A Rage To Kill And Other True Cases

ballistics, lie detector tests, computers, DNA, electronics and even laser beams. The world of television attorneys and their amazing courtroom coincidences is only fiction, after all. In real life, it’s more difficult.
    One classic example of the need for physical evidence in proving a murderer guilty occurred in the courtroom of King County Superior Court Judge Stanley C. Soderland during a four-week trial in October 1976. Have a seat in the front row of the jury and weigh the evidence in this incredible case. What would
you
have decided?

O ne of the most disheartening cases Seattle homicide detectives ever faced began on Wednesday morning, June 2, 1976. True, there were moments when everything seemed to be going their way, but their successes were soon blunted. In the end, they would win only a
half
a victory, but it was enough to lock up a murderer who was infinitely dangerous to beautiful dark-haired young women.
    Marcia Perkins lived in a unit on one of the upper floors of an apartment house on East Madison Street in Seattle, close to the funky and exciting Broadway District and Seattle University, and near what was known as “Pill Hill,” where many of the city’s hospitals were located. Marcia was twenty-four, beautiful and raven-haired. She was slender and tall, and she looked a lot like Cher with her waist-length hair and miniskirts, so much so that she got a lot of double takes—which amused her.
    Marcia was a nurse at the University of Washington Hospital; she was estranged from her husband and in the process of beginning a new life. For the moment, her husband had temporary custody of their children and she was on very good terms with him. It wasn’t a bitter separation at all. In fact, they often dated. They had discovered that they got along better when they dated than they ever had when they were married.
    Marcia had married very young, and, now, she didn’t limit her dating to her estranged husband. She had other friends, but she was in no particular hurry to get a divorce or to marry again. She was enjoying some of the freedom she’d missed as a teenager. She suspected that she might end up back with her husband, but first she needed some time to breathe.
    Marcia’s husband attempted to reach her by phone many times over the Memorial Day weekend of May 29–30. At first, he’d gotten nothing but a busy signal; later, the phone had rung and rung and no one had answered. He hadn’t been particularly concerned because Marcia had told him she might take a trip over the holiday, but by Wednesday morning he still hadn’t found her home. He knew that she was supposed to be back in Seattle on Tuesday for her job at the hospital. He was beginning to feel a niggle of concern.
    And so, on that Wednesday, he went to the apartment building where she lived before he headed to his own job. It was 7:30 in the morning when he knocked on the door of the manager’s apartment. “I’m worried about Marcia,” he said, trying not to be an alarmist. “I haven’t been able to reach her—I’m a little afraid she might be sick, or—”
    The manager nodded, and reached for his passkey. Marcia was a pretty predictable lady, and it
was
strange that she wasn’t answering her phone. They knocked first, but got no answer. Still, they could hear a radio or television playing somewhere beyond the door. The manager put the key in the lock and turned it.
    When the door swung open, and they stepped a few feet inside, they could see why Marcia hadn’t answered her phone. She lay spread-eagled between the kitchen and living room of her usually neat apartment. There was no question at all that she was dead. The shocked men quickly backed out and ran to call Seattle police.
    The two patrol officers who responded confirmed that Marcia was dead—and that it looked as if she had been for several days, lying alone in the hot apartment. Along with their sergeant, the officers secured the premises with yellow crime scene tape, and stood by until detectives from the Homicide Unit arrived at 8:30.
    Detective Sergeant Don Cameron’s crew—specifically Detectives Duane Homan and Benny DePalmo—were next up on call. They would do the crime scene search, a task that always took many hours as they gathered every possible bit of evidence they could find and photographed the scene. Ideally, they hoped to get to the scene of a murder as quickly as possible; time was their enemy. And, this time, they were running behind.
    There