TRACE EVIDENCE: The Hunt for the I-5 Serial Killer by Bruce Henderson
Authors: Bruce Henderson
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trip with a complete stranger. They also dismissed any possibility that Charmaine had flown to Sudan to find her other children.
Bertocchini went to the Stocktonnightclub where Charmaine and Carmen had spent their last evening together. Employees remembered both women dancing, but didn’t notice anyone eyeing the women from afar or acting suspiciously. When the women left, they had been alone. While two employees—a waitress and security guard—thought the composite of the suspect might be a patron of the club, several other employees, including the longtime bartender, did not remember anyone who looked like that.
At the club, the detective interviewedCarlos Gonzales, the band leader and Carmen’s future son-in-law. He didn’t recognize the face in thecomposite, either, and had nothing to offer.
On a Friday evening—six days after Charmaine’s disappearance—Bertocchini stopped by the Stockton Holiday Inn, where the local chapter of theCivil Air Patrol was meeting to discuss routine flying exercises scheduled for Saturday morning.
The detective addressed the members, many of whom had already heard about the case. He admitted that investigators were stumped. Pinpointing on a map the exact location on I-5 where Charmaine’s car had broken down, he asked if they would undertake an aerial search of northern San Joaquin County and southern Sacramento County the next day, looking for any sign of the dark-colored sports car or the missing woman.
The following morning, two dozen private aircraft lifted off one after the other into a hazy sky fromStockton Municipal Airport, heading for numbered search sectors.
By day’s end, the weary pilots and observers had found absolutely nothing to report.
T WO WEEKS later, along about dusk some 30 miles southeast of Sacramento,Marty Mortin, a twenty-two-year-old Hispanic who worked at Lighthouse Marina in Isleton, a sleepy Delta community of a few hundred residents on the north shore ofBrannan Island, was bird hunting with his trusty black Lab.
Working his way down a seldom-used shoreline road along the San Joaquin River on the deserted south end of the island, Mortin hadn’t even gotten a shot off yet or seen a single bird when his dog froze, head and tail erect.
The Lab bolted seconds later, moving quickly down a dirt levee that dropped to the river. Just before reaching the water, he dove into the heavy brush.
“Amigo!” Mortin hollered to no avail.
It was unlike Amigo to become distracted.
Mortin followed, taking a step or two down the levee. He spotted Amigo on full alert in the thick vegetation 10 feet away.
Mortin brought the powerful pump shotgun to his shoulder and waited. He was too experienced a hunter to fire before he knew what he was shooting at.
Amigo let loose with a confusing combination of whine and deep-throatedgrowl, unlike anything Mortin had heard from the retriever before.
What the hell?
Mortin lowered the gun and took a few tentative steps forward. He saw something on the ground. He stared, incredulous. It was a foot sticking out of the bushes. A human foot.
He took another slow-motion step or two forward, and saw a stiff and discolored hand and arm. The hunter understood at that moment, as a strong stench overtook him, that his dog had tracked a dead body. He immediately pulled the agitated dog by his collar away from the remains.
Back on the road, Mortin slipped a shotgun shell out of his sportsman’s vest and placed it on the ground so as to mark the spot.
With Amigo at his side, he sprinted the 100 yards to where his old pickup was parked. Driving the 3 miles up Jackson Slough Road to Isleton as fast as he dared on his lousy shocks, he banged futilely on the locked door of the one-room police station.
Mortin knew aCalifornia Highway Patrol officer who lived down the street. He hurried to his place, interrupting the family’s late-summer barbecue with the grisly news.
As the CHP officer drove Mortin back to the opposite end of the
Bertocchini went to the Stocktonnightclub where Charmaine and Carmen had spent their last evening together. Employees remembered both women dancing, but didn’t notice anyone eyeing the women from afar or acting suspiciously. When the women left, they had been alone. While two employees—a waitress and security guard—thought the composite of the suspect might be a patron of the club, several other employees, including the longtime bartender, did not remember anyone who looked like that.
At the club, the detective interviewedCarlos Gonzales, the band leader and Carmen’s future son-in-law. He didn’t recognize the face in thecomposite, either, and had nothing to offer.
On a Friday evening—six days after Charmaine’s disappearance—Bertocchini stopped by the Stockton Holiday Inn, where the local chapter of theCivil Air Patrol was meeting to discuss routine flying exercises scheduled for Saturday morning.
The detective addressed the members, many of whom had already heard about the case. He admitted that investigators were stumped. Pinpointing on a map the exact location on I-5 where Charmaine’s car had broken down, he asked if they would undertake an aerial search of northern San Joaquin County and southern Sacramento County the next day, looking for any sign of the dark-colored sports car or the missing woman.
The following morning, two dozen private aircraft lifted off one after the other into a hazy sky fromStockton Municipal Airport, heading for numbered search sectors.
By day’s end, the weary pilots and observers had found absolutely nothing to report.
T WO WEEKS later, along about dusk some 30 miles southeast of Sacramento,Marty Mortin, a twenty-two-year-old Hispanic who worked at Lighthouse Marina in Isleton, a sleepy Delta community of a few hundred residents on the north shore ofBrannan Island, was bird hunting with his trusty black Lab.
Working his way down a seldom-used shoreline road along the San Joaquin River on the deserted south end of the island, Mortin hadn’t even gotten a shot off yet or seen a single bird when his dog froze, head and tail erect.
The Lab bolted seconds later, moving quickly down a dirt levee that dropped to the river. Just before reaching the water, he dove into the heavy brush.
“Amigo!” Mortin hollered to no avail.
It was unlike Amigo to become distracted.
Mortin followed, taking a step or two down the levee. He spotted Amigo on full alert in the thick vegetation 10 feet away.
Mortin brought the powerful pump shotgun to his shoulder and waited. He was too experienced a hunter to fire before he knew what he was shooting at.
Amigo let loose with a confusing combination of whine and deep-throatedgrowl, unlike anything Mortin had heard from the retriever before.
What the hell?
Mortin lowered the gun and took a few tentative steps forward. He saw something on the ground. He stared, incredulous. It was a foot sticking out of the bushes. A human foot.
He took another slow-motion step or two forward, and saw a stiff and discolored hand and arm. The hunter understood at that moment, as a strong stench overtook him, that his dog had tracked a dead body. He immediately pulled the agitated dog by his collar away from the remains.
Back on the road, Mortin slipped a shotgun shell out of his sportsman’s vest and placed it on the ground so as to mark the spot.
With Amigo at his side, he sprinted the 100 yards to where his old pickup was parked. Driving the 3 miles up Jackson Slough Road to Isleton as fast as he dared on his lousy shocks, he banged futilely on the locked door of the one-room police station.
Mortin knew aCalifornia Highway Patrol officer who lived down the street. He hurried to his place, interrupting the family’s late-summer barbecue with the grisly news.
As the CHP officer drove Mortin back to the opposite end of the
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