D.A. Horton was still insisting that there would be no action. Woodfield was to be observed, and that was all. Around-the-clock surveillance continued. Randy Woodfield was followed surreptitiously wherever he went. Tempers were unraveling on that second day. When Horton said that he thought he would send all outside detectives home and turn the investigation over to his men and the Oregon State Police, Kominek and Bishop neared their boiling point. What Horton was suggesting was akin to calling a hunting dog out of a fox hunt after he'd finally run his quarry to earth.
"It was our case," Kominek says quietly. "Monty and I had worked it for months, day and night. We had all the information, we were closing in, and we were told to go home and let somebody else take over."
The press had picked up the scent, and they hovered outside the Springfield police offices, which had become the focal point of a circus of black comedy.
The pressure to move was accentuated by the avid interest of the media. Since a news story had appeared in Salem on March 4 saying that Kominek and Holloway were on the way north into Washington State to check out leads there on the I-5 Killer, reporters had not given much weight to the activity in Eugene. But then a reporter who knew him spotted Kominek in Eugene. The Oregon press knew that Dave Kominek headed the I-5 task force. That had to mean that something big was coming down, that possibly police had homed in on the I-5 Killer. Reporters demanded quotes. If the I-5 Killer was in Eugene, they argued, the public had a right to know.
Indeed, the whole case was almost blown when a television news crew unknowingly parked next to Randy's gold Volkswagen in a theater parking lot while he was inside watching a film with one of his girlfriends. Watching police waited, hoping that their suspect wouldn't emerge from the theater, spot the TV crew, and be alerted that he was under surveillance. Officers rushed the reporter and cameraman away, giving rise to more questions from the crew.
If Randy knew that he was the focal point of such a massive investigation, he might destroy every scintilla of physical evidence.
All Randy really knew was that Beaverton police had connected him only tenuously to Julie Reitz. He thought he had carried off that interview rather well. He was a little nervous when he realized that Arden Bates and her son had left the house. He wondered why Arden was gone, but it wasn't a big worry. Arden knew nothing at all about him.
On March 4 the Eugene Register Guard carried a banner headline across the top of the front page: "POLICE HINT OF BREAK IN BANDIT CASE." The paper hit the street at twelve-thirty in the afternoon.
Forced to do something to stall the press, Chief Brian Riley held a news conference.
"The investigation has taken a significant turn today," he said carefully. "But it is not over by any stretch of the imagination. There is a lot of hard work left to be done. No charges have been filed."
That afternoon, the papers and a television anchorman announced to the public — and undoubtedly to the suspect — that police were questioning a man named "Randy."
Reporters tried to find out just who Arden Bates might be and where she might have gone. They found the house on E Street and camped out alongside the surveillance officers, waiting, like everyone else, to see what would happen next. What had begun as a methodical, careful investigation was rapidly turning into a Keystone Kops comedy. The Springfield neighborhood was crawling with reporters, each hoping to find out more about the man named Randy who lived there. Neighbors were being interviewed about what they might know of the occupants of the house at 3622 E Street. They commented cryptically that Arden Bates and her son, Mickey, had lived there. "But they're not there now; nobody knows what happened to them."
Neighbor boys told reporters about the nice guy who lived there, an ex-pro football player whom they all liked. It was hard for the press to contain itself.
Inside his house, Randy Woodfield stayed behind drawn curtains. He called Shelley in New Mexico and told her to come ahead on up to Eugene. He told her nothing about the trouble; he only told her that they would have to live in Portland because his parole officer was hounding him. Joyously she packed her car, rented a trailer, and began the long drive to Oregon. She had not the slightest idea that her best beloved was the focal point of the most massive police investigation in Oregon history.
At noon on the third day, Dave Bishop and Dave Kominek "pulled the plug" on District Attorney Pat Horton.
"It was our case," Kominek recalls. "We said the hell with it, and we moved. The press could sense it. Suddenly everybody was doing something. We told people who would do what and who was going to go where. We couldn't just sit there and watch Randy Woodfield."
The break with Horton was complete, but Kominek felt he had no other choice. Bishop backed him. Van Dyke backed him. Englert backed him.
At a quarter to two on the afternoon of March 5, Dave Kominek came face to face with Randy Woodfield for the first time. He and Ron Griesel of the Eugene Police Department knocked on the door of the house on E Street. Woodfield opened it and ushered the two detectives into the living room. He was calm, and he was polite. He nodded slightly when Kominek told him that his appearance and physical stature matched those of a man they sought.
And indeed Woodfield did resemble the composite in every detail. Kominek was astounded to see this man in person. He thought he could have picked him out of a crowd anytime. The man was muscular, obviously an athlete, and he could have posed for the composites retrieved from all the cases up and down the I-5. The Marion County detective waited for Randy Woodfield to speak.
Woodfield did not seem overtly hostile, but he betrayed anxiety when he demanded to know why the Beaverton detectives had taken his gun-cleaning kit and his athletic adhesive tape. "They took all the rolls I had. I can't understand it; one roll should have been enough."
Was it possible that Randy Woodfield was savvy enough about physical evidence to know that torn edges of tape can be matched absolutely to the roll from which segments have come? Kominek replied that he could not comment on Beaverton's motives.
"I'm probably going to be violated on my parole, and it's not my fault. She told me I had to go back to Portland, and I was going to leave this morning, and then they told me I could go later," Randy complained. "The police are following me around. I think it's the Beaverton guys. The neighbor kid came over and said the police were watching me and they think I'm the I-5 Bandit."
"Did the Beaverton officers look through your house here?" Kominek asked.
"Yes, they did."
"Would you have any objection to our taking a look?"
"No. I'll show you around."
Randy gave Griesel and Kominek a guided tour. He showed them his Green Bay Packers souvenirs, and he bragged about his gold Volkswagen, explaining that it was a limited-edition Super Beetle. "A friend did that damage to the front end. I may sue him, because he wasn't covered by insurance."
"What made you decide to move down to Eugene?" Griesel asked.
"I was trying to find work so I could go on to college at the same time. I've applied for jobs at O'Callahan's, De Frisco's, the Atrium, and the Tavern on the Green. I'm going to get my degree in P.E., and I hope to manage an athletic club — like one that has racquetball, for instance."
The conversation moved along easily now. The detectives could see that Randy was in his element when he talked about sports, and they threw out questions. He brought up the Packers and said he probably should have stayed with basketball instead of football. The three men discussed topics that all men talk about, and Kominek had a little trouble now believing that Randy Woodfield could be the man he had sought for so long. Woodfield certainly looked just like the man they were looking for, but the guy was calm, pleasant, companionable. Could they have zeroed in on the wrong man after all? It would be a long time before Kominek could be sure; he would have to wait until, in this conversation, or the next, or the next, Woodfield either vindicated himself or wove himself a trap.
Kominek asked Randy about his prior arrest record, and R
andy admitted the exposing incidents and the armed robbery that had sent him to prison. And then Randy soberly explained that all of his sexual problems were in the past. "I'll never do that kind of stuff again. I don't have a problem anymore."
Kominek glanced casually around the room. His heart sank when he saw the fresh ashes in the fireplace and the can of lighter fluid on the hearth. "Looks like you had a fire," he remarked.
"No. The landlady's kid plays in the fireplace a lot. He probably left that stuff there. The wood in the garage is so green, we have to use lighter fluid to get it going."
Kominek let it pass. Whatever had gone up in flames, it was too late now — too late unless the lab guys might be able to retrieve something from analysis of the ashes. Probably the fake beard, the hats, the hooded jackets were gone forever. Damn.
"Your landlady's not here?"
Randy shrugged. "I don't know where she is. I haven't seen her in two days. I'm probably going to get evicted. Do you know where she is?"
"I think the Beaverton police have talked to her. They probably know where she is."
"Are you going to violate my parole?"
"I don't know," Kominek said truthfully. "I hear they found a bong or some dope or something when they searched your room."
Randy said nothing. Most men would be sweating buckets by now, but Woodfield continued to be soft-spoken and amiable. When he talked about sports, he took on a kind of glow. He was a likable man. Kominek could see why others — men and women — might be drawn to him. He had somehow expected a rougher, cruder man.
Randy's friendly acquiescence disappeared, however, when Kominek pressed a little harder.
"Randall, would you give us a hair sample — so we could eliminate you as a suspect in the I-5 case?"
"No, I wouldn't do that."
"Would you submit to a polygraph?"
"No."
"Could you account for your whereabouts on certain dates?"
"Only if I could find notes on the dates you might be interested in." Woodfield stood up. "I think I've answered enough of your questions. I can't see what this has to do with me."
Dave Kominek advised Randy Woodfield of his rights under Miranda. "Do you have any questions?"
"No, I understand." Randy signed the Miranda card, but only with his first name. Oddly, considering how much he hated the diminutive of his name, he signed it "Randy."
Kominek asked if Randy had contacted anyone in Salem recently, and he replied that he had a grandmother and an aunt and uncle there, and that he tried to keep in touch with them.
"Have you ever been to Corvallis, Randy?" Griesel asked.
"Never. I don't know anyone in that area."
"Have you ever been to Seattle?"
"No."
"Tacoma?"
"My best friend lives there. He's an assistant professor at Pacific Lutheran University, and the long-distance track coach."
"How long since you've visited him?"
"I can't recall. He came to Portland to visit me."
"How about Albany? Ever stopped for coffee or anything there?"
"No. Don't know anyone there."
"When was the last time you went to Portland?"
"Last weekend. My parents just got back from a tour of Taiwan."
Asked about his female friends, Randy told them about Shelley and about a young woman who worked as a babysitter in Eugene. The conversation about girlfriends eased the tension in the room a little. And then Kominek asked a question that made Woodfield tighten up again.
"When was the last time you were in Redding?"
"Redding? California? I can't really remember. It's been quite a while."
"We understand you made a trip to California. You didn't stop in Redding?"
"I told you I don't remember."
He was lying. Every line in his body said lie. He froze up almost imperceptibly when the towns where major assaults had occurred were mentioned.
Kominek saw Woodfield's unease and deftly switched topics. "You have any other kinds of tape around here?"
"Strong tape — like they use for packages. Strapping tape."
"What kind of hat do you usually wear?"
"I don't wear hats. They smash my Afro down."
"Is that natural curl or a permanent?"
"It's naturally curly." He was lying again. Why? "I'm going to get it cut today because my girlfriend is coming up."
"Have you ever had sex with a girl in this house?" Griesel asked suddenly.
"No. I never had sex with my landlady."
"When was the last time you had sex?"
Randy stared back at Kominek. "That's none of your business. I think I've answered enough questions."
"We're taking you into custody on parole violation," Griesel said, slipping handcuffs on Randy's incongruously slender forearms.
"I expected that. I'm not going anywhere," Woodfield said calmly. "I might as well go with you."
When they headed for the Springfield police station, Dave Kominek's elation at having the prime suspect under arrest was considerably dampened by the memory of the ashes he'd seen in the fireplace on E Street. There had been a lot of ashes; Randy Woodfield could have burned items that might have been pure gold as evidence. Sure, Horton's surveillance tactics had kept Woodfield under constant observation — he hadn't bolted and run — but all the officers in the world watching him could not have stopped him from destroying evidence.
Too late now.
CHAPTER 16
On this, the third day of the intensive investigation in Eugene, Randy Woodfield was placed in an interview room in the Springfield Police Department. The room had a one-way-mirror viewing area, and conversation could be monitored by someone outside the room. Beaverton detectives Dave Bishop and Neal Loper, and Detective Sergeant Randy Martinek of the Benton County Sheriff's Office in Corvallis listened as Kominek and Ron Griesel talked with the tall, curly-haired suspect. Would he say something, betray guilt in some slip of the tongue? He seemed relaxed; if he was not actually enjoying the session with Kominek and Griesel, he was certainly not showing outward tension.
Again Randy Woodfield was advised of his rights under Miranda and asked if he wished to consult an attorney. He did not want an attorney but he asked to call a young woman who could contact his friends. "I want Jennifer to get hold of Shelley. Shelley's on her way up here from New Mexico with a U-Haul trailer."
"What's Jennifer's number? We'll call her and you can talk to her."
Randy shook his head. "She's hard to get hold of. She's a college student."
"You're sure? We'll call anyone you like."
"I can call her later. Ask me what you want to know."
Kominek began. "Randy, we're basically trying to pinpoint where you were on certain dates and times."
"I could give you any information you need to prove I'm innocent if I have to."
"If you're innocent, we could check out those dates and locations to verify your innocence, and that could establish alibis for you. It would help us too; we need this information now to move ahead with our investigation. If we can eliminate you as a suspect, we can keep on going looking for the man we're after," Kominek said.
"I know my parole is going to be violated," Randy said. "I know I'm going back to the joint."
"Whose fault is that?" Griesel asked.
Woodfield winced. "My own. It really doesn't bother me, but it looks like my world is going to be inside for quite a while."
"If you were sure you were going back, why did you wait for us at the house today?" Kominek asked.
"It wouldn't do any good to run, so I just waited for some officer to come and get me."
Randy's reaction was rather flat; he was portraying himself as the poor beleaguered ex-con whose only crime had been moving without notifying his parole officer. He was sorry for himself, but said he assumed that's the way things went for ex-cons.
"Have you been working at all down here, Randy?" Griesel asked.
"Not yet, but I've been looking for a job. And I've been playing basketball."
"What kind of shoes do you wear for basketball?"
Many of the victims had mentioned that their attacker had worn sports shoes, but Kominek made it sound as if it were a throwaway question.
"I like Nike high-tops. My ankles are weak. I had to have special shoes smuggled into the pen. I got in trouble — but they smuggle dope and other junk in, so high-topped basketball shoes aren't really a major crime. Basketball weakened my ankles, and I hurt my knees playing football. Outside of that. I keep in pretty good shape."
"You ever have a vasectomy?" This question seemingly out of left field from Griesel.
"No." Woodfield's muscles tensed. "You going to take my blood today?"
"We might. Do you have any objection to that?"
"I don't want to let you take blood today."
"You ever have gonorrhea, any kind of V.D.?"
"I really screwed up when I got out of the pen — got in a hurry and caught herpes." Woodfield smiled conspiratorially — males talking together about male interests.
Kominek felt a rush. Beth Wilmot had developed herpes nine days after she was attacked. He kept his face bland.
The detectives offered to get some food for Randy, but he said he didn't like jail food.
"We can send out for something."
"No, I don't want to put anyone out."
"You say you play basketball?" Griesel asked. "For what team?"
"Columbia Optical."
"Could you tell us what nights you've played? Have you missed any games?"
"I missed some, but I couldn't tell you specific dates."
"What kind of jobs have you been looking for?"
"Tending bar. I just finished a bartending course in Portland, where I learned to make any kind of drink you might ask for. I hope to tend bar nights so I can go to school."
"You learn how to make a Freddie Fudwarmer?" Griesel asked with a grin. Both of the detectives were holding back, asking ten inane questions for every query on the vital issues. It was agonizingly slow, this process of interrogation, but they could not rush into the heart of what they needed.