John Stickney was dead. No one would ever know if he blew himself up deliberately or by accident. He would no longer suffer the anguish of unrequited love.
At first glance, Irwin thought Mike Kenny and David Trimble were dead, too. They lay still, their uniforms ripped into strips and tatters, their skin blackened. Irwin shouted into his radio, asking for paramedics and an ambulance, although he had precious little hope that anyone could help his colleagues.
As Irwin drew closer, he saw Kenny stir and heard Trimble moan. Miraculously, they were alive. John Stickney's body had taken the full force of the blast, and that alone had saved them. Had he been facing toward them when the dynamite detonated, the cops would surely have died too.
David Trimble, only twenty-six, was in critical condition. He had sustained puncture wounds in his chest, abdomen, and hands, and he had first- and second-degree burns all over his body. Both of his eardrums were ruptured. Mike Kenny had been a little farther away from the center of the blast, but his eardrums had been ruptured, too.
An ambulance rushed Trimble to Sacred Heart Hospital in Spokane where he underwent hours of surgery. Doctors stated cautiously that he would live but that his hearing would be permanently damaged. Lieutenant Kenny was treated at Pullman Memorial Hospital where physicians held out hope that his hearing would be only minimally affected. They were police officers and keen hearing is essential to their profession.
* * *
The two officers had come very close to sacrificing their lives for the students of Perham Hall. It could have been so much worse. Only three students were in
jured, and their injuries were only minor cuts and shock.
Leigh Hayden's new boyfriend hadn't been too concerned when he received threats from John Stickney, but now police checked his car carefully to be sure there wasn't a bomb hidden there. They found nothing. Nor was there a bomb in John Stickney's car. He had carried only the one bomb with him. Perhaps he had hoped that Leigh would agree to go for a ride with him. If she said she still loved him, the bomb would have stayed in the book bag. If she truly said it was the end for them, then he could have set off the bomb and they would have died together.
But in the end, nothing had worked for John and he had died alone.
* * *
Campus cops are often derided by students who delight in calling them pigs, but the students of Washington State University realized that Mike Kenny, Roger Irwin, and David Trimble had risked their lives to save them.
To show their appreciation, the residents of Streit-Perham immediately established a fund to help the families of Lieutenant Kenny and Officer Trimble. They started the fund by donating the money they had allocated for their social functions for the school year, and then solicited funds from other students and Pullman townspeople. It would be a bleak Christmas for the injured policemen, but the students were determined to do what they could to help.
In the meantime, sororities, fraternities, and the citizens of Pullman rushed to help the forty-six students who had lost all their clothing, books, and possessions when the fifth floor was leveled. University insurance eventually reimbursed them for some of their losses. As
for the dormitory itself, a policy was in place that covered explosions. It had a $10,000 deductible but that was a bargain, considering the awesome damage John Stickney's bomb had done.
Back on Mercer Island, John Stickney's boss and his fellow workers were "absolutely flabbergasted" when they learned of the tragedy. "We're almost speechless here," his boss said. "There was no indication he was having any kind of problems. There are people in our organization who have known him since he was twelve years old. He was a pretty popular guy and everybody seemed to like him. We never even knew he had a temper."
If John Stickney had been able to show a temper, if he had not kept his pain and frustration bottled up inside, his story might have had a happier ending. But no one knew he needed help.
Perhaps someone should have paid attention when John Stickney blew up things "for the hell of it." When his world crashed around him, he turned to the one method he had of showing anger.
In the wake of the Washington State bombing, the Bellevue Police Department reopened its investigation into a mysterious explosion that had occurred near the Mercer Island Slough two months before the fatal bombing in Pullman. In the predawn hours of a Sunday morning, someone had tried to blow up a section of the I-90 freeway. One of the concrete piers under the freeway structure that runs over the slough was damaged by a blast of tremendous proportions. It may have been only a coincidence that this bridge pier— within a few miles of John Stickney's home— was bombed. Or it might have been a test run to see how much dynamite it might take to blast through concrete and iron rebars.
Ironically, when it was far too late for John Stick
ney, a UPI feature story appeared in newspapers all across America: "Love Affairs on Campus Can Produce Signs of Stress." The text of the article noted that the top stressors, in order of importance, were "ending the hometown relationship," "staying free," and "breaking up."
Love and Insurance
I was amazed at this case when I first encountered it, and with a second look, I am still astonished that a man who had so many options for a successful future should choose the path he did. He promised his lover a great deal, while all the time he was coldly planning one of the cruelest crimes I've ever written about. There were so many other choices; why did he choose murder?
Larry Dwayne Duerksen and Gareth Stuart Leifbach* had a lot in common. They were both in their twenties, both products of the Midwest. Larry grew up in Nebraska, while Gareth was from Michigan. Each of them had spent time in the armed forces, although they had not met each other there. They were homosexual men who had kept their sexual orientation secret in an era long before "don't ask, don't tell." The bizarre circumstance of their meeting was equaled, even excelled, by the shocking manner in which they parted forever.
As he neared his twenty-ninth birthday, Larry Duerksen's life underwent a tremendous upheaval. Larry was handsome, with clean-cut aquiline features and a neatly trimmed beard. He was very intelligent, though he had never quite managed to finish all the requirements to get his B.A. degree. Maybe that was because he was always traveling, seeking some kind of geographical resolution to the war between his upbringing and his desires. He had long since strayed from the old-fashioned morality of small-town Nebraska where being gay was neither understood nor condoned. Hiding and running away had become a way of life for him. He had hidden his sexual preference from his parents, his sister, and his many aunts and uncles for a long time. He was far away from Nebraska,
working as a nurse's aide in the Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital when he decided to come out of the closet. He made a trip back home to explain to his family the real reason he had never wanted to marry any of the nice girls they had introduced to him.
Larry Duerksen's revelation shocked his parents, but they tried to deal with it. His family still loved him, they said, even though they couldn't understand his choice. Sometimes they tried to tell each other that this was just one of Larry's "exaggerations."
And he did tend to exaggerate. The air force veteran's behavior had puzzled his family before. Larry tended to be overly dramatic, and he seemed to crave attention more than most, and he told wild stories that guaranteed he would get it. He once came home and announced that he was suffering from terminal cancer. His family and friends rallied around and were impressed by his bravery in the face of such an awful diagnosis. Hoping that there might yet be a cure for him, his parents insisted that he go through a series of tests. Surprisingly, the results of all the lab work indicated that Larry wasn't sick at all, much less suffering from a fatal malignancy. Faced with the facts, he admitted that he'd made it all up.
Larry had always had great difficulty managing his money. That spring of his twenty-ninth year, he was so deep in debt that he decided to declare bankruptcy. His life was in a shambles. That was why he had vowed to make an entirely new start. His first step had been to reveal his gay lifestyle to his family. Next, he decided to leave Santa Barbara and move to Seattle, Washington. He didn't have a job waiting for him in the Emerald City, but he had a friend and lover there. If their relationship was to move to the next step, he needed to head north and give it a chance. And so he left the
sunny climate of Santa Barbara for the misty rain and bright green filigree of leaves that meant spring was coming to Seattle.
Larry soon found a job as a library assistant at the Suzzallo Library on the University of Washington campus. The money wasn't great, but the job meant security and he was popular with his co-workers. He found an apartment in one of the big old houses that lined the street across from the west end of the campus.
The move might have been a mistake; Larry and his former lover found they couldn't ignite the cool ashes of their relationship. And one or the other of them always seemed to be jealous about something. It was more a relief than a disappointment when Larry walked away for good.
He wasn't lonesome; he had many friends of both sexes, and he received a ton of mail from friends in Santa Barbara. He was working his way out of bankruptcy, managing on his small salary, taking the bus because he had no car, and, perhaps surprisingly, enjoying his Spartan lifestyle and the new ambience of Seattle.
Larry Duerksen was not into cruising, that danger-fraught practice of seeking rapid and anonymous sex in the shadows of the gay world. He wasn't looking for casual pickups or tawdry rest room encounters; he was hoping to find someone he could really love. In his tweed jackets with leather-patched elbows, Larry looked more like a young professor or a graduate student than a library assistant. He longed for someone he could look up to, someone strong and competent who could help him organize his life.
The decade of the eighties was fast approaching and there were oceanic changes in the mores and popular culture of America. In the summer of 1979, as Larry
followed the media's coverage of events at Fort Lewis— the huge army base south of Tacoma— he was mightily impressed. For so many painful years, he had hidden his homosexuality, and when he felt close to exploding with guilt and depression, he shared it only with his immediate family. Now he read about twenty-one-year-old Gareth Stuart Leifbach, who was risking his whole army career by not only admitting he was gay but daring the army to do anything about it. Gareth Leifbach was making headlines all over America. His was the kind of controversial story that the media loved. He had been a perfect soldier during his two years of service, and no one had suspected that, like Larry Duerksen, he had a secret life. Larry could not imagine what might have happened to his air force career if he had ever let any of his barracks-mates know his secret. But here was Gareth Leifbach telling the whole world. Larry may have felt some envy of Leifbach's almost-celebrity status; he himself had always loved being in the limelight.
The
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
reported that Gareth Leifbach revealed his homosexuality when he learned that an old friend from Michigan was having trouble getting into the army because he was gay. Leifbach went to his commander and pointed out that his gayness hadn't interfered with his performance as a soldier. He felt it was grossly unfair that the military should bar men and women simply because of their sexual orientation.
Leifbach was handsome, a top-seeded player on the army tennis team, who had attained the rank of private first class. No one in his unit knew he was homosexual, and he had never seen any reason to mention it before. But now he had a cause and a friend who needed help.
Initially, Gareth Leifbach's revelations about his sex
life seemed to have backfired on him. Not only was his friend refused admittance to the army but Gareth himself faced discharge. The U.S. Army had decreed that homosexuality was entirely incompatible with military service. Although there were certainly thousands of gay soldiers, sailors, and marines, they all remained closeted. Only Gareth Leifbach had the courage and audacity to face an organization as rigid and conservative as the army.
Larry admired Gareth's bravery and his frankness. He was sorry for him when his military career ended on September 25, 1979. On that day, a three-man board of officers met to decide if he should stay in the army despite his avowed homosexuality. Several of Leifbach's superiors testified before the board that Gareth was an excellent soldier, but the final vote was two to one in favor of an honorable discharge. The decision was front-page news all across the country. Leifbach himself claimed a moral victory; at least one officer had voted in favor of keeping him in the army.
Although Gareth Leifbach's career in the service was over, he appeared to be elated over his new place at center stage. Indeed, he glowed with all the attention he was receiving and spoke volubly to any reporter who requested an interview. "I'm not wealthy, but I'm rich," he told them.
Gareth was confident of his future. He hinted that a millionaire in Tampa Bay, Florida, had offered to back him financially if he should decide to become a tennis pro. He said he had property in his hometown of Battle Creek, Michigan, which he could always sell for a profit. But Gareth Leifbach's ace in the hole was his plan to become the poster boy for gay liberation. He was prepared to sue the U.S. Army for $3 million to
$5 million because of its discrimination against homosexuals and because it had violated his constitutional rights. He said that he had friends in high places in the gay world. He was only twenty-one, but he was suddenly a man to be reckoned with and he clearly loved the spotlight. He was playing it for all it was worth.
Gareth Leifbach certainly made a compelling spokesman. He was tan and muscular and well spoken. One of his vast legion of admirers was Larry Duerksen. From his apartment in Seattle, Larry watched Gareth on television and read every word printed about him. He admired Gareth tremendously, and he had written to the embattled army private even before Gareth was banished from the service, even though he didn't really expect a response. Larry was thrilled when Gareth wrote back, and the men arranged to meet. They did meet and rapidly became close friends. The tall, almost languid library assistant and the tanned tennis player hit it off better than Larry had ever hoped. When Gareth left to go back to Michigan, Larry dared to believe that Gareth might return to Seattle and that he might even accept Larry's invitation to share his apartment. But that was probably ridiculous. Gareth said he had so many munificent and exciting offers to consider; he just wasn't sure yet about what he would do.
Larry didn't see one disadvantage in being with Gareth. He had always wanted to be the center of attention. By aligning himself with the poster boy for gay rights, he could bask in the reflected glow of Gareth's fame, and he could have a friend and lover whom he could admire and emulate. But, realistically, he had to admit that a millionaire in Florida had a lot more to offer Gareth than he did.
Once Gareth left Seattle, something dark and men
acing entered Larry Duerksen's life. He began to tell friends and co-workers that someone was threatening his life. He repeated the details of disturbing phone calls that came late at night. He had no idea why anyone would single him out, but he was convinced that someone was out to get him.
Larry told a young woman who worked in the library that he had been horrified to find a stained sack lying outside his apartment door. When he peeked in, he gasped. Inside, there was a dead pigeon, its neck wrung. A few days later, he told her about a note slipped under his mat that warned him to be careful. In his letters to Nebraska, he told his relatives that he loved Seattle, but that his enthusiasm for the city was mitigated by the fact that someone was stalking him. He said he had just missed being run over by a car. "It was headed right for me. I was crossing the street on Capitol Hill— but don't worry," he wrote. "The police are checking it out and I've talked with detectives."
No one thought to verify Larry's stories, and he had never reported any incidents or threats to the Seattle Police.
Gradually his reports to his family and co-workers became more and more ominous— and fanciful. People began to suspect that this was all about getting attention. When they compared notes, they found contradictions in his stories. But he was such a likable guy that no one ever confronted him. If it made Larry feel important, they could overlook his outrageous fibbing.
Larry wrote to Gareth during the time Gareth was in Michigan and when he headed west for a short sojourn in San Francisco. No one ever saw those letters, but it would have been like him to tell Gareth about the threats. After all, he had thrown in his lot with Gareth
and was prepared to stand beside him in his upcoming campaign to make the army pay for its injustices. Larry wanted to be important to Gareth. By telling him of the threats that he was receiving, Larry may have hoped to show Gareth that he was willing to face danger and even death, if need be, to prove his loyalty.
The holidays were fast approaching and Gareth Leifbach was still traveling. Larry didn't know if he would ever come back to Seattle.
In November 1979, Larry attended a party. True to form, he began a long, involved story about the perils of his life. People rolled their eyes. His anecdotes were just too weird to be believed. A psychologist whom Larry respected a great deal happened to be at this Thanksgiving party. He listened to Larry's tales, then drew him aside and bluntly asked if his story was true. "You know, you don't have to tell such stories, Larry," the man said gently. "People will like you anyway. They may even like you better if you stick to the truth."
Others at the party noticed that Larry became very quiet, and that was the end of his wild stories, at least for that evening. Chastened, he kept his mouth closed and for once just listened to other people talk.
In the first week of December, to Larry's relief and joy, Gareth Leifbach did come back to Seattle. And he did move in with Larry. For a man with such impressive contacts and grand plans for the future, Gareth had precious few possessions, only a few clothes and his shaving kit. It didn't matter. Larry was more than happy to share his furniture, stereo, and television with Gareth. Things would start to happen soon, and it would be exciting to be on the road with Gareth, to stand beside him as they toured the country on speaking engage
ments. Larry was sure they would be together for a long, long time.
December 14, 1979, was a blustery, rainy day. Final exams were approaching at the University of Washington and the campus was crowded that Friday night; some people were studying in the library, some had night classes, and many were attending Christmas musicals and plays.
A Christmas card rested on Larry Duerksen's mantel. It had been mailed on December 7 by a friend in Santa Barbara. Its sentiments were to prove prophetic, "Dear Larry, How are you? I hope all in one piece. Good Lord, you do attract strange ones! Be careful." It was probably a response to Larry's earlier letters describing the unseen enemies who were out to get him.
Larry was just one of the hundreds of people walking along the diagonal paths of the campus that evening. For once, he didn't tell everyone what his errand was. He confided in only one person.