Dead by Sunset: Perfect Husband, Perfect Killer?
Read Dead by Sunset: Perfect Husband, Perfect Killer? Online
Authors: Ann Rule
Tags: #General, #Murder, #Social Science, #True Crime, #Criminology
Dead By Sunset
By: Ann Rule
Synopsis:
Another chilling and creepy book from the reigning queen of
true-crime, Ann Rule, who also penned the riveting bestseller
Small Sacrifices. Here, we encounter a charismatic con-artist
accused of brutally bludgeoning his wife and follow his case through
to its strangely redemptive end.
Pocket Books;
ISBN: 0671001132
Copyright 1996
whole state of
With any luck, the winter
rains of the Northwest were a safe two months away.
The temperature
had topped off at sixty-nine degrees about four that afternoon, and
even at 9
P.M. it was still a relatively balmy fifty-eight degrees.
Randall Kelly Blighton had traveled west on Highway 26þthe Sunset
Highwayþearlier that evening, driving his youngsters back to their
mother s home in
Beaverton
after their weekend visitation with him.
A handsome, athletic-looking man with dark hair and a mustache,
Blighton was in his twenties, a truck salesman.
His divorce from his
wife was amicable, and he was in a good mood as he headed back toward
Portland
along the same route.
The Sunset Highway, which is actually a freeway, can often be a
commuter's nightmare.
It runs northwest from the center of
Portland
,
past the OMSI zoo and through forestlike parks.
Somewhere near the
crossroads of Sylvan, the Multnomah Washington county-line sign flashes
by almost subliminally.
Then the freeway angles toward the Pacific
Ocean beaches as it skirts
Beaverton
and the little town of
Hillsboro
.
The land drops away past Sylvan, giving the area its name West Slope.
trails off the Sunset Highway down the curves of the slope, past
pleasant neighhorhoods, until it runs through a commercial zone
indistinguishable from similar zones ananhere in
America
: pizza
parlors, supermarkets, car dealers, strip malls.
Approaching
Hillshoro, the
through what was only reccntly farmland.
The
once richly agricultural, is now a technological wonderland.
Its
endless woods are dwindling and the area has become known as the
There are acres and acres of corporate parks in
Intel, Fujitsu, NEC, and Tektronix.
Intel is already the largest
single employer in
computer and electronics industry in
employees.
Apparently serenely untroubled by the encroachment of modern
technology, the Sisters of Saint Mary have been stationed along the TVA
Highway for many years, their nunnery and school on the left, their
home for wayward boys on the right.
In an instant Route 8 becomes
Hillsboro
.
A left turn
on
courthouse.
with gingerbread touches, jack-o'-lanterns at Halloween and spectacular
lights during the Christmas season.
But it hasn't fared so well
commercially since the new Target store and the mall went up south of
town, its chief businesses are antique stores and, except for the
Copper Stone restaurant and cocktail lounge, the kind of restaurants
where ladies linger over tea.
The Washington County Courthouse is surrounded by manicured grounds
with magnolias and towering sequoias planted more than a century ago.
It smells like a courthouse, at least the original structure does: wax,
dust, the daily lunchroom special, and old paint baking on radiators.
The people employed there are comfortable and at home, bantering with
one another as they go about their work, the people who come there on
all manner of missions are more often than not angry, worried,
grieving, frightened, annoyed, or apprehensive.
Some walk away with a
sense of justice done, and some don't walk away at all, they are
handcuffed and locked up in the jail next door.
Not far from the courthouse, something terrible happened on the Sunset
Highway on
And in the end, it would all be settled in this
courthouse, as Christmas lights glowed in the branches of a tall fir on
the corner of
Main
and First Streets and icy rain pelted court watchers
and witnesses alike.
The end would be a long time coming.
It was about
on that Sunday night in September, and dark enough so
that Randy Blighton needed his headlights to see what lay ahead of him
on the curving Sunset Highway.
He was startled as he came around one
of those curves near Sylvan in the West Slope area and saw that cars a
half mile ahead of him were suddenly swerving out of the fast lane into
the right-hand lane.
It looked as if there might be something in the
road ahead that they hadn't been able to see until the last moment.
A
dead animal perhaps, or maybe a truck tire.
Whatever it was, it had to
be dangerous, a last-minute lane switch only worked if the right lane
was clear.
Blighton traveled another hundred feet and now he could make out the
dark hulk of a
Toyota
van turned crosswise on the freeway.
Its lights
were off and it was in a perilous position, completely blocking the
fast lane.
Luckily, the drivers ahead of Blighton had been alert, but
it would be only a matter of time before someone came around the curve
in the fast lane and smashed into the van.
People usually drove the
Sunset Highway between fifty-five and sixty-five miles an hour and a
crash like that would undoubtedly escalate rapidly into a fatal
multicar pileup.
Blighton was grateful that, for the moment at least, the freeway was
not heavily traveled.
And that was only a freak circumstance.
At
on a Sunday night after a weekend of good weather, there had to be
hundreds of vehicles heading back to
Portland
from the coast.
Randy Blighton's first inclination was to swerve around the van, he had
things to do at home.
"I was going to go on by too," he later
recalled, "but then I spotted the silhouette of an infant seat in the
van.
I couldn't ignore that.
I'd just left my own kids, and I could
never live with myself if there was a baby or a little kid in that
van."
Blighton's reflexes were good.
He tapped his brakes, pulled his car
over on the right shoulder, grabbed a couple of flares, and then ran
across the freeway toward the van.
As he got close to it, he could see
that it was perpendicular to the median that separated the eastbound
and westbound lanes, its front bumper repeatedly tapping the concrete
Jersey
barriers.
The van's engine was still turning over, and it was
in gear, inching forward and then being held back by the barriers.
Blighton knew that he was as much a sitting duck as the
Toyota
if a car
came around the curve, and he hurriedly lit the flares and set them out
in the fast lane to warn motorists, in time he hoped, to veer to the
right.
He had no idea what he might find as he reached for the
driver's door handle of the vanþpossibly someone who had had a stroke
or a heart attack.
It might even be a driverless vehicle that had
slipped its brakes and somehow ended up on the freeway.
In 1986, at
this point on the Sunset, there were still some neighborhood streets
from which cars could enter the freeway as if the Sunset was merely
another intersection.
Southwest 79th, just to the south of the
accident, was one of those streets.
Maybe the driver of the van,
unfamiliar with the Sunset's eccentricities, had turned far too widely
and rammed into the barriers.
Blighton opened the driver's-side door.
The van was not empty.
He
could make out a figure lying on the front seat.
The person's legs
were near the gearshift console and extended over the driver's seat.
The back was on the passenger seat, and the head was tucked into the
chest and drooping over toward the floor.
He didn't know if it was a
man or woman, but he saw a smallish loafer-type shoe on one foot that
looked feminine.
There was no time for Blighton to try to figure out who the driver was,
or how heþor sheþhad ended up crosswise on the freeway.
He stepped up
into the driver's side, pushing the legs out of the way as much as he
could.
Now he could see that there was a woman's purse jammed between
the accelerator and the firewall.
That would explain why the van
continued to move forward.
Blighton felt along the dash to try to find
the switch for the emergency flashers but he couldn't locate it, he
didn't know that it was overhead.