None of their arguments did any good; bail was set at $1 million.
Bob Durall refused to discuss where his wife might be, claiming that he did not know. Her family and the more than a hundred people who had looked for her or her car kept up their search, determined that they would find Carolyn. If she was dead, she deserved to have a funeral or a memorial service and a decent burial. If she was miraculously alive somewhere, she needed to be found.
Bob Durall, the complete expert on computers, should have known that nothing is ever truly deleted from a hard drive. The bytes laid down might not surface in the same pattern that they had been typed in, but they are there, someplace. Perhaps he was confident that no one would have reason to check his computer.
He may not have been aware of it, but his supervisors had noticed that he spent an inordinate amount of time on his computer. Indeed, he had come close to being fired after people walked in on him and noticed that he wasn’t doing agency business on it.
Durall’s coworkers were not close to him, and most of their contact outside the office had been to play on company sports teams or to attend events he had at his house. He was involved in a multilevel marketing firm whose participants moved up the ladder by recruiting new members and also a long-distance phone plan that worked much the same way. For those who worked under him at the King County Housing Authority, it was a kind of command performance to show up for his demonstrations. Sometimes at the beginning of the football season, he would host a party for the guys to select players for their fantasy football teams. Hardly big-time gambling, it was more for fun; they bet small amounts on the players and teams they chose and settled up at the end of the season.
Female employees of the King County Housing Authority had often complained that they felt uncomfortable around Bob Durall. They found him too flirtatious. It wasn’t that he touched them inappropriately, but his manner didn’t mesh with what a husband and father, a church deacon and elder, and a Sunday school teacher should be. All in all, both female and male employees found him a bit of an odd duck.
None of the men were beer-drinking buddies or confidants of Durall’s, but they did feel sorry for him when they learned of the sudden disappearance of his wife. In the weeks after Carolyn vanished, it was understandable that Bob hadn’t been at work much. He called occasionally to question other employees about whether the police had shown up at his office. When she had been gone a week, he called employees into his office and asked them what they had heard from Carolyn’s firm about the situation.
He seemed to be concerned that the police were tracking him, but he had little to say about Carolyn when his coworkers asked if she had been found yet. He usually frowned and said no, curtly. He explained that he had hurt his arm lifting his daughter into a swing and was having surgery on the torn biceps the next day, Friday. But he called again on that day, and it was obvious he hadn’t had the surgery yet. He told police he injured himself lifting his son.
Bob Durall asked one man with whom he’d worked for several years what “bear tracks looked like.” That came out of the blue. He hurried on to explain that he was an avid hunter and fisherman and had been to Tiger Mountain. It wasn’t clear whether he was afraid that he might run into a man-eating bear or was just making conversation.
Durall didn’t have the surgery to reattach his torn biceps on Friday, August 28. Instead, he was arrested and charged with second-degree murder. Now his coworkers were shocked.
Upper management at the Housing Authority asked a few of their sharpest computer experts to see if Bob Durall had left anything on his computer that might reveal his nonoffice activities over the past several months. The experts agreed to do that but didn’t expect to find anything.
“He knew computers,” one man said. “He knew that stuff remained on the hard drive even after it had been deleted. But he also would have known that all he had to do would be to put a new hard drive into his computer. It was a matter of loosening two or three screws. Switching hard drives would give him a clean slate, and anything he didn’t want people to see would be gone when he junked the old hard drive.”
Computer forensic investigations are a sign of the times; even a dozen years ago, it’s unlikely that computer files were considered a fertile Source to see what is truly going on in someone’s life. Today, most of the civilized world understands how to send and receive email and how to use search engines to learn more about any number of things. After a visit to Google or Ask Jeeves, scores of Sources flash across screens. It seems miraculous to anyone who remembers when keyboards were found only on standard typewriters.
In September 1998, one of the prime search engines was www.altavista.com. Bob Durall’s coworkers used it to see if there was anything in his computer that might either help him or help the police investigators. Perhaps they might even find something that would lead them to Carolyn Durall.
The process is too complicated for me to explain or for most readers to follow. The information bubbled up in odd files and stray strings of text, and what surfaced was disconcerting to say the least.
Beginning on May 4, 1998, and continuing until June 23—more than seven weeks before Carolyn vanished—her husband appeared to have been looking for ways to kill her.
The Housing Authority pros found a search string that read “query?pg=q&stq=8o&what=web&kl
=XXX&q=murder!”
As they clicked more links, they saw that most of Bob Durall’s searches specified websites that had information on “kill + spouse.” Then he narrowed the scope. He had gone to the internet for information on “smother,” “homicide,” “poisons,” “accidental deaths,” and just plain “murder.”
It was a stunning discovery and hard for them to fathom. But Durall had clearly been studying various methods of homicide for months, and he had put the word “spouse” in the search slots. That left little doubt who the intended victim of a cleverly planned homicide was.
And now Bob Durall’s wife was missing, his bedroom and hallways were full of blood, and he had been arrested for murder.
They looked for more clusters that were not work-related, wondering if their longtime boss had a secret life that involved more than they had located so far.
He had visited sites about Monica Lewinsky, prostitution, Venusians, photo sites with titles like “skin,” and, surprisingly, a popular website that was the most up-to-date version of a lonely hearts column or dating service: Match.com.
Match.com is a perfectly legitimate way for singles to hook up with other singles who have similar interests. More active than ever today, Match.com claims that 200,000 people met “that special someone” through their service in 2004. Hundreds of couples go on to marriage. Of course, that doesn’t mean that owners of the website or similar sites can guarantee that everyone who signs up and pays to post there is telling the truth. The website warns that online dating is no more or less safe than any other kind of dating and urges members to read their safety tips and to initially meet strangers in public places. Even so, it is easier when you are on the web to pretend to be something you are not. Even in a bar, women and men can see whom they are talking to. They can check for wedding rings or for the band of pale skin that shows that to appear single the person has recently removed a ring. Unless someone is really good at makeup and wardrobe, singles in a bar know whether they’re communicating with a male or a female.
On Match.com, most of those looking for love or companionship have a handle or screen name, preferring not to have anyone who visits the site know who they really are.
Bob Durall’s computer expert coworkers found emails from women to his computer address. They were written to someone called Freeedom. It wasn’t a typographical error; Durall had deliberately added a third e to the word. They were all from correspondents who sounded intelligent and interesting, their grammar and spelling perfect.
One woman in Oregon wrote to Freeedom: “It’s found within me first and foremost, but then if you and I ‘connect’ as we sho
uld, it will be found within our shared hearts as well…. I’m looking for (more) true opportunities for learning and personal growth, emotionally, spiritually and professionally…. I love to share strong, deep and true ‘connections’ with others. Good conversation, honest communication and being open to new ideas are all very important in my book. Playing games is not my deal, just want to be true to myself and to you.”
This woman, a professional, wrote that she was beginning to correspond with a few other men. “But I also know full well that I am looking for someone extra special. Could you be him?”
Whatever Freeedom had written to this woman, she was apparently quick to trust him. She said she was “taking a chance” by giving him her real email address, since her subscription to Match.com was going to run out soon.
But did she totally trust him? Probably not. Her last email had a cheerful but veiled question in it.
“I look forward to hearing from you, Freeedom. (Does this handle mean you were married before and are feeling quite ‘released’ or what? )”
Clearly, she wanted to know if he was married.
The computer detectives kept going, finding more messages from single women directed to Freeedom, who seemed to have made quite an impression with his profile on Match.com.
Now, they looked for Freeedom himself, typing in anon. Freeedom. And there he was. They were even informed of how close he was to their location in the King County Housing Authority’s offices: “Distance: 7 miles (11 km) from you based on registered location. This member’s last activity on Match.com: August 5, 1998.”
Only one day before Carolyn Durall had disappeared.
Freeedom’s profile would indeed have been tempting to a middle-aged woman:
Romantic Spiritual Seeker, Lover of Life, and Dad
39-year-old male, located in Seattle, U.S., seeking 28 to 45 year-old female for email pen-pal, activity partner, short-term relationship, or long-term relationship.
Enjoying all the magical moments that life has to offer. I am confident, healthy, intelligent, attractive, a dreamer, love to laugh, kind, a romantic lover, and a moonlight walker. My focus is on nurturing my spirit by making great decisions. A common sense oriented man that someone can count on and a passion for life that enables me to enjoy the simplest of pleasures. A positive outlook on life has me smiling almost all the time and uplifting those around me. Always stretching my comfort zone to include new ideas and activities. Hiking, tennis, running, golf, basketball, and jet skiing are great fun. Professional with plenty of education (it’s o.k. if you don’t care). My preference is for a friend and partner who respects who she is and takes good care of herself spiritually, emotionally, and physically. Someone who can see the beauty even when it is not pretty every day. I have children and young ones at that. You must have an appreciation for children. If you have your own, then that is wonderful too.
Ethnicity: Caucasian (White)
Religion: Christian (Other than Catholic)
Body Type: Athletic (Athletic/Slim)
Smoking: Don’t smoke
Drinking: Drink socially/occasionally
Children: Have children, living with me sometimes
His ad ended with only one proviso for women who might respond to him. They had to be nonsmokers.
There was no question that Freeedom was Bob Durall. He had not mentioned that he had a wife, only that he sometimes had his young children living with him. Perhaps he didn’t expect to have a wife by the time he hooked up with just the right woman on the internet.
The Renton detectives hadn’t asked that Bob Durall’s computer be mined for evidence. The two men who held their breath as they scrolled through the internet sites and found murder, murder, murder, murder, kill spouse and all of the possible means of accomplishing that knew they had to tell the investigators what they had found. They printed out copies of all the web searches and Durall’s handle on Match.com and gave them to the men and women who were investigating Carolyn Durall’s disappearance.
When prosecutors Patty Eakes and Jeff Baird heard about Bob Durall’s activities on the internet, particularly his searches for “kill + spouse,” they knew that if Bob had killed Carolyn, it was not through a spontaneous act of rage, unplanned and perpetrated by a man gone suddenly out of control. No, from May 4 to June 23, he had been working on a plan to murder his wife.
On August 28, they amended the charges against him: he was now charged with first-degree murder, and his bail was raised to $5 million.
It was the first week in September, and Carolyn was still missing. Scores of people showed up for grid searches in an ever-widening circle around Renton. Jodie Kelly and Tari Sheffer planned the quadrants to be searched meticulously so that all sectors were covered and none gone over twice. They used a flag system to mark areas that had already been searched and a grid chart. They were headed away from Renton now, moving toward the foothills of Snoqualmie Pass.
Linda Gunderson and Denise Jannusch and their husbands still remember that terrible period from the night Carolyn disappeared to after Labor Day, 1998. Family life for all of the searchers virtually stopped. All that mattered was finding Carolyn or, as they now dreaded, her body. Most of their children were too young to understand the grim reality that overshadowed everyone’s summer.
“We all lost months, years even,” one friend said. “Our lives were totally caught up in the tragedy for such a long time.”
The Renton detectives respected those who searched so diligently and realized that they might well be the ones to find Carolyn. After all, they had found her van, and they were even more determined now. “If you do,” the investigators warned, “don’t touch anything. Just call us.”
The detectives learned more that added to their belief that Carolyn Durall was dead. They found that Bob had asked a dry cleaner how to remove bloodstains, saying, “My son had a nosebleed.” Their sweep of the house had netted a gallon of solution designed to eliminate all traces of human fluids.
Bob was seen in a Fred Meyer store the day before Carolyn vanished. He was buying, of all things, several belts, men’s belts. Why? That question was answered on September 9, after Carolyn had been missing for four weeks and five days. John Henry Browne talked with his client and impressed on Bob Durall that he should reveal where his wife’s body was. It would be a kindness to her family and her friends, who needed to know where she was and to give her a decent burial. If Durall should agree to lead detectives to where he had left Carolyn, Browne, his associate, Tim Dole, and the prosecutors, Patty Eakes and Jeff Baird, had agreed to certain stipulations, if not an outright plea bargain: (1) he would receive some sentencing “consideration” after he pleaded guilty to first-degree murder; (2) the State would not reveal at trial that Durall had led investigators to Carolyn’s body; (3) the State would not, however, reduce the charges to second-degree murder; and (4) if Bob Durall should take the stand in his own defense and deny that he had killed his wife, he would be impeached by the prosecution and the agreement not to mention that he had led the investigators to her body would be null and void.
He accepted that plea agreement. On that Monday in September, a caravan of cars followed the police unit in which Bob Durall rode with detectives and his lawyers. They took the I-90 freeway on its climb east through the foothills until they came to Forest Service Road 9031, ten miles west of the Snoqualmie Pass summit. There they turned down the heavily forested road, drove slowly for two miles, passing several turnouts (where people had illegally left bags of refuse). Finally, Durall told them to stop.
Carolyn was there, buried in a shallow grave beneath a pile of rocks. Using a litter connected to ropes, the search party carefully lifted her remains from the sylvan burial place.
Her body had been doubled over, cinched tight with several belts, and encased in a number of plastic garbage sacks.
The postmortem examination of Carolyn Durall’s body by the King County Medical Examiner’s office verified that she had died of homicidal viol
ence, blunt-force damage. Her skull had been shattered in several places by a heavy, dense object dropped on, or swung at, her head. It had to have been made of metal or hard wood. A fist or arm could not have done so much damage. More likely, the weapon was something like a baseball bat.
She was almost certainly unconscious immediately after the first blow. She might have continued to breathe for a short time. She had not suffered, very small comfort to those who loved Carolyn.
For all of Bob Durall’s precise planning and internet searches on how to commit a perfect murder, it appeared that he had in fact flown into a violent rage, probably when Carolyn asked him for a divorce, and used the closest weapon at hand.
It was too late to determine whether Carolyn Durall had been drugged before she was attacked; there was little blood left in her body and she had lain in the woods for so many weeks. No poisons were identified in toxicology screens. The medical examiner was not surprised at those results because blood breaks down during decomposition.
There was no more searching. On September 16, a week later, a memorial service for Carolyn was held at Saint Thomas Episcopal Church in Medina, Washington, a church not far from Morgan Stanley Dean Witter where she had worked and where she had told friends of her dream to be free to live her life in peace. The theme of her services was a butterfly; she had always loved butterflies, and a picture of a beautiful Monarch was on the cover of the program. The minister reminded the mourners that Carolyn was no longer caged, but “as free now as a butterfly.”