Libia Cabrera’s Last Day in Manhattan Beach

Libia Cabrera

(Manhattan Beach, CA) On April 11, 2005 Libia Cabrera was cleaning her employers’ Manhattan Beach home.  She’d cleaned it before, and assumed she’d be cleaning it again in a week’s time.  She was wrong.  The duster she was sweeping across a window sill froze in place as Libia heard breaking glass towards the back of the house.  She rushed to the back in time to see Milton Gallardo opening the door, his arm wrapped around the window frame. Gallardo’s brief look of surprise transform into one of hunger, and she ran towards the phone.  She could hear his footsteps chasing her, their rhythm quick and percussive.  The chase was ended with her face slammed down hard against the floor, Gallardo’s weight pinning her to the ground.

Libia struggled slightly, but was too stunned to fight back.  In just moments, her legs and wrists were uncased in material, cloth forced her tongue into her mouth, muting her screams and moans.  Her clothes were removed just as quickly, and all she could do was shut her eyes tight as she was violated by her attacker.  Even in this act, the man was violent, his elbows pressed harshly into her back.  Once he was done he stood up and regarded her, as though he were trying to solve some new problem.  Despite the gag, she screamed as loud as she could when she saw him leave the room.  In his absence, she rolled across the floor, hoping to reach the doorway.  Her fear was only increased when he came back from the kitchen with a knife.  Gallardo didn’t hesitate as he bent down and slit Libia Cabrera’s throat, forcing her to spend her last moments staring up at him in fear as her blood rushed away.

Once Cabrera’s body stopped convulsing, Milton Gallardo paused again.  He then walked towards the bedrooms and came back with an armful of bed sheets.  He tied one end of the sheets to her body, and the other to a nearby wall heater.  He waited a moment, but nothing happened.  Waving his hand in front of the heater, he felt very little air coming through.  He found the thermostat and turned the heat up as high as he could.  Still no change.  In frustration, he found some lighting fluid and a lighter in the back of the house, and proceeded to use it on the body.  This time he found success, her body and the floor lit up in flames.  He fled the house.

It was not until October 2007 that a connection was made to Gallardo.  He was serving time in prison for auto theft when they required him to contribute DNA to the enforcement database.  His blood matched semen picked up on the scene of the crime, and he was then charged for murder, burglary, rape, sodomy and arson.  Gallardo was found guilty on all counts.

Carla Guttierez Takes One Final Ride

Carla Gutierrez

(Detroit, MI) On January 6, 2010 the doorbell rang in the Detroit home of Carla Guttierez. Carla heard the ring over the chattering of her children and got up from the floor where she had been playing with her 8-month-old daughter. Her 2-year-old son followed her to the door with his waddling stride. It was Carla’s mother, Maria, who had agreed to watch the children that night.

After some casual chatter between mother and daughter, Carla kissed her children, said goodbye, and left. Carla mentally prepared herself for the evening’s work as she walked towards her car. Just months before, Carla began working as a prostitute to support her children. She’d found she was good at it, and she was careful. Though she hated the work itself, she liked that it allowed her to provide her children with comforts she couldn’t otherwise afford. She always felt this was a temporary thing. That when the economy improved, other opportunities would present themselves and she could put this part of her life behind her.

But not tonight. On this night she would be seeing a returning client, which allowed her to feel a little more at ease. The man she was seeing had some odd requests, but most of her clients did. If they didn’t have strange appetites, they probably wouldn’t require her services in the first place.

Carla parked her car a few blocks away from the street where she normally worked. The walk did not take long, and it gave her a few moments of quiet besides the heavy click of her tall, high heeled shoes. She reached the intersection she used as her “office,” and found the closest thing she had to a coworker standing nearby, slightly in the shadows. She talked to Cindy, a fellow prostitute, for a few moments before a car drove up to the stoplight. Recognizing it, she stepped out and leaned in through the window. Inside was a dark-skinned man. Carla talked to him for a few moments, then he opened the door and she stepped into the car. Cindy, who has more experience in the profession, said she warned Carla about this man. That there was something about him that made her uneasy. It was just a feeling, but she had learned to trust her feelings in these areas.

The next morning Carla did not come home. After getting the children their breakfast, Maria dialed 911. When the operator answered, Maria Guttierez said, “My daughter is missing.” Carla Guttierez has been missing for five months now, and the Detroit police have made no progress on her case.

Caroline Coffey’s Last Run

Caroline Coffee (right)

(Trumansburg, NY) It was a crisp June morning in Taughannock Falls State Park and Caroline Coffey was jogging on one of the many wooded trails.  Every morning she would venture out from her nearby home in Ithaca, using running as a release from the stresses of her life.  This morning’s trek provided an escape from the most recent problem within her home: her husband Blazej Kot had been acting strangely of late.  Despite these troubles, she was able to focus on the smell of the fresh air and the gentle noises of the nature around her.  Her feet made a gentle plodding sound on the dirt and twigs.  She had reached the halfway point when she heard a second set of footsteps up ahead.

It wasn’t unusual to share this trail with others, so there was no reason to be concerned over the oncoming jogger.  It was only once the figure became visible that Caroline had any reason for shock.  Coming towards her, decked out in exercise clothing, was her own husband.  Caroline squinted to be sure it was him.  Blazej generally did not have time to exercise before leaving for his morning classes.

As Blazej approached, Caroline saw that his expression was one of exertion and anger.  When she heard him scream, “You’re not her,” she slowed her step.  She asked him to repeat himself, and said, “You’re not Caroline.  You’re not my wife!”  Confused, she started running, letting him run alongside her.  Her hopes that he’d recognize his wife were dashed when he pulled a gleaming knife from his pocket.  Caroline screamed and sped up.  Blazej was not as fit as she was, so outrunning him seemed easy, but he must have tapped into a hidden hateful adrenaline.  He caught up to Caroline and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her toward him with his left hand on her stomach.  With a strong jerking motion he whipped the blade across Caroline’s neck, spilling the blood from her veins onto the leaves below.  She made a few hacking noises before her body crumpled into the dirt.  Blazej watched her convulse on the ground, her hand to her throat in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.  When the twitching stopped, Blazej Kot sprinted away from the body immediately, leaving it for two hikers to find later that morning.

Soon after leaving the scene, Kot was spotted by a park ranger with blood on his arms.  A chase ensued and Kot managed to reach his car, extending the pursuit for 5 miles.  The chase ended when Kot crashed his own vehicle, after wounding himself with the same knife he’d killed his wife with.  Their home was found burning. Kot had set fire to it in an attempt to hide what he’d done.  Kot later admitted to killing Caroline Coffey, claiming that mental illness had convinced him that she’d been replaced by an imposter.  The jury did not agree and he was found guilty of murder, arson, and tampering with physical evidence.

Prostitute Sabrina Rasa’s Strangling Shrouded in Mystery

Sabrina Rasa

(Montrose, VA) It was late evening March 25, 2009, when Sabrina Rasa stepped out of her boyfriend’s car onto the veteran hospital campus.  She had been dating Claudio Cedillo for some time now, but hadn’t found the courage to tell him that she was a prostitute yet.  In the mean time, he was dropping her off under the pretense that she was meeting “a friend.”  Sabrina waited for the car to pull away before starting, but once it was gone she journeyed into the dark towards the abandoned buildings.

Despite the lack of light, she saw the dark figure of her client before reaching her destination.  She’d been servicing him only a short time, and didn’t know his name.  Having attained a growing list of clients and experience, she didn’t feel much anxiety anymore, even with unfamiliar men.  As she approached him, the client’s hands instantly gravitated to her body.  She smiled up at him slightly, taking his excitement as a compliment, and undressed.  She didn’t enjoy the process, but in her drug-deprived state, the promise of the next high brought an ecstasy of its own.  She went through it as if washing the dishes; it was an action that no longer required any thinking.  But she did make a concerted effort not to look into his eyes during the ordeal.

When he was done, she put her clothes back on as he stood by, waiting.  Normally once Sabrina’s clients had gotten what they wanted, they dropped the money and walked away as quickly as they could.  As she pulled her jacket back on, she looked up at him and saw an unsatisfied expression on his face.  He had seemed pleased with the result during the transaction, so she felt no reason to think she hadn’t done her job.  If anything it looked as if he wanted something more, but he said nothing to indicate what.  She asked if there was anything else she could help him with; he responded by lunging at her.

Sabrina hit the ground with a hard thud and then saw the darkness of her client’s silhouette fall towards her.  The man pinned her down and she struggled to get up, throwing all her strength into her limbs.  No demands or reasons for his actions were spoken and, with the wind knocked out of her, Sabrina couldn’t ask.  Instead she gasped with horror as her client’s fingers wrapped around her neck.  She kicked, swung, and twisted her neck away as much as she could, but the moment his strong hands had clenched their target, her air began to slip away.  Soon her oxygen was depleted, and her body died with it.

On the 27^th of March, two days later, Sabrina’s body was found behind Building 11 by a maintenance worker.  To this day, more than a year later, the police have made little progress in discovering who murdered her or why they did it.

Tonja Slone Gunned Down by “Crazy” Dave

Tonja Sloan (right)

(Floyd County, KY) On April 13, 2010 Tonja Slone was so excited to get her hair cut that she stopped in at Terri’s Beauty Shop on her way home from work at the Parkview Nursing and Rehabilitation Center.  Exhausted from her shift, she sat in the chair, relaxing.  She heard his voice even before he stepped into the shop.  Her ex-husband, David Slone, stormed in, shouting at her, begging her to take him back. She smiled at him, trying to retain her composure, and told him that she could not, and that this wasn’t the place to have a discussion about it.

The shop stood still as they argued for some time, and Tonja became increasingly agitated.  Eventually she talked him into leaving and he stormed out.  The hairdresser working on Tonja suggested a protective order, but Tonja told her she had recently cancelled her request for one.  “Crazy” Dave was wild, but he was at heart a good man.  She loved him even if she was no longer “in love” with him.

Back at his home, only 100 yards down the road, Crazy Dave fumed. If he couldn’t possess Tonja, then no one would. As Tonja held the shop door open, finishing her last conversations with friends inside, Crazy Dave pulled his car out of the driveway of his house.  Tonja primped her hair satisfyingly one last time and walked to her car.  As she pulled out of her parking space, she heard a screech of wheels behind her, and looked back to see that Dave had stopped behind her, blocking her in.  She readied herself for another confrontation with him, but froze as she saw the 9mm pistol in his hand.

The shots came fast, and in succession.  Dave plunged the trigger eight times in a row as if banging his fist against a wall in frustration.  He walked over and looked down at Tonja’s body, ripped to shreds by the many rounds.  But his blood still boiled.  He wasn’t satisfied.  So he ran home to retrieve his mini-14 rifle, the one he used for hunting, and sprinted back to the beauty shop.  This time, he stood directly over her.  He pumped, shot, then repeated.  Fifteen times.  He wanted his wife to be no more.

When Slone was finished he ran home once more and picked up the phone.  He called Tonja’s brother, Glen Moore,  telling told him that he’d never go back to prison, where he’d already served time for a cocaine charge.  Glen hurried over to Slone’s home, only to find him with a gun to his head.  He tried as best he could to talk him out of shooting himself, but that decision had been made.  By the time the police arrived he was dead.

Murder on the Beach Claims Davina Husted

Davina and Brock Husted

(Faria Beach, CA) At 10:30pm on May 20, 2009 Joshua Graham Parker slid open the glass door at Brock and Davina Husted’s house. Brock and Davina were in the middle of an argument over selling their home on the Pacific. Dressed in dark clothing and a motorcycle helmet, visor down, Parker crept down the hallway, passing the Husted’s 9-year-old son watching American Idol on the TV.

When he reached the warm light of the kitchen doorway, the visor over his face glinted sharply into Davina’s eyes and she turned, slowly at first, and then sharply as she realized the figure in the doorway wasn’t her husband.  Brock had stepped out of the room for a moment, leaving his wife and unborn child vulnerable to the intruder. Davina was stunned as the helmeted intruder screamed at her from just a few feet away.  The makeshift mask muffled his words, she couldn’t make out what he wanted. If he wanted anything.

Davina glanced past him at her son, his head now turned, eyes wide open with fear.  Her breath released slightly on seeing him run into the hallway towards the bedrooms.  Packer didn’t seem to notice.  The tinted glass between them hid his fiery dark eyes and rage.

Davina stepped back slowly, her arms raised in defense. When the glint of a knife appeared in Packer’s hand, her right hand shot instinctively to her stomach.  She felt the fetus, four months into pregnancy squirm as a result of her own surge of adrenaline.  She wanted her son and 11-year-old daughter time to escape, so she fought back the fear and resisted running away. Packer suddenly lunged across the room and grazed her with the knife.  Davina, in her pregnant state had gained the benefit of a misstep by her attacker, but was not agile enough to continue the dance.  Packer turned and thrust the knife into her without hesitation.  She turned to see her husband return before she was stabbed again.

Brock moved to defend her, but not before Packer had stabbed her several more times, pulling red crimson from her body with the once unblemished blade.  Brock tackled Packer against the refrigerator, but after a struggle, Packer fought him off and pushed him back to the island in the middle of the kitchen.  Davina saw the knife plunged into her husband’s stomach.  He fell, dragging himself across the floor to a point where he could see his wife, blood flowing from her womb.  Brock Husted’s death was ensured by several more stabs, including one through his heart.

Packer dropped the knife in the kitchen, grabbed a few items to make it appear as a robbery and fled, never realizing the couple’s son and 11-year-old daughter had already escaped and called 911.

On January 14, 2010, Packer pulled a gun on a store clerk and was arrested for armed robbery.  His blood, taken as a sample after his arrest, matched DNA found in the Husted home, linking him to this horrible crime. Joshua Graham Parker now faces three charges of murder: father, mother and unborn child, along with two counts of robbery.

Ohio House of Horror Claims Telacia Forston

Telacia Forston

(Cleveland, OH) The neighborhood seemed safe enough in the afternoon of April 9, 2010, and Telacia Forston needed a drink, and so she followed Anthony Sowell into his unassuming white duplex.  Once inside, she found a set of eerily barren rooms.  He led her up the stairs, his gnarled fingers pressing against the small of her back.  When she reached the top step, she halted a moment.  The room in front of her was empty except for a chair, a blanket and an electrical cord.  He nudged her further, but her feet wouldn’t budge.  She turned around to gaze into his unpleasant face.  His beady eyes were set far apart on his face, he had elfin ears, and more hair in his patchy beard than on his head.

The man regarded her for a moment before grabbing her. Telacia found herself sliding across the floor, slamming against the chair in the middle of the room.  Telacia lifted herself from the floor, but was forced down again by the powerful hands of her attacker.  The sound of ripping filled the room and soon she tasted the fabric of her own shirt in her mouth.  The cotton pressed hard against her tongue, muffling the sounds of her screams.

Cold rushed to Talacia’s legs as she was stripped from the waist down.  She kicked as hard as she could, fighting for her life, but was pinned to the floor by Sowell, his wiry figure masking a strong soldier’s body.  She continued to struggle as she saw him lifting something above her.  In one hand was a small, black box-like object, and from it a thick cord was pulled tight by his other hand. He choked her with the cord, and losing consciousness, she barely noticed as he began to violate her.  Before he was finished, her breath had been stalled too long, and her body became limp against the floor.

When Telacia’s attacker was through with her, he left the room and came back with a garbage bag in hand.  He pulled the bag over her body, her dead eyes staring back at him.  He sat in the chair for some time, waiting for the sun to fall, staring at her corpse.  When the glare from the sun no longer spilled into the stairwell, he went out and began to shovel a new hole in his backyard.  It had friends. Nine other bodies were buried nearby.

In September of 2009 Sowell took in another guest, but this time the woman escaped the house when he was finished with her.  When the police investigated the rape, they found two bodies sitting unhidden on the living room floor.  Two days later Sowell was found and arrested.  A search of his home revealed four more corpses buried in the basement.  Three more were found in the backyard, alongside scattered remains of a fourth.  A bucket carrying a decapitated head brought the count to eleven women.  Sowell faces 85 charges, including murder, rape, and kidnapping.