The Bundy Murders: A Comprehensive History (4 page)

And finally, the degree of fear which gripped the people of Washington State can't be overstated as they realized they were dealing with an efficient killer of young women who understood how to fly under the radar of law enforcement. It would be a long time before this force of destruction would finally wear a face, so it is my hope that by allowing Theodore Bundy to recede from your minds for a moment and enter again that shadowy world of secrecy, you too might be able to get a glimpse of the terror that was a daily experience for those forced to walk through it.

Louisville, Kentucky

Fall 2009

1

A TIME OF TERROR

The hunter had long ago embraced the night. He felt comfortable in the darkness, for it provided him with a cover for his nocturnal activities. But now was the start of a new life for him, where the encumbrances of the past were finally fading away, allowing him to become what he had felt about himself for a very long time. What was happening to him was in many ways like a death and resurrection, for once the decision was made to cross the barrier from fantasy to reality, the metamorphosis was complete. Like the vampire of fiction, where the individual is forever transformed from the normal human into a diabolical creature which ultimately must be destroyed, so too his transformation would also be permanent and have the same end. And while it would be some time before he would stage some of the more spectacular daylight attacks which would surprise investigators and rattle an already fearful public, by the dawn of 1974, Theodore Robert Bundy had transformed himself into the perfect killing machine.

On January 31,1974, twenty-one-year-old Lynda Ann Healy was approaching graduation and thinking about her future. A senior at the University of Washington at Seattle, she was majoring in psychology and was strongly considering a career in teaching, with an emphasis on working with mentallychallenged children. She had wanted a career in music but had recently decided against it.

Having grown up in the suburbs of Seattle, Lynda was comfortable with her surroundings and was apparently quite happy with her life. Indeed, the life she lived was a full one, what with school and a part-time early morning job as a ski report announcer for Northwest Ski Promotions. Add to this a circle of friends at the ready whenever she wanted to grab a beer and dinner at one of the nearby haunts frequented by scores of other young people. It was a life that, for the most part, was identical to the lives of hundreds of thousands of other college kids scattered across the county who were preparing for their futures as well. Where they differed was that Lynda Ann Healy had very little future remaining to her.

For most of her time at UW, Lynda had lived in the school dormitory, but several months prior to this she and four friends, Joanne Testa, Ginger Heath, Karen Skaviem, and Monica Sutherland, rented an old house in the University District at 5517 12th Street N.E., where she and Karen each maintained a small bedroom in the basement separated only by a partition of plywood. Living in such close proximity to your neighbor with little more between you than this meant that even the most minor of noises, no matter how embarrassing, might be transmitted. Even so, it was the kind of existence tailor-made for young people, and despite the routine complaining about the lack of money, amenities, or sleep, most will tell you today how much they loved it, for it was their first real step into adulthood.

The U District, as it is known by the locals, is quite similar to other gracefully aging neighborhoods across the land which, over time, become inhabited and revered by the hordes of students who attend the nearby innercity schools. Filled with taverns and shops, the U is the in place to live, and for the years they are there, it is nothing less than the center of the universe. It could also be, due to the ever-present footprint of humanity, a place of sudden and unexpected danger.

Sometime after 2:00 A.M. on the morning of January 4, 1974, twentyone-year-old Terri Caldwell (a pseudonym) stopped watching television and retired to her room in the basement of a house she shared with three men at 4325 Eighth Ave. N.E. in the U District. According to published reports, there was a window on the north side of the house which, if it had no curtains or if the curtains were pulled back, would allow visual access into her room. Additionally, it was later acknowledged that the door on the south side of the house was always left unlocked.

At approximately 2:30 P.M., one of the young men peeked into her room, but, believing she was still sleeping, did not disturb her. However, when she was found still in bed at 7:30 that evening, they hurried to her side, and, pulling back the covers, discovered she had been savagely beaten about the head, was quite bloody, and appeared near death. Reveling in his sadism, her attacker had also rammed a stainless steel medical device known as a speculum into her vagina. As he departed, it is likely he believed he'd killed the girl. She would, in fact, remain in a coma for ten days and be hospitalized for at least thirty, but would survive. By car, the distance between Lynda Healy's basement apartment and Caldwell's below-ground quarters can be traversed in only a matter of minutes.

On the last evening of her life, Lynda Healy made dinner for everyone, and later she, Joanne, Ginger, and a friend by the name of Pete Neil walked to Dante's, a popular night-spot for the college crowd that caters to the same even today. According to statements given later to police, the four sat at a table upstairs, with Lynda buying the first pitcher of beer. The conversation was light and routine; music, psychology and old friends were discussed. They group kept to themselves, although at one point Pete walked over to a large table nearby where a game of dice was being played, but returned minutes later. Everyone noticed what a good mood Lynda was in. The stomach cramps which had been pestering her the week before and for which she had made an appointment with her doctor had now disappeared. Pete, who had purchased a second pitcher for the thirsty crew, said he needed to be leaving soon to catch the 9:41 bus back to his place, and so, after the last drop of brew was consumed, they began the short walk back to the rooming house.'

Happy and with a bright future ahead of her, Lynda Ann Healy would be taken from her bed by Theodore Bundy in the middle of the night. Hers was, perhaps, the first homicide he committed (courtesy King County Archives).

It was now between 9:20 and 9:30 P.M. Joanne Testa would later write: "I do not recall anyone following us or approaching us on our way home."2 Of course, she would not have had reason to believe anyone was watching them. There was in fact no reason for anyone to suspect anything out of the ordinary. Even so, it is possible someone had noticed them at the tavern; a tavern he had been to on many occasions. Watching the beer being poured, perhaps picking up on some of their laughter, the stalker might successfully conceal his actions by keeping a safe distance from his unsuspecting and slightly intoxicated prey. By chance or by a detailed plan, an opportunity (as he saw it) was presenting itself. If not from Dante's, he would come from another direction with a determination to complete his work this time. There would be no mistakes like the Caldwell girl. He would see to that.

Once they returned home, Pete quickly gathered up his record albums and took off to catch the 9:41. Several minutes later, just as Lynda and some of her roommates had settled down in front of the television, Ginger Heath's brother and a friend stopped by and joined them in front of the TV. Within minutes of this, Lynda left the room to make a telephone call to her boyfriend, and she stayed on the phone about an hour. While not everyone had returned home for the evening, activities in the house were slowly beginning to wind down. Even so, before retiring to bed, Lynda went into Joanne Testa's room to chat for just a little while longer. Again Testa said that Lynda's mood was good, their conversation was "light": they spoke about Dante's and Joanne's boyfriend back in Phoenix. "She gave no indication of stress [either] physical or mental and [gave] no indication of leaving."3 Indeed, the entire house was aware she was having her mom, dad, and boyfriend over for dinner the following evening and was looking forward to it. After their talk, Lynda said goodnight and walked downstairs to her room.

The steps leading down to Lynda Healy's apartment in the basement of the rooming house she shared with other University of Washington coeds (courtesy King County Archives).

In an odd foreshadowing of events, it has been reported that one of the young women saw a "shadow" that night which "moved" just outside a window on the side of the house, but apparently thought little else about it.' Her almost immediate dismissal of this as a threat - a Peeping Tom or something more sinister - is understandable. As humans, we want to believe the threat is not real, that things are really okay, we want to believe there is no bogeyman or that our eyes are merely playing tricks on us. To her horror, how ever, the validity of her initial apprehension would be made all too real the following day.

Karen Skaviem, who had spent that evening studying at the library before going out with her boyfriend for drinks, returned home about midnight and noticed "a single living room light was on."' Entering the house she saw light coming from Joanne Testa's room and she, too, decided to visit for awhile. Around 12:45 A.M., the two women ended their conversation and Karen walked downstairs to her room. As she descended the steps, she didn't stop to see if the door leading from the basement to the outside was locked. This door was key-unlocked from the inside only, and used primarily by Lynda and some of the others when they wanted to ride their bicycles. For Lynda this was an almost daily occurrence, as the bike was her main mode of transportation. Yet it was the front door they should have been concerned about. Unfortunately, the keys to this door had been lost by some of the current residents and replacement keys were due to be made, but until then, the door was left mostly unlocked as a courtesy to those coming in late at night. This would prove to be a fatal mistake, for a killer of young women, long before anyone had gone to bed that evening, would place his hand on the doorknob and turn it ever so gently until the door gave way and he was free to enter the house, something he chose not to do. No, he reasoned, he could return later when everyone was in a deep sleep and explore the dwelling at that time.'

The only light left burning in the basement was in the storage area, and as Karen passed through it, she could see Lynda's room was dark and assumed (probably correctly) that she was sleeping. Karen would later tell police that she had trouble falling asleep, but believed it was somewhere around 1:30 in the morning when she finally drifted off. She would hear nothing unusual during the night.

At 5:30 A.M., Karen was awakened by Lynda's alarm but remained in bed until her clock started buzzing at 6. "I got up," she remembered. "Lynda's alarm was still going. I went past her room and heard the radio but thought she was lying in bed listening to it [and] didn't have to work. At 6:30 the phone rang ... it was Northwest Ski Promotions asking why Lynda wasn't at work. I went to her room and called her. When she didn't answer I turned the light on and went in. Her radio was still going and her bed was made, perfectly. I was concerned she hadn't slept in it because there were no wrinkles and the spread was neatly tucked under the pillow."' Not only was her bed made differently than Lynda would make it (a fact that was later noticed with surprise by all her roommates), but it was not her custom to make the bed at all, not on those weekday mornings when she barely had enough time to get herself ready and be at the radio station by 6:30 A.M.