Empty Promises

forced into a box with tight parameters, no matter how many criminologists try to predict what a particular subject will do. By its very definition, aberration means “a deviation from the norm.”
    Among the felons I have written about, I never found one as unpredictable as this one. Anyone could have been his victim—anyone who was alone and unaware of who was following.

I t was a hot August day in 1969 Seattle and the sun was shining on Elliott Bay as the ferries criss-crossed the sparkling water, heading for Bainbridge Island, Vashon Island, and Bremerton. Only four blocks up the hill from the bay, in room W-863 of the massive gray King County Courthouse, Judge David W. Soukup was presiding over a trial that was drawing more spectators than any procedure in the past two years. The proceedings cast a pall of loss and pathos over officers of the court and spectators alike.
    The selection of any jury is a tedious procedure, but the senseless killings of four young people in Renton, Washington, had received so much television and newspaper coverage that it seemed unlikely that thirteen registered voters—one of whom would be an alternate juror—who hadn’t already formed an opinion about the defendant’s guilt or innocence, could be found. Indeed, over a hundred prospective jurors were questioned before a full jury panel was chosen.
    Compared to Seattle, Renton is a small town in King County. Even so, its population burgeoned over the years, mostly because of the number of workers drawn by the Boeing Airplane Company plant located at the edge of Lake Washington. Renton is an unpretentious suburb, much of it built on hilly land rising for miles to the east above the lake, or spilling south on flat land that drifts toward the Green River Valley. There used to be coal mines southeast of Seattle, and there are still abandoned mines near Renton, but the ore veins ran out many decades ago. By 2000, there would be 46,000 people in Renton; when the horrific crimes took place, there were half that many. The biggest distinction Renton had in the seventies and eighties was its loop, which drew high school drivers who circled for hours on weekend nights. Second to that was the Renton Public Library, part of which was actually built over the rushing Cedar River.
    But beginning in December 1969, Renton took on another—very unwelcome—distinction. Its citizens moved through a holiday season chilled with dread. Even while Christmas lights swung in the wind over the downtown streets, a killer moved like a wraith among them, leaving victims along isolated pathways. There were scant clues for Renton police detectives to follow up. In truth, they didn’t know if they were looking for one suspect or several.
    Carole Adele Erickson was nineteen years old on December 15, 1969. She was a pretty girl with huge aqua-colored eyes, long shiny hair, and a slender figure. Carole worked in a local restaurant to help pay for courses in food preparation at the Renton Vocational School. On that chilly, dank evening in December, she left a note for her roommate, saying that she planned to do some research on a school project at the Renton Library. She said she would probably be home early.
    Carole went to the library—there was no question of that. She was seen there by the librarians who knew her. But when one of her former boyfriends, who was home on furlough from the army, went there to surprise her, he couldn’t find her. He got to the library a little after 7:00 P.M. and walked through the entire building looking for Carole. He even zigzagged between the stacks, where she sometimes preferred to study.
    Assuming she had left for home, he went to her cottage to wait for her. He sat there making polite conversation and then strained conversation with Carole’s roommate as the minutes ticked by. He was really anxious to see Carole, but hours passed and there was no sign of her. Finally he and her roommate decided she must have had a date. The young soldier finally left. “Tell Carole I’ll call her before I go back,” he said.
    Carole’s roommate went to bed only moderately concerned. She fell asleep quickly, unaware that the night was passing and Carole had not come home.
    Well before daylight the next morning, two fishermen drove onto the rutted road that ran along the bank of the Cedar River north of the library building. The road ended abruptly and became a gravel footpath. They parked their vehicle, grabbed their fishing gear,