MORNING OF FEAR AND TERROR

It was about six thirty in the morning when my husband, Bill, left for work and my three-year-old son, Paul, climbed into bed with me. I heard the garage door close and then saw a light flashing down the hall. My first thoughts were, What has Bill forgotten? Why the light? Why is he running? My questions were answered immediately when I looked up and saw a ski-masked man with a large butcher knife shining a light in my face. I started to scream while the intruder put his knife to my chest, making some small cuts in my skin. Then, in a muffled voice, through clenched teeth, he said, "Shut up, or I will kill you! I just want your money."

Okay, I thought, maybe he just wants to rob me and be out of here. I knew he was lying about just wanting money when his next step was to tightly tie both our hands and feet with shoelaces, gagging my son and me with cloths, and also blindfolding us. Paralyzed with fear, I felt my heart racing so fast that I thought it would explode straight through my chest. Here we were, completely defenseless, completely vulnerable, and utterly terrified. My precious son, Paul, was lying next to me. What was the intruder going to do next? Was he going to rape me or maybe kill us? I did not have the strength or opportunity to overcome him. He had the power, and he had the control. We were at his mercy, totally his victims with no way to defend ourselves. Before tying us, he ripped sheets in a quiet, ritualistic manner. Why was he so quiet? What was he thinking? What was he planning? I heard him rummaging through my dresser drawers. He would leave the room and then return. What was this SOB after? What did he want from us? These questions were soon answered. As he started untying my feet, I knew he was after more than money. Before he got on top of me, I slid over to touch Paul, but he was gone.

Oh my God! What has he done with my son? Where is Paul? Has the intruder hurt him too? Is Paul still alive? I thought maybe Paul was moved back to his bedroom so the rapist would have more room to maneuver on the bed while he raped me.

When I tried to speak through my gagged mouth, the rapist again repeated, "Shut up, or I will kill you." Due to my overwhelming fear and state of shock, I do not remember much about the rape. I do not recall if he climaxed, but I do remember that he had a small penis. Afterward, the rapist brought my son back into the bedroom with me and threatened to kill us if he heard a sound. The rapist then proceeded to the kitchen where I could hear the refrigerator door being opened and the rattling of pots and pans. Was he really going to eat something now? How sick!

After lying there for what seemed like hours, I spit the cloth out of my mouth and pulled the blindfold down with my tongue. I could see the light coming through the blinds. I did not hear any more noise in the kitchen, and I knew I had to get up. I was too scared to make a move, as the rapist could reappear and perhaps follow through on his earlier threat to kill us or to rape me again. I woke up Paul, who was sound asleep, and told him to be quiet and follow me, not knowing what to expect around the corner. We hobbled down the hall, ankles still tied, and around to the back sliding glass door. We could not exit through the front door, as the rapist had propped up a kitchen chair under the door handle. We circled the house, and as we reached the side gate, I screamed for help at the top of my lungs. A neighbor came quickly. She took us into her house, called the police, and called my husband at work. Male officers arrived quickly and started to ask me a million questions, none of which I was ready to answer. I was still in shock. I thought to myself, Was this just a bad dream? Was I really just raped? Oh my God, you saved us. We're okay; we're alive.

In answering a few of the officers' questions, I was able to tell them about the rapist wearing a black ski mask, holding a knife to my throat, and wearing a black or brown leather jacket and black high-top sneakers. I did not like talking to the officers. They were men, and a man had just raped me. Finally, after answering a slew of questions, a kind, pretty female detective by the name of Carol Daly arrived and took me to an emergency room in Sacramento, California. Another nightmare was about to begin. Carol stayed with me about an hour, and then I was left alone. It seemed like hours before I was taken into a room to be examined. As I sat there looking torn and battered, people stared at me like I was some kind of freak. My hair was a matted mess, and my face was streaked with tears. Blood could be seen through my top garment where the rapist had scraped my chest with his knife. I was all alone and waiting. I did not have the comfort of having a counselor from the Rape Crisis Center by my side.

After a few hours, I was taken to the exam room where a male doctor was ready to start my exam. He must have thought I was nuts. One minute, I was crying hysterically, and the next minute, I was smiling, happy and overwhelmed with joy. He did not realize that my emotions ran from the horror of just being raped and almost killed to being so grateful that my son and I were both alive. Having a male doctor do the exam was not much fun, as I hated all men now—and the doctor was one of them. After the humiliating exam, I had to endure a painful shot of penicillin. Could this pervert possibly have a venereal disease? Then I had to take the morning-after pill. Oh, yes. After all, I could get pregnant.

As much as I disliked being in the emergency room, I was not in a hurry to return home. I hated it now and did not want to go there. My home was supposed to be my safe haven. Instead, it was a place where I had just been physically, emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually violated. Would I be safe? Would he return?

WHO WAS IT WHO RAPED ME?

The East Area Rapist (EAR) has been referred to as the following: the most prolific serial rapist in California's history; a methodical killer; the worst sexual predator in California's history; evil; a monster; the original night stalker; a skilled burglar; a sex pervert; a sexual psychopath; someone in a homosexual panic; a paranoid schizophrenic; a crafty, ingenious, psychotic, sexual deviant; a sociopath; and a rapist-turned-killer.

In her Los Angeles Magazine article, "In the Footsteps of a Killer," March 2013, writer Michelle McNamara describes the EAR as "the most violent serial criminal in American history."

Even if he is caught, he will never go on trial for the rapes he committed because the time limit for arresting him—the statute of limitations—has long since expired. However, murder has no time limit, so he could be arrested, charged, and spend the rest of his life in prison. I thought about writing this book thirty-eight years ago. Who Was It Who...