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molesting his stepchildren. It was that charge that had placed him in
the Marion County Jail. When the two Salem detectives talked with the
inmate to whom Miller had originally confessed, they got a broader
picture of the intricacy of his fantasies. Ivan Miller had bragged that
after Kay Owens' murder he had been consumed with the idea of having sex
with another woman who was unconscious. "He said he never wanted to
kill anyone again, " the informant said, "but that he wanted to find
some way to drug a woman instead of having her awake when he had sex
with her." The physical evidence in the Owens caseas meager as it wa
shad been held for seven years in a secure locker in the Salem Police
Department. Now, Oregon State Police criminalists found matches with the
hair samples and isolated Ivan Miller's blood type in the semen he left
Kay Owens' death had been explained, solved. Had it not been for Ivan
Miller's conscience, it might have remained a tragic mystery forever.
The killer didn't know his victim, he left no evidence that could be
traced to him. There was no way that a connection could have been made
between a beautiful, vibrant woman and the disturbed teenager whose
chief preoccupation was voyeurism. It was the kind of case that every
homicide detective dreads. Miller told his cellmates that Kay Owens was
the kind of woman he'd always dreamed of having, and the only way he
could possess her was to kill her. Sadly, her seemingly irrational fear
that someone was watching her and waiting for her had been all too
accurate. Ivan Miller had been a voyeur for half his life since he was
twelve. It is a common misconception that window peepers and exposers
are not dangerous. In truth, many murderers begin with just that kind of
aberrant behavior and escalate to far more dangerous assaults.
Ivan Miller is a prime example of the dread progression of violent
sexual behavior. During the summer of 1978, Ivan Miller pleaded
guilty to second-degree murder and was sentenced to twenty-five years in
the Oregon State Penitentiary. But prison sentences are rarely finite
numbers and even life sentences seldom mean life. Ivan Miller was
released from prison in 1990 at the age of thirty-six and remains free
at this writing. 46The GWho Fell in Love with Her Killer Almost
everyone has someone who cares about them, looks after them, and even
loves them. So it may be almost impossible to comprehend the
overwhelming need of the victim in this case simply to have someone
notice her. She was so needy that she was willing to forego love and
concern. She had taken care of herself since she was a child, and she
thought she knew how to survive. But she ached for someone who would pay
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attention to her and reassure her that she wasn't invisible.
Attention, however, can be both positive and negative, and psychological
studies show that human beings do better with even negative attention
than they do living in a vacuum. The teenager in this case had set off
on a desperate journey to find the man whom she believed to be her
father. Her mother didn't want her, she barely knew the man who had long
since deserted his family. She was young, and she had led a sad life
thus far. But she had a dream and she was willing to risk being cold and
hungry and lost to make it come true, she was going to find her father.
Unfortunately, when she met someone who noticed her during her fruitless
search, he gave her the worst kind of attention. She was so hungry for
any crumb of notice that she was perhaps the most psychologically
vulnerable victim that I have ever written about.
It was bitterly cold in Granite Falls, Washington, on Wednesday evening,
November 7, 1973. Snow had already begun to fall in the mountain
foothills, and soon sleet would whip the barren stretches of frozen
farmland of Snohomish County. The frail girl seemed unaware of the cold
as she clambered up from the ditch where she had regained consciousness.
Her head hurt and she felt dizzy, but she remembered now what had
happened to her, and she knew she dare not give in to her impulse to
huddle on the ground until she felt better. He might be coming back for
her. She felt the blood strangely warm and metallic tastingas it coursed
down her face. She didn't know where she was, but she knew she had to
get help. She forced herself to crawl up the muddy embankment, losing
one shoe in the process. There was nothing up above but thick brush and
blackberry vines, and she ran in circles trying to find a way out.
Thorns snagged her clothes and scratched her arms and face. Every so
often, she stopped and listened for a sound that might rise above the
steady wind. His hopped-up car had a loud muffler, and she thought she
would be able to hear it if he came back to see if she was really dead.
Finally, she found a dirt road. Far off in the distance, she could see
the lights of a farmhouse. Sobbing, she headed in that direction. Her
head felt as if it wasn't even part of her body anymore but a balloon
full of air, and she wondered if she would make it. She couldn't stop to
rest. He had wanted to kill her.
She remembered his eyes looking at her over the gun as if she was a
rabbit in a trap. All of her begging and pleading had fallen on deaf
ears. The last thing she remembered was a loud boom. She tried to focus
on the lights ahead, but they blended into a blur of red as blood
continued to pour from her head. It was a minute after 9,00 P. M. on [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]