James Neff - Unfinished Murder: The Pursuit of a Serial Rapist

Unfinished Murder

The Pursuit of a Serial Rapist

James Neff

For the survivors

Note

Many of the rape survivors of Ronnie Shelton wanted me to use their real names in this book, saying they had nothing to be ashamed of. Other survivors (and two of Sheltons former girlfriends) wanted their privacy protected; to them I assigned pseudonyms, which are footnoted in the text at first reference.

Every other detail in this book is true, based on more than one hundred and fifty interviews. Among those interviewed were most of the rape suriviors, their spouses, boyfriends, and family members. Four women had kept journals before or after being raped and shared them with me. In addition, prosecutor Tim McGinty and defense lawyer Jerry Milano cooperated fully; they let me read their trial notes and files. Maria Shelton showed me the diary she kept during the trial and allowed me full access to her brothers papers and memorabilia. Ronnie Shelton gave me a series of signed releases, which I used to pry lose school, medical, psychiatric, juvenile, and nearly every other private and public record pertaining to his life. In all I compiled a seven-foot stack of records, including jail visiting logs, emergency room records, nurses notes, IQ tests, probation reports, incident reports, confessions, victim statements, letters, photographs, psychiatric evaluations, trial transcripts, even grade school report cards.

With these records and interviews I was able to reconstruct key scenes and conversations, taking into account individual speech patterns, which made the direct quotes more accurate than anything paraphrasing could ever accomplish.

Neither Ronnie Shelton nor anyone else in this book was paid for their cooperation.

Thin Ice

Mommy Im sorry

I know Im your baby

Im not what you wanted, Dad

I could never amount to anything

I may look normal

but look harder (somethings wrong)

Cant you see it?

I live my life on thin ice

Someday I know the ice will break

but when?

Ronnie Shelton

Cleveland, Ohio

April 13, 1983

He turned back the covers and sat for a moment on the edge of a well-pounded mattress.

The young woman beside him stirred under the rumpled sheets. Whatre you doing? she asked sleepily.

It was four in the morning. From the corner of his eye he watched her stretch, her toned muscles loose and relaxed from a night of lovemaking. He had gone out of his way to satisfy her and could tell from her responses that her previous lovers had not been very skilled in bed.

He lighted a cigarette and pulled black jeans over his slim hips.

Come back here, she said. I need you. She was blond, nineteen, with the look of a soap opera nymphet.

Gotta get some air. Ill be back. He knew she was annoyed at being turned down, but fuck it. He believed in playing hard to get. In his experience it made the girls want him all the more.

Besides, he had things to do before daybreak.

In the predawn dark he drove his car down West 117th Street, Clevelands most heavily traveled thoroughfare. He welcomed the sprinkling of traffic; it made him less conspicuous.

He told himself he was driving aimlessly, but in fact he was drawn to a block on Marne Avenue, a narrow residential street of identical bungalows.

He parked one street away and sat for a minute. He retrieved a handgun from under the front seat, tucked it in his waist, and pulled on a yellow baseball cap. He left the car and slipped down a driveway into the backyards of a group of one-story frame houses. Light-headed, staying close to shadows cast by trees against streetlights, he crept toward one of the houses.

Once there he crouched near a rear window, his mind ablaze. He had seen her before through this lighted window, tall, slim, with a strong chin and cheekbones, blond-streaked brown hair down to her shoulders. He had watched her long enough to know her patterns and those of her housemates. Now he imagined her in her bed, sleeping on her back, naked, her breasts spread across her chest. He decided to go in.

Until this moment, it had been a typical week night for Kathy Bond. She waitressed until ten at Caseys Family Restaurant on West 117th, made about $30 in tipsmore than the other waitresses, as usualand hurried home. Her roommate, Michelle, who was divorced and owned the tiny house, had to leave soon for her midnight shift at Tonys Diner. Kathy was going to watch Michelles six-year-old daughter and four-year-old son.

Kathy wanted to get married and have children someday. Over the past six months she had become close to Michelles kids and loved them as if they were her own. Tonight both were asleep when she arrivedMichael in the lower bunk in the childrens bedroom, and Missy, as was usual lately, in Kathys double bed.

After Michelle left for work, Kathy drank a beer in front of the TV, stripped to panties and a T-shirt, then moved Missy to one side of the double bed and climbed in. She fell asleep quickly and woke only when Missy began crying that her leg was asleep. Half-asleep, Kathy carried the child to her mothers bed, where a heating pad was plugged in. She tucked in the girl, kissed her softly, and turned on the pad. Missy had only recently started complaining about her leg, and Kathy wondered whether the heating pad really helped or if Missy was simply comforted by the attention.

Kathy had been back in her own bed for a few minutes when she heard the kitchen window rattle. She listened for a minute. Silence. Must be the wind, she decided as she drifted off.

He had pulled off the screen and jimmied the window as quietly as he could. He climbed inside and froze for a minute, listening in case anyone had heard him. All right, he thought, not a peep.

This was his favorite part. The buildup. He was inside and no one knew. He took his time, wanting to figure out her life, studying the furniture and decorations and dishes in the sink. He wanted to connect with this woman he had never met.

He tiptoed to the narrow hallway, his brain awash in pleasure. She would wake up, her eyes wide, terrified, and beg him not to hurt her. She would do what he saidthey always did. And she could not hurt him or his feelings, not in any way.

He checked a bedroom and saw bunk beds with rumpled covers. Kids. Good, he thought. That would make things easier. He found a little girl in another bed in another room. Then he crept into the womans bedroom and watched her sleep, her breathing quiet, her hair fanned on the pillow like flower petals.

Blood flooded his groin, tightening his crotch. He picked up the purse from the dresser and delicately rummaged for money. He found her tip money in a cigarette case, which also held an empty pack and her drivers license. He turned the laminated license to catch a sliver of light from the window: Kathleen Bond, twenty years old, five-foot-eight, 124 pounds. Great face, he observed.

He pulled out the gun and moved in. Kathy, he said softly. Kathy.

She opened her eyes and an icy terror constricted her chest. She heard herself scream.

A hand was clamped over her mouth and a gun thrust in her face. Do what I say, a voice said softly, and the kids wont get hurt. Dont look at me.

The house was silent. Kathy nodded that she understood. She felt as if she was about to vomit.

Take off your clothes.

Trembling, her skin prickling, afraid she had only seconds left to live, she stripped. Suddenly she thought of the little girl, forgetting she had moved her. Wheres Missy? Whatve you done to her? She started to look up.