees on victims’ rights and on the danger of serial killers.
When Ann spent her summer vacations with her grandparents in Stanton, Michigan, she helped her grandmother prepare meals for the prisoners in the jail. She used to wonder why such friendly, normal appearing, men were locked behind bars, and why the sweet woman in the cell upstairs (who taught Ann to crochet) was about to go on trial for murder. That was the beginning of her lifelong curiosity about the “Whys” behind criminal behavior. Her books all explore the reasons behind the front-page cases she covers.
Ann’s books deal with three areas: the victims’ stories; the detectives and prosecutors and how they solve their cases with old fashioned police work and modern forensic science; and the killers’ lives. She tries to go back to the killers’ early childhood, and even back into their family histories to find some of the genesis of their behavior. She spends many months researching her books, beginning with the trial and with many subsequent visits to the locale where the crimes occurred. Once she has finished her research, she returns to her office to write her books.
Eight of Ann’s books have been made into TV movies, and five more are in the works. She won the coveted Peabody Award for the miniseries based on her book, Small Sacrifices, and has two Anthony Awards from Bouchercon, the mystery fans’ organization. She has been nominated three times for Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America. She was also awarded the Washington State Governor’s Award. Ann is active in support groups for victims of violent crimes and their families, in programs to help battered and abused women, and support groups for children caught in traumatic living situations.
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