By Ann Rule
Manhattan occasions Bestseller, Ann Rule’s Crime documents, Vol. 14. merely Ann Rule may provide the razor sharp perception into those riveting instances related to conscienceless killers. during this 14th real Crime dossier, Rule brings her years of schooling and adventure in facing sadistic sociopaths to mild in a suite that proves once more that fact is stranger and extra terrifying than fiction. whereas the crimes portrayed during this interesting quantity are tragic, might be so much terrifying is that not one of the sufferers had any feel of possibility, by no means understanding there have been masterfully disguised killers jogging beside them of their day-by-day lives
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Additional resources for But I Trusted You: And Other True Cases (Ann Rule's Crime Files, Volume 14)
I used my own name. I kept records of my expenses and profits—the things the police are using against me now, to say I’m a crook. But if I was a crook, I wouldn’t have done those things, I wouldn’t have been so open about it. I took other police officers on the boats. That’s not the way a guilty man acts. 7 The arrest did not go as planned. As the police questioned Mrs. Gray, she grew confused about where Kuns and Leasure might be headed after lunch. A. right after eating. The SWAT team, the helicopter, and most of the policemen who initially set up an ambush at the marina then raced off to the Oakland Airport, incorrectly assuming that the crew of the La Vita was about to elude arrest by taking to the air.
They knew the LAPD brass rarely, if ever, chastised subordinates for their sexism, racism, or profanity. 2 Leasure, though, never quite seemed to fit into this environment. He didn’t like to cuss or make racist comments. His computer messages were as bland as strained carrots. He was amiable enough—supportive, helpful, nearly always willing to do a favor for a fellow cop—and he’d laugh at the sophomoric humor, though uncomfortably. Mostly, though, he was either hunkered down at a desk, painstakingly filling in reports, or he was out sick, or on vacation, or he was simply nowhere to be found, out in the field someplace, visiting friends and killing time when he should have been chasing speeders.
The city remained a drab and sleepy bedroom community in the shadow of Los Angeles, three exits and four square miles off the San Bernardino Freeway, a place where suburban homes on wide, grassy lots could still be bought on a workingman’s wage, and where the afternoon smog that steamed off the freeway in hot brown waves still seemed a small price to pay for a slice of the California dream. Most of all, at least in the minds of its citizens, San Gabriel remained a refuge, a place where murder was a curiosity, something that might happen down the road in the big city.