"I had just destroyed any chance of getting any more information from him that might explain what happened, or that he would give me the rest of Ronda's possessions," Barb said later. "I said what I felt. Now he knew with no uncertainty that I believed he had killed my daughter."
JUDY AND LARRY SEMANKO spoke quietly to Virginia Ramsey after the service. They didn't want to say too much at such a sad moment, but both of them felt that something was wrong. It was the Semankos--Ron Reynolds's sister and her retired deputy husband--that Jerry Berry was going to talk to. They had gone to Ron Reynolds's home in Toledo at 9 A.M. on the morning Ronda died. "It was chaotic," Larry said. "Ron was making jokes with the men from the school district and wrapping Christmas presents. He'd been out of the Jehovah's Witnesses for some time by then, so he celebrated Christmas. He didn't appear to be grieving at all."
With Jerry Berry's permission, Larry had walked through his brother-in-law's home, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. As a lawman for two decades himself, he had taken a number of courses on homicide investigation, and nothing seemed right.
"For one thing," he recalled, "the first thing I smelled when I walked in that house was freshly washed laundry. Someone had to have washed a load of clothes that morning."
Larry saw that the closet door could not have been shut because Ronda's legs protruded too far over the sill. He saw the lipstick writing on the bathroom mirror and knew it was no suicide note.
As a sheriff's deputy and as a coroner's deputy, Larry Semanko had seen many deceased people. And Ronda's death just didn't add up. He and Judy had decided they had to tell Ronda's family what they thought.
They would also share anything they knew with Jerry Berry.
RONDA'S SECOND SERVICE--a memorial--took place later at a Lutheran church in Spokane, the city where she had grown from a child to a woman. Ron Reynolds didn't attend; David Bell drove over from the coast. Over the years ahead, Barb would come to know he would always be there for her, never faltering or deserting her as she fought for the truth behind Ronda's death. Ronda's "dad," Don Hennings was there, too--standing beside Barb, Gramma Virginia, Skeeter, and Freeman. The church was overflowing with Ronda's friends from the Spokane area. Among those paying their respects were a contingent of Washington State Patrol officers.
Neither Barb nor Gramma Virginia nor Ronda's brother, Freeman, could bring themselves to bury the urn with her ashes. They vowed they would not--not until they had the answers to what had really happened to her. Instead Barb placed the urn in a glass case in her living room where she kept many of Ronda's trophies from the days she was a star equestrian.
Nineteen ninety-eight was over. It had begun with so much hope on Ronda's part, a tentative niggling of doubt for Barb, and, quite possibly, happy expectations for Ron Reynolds. They had made it through the first anniversary of Ronda's marriage to Ron, and her memorial services were over. It was almost harder for Barb, Gramma Virginia, and Freeman now because they had nothing more to do to honor their daughter, granddaughter, and sister. She was gone, and they were just beginning to grasp what "forever" meant.
Barb believed that the new year would surely bring some answers--and possibly an arrest. But, in truth, none of them could have predicted how 1998 had ended.
Nor could anyone say what lay ahead now or how many agonizing years would pass before many secrets would be revealed.
Barb
JERRY BERRY had already pledged--if only to himself--that he would see this case through until the end--until there were answers that fit. He wasn't ready yet to make a promise to Barb Thompson. The poor woman was going through hell, and he didn't want to give his word when he might not be able to deliver.
He didn't know at that point that Barb would not only stay in close touch with him, she would haunt him. She knew in her bones that she had found at least one good man--a man who would find the truth--and she wasn't about to let him go.
Although Berry admired Barb, he had come to dread the sound of his phones ringing. Most of the things he suspected he could not tell her, and he hated to stall or evade the truth. But she was a pretty fair detective herself, and she soon found out all of his phone numbers: office, home, cell, police radio unit.
It wasn't that he minded talking to her, and she often came up with some good leads or paths to take--but he simply could not tell her everything he found out. Any homicide detective has to maintain certain secret things that only a killer knows in order to winnow out the "compulsive confessors" from actual suspects. Nor can they show their hands to anyone who might have guilty knowledge.
"I would get frustrated with Barb Thompson at first," Berry recalled. "And then I'd hide from her because I didn't have anything I could tell her. She memorized all my phone numbers, but I recognized her numbers on my caller ID and I wouldn't answer sometimes."
Berry had married recently--to Susan, who had worked for the Lewis County prosecutor's office until 2003 when she left to further her career in Seattle. Later, after Jerry's mother died, Susan stayed home to care for his disabled brother. Susan had a soft heart, and she frowned at Jerry when he failed to pick up the ringing phone at home. They both knew it was probably Barb Thompson.
"Why don't you talk to her?" Susan demanded. "Don't you feel sorry for her?"
And, of course, he did. But he couldn't give her much information or hope, and he wanted to be sure he didn't mess up this case. It seemed to Berry that he was the only one in the Lewis County Sheriff's Office who wasn't anxious to see a rapid and discreet closure of the Ronda Reynolds case. A final stamp on the suicide conclusion would make it all go away. Berry didn't care how long it took--just as long as they found out who had killed her.
He and other detectives had talked to a number of witnesses who spoke about how upset Ronda was to see her second marriage end within months. All but Berry felt that was adequate motivation for her to kill herself. It would be a convenient end to sweep her death under the rug and forget about it. But as the months went by, gossip multiplied in Lewis County.
There were so many more people who simply could not accept that Ronda would ever be self-destructive. When Berry talked with Mark Liburdi and his current wife, Krista, Mark, particularly, refused to describe Ronda as the kind of woman who would kill herself. They had ended their marriage with some bitterness, but Mark insisted that Ronda had been strong--not a quitter, no matter what.
She had called his house at 10:20 on the night she died. Mark said he'd listened to her talking on his answering machine. His impression was that she sounded as though she was in trouble. But he hadn't picked up his phone to talk with her.
"Was there anything unusual about her voice at that time?" Berry asked.
"I could tell she was upset because her voice wavered or quivered--"
"Something that was familiar to you?"
"Yes. The first thought that came to my mind was she and her current husband were arguing. I had nothing factual to base it on, other than just the tone of voice and I had heard it before."
It didn't occur to Mark Liburdi that Ronda might be afraid--particularly since she was leaving a message for his fiancee, Krista. She evidently wanted to talk about the sale of the McCleary ranch where she and Mark had lived.
"I've seen her at her worst--feeling her worst," Mark offered. "And she never mentioned suicide. Or did anything that would make me think she was even considering it."
The Liburdis were on good terms with Mark's ex-wife. Krista was handling the sale of Mark's mother's house, and their own house in McCleary was on the market. Ronda and Mark's funds were still somewhat entangled. They would split the equity they owned on their ranch. That would take a while--but Ron Reynolds was already asking for it. Krista told Berry that Ronda had told her she had a will that specified that money was to go to Barb. It wasn't much--about $5,000 to $7,000.
But it was complicated enough that they had all needed to retain an attorney to represent them.
"You told me, Krista, that Ron--after
Ronda's death"--Jerry Berry began--"he talked to you a little bit and told you about Ronda being upset on the night before her death--and that he had to leave a doctor's appointment?"
She nodded, explaining that she had called Ronda at 8:19 on Wednesday morning, unaware that Mark's ex-wife had died.
"Ron answered, and told me what happened. I had to call him later in the day, and he started talking about what had happened on Tuesday. He said he was at a doctor's appointment and he had Ronda on the phone, and she was very upset and angry . . . He had to leave his appointment and drive, um, somewhere. He said he got there in forty-five minutes and he kept her on the phone the whole time to make sure she was okay. He said they fought all night and then he said he just couldn't stay up any longer and he fell asleep."
Ron had gone on, telling Krista the story pretty much as he'd told the Lewis County sheriff's men. "He said he looked all over the house for Ronda, and finally found her 'underneath clothes' in the closet," Krista said.
Ron's description, of discovering Ronda's death was void of emotion when he talked to Krista. Jerry Berry noted that each time Ron retold the story, he changed some slight detail--but no one he talked to recalled that he seemed overwhelmed, or even slightly disturbed, by the sudden death of his wife.
RONDA HAD MANY FRIENDS, several of them women involved in law enforcement. Years earlier, fellow female troopers and other women working in the justice system had made pacts to stand up for each other. One female officer in the State Patrol--who graduated from the academy several classes after Ronda--had committed suicide, and they were all shocked and saddened when they heard what she had done. They vowed that none of them would ever do that; they would call each other if they were depressed.
Ronda was one of the most vehement when she struck out about suicide, saying, "Suicide is never the right answer to problems. Life will always get better if you just hang around to see it happen."
No, none of Ronda's friends believed she had killed herself. They all agreed that that wasn't Ronda.
Ronda had taught many cadets and fledgling troopers gun safety and personal safety techniques while she was on the force. If anyone knew how to defend herself, she did. She could take down a man who weighed a hundred pounds more than she did.
But could she fight off two or more men?
Probably not.
ONE FEMALE RECRUIT, Lauren Sund*, who never met Ronda, remembers how she was inspired by Ronda even after she was dead.
Lauren was several years behind Ronda in the Patrol's ladder of employment. Being a cop of any kind had been the last thing in Lauren's mind when she was in her early twenties. In an almost eerie coincidence, she crossed paths with Ron Reynolds. And, in a sense, although the two women never met, Ronda Reynolds was the catalyst who caused Lauren to join the Washington State Patrol.
In late 1998, Lauren Sund was working as a bill collector and she also tracked down the "makers" of nonsufficient-funds checks.
"In Washington state," Lauren explained, "statutes gave collectors the right to make three calls to the debtor's residence and one to his work.
"Ron Reynolds--or someone signing his name--had written checks to a Lewis County grocery store. And they bounced. The total debt was $1,800."
Lauren Sund didn't know who Ron Reynolds was and she had no idea where he worked when she called him in the mid-December 1998. A man answered his home phone and abruptly hung up on her when she stated her reason for phoning him.
The next time she called, the voice that answered sounded like that of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy. Lauren used her acting ability, sounding younger than she was. She pretended that Ron had given her his work number, but she had lost it. The boy, Ron's youngest son, Josh, told her that his father worked at Toledo Elementary School and gave her his phone number.
When she called the school's main number on December 18, 1998, Lauren had never heard of Ronda Reynolds, and had no idea that she had died suddenly two days before. She asked for Ron Reynolds, wondering what his job was at the school. She thought that maybe he was a teacher or the janitor.
There was a pause and then Ron Reynolds came on the line. She was startled to learn that he was the principal. She explained who she was, and asked what plans he had to make good on the $1,800 worth of checks.
"Oh, he was so mad!" Lauren said. "But that phone call was the most chilling I've ever experienced. He told me that his wife had died 'unexpectedly' a few days before, and he'd moved his ex-wife in the same day! He didn't sound as if he was in mourning."
"She--Katie, my ex-wife--wrote those checks," he explained, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. He didn't seem at all angry at his ex-spouse for writing the rubber checks.
Shocked, but trying not to show it, Lauren gave him a week to come up with the money to reimburse the grocery store and pay penalties. He did pay the collection company--she didn't know where he got the money; that wasn't part of her job. Nor did she feel that she had enough to go on yet to report his attitude and statements to the sheriff's office. She did, however, look up the news coverage of the death of Ronda Reynolds.
Lauren Sund found the process of tracking down Ron Reynolds and further investigating the story he told her (all of which turned out to be true) so interesting that she signed up for classes in criminal justice at a nearby community college.
"In 2002, one of my professors wanted us to do a paper with examples of investigations, and I chose the situation with Ronda Reynolds," Lauren recalled. "I didn't know quite where to start, and my professor told me to call the sheriff's office and talk to them about my experience with Ron--what he said to me two days after his wife died. I talked to one of the detectives and he sounded totally bored. He kept saying, 'Umhmm, umhmm,' but I could tell he didn't care. He told me he'd call me, but I knew he wouldn't because he didn't even ask my name or phone number. He just didn't care."
Undeterred by the investigator's attitude, Lauren Sund applied to become a trooper with the Washington State Patrol. She has worked there ever since, and loves her job. And she, like Ronda, has had contact with all kinds of dangerous offenders.
When she learned some years later that Barb Thompson was seeking information about Ronda's death, Lauren contacted her and offered to do whatever she could do to solve what she believed to be Ronda's murder. Even though the Lewis County detective had shown no interest in her information, Lauren hadn't forgotten Ronda and the cavalier attitude of her widower.
BARB WAS MOVING in a whole new world, one that had pitfalls, detours, and resistance from the people she had believed would help her find out the truth.
But she had faced almost impossible odds before in her life, and she would meet whatever anyone threw at her.
BARB THOMPSON had dealt with every challenge that life brought to her, and, until now, she had survived. Sometimes she even thrived. But Ronda's violent death brought her to her knees.
Barb was a caretaker, a woman who forgave many who didn't really deserve it. She was born on May 4, 1945, just as World War II was ending. Her family was living in San Diego then. She was the last of three children; her sister was several years older, and her brother, Bill, was two years older than she was.
"I was my father's spoiled little darling," she says ruefully. "He was absolutely wonderful to my sister, and especially to me. My brother didn't fare so well. Like my mother, he was the brunt of my father's abuse."
Warren Ramsey was not quite half Cherokee Indian and he was an alcoholic. Virginia Ramsey, Barb's mother, suffered both physical and verbal abuse from him, and she and the children moved constantly, whenever he wanted to. From San Diego they moved to Oregon, Nebraska, Illinois, and finally to Utah. Barb attended several different schools between Salt Lake City and Murray, Utah.
When she was three, they lived on a farm in Oregon, and her father worked at a brick factory. They raised leghorn chickens for their eggs and meat, and they also raised rabbits.
Their living conditions offered few luxuries. Barb
and her sister dreaded going to the outhouse because they had to get past a goose, "a mean old gander" that nipped at them. Warren often made her brother catch the goose by the neck and hold him whenever the girls had to go down the path. Barb knew that if her brother Bill didn't catch the wicked gander, her father would take his leather belt to Bill.
"One day, after Bill had to catch that old gander about five times, my brother had had enough," she recalls. "I got about halfway to the outhouse and Bill turned him loose. The gander got me. He didn't really hurt me, but he pecked me good and beat me with his wings. When I told my dad--because I was his spoiled little princess--he took his belt to my brother unmercifully."
She vowed never, ever, to do anything or tattle about anything that would cause their father to do that again to Bill. She loved her brother a lot, and she didn't want to see him hurt so badly again.
They moved into town and her father found a job driving dump trucks. Although she was still a little girl, she remembers seeing her mother sitting in her bedroom crying as she tried to soak toast in milk so she could eat it.
"My dad had beaten her, too," Barb recalls. "Her face and mouth were so swollen and black and blue that she could hardly talk--much less eat."
Little Barbara was rapidly growing a social conscience, and she designated herself as the protector of her family. One night, her father came in the kitchen angry because he had found a cigarette butt in the coal shed.
"Which one of you has been smoking?" he demanded.
Barb knew it wasn't her or her brother. She suspected it might have been her sister--or even a neighbor boy who was older. But her father's belt came off and he began to beat them all.
"He barely tapped me; he was maybe a little harder on my sister--but he was brutal to my brother. I knew he wasn't the smoker, but I couldn't bear to watch Bill get spanked, so I confessed, knowing Dad wouldn't punish me. He didn't. I got away with everything and got anything I wanted--if we could afford it, which wasn't often."