A Fever in the Heart: And Other True Cases (37 page)

Nevertheless, Olive never forgot her pleas to me to write "Morris's story." And so, at last, I have kept my promise. After twenty years, it wasn't easy to track down people who once lived in Yakima, Washington, some scattered to the four winds. For this book is not just Morris's story it is the story of many others as well. Yakima's houses, buildings, and streets are all still in place some a little shabbier some freshly painted. Only last week, I walked down the alley behind the big frame house on North Sixth, walked south from where Turfy Pleasant parked his car on Lincoln, past the window where Gerda Lenberg heard the hollow heels of a running man, and into the backyard where Morris Blankenbaker died in the snowstorm. The wire fence where Vern Henderson found the vital bullet casing is, amazingly, still there. I could almost hear a voice calling, "Morris! Morris. .."

Olive Blankenbaker is eighty-five years old. I am grateful to her for waiting for me. This is for you, Olive. The Highway Accident There is such a thing as a perfect murder.

Any detective will admit that some homicides are never recognized for what they are. All of the popular sayings such as "Murder will out" and "There's no such thing as a perfect crime" are the stuff of fictional mysteries. Although the advent of the space age of forensic science is shifting the odds to the side of law enforcement, there will always be murderers who are never caught. And there will always be murders that are written off as something else. The rule of thumb followed by an experienced homicide detective investigating an unexplained death is that he must look skeptically at what may very well be a crime scene.

First, he must suspect murder, and next suicide, and then accidental death. Only when he has exhausted all other eventualities should he decide he is looking at a natural death. Even so, some cases of murder do slide through savvy investigators' tightly woven nets of suspicion.

The case that follows, one of Oregon's most memorable investigations, might never have come to the attention of homicide detectives if sharp-eyed state policemen and apprehensive neighbors had not raised questions. The incredible story that evolved shed harsh light on a marriage that seemed happy despite the fact that its very fabric was riddled with lies and betrayal. The sounds coming through the bedroom wall in the duplex apartment in suburban Salem, Oregon, were too loud and too disturbing for anyone to sleep through. It was very early in the morning on February 25, 1976, when both Marilee* and Doug Blaine* had the same dream, or rather, the same nightmare. Wrenched from deep sleep in the dark winter night, they sat up in bed. Doug fumbled for a light.

They could hear a woman screaming over and over, "No! No!

Don't!"

Then there was only silence, which was followed by a softer sound that was almost like a moan. That was suddenly cut short. Blaine looked at the clock beside their bed and saw it was three A.M. He and his wife discussed what they should do. Although they had never heard the couple in the adjoining duplex fight before, they agreed that they were probably overhearing a domestic squabble. They hated to interfere in something that was none of their business. What should they dogo knock on the door in the next unit and ask, "What seems to be the problem?"

Maybe pound on the wall? They couldn't phone because they didn't even know the last name of the people next door, much less their telephone number. There were no more screams, now. They tried to get back to sleep, but Doug Blaine was troubled and he tossed and turned, watching bare tree limbs bend grotesquely over the streetlight outside as the wind pushed them. After awhile, he thought he heard someone open the front door of the adjacent duplex. Blaine got out of bed and, without turning on any lights, crept to his living room. Feeling somewhat like a busybody, he eased out of his front door silently and stood in the frigid dark where he knew he was hidden by his car. Everything seemed perfectly normal. Both of the neighbors' cars were parked in the driveway: a Volkswagen bug and a Chevy Vega. Far off, a dog barked and the trees creaked in the wind, but there was no other sound. Back inside, Blaine heard nothing but the ticking of clocks and the furnace blower. He crawled back in bed and he and his wife tried to go back to sleep. It was quiet for about twenty minutes, but then they heard drawers being opened and shut next door, closet doors squeaking, and bedsprings settling. Beginning to feel like a fool, Blaine looked out his front window once more. This time, the man next door was carrying what looked like laundry or bedding to the Vega. He made several trips back and forth to the car. Then he got in and started it up. Without pausing to let the engine warm up, he backed out, accelerating as he disappeared down Cedar Court. Wide-awake, the Blames discussed what they should do. It looked as if their neighbors had had a spat and the husband had left to cool off. They didn't know the couple except to nod and say "Hi" when they happened to meet. The wife was always friendly, but her husband seemed aloof. If they didn't even know the couple's names, they certainly hadn't the faintest idea about the state of their marriage. The only times they had heard any loud noise from the other side of the wall was when the couple had parties, and that had not happened very often. It was after 4:30 A.M. when the Blames finally decided they should notify the police, they couldn't forget the screams they had heard. If the girl next door was all right they would feel a little foolish, but feeling foolish was worth peace of mind. Their call came into the Marion County Sheriftbs radio The Highway Accident room at 4:47 A.M. Corporal Tim Taylor and Deputy Ralph Nicholson were dispatched to Cedar Court. They knocked on the door of the neat duplex, but there was no response. Since the Blames didn't know their neighbors' last name, Taylor gave the radio operator the license plate number on the Volkswagen parked there and asked for a check on the registered owner.

The owners came back as Lori Susan* and Walter Louis Buckley.*

Taylor asked the operator to look up the Buckleys' phone number and telephone the residence. Soon, he heard the lonely sound of a phone ringing again and again in the empty apartment. It there was anyone inside, they either would not or could not answer the phone. The Blames were positive that the woman who lived next door had not left with her husband in the Vega. They pointed out that her car, the Volkswagen, was still parked there. Tim Taylor contacted the man who owned the duplexes.

Even though it was still very early in the morning, he said he would be right over with a key to open the door for the deputies. The door to the Buckleys' duplex swung open and the deputies stepped in. They saw that the place was immaculate. Tentatively, the two sheritps officers peered into each room, calling out the Buckleys' names. No one answered. There wasn't that much to look at, there was a living-dining area, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. The southeast bedroom looked as if it were being used for storage. A drawer had been left pulled out in one chest. Oddly, there was a pile of walnuts on the floor in front of it. The master bedroom the southwest bedroom was the room that shared a common wall with the Blames' bedroom. It was as neat as the rest of the house. The queen sized bed had been stripped of sheets, and clean sheets rested atop the mattress as if someone had begun to change the bed linen. There were no visible signs of violence. The missing bedding was something of a puzzle, but then Doug Blaine had said it looked as if Buckley had been carrying laundry to the car. Well, that's why twenty-four-hour Laundromats stayed in business. People did their laundry at all times of the day and night. Even though he hadn't found anything suspicious inside the empty duplex, Tim Taylor radioed in that he felt there should be a recheck of the premises in daylight. "The occupants will probably be back by then," he said. Taylor left his business card on the dining room table with a note asking the Buckleys to call the sheriff's office on their return. Then they could write the complaint off in a simple FIR (Field Investigation Report). But there were no calls from the Buckley duplex. Six hours later, Deputy Bernie Papenfus returned to the Cedar Court address and knocked on the door. There still was no response. But now in daylight, Papenfus noticed a faint red spot on the front step. It looked very much like dried blood. Once again, the landlord, who had also felt strangely troubled since he had opened the door for the deputies at five that morning, produced a key. Their voices hushed, Papenfus and the landlord entered the duplex.

It was bright and airy, the sun was shining through the windows.

The home had been decorated with charm and good taste, with paintings, plants, and a wine rack with bottles of homemade wine bearing the Buckleys' names. Wicker lamps and end tables complemented the furniture.

There was nothing out of place in the living room not even a magazine or newspaper. They moved to the master bedroom. Papenfus's trained eye noted another reddish stain that was barely visible on the rust carpet in the bedroom. Still the room looked normal enough. But cops see things that other people don't. Papenfus's throat tightened a little as he saw that the blue-flowered mattress was not sitting square on the springs.

He raised it. The underside was a mass of bloody stains. Blood had soaked into the surface and it was still damp. Hurrying now, Papenfus looked for more signs that something violent had taken place in this little duplex unit. He didn't have to look far. There were more dried scarlet streaks on the towel cupboard and on the entryway into the kitchen. The stains on the carpet were blurred, as if someone had tried to rub them out. Deputy Bernie Papenfus had seen enough, something terrible had happened here during the night. Careful not to use the phone in the Buckleys' duplex, he radioed Sheriff Jim Heenan's office and asked that detectives respond to what could now only be considered a "possible homicide." Lieutenant Kilburn McCoy and Sergeant Will Hingston left their offices in Salem and headed for the address on Cedar Court.

Lieutenant James Byrnes, chief of detectives, and Detective Dave Kominek had left Salem very early to attend a narcotics conference in Portland.

Enroute, McCoy radioed Byrnes to stand by because the circumstances at the Buckley home were most suspicious. Byrnes would not be going to Portland, after all.

Kilburn McCoy learned that Lori Buckley, who was twenty-six, was employed as a sixth grade teacher at the Highland Elementary School in Salem. It was possible that she was in her classroom, teaching. That would explain why she was not in the apartment at eleven A.M. on a Wednesday morning. He called the school and learned that Lori Buckley was not there. However, she had arranged to have a substitute because she had a dental appointment scheduled for Wednesday morning. She was not due at school until the afternoon sessions. The school office staff didn't know her dentist's name. They gave the detectives the phone numbers for Lori Buckley's relatives, suggesting that they might know her dentist. While they waited to hear from Lori Buckley's family, the Marion County detectives moved around her home. They found more and more bloodstains marring the otherwise immaculate apartment. Whatever had happened here, the scene had to be protected.

Hingston and Papenfus strung heavy rope, cordoning off the entire property from the sidewalk back, and posted a sign that read, POLICE LINE: Do NOT ENTER. They half expected Lori and Walt Buckley to come driving up and ask them what in the world they were doing. But no one came by except curious drivers who gawked at the rope and the sign.

Finally armed with the name of Lori Buckley's dentist, McCoy called his office, only to find that Lori had not shown up for her appointment. It was to have been a preliminary session for a long-term teeth-straightening procedure. Lori's dentist was concerned when she didn't keep her appointment or even call. He said she was always thoughtful about calling to cancel if she could not make an appointment.

Lori Buckley's family arrived at her duplex, worried and completely mystified. They talked with detectives outside, since no one but police personnel could go in until the place had been processed. Her family said that Lori and Walt had been happily married for four years. Lori had been teaching since her graduation from Oregon College of Education.

Walt was attending Oregon State University in Corvallis. He was about to graduate with a degree in accounting. Lori's folks commented that Walt had recently applied to become an FBI agent. He had told them about the fifteen page form he had to fill out, laughing about what specific details the Bureau wanted to know about every facet of his background.

Asked if it was possible that Lori and Walt had gotten into a brawl, her family was aghast. They could not imagine such a thing. That just wasn't possible.

Lori and Walt just didn't have that kind of a marriage. They had never known them to have any kind of physical confrontation. The Marion County detectives wondered if it was possible that someone had entered the Buckleys' duplex during the night. Doug Blaine had admitted he didn't know the neighbors that well. He had seen a man going out to his neighbors' car and he thought it had been the man who lived next door, but he admitted he could have been mistaken. Could the Buckleys have been abducted by someone who had injured one or both of them? Doug Blaine said he hadn't seen Lori Buckley at all. Just her husband with his arms full of laundry. In whatever manner Lori had left her duplex, she wasn't The Highway Accident there now. A thorough search of the apartment proved that. She wasn't in the closets or in the crawl spaces.

She and her husband were both missing. The Oregon State Police Crime Lab and ID Bureau in Portland responded by sending criminalists to the scene. Sergeant William Zeller and Troopers Sherie Kindler, Cliff Daimler, and George Matsuda set out at once to help. Chief of Detectives Jim Byrnes and Detective Dave Kominek were already on their way back from Portland. It was apparent that someone had been gravely injured in this apartment. The bloodstains on the underside of the blue mattress measured between four and ten inches in diameter. That much blood could not have come from a minor cut. Doug Blaine described again for the detectives what he had heard.