And so he had obeyed them, he said in a flat voice devoid of any trace of feeling. He had cleaned up the blood, and never told anyone what had really happened—not until now.
Unwittingly perhaps, he had invoked the most familiar of all phantom suspects—“The Bushy-Haired Stranger”—so familiar that cops and prosecutors usually just say “The BHS,” for the little man who wasn’t there, and never shows up at all.
After Bob Durall testified for most of two days, Jeff Baird approached him for cross-examination.
Just as his computer betrayed him by spitting out the websites he’d checked and his search for romance at Match.com, his emails came back to haunt Durall.
In one, he had written about hiring “an attorney and a private investigator” to find his missing wife. This was within days after he claimed that he had been warned not to talk to police or tell anyone.
Baird asked him if the “bushy-haired man who had a good tan” or the “taller man with the gun” had said, “No police, but go ahead and hire a private investigator?”
“No, those were not their words,” Durall answered stiffly.
Hadn’t he been suspicious that his wife had been killed in their bedroom? “When you removed the carpet,” Baird asked, “did you associate the big bloodstain with the murder of your wife? There was a lot of blood there. You cleaned up the blood, knowing or assuming it was evidence of a murder?”
“I thought there was a good chance my wife was killed there but did not know for sure.” He added that he didn’t know the “definition of murder.”
It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Durall’s story of the deadly strangers would have been unbelievable even in a soap-opera script.
When he was asked about his list of “bat, bag, pole, hill, gloves, pillow, place, tire, tracks, footprints and disposal,” he said none of these words referred to what had happened to Carolyn; instead, he had written them down to remind himself of baseball, his property in the foothills, and a trip out of town.
His affect was so flat that it was easy to see why an acquaintance had said, “He’s a cocky guy, but I wondered ‘Is anybody in there?’ ”
At a time when even a trace of emotion would have helped him get through to the jurors, he spoke of ultimate horror as if he were an automaton.
Would any of these jurors believe the tale of the killers who had just waltzed out of left field to confuse a flabbergasted gallery?
Jeff Baird called Durall’s testimony absurd and termed it “the desperate act of a desperate man.”
After the two hundred exhibits that were entered into the record, the DNA evidence, the scouring of the internet by the experts, and the sophisticated forensic science that connected the defendant to the crime, after dozens of witnesses, things looked bleak for Bob Durall.
Don Minor did his best, insisting there was no direct evidence. “What you have been presented with is circumstantial evidence,” he told the jury. “You should understand that circumstances can be misleading.”
Minor wisely did not put Durall’s assertion that he had been abducted by the real killers and then released into the main thrust of his final argument. It’s quite possible that even he didn’t know about that tale until he heard Durall’s testimony along with the rest of the bewildered courtroom. He tried to make the State’s case look as if it were made of smoke and mirrors and assumptions not based in fact.
“Things that were innocent in nature have been given a sinister meaning,” Minor argued. “Mr. Durall has a need for attention but not a need to kill his wife.”
Perhaps not. But Bob Durall had told some of his other women that Carolyn would be “better off dead” and that his life would “be easier if she were dead.” He had sighed that he couldn’t bear the thought of her raising their children even part of the time.
The jury stayed out only two hours. When they returned, they announced that they had found Bob Durall guilty of First Degree Murder. It was August 6, 2000, exactly two years after Carolyn Durall died.
Jeff Baird spoke to several jurors after they were dismissed. They were curious about one aspect of the case. How had the police known where Carolyn’s body was? Now that it was over, he was able to reveal that Bob Durall led them to it and that the State had stuck to its agreement not to introduce that detail during his trial.
Carolyn’s family, friends, and coworkers hugged each other. They knew they could never have a truly happy ending, but her boss, Roseann Watson, could say, “We wish we could bring her back, but at least he didn’t win this one.”
On October 6, 2000, Robert Durall appeared in Judge Deborah Fleck’s courtroom for sentencing. He had shown no feelings during his trial. But now in the sentencing phase, video images of Carolyn brought her back to life one more time. She was there on the screen as music played. There was Carolyn on horseback, showing her skill as she gracefully controlled her beloved horses. There she was ice-skating, pregnant with their babies, cooking in her kitchen, hugging her children, laughing with her family. There was Carolyn with Bob and Denise and Gary. There was Bob’s hand resting protectively on his wife’s shoulder.
For the first time, the prisoner’s eyes filled with tears. Was he weeping for her or for himself?
Judge Fleck looked at him with disdain. She remarked that he was a man with an education, a church leader, one who was flourishing in his job and well thought of by his community, but also one who was typical of abusers—apparently successful men who dominate their partners with psychological abuse and intimidation. The murder he committed was an example of “aggravated domestic violence, preceded by a pattern of psychological abuse.”
The judge was not impressed with him, and characterized him as a “sniveler” by his behavior during the trial. He might have gone into her courtroom expecting a twenty-six-to thirty-year sentence, but Judge Fleck delivered an exceptional sentence. He would spend forty-six years and eight months in prison for the premeditated murder of the wife who had sought only freedom.
“Freeedom,” the web prowler, had lost his. At 43, he was headed for a cell.
Carolyn and Bob’s children live with her parents in another state, and their last name is no longer Durall. Nor is that name on her gravestone. The children are doing well, as well as they can, given their great loss at a tender age. They see their old friends and are exceptionally gifted. Carolyn’s children can look at the memory books her friends made for them so that they will always know who their mother was.
The family that raised Bob so lovingly suffered, too, and no one blames them for what he became. But nothing, of course, will ever be the same.
Whenever those who loved Carolyn see a butterfly, they think of her. They can be proud that they did their very best to find her and to be sure that her killer is paying for the loss of her life.
WORTH MORE DEAD
Roland Pitre, 22, a U.S. Marine stationed in Iwakuni, Japan, 1974. He was a joker and something of a liar, but his buddies liked him well enough. He was already skilled at martial arts.
Maria Archer spent hours on the witness stand in her own defense, recalling her passionate affair with her judo instructor, Marine Corps sergeant Roland Pitre, and the way it ended. She was both demure and emotional as she denied any guilt whatsoever in the tragic murder of her navy lieutenant husband, Dennis. (Leslie Rule)
Maria’s attorney, Gil Mullen, a former Seattle police officer, gives her a hug at the end of her trial. (Leslie Rule)
Maria Archer on trial for the murder of her husband, Dennis, in 1980. She testified most emphatically in her own defense, denying any knowledge of a plan to kill him. (Leslie Rule)
Steven Guidry sits at the defense table during the joint murder trial for himself and Maria Archer, a woman he had never met, although she was his best friend’s former lover. The jurors would decide that the person behind Dennis Archer’s murder was not on trial. (Leslie Rule)
Detective R. L. Edwards of the Island County Sheriff’s Office tracked down the man responsible for the
murder of Lt. Dennis Archer in his home in 1980. He expected that his quarry would be in prison for thirty years, but he was surprised to find that wouldn’t happen. (Leslie Rule)
Roland Pitre, 1987, out of prison and reunited with his loyal wife, Cheryl. He had decided to become a registered nurse, and he also taught very popular judo classes. His life was definitely on an upward swing, especially when he and Cheryl welcomed a new baby son.
Staff party at Bay Ford—just before Roland Pitre came home to Cheryl. Her friend Greg Meakin is in the center and Cheryl is on the right.
Kitsap County detective Doug Wright worked with Seattle homicide detectives to solve the baffling murder of Cheryl Pitre. Here, he is participating in a raid on a marijuana grower.
Kitsap County detective Jim Harris who, with his partner, Doug Wright, investigated the murder of Cheryl Pitre in October 1988. It would take more than fifteen years before that mystery was finally solved.
To the casual observer, this looked like an ordinary bathroom. But behind the shower curtain was a cleverly designed and insulated prison, built to hide a teenage kidnap victim. This was only the latest of Roland Pitre’s complicated plots to make money for himself.
The cell hidden behind the shower curtain was padded with thick insulation so a kidnap victim’s cries for help wouldn’t be heard. Pitre worked for days to build what was, essentially, a death chamber for a teenager.
Lt. Lewis Olan first met Roland Pitre when his safe was mysteriously stolen, and Pitre was beaten while trying to get family mementos back. Later, Olan investigated the attempted kidnapping of Pitre’s stepson.
Seattle police homicide detective Hank Gruber in 1988. Gruber thought he was giving only a “courtesy assist” to detectives from Kitsap County in a missing person case. It wasn’t long before he found that he was deeply immersed in a homicide case in his own jurisdiction. It was to be one of the most frustrating cases of his long career—but sixteen years later, though he was retired, he saw that justice was finally done.
Fred McKee on his way to court to be sentenced for the murder for hire of Cheryl Pitre. The person who hired him once declared everlasting love for her.
Roland Pitre in 2004 as he appeared in court. The charismatic ladies’ man had lost much of his charm, and he heard his own family beg a judge to send him away for as long as possible.
“IT’S REALLY WEIRD
LOOKING AT MY OWN GRAVE”
Sex killer William Scribner planned to add to the graveyard where he’d left his first victim. Luckily, he wasn’t clever enough to overcome the next victim he chose.
OLD MAN’S DARLING
Denver detectives looking for the motivation behind a deadly shoot-out with most unlikely participants had to look no further than this tape recorder that lay on the ground next to the bodies. It was all there.
Randy Yoder’s pickup truck. CSI placed placards to mark bullets and casings. As Yoder tried to save Justyn Rosen and himself, they were caught in a “shooting gallery.”
Justyn Rosen’s new Ford Expedition SUV after the shoot-out outside a Denver police station. Rosen flung open his door and scrambled for safety behind Officer Yoder’s truck as Yoder desperately tried to save him.
Denver police officer Randy Yoder had just gone off duty, removed his body armor, and stashed his radio and service revolver when he encountered the most dangerous felon of his career.
Officer Yoder was shot twice by a woman with a gun as he tried to save her real target’s life. These wounds are scant inches from his heart and lungs, and he had just taken off his body armor. He was very, very lucky.
Justyn Rosen, 80, chose his final mistress for her beauty, never realizing how dangerous she could be when her heart was broken.
Teresa Perez had many loves in her short life, but Justyn Rosen, a married man old enough to be her grandfather, was the only one she seemed to love with all her heart. She simply could not let him desert her.
These four Denver police officers were plunged into a deadly shoot-out in their own station’s parking lot. Here they receive the department’s Medal of Honor for their actions on the night of October 3, 2003. Left to Right: Officers Randy Yoder, Joey Perez, Danny Perez, Captain Joseph Padilla.
ALL FOR NOTHING
Larry Sturholm, one of two victims in “All for Nothing,” is shown here (third from left) with the staff of the armed forces radio station at the base he was assigned to in 1968 in Samsun, Turkey. His hilarious scripts for soap opera style “dramas” brightened up the bleak days at the “superspy” base.
Debra Sweiger, 35, was a tall lovely blonde. She had a new business that was taking off, a new Jaguar, a new house, and the world belonged to her. Sadly, there was one man to whom she was worth more dead if he couldn’t have her for himself.
Larry Sturholm, nearing 50, seemed like a friend to everyone in the Seattle area who watched his television news segments, “Larry at Large.” He had great talent as a writer, a commentator on the funny side of life, and as a performer/producer. In the summer of 1989, he made another kind of news, saddening thousands of people.
This is the house Debra Sweiger owned in the suburbs of Seattle, the scene of the double murders and an attempted suicide. Homicide investigators were shocked at the violence they found inside.
High-ranking Naval Reserve officer William Pawlyk, 48, had graduate degrees, the respect of the leaders in his city, and a successful career. But jealousy overrode everything else, and his rage destroyed three families.
Lee Yates, senior deputy King County prosecuting attorney, who, along with senior deputy Jeff Baird, prosecuted William Pawlyk in the shocking “overkill” murders of Debra Sweiger and Larry Sturholm. Yates had represented the State in dozens of major homicide trials, but this was one that vividly stood out in his memory.
The D’Autremont brothers made headlines all across America in the 1920s. Larry Sturholm wrote a memorable book about the train holdup that failed, and the tragedies that ensued. From top to bottom: Roy, Hugh, and Ray D’Autremont. (From All for Nothing)
Larry Sturholm’s book, All for Nothing, recalled the daring and tragic robbery of a gold train. In 1923, Ray, shown here in the Washington State Reformatory at Monroe in his first prison sentence, lured his twin, Roy, and younger brother, Hugh, into the ill-fated plot. (From All for Nothing)
While Ray had the mind for criminal plots, Roy went along with his identical twin brother. Their story fascinated Larry Sturholm, who wrote a very successful book about them. (From All For Nothing)
A DESPERATE HOUSEWIFE
The staff at Morgan Stanley, Dean Witter of Bellevue were friends as well as coworkers. They all liked Carolyn Durall and spoke of how considerate she was, the woman who was always smiling. In happier days, they posed together. Carolyn is on the far right, and Denise Jannusche is in the middle in the back row.
The Jannusches, Denise and Gary, and the Duralls, Carolyn and Bob, were friends for years, but the young wives became best friends. Denise was at the forefront of the massive search for Carolyn after she simply disappeared one morning.
John Henry Browne, one of Seattle’s most accomplished—and flamboyant—defense attorneys, represented Bob Durall initially. Early in his career, when he was a public defender, he also represented Ted Bundy.
Carolyn Durall loved to ice skate and to ride her horses. Here she’s on a skating outing with her children.
Carolyn at a party for her at Morgan Stanley, Dean Witter. She is pregnant in this picture taken not too long before her daughter was born.
MISSING PERSON
Carolyn Durall
Last seen the morning of August 7, 1998 leaving her home in Renton Highlands area. Driving a 1990 maroon colored, Ford Aerostar Van, License Plate #166 CWI
Female, Caucasian, approximately 5′ 7″, 120 lbs. 35 years of age. Short, blond hair. Blue eyes.
If you have any information or have seen Carolyn, please call (425) 455-8026.
Carolyn Durall is pictured on the “missing”
flyer that her friends distributed within forty-eight hours of her mysterious disappearance.
Several of Carolyn’s friends planted this flowering cherry tree in a park in the Renton Highlands neighborhood where she once lived. Linda Gunderson and Denise Jannusche are on the right.
Ann Rule, Worth More Dead and Other True Cases
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