Blood Secrets: Chronicles of a Crime Scene Reconstructionist by Ann Rule

charming, and a shoo-in to become the next chief of police. He had a happy marriage and three adorable daughters, but then he fell for another cop’s ex-wife. Rumors started flitting around the office like gnats that Doug was sneaking off to meet her every night while he was supposed to be commander in charge of the shift.
    Furious, the deputy chief staged a stakeout. Sure enough, he saw Doug stroll out the woman’s front door in his uniform pants and aT-shirt to pick up the newspaper—all while he was supposed to be on duty. When Doug got back to the station at three A.M. , the deputy chief told him, “I’ve got two pieces of paper. One is your resignation. The other is your termination. Choose.”
    Doug refused to sign either form. He called me in Oregon, begging for help, so I testified on his behalf at a city council arbitration hearing. I told them we had worked together closely and Doug was a good cop, honest and hardworking. His brother Stan* was a heroin dealer, and I knew Doug was determined to carve out a different path.
    But Doug got fired anyway. Out of loyalty and concern for his wife and daughters, I got him a job with the Beaverton Police Department in 1979. His family moved in with ours for three months and then finally bought a little farm six miles from mine. We got together often, just as we had done in Downey.
    One weekend while Doug and I were barbecuing as our kids played in the yard, he told me he had landed part-time security work for a diamond dealer. Working overtime to support his wife and kids sounded like a good move to me. But several months later, I was getting ready to go elk hunting with friends early one morning when an article in the newspaper caught my eye:
    “A spokesperson for the Seattle police department says that shortly before 5 p.m. yesterday a diamond dealer was approached by three men while exiting a Seattle jewelry store. They robbed him of a briefcase containing a large dollar value of diamonds and cash. The suspects, who escaped on foot, are described as three Caucasian males in their late thirties. . . .”
    I read on, more and more convinced that the perpetrators were Doug, Stan, and an ex-con pal of Stan’s named Robbie, * whom I had met once back in Downey. Before I left the house, I called the FBI.
    As soon as I got back from my hunting trip, I confronted Doug. “Iread about that robbery,” I told him as we sat parked in his Volkswagen. “I know you’re involved.” When he opened his mouth to protest, I cut him off. “I don’t wanna know. I’m not gonna testify, but you should know I called the FBI.”
    His silence told me more than a confession. When an undercover FBI agent managed to buy some of the lost diamonds from Stan a few days later, my fears were confirmed.
    All three men were arrested and charged, but Doug, with his irrepressible charm, won over the jury and beat the rap. Unfortunately, during the two days he spent in jail before making bail, his cellmate slipped him a phone number for his sister. “You gotta meet Trish*,” the guy said.
    For reasons I’ll never fathom, Doug did. He left his long-suffering wife and moved in with the woman, who was a con and a dealer just like her brother. After that, we all gave up on Doug.
    In 1980, less than a year after what was supposed to be Doug’s new start, I got a call at three A.M. from Larry Stephens, a friend of mine with Oregon’s Salem Police Department. “Rod, I’ve got some bad news,” he said. “We had a shooting to night. We’ve got two people in custody, and Doug Vanderson’s the victim.”
    I sat on the edge of my bed, speechless, remembering the under-cover operations Larry, Doug, and I had worked before Doug’s life came apart—before he traded his wife and daughters for a dope-dealing girlfriend. Apparently, Doug was at Trish’s house when several of her “clients” showed up with loaded guns, knowing she kept drugs and cash lying around. Doug heard them crash through the front