Smooth Talker: Trail of Death, page 12
After he first picked up the case in 2006, he’d called Muriel to let her know he was actively working on it. Now in her 80s, Muriel was still something of a legend in Napa both as a community activist and as the woman who owned Fagiani’s, which she’d kept closed even as the city grew around it. Within the department, she was the woman with the wild gray hair who wouldn’t let them forget that her sister’s murder had never been solved.
As much as Winegar had been assigned to the case because it was an unresolved murder that deserved his attention, there was no denying there was a little bit of wanting to get her off the department’s back. So when he started, it was to be able to show her, and the public, that every single thing from scientific and investigative standpoints was being done. If nothing came of it, the department, and perhaps Muriel, could rest easy that they’d tried everything.
After his first call, Muriel contacted him every week or two for updates. She was always polite, but she was also upfront and had her own ideas on who could have done the murder, and Liston Beal was one of those. So he thought she might want to know that Beal was off the list. However, her reaction was that all that meant was they still didn’t know who killed her sister.
Shaking his head, Winegar went back to work. The bar towel DNA wasn’t good enough for CODIS. But he wondered what might be revealed if other items found at the scene, such as the cigarette butt and the screwdriver/murder weapon, were tested. He knew from talking to Terra that the backlog at the DOJ crime lab was extensive and filled with current cases, but with a little persistence and friendly pleading on his part, she agreed to test the items.
On November 29, 2007, he sent her blood and hair samples, the screwdriver, broken glass from the bottle used to strike Anita, and the single cigarette butt collected from the ashtray. It was almost two years before he heard back. He didn’t blame Terra or the DOJ laboratory, he knew they were busy and he was too busy with a full caseload to be the squeaky wheel.
Then on September 30, 2009, Terra called to say she’d examined the evidence. The results were negative for most of the items he’d sent. But not only was there DNA evidence on the cigarette butt, but it was a good hit with the suspect’s full DNA profile that would definitely hold up in court. All he needed was a suspect to compare it to, and for that, Terra said she would be uploading the data to CODIS.
The cigarette butt data joined a large pool. As of June 30, 2009, according to FBI statistics, there were more than 7 million offender DNA profiles, and 272,000 forensic DNA profiles from crime scene samples, uploaded to CODIS. The result had been more than 93,000 hits.
On November 5, 2009, Terra called Winegar again. This time her voice was excited. “We got a hit!” The DNA belonged to Roy Melanson, a convicted murderer serving time in a Colorado penitentiary. As Winegar later learned, after his conviction for Michele Wallace’s murder in 1994, Melanson was returned to Kentucky to complete his prison term there.
Then in May 2003, he was sent back to Colorado to begin serving his sentence for murder. Upon his arrival at the Colorado Department of Corrections prison, his DNA was obtained and entered into the CODIS databank.
This cigarette butt left in an ashtray at Fagiani’s bar on July 10, 1974 would lead to the conviction of Roy Melanson for the murder of Anita Andrews 37 years later. Photo courtesy of the Napa County District Attorney’s Office.
Winegar could hardly believe what he was hearing. The dream of any homicide detective was cracking a big case, especially an old unsolved case. It was getting late in his career—he intended to retire in a few years—and while he’d put other killers away, there was nothing in his past like solving a murder that had haunted his community for 35 years.
Hanging up with Terra, Winegar let his boss know the good news, which quickly made its way up the chain of command. He was told there would be no more working the case in his spare time, he was on it 24/7.
Now the work began in earnest. It was one thing to have a real suspect, but he still had to put the case together and present it to the Napa County District Attorney’s Office for prosecution.
Ironically, after 35 years there was now a sense of urgency about putting together a case against Roy Melanson. He’d been sentenced in Colorado under laws that were in effect back in 1974, which meant he was up for parole in 2012. It didn’t mean that he would be let out by the parole board, but it also wouldn’t be the first time Melanson had found a way to avoid punishment or serving his full sentence.
Winegar had read about Melanson’s long criminal history supplied to him by the California Department of Justice. The man was obviously a serial rapist and killer, a sociopath who’d spend more of his life in prison than out. But as alarming as his record was, the way he’d simply walked away from justice in some of his cases was incomprehensible. He’d been accused of rape in 1972, but avoided punishment by simply moving to a different part of Texas. Then in 1974, the victim had testified at a preliminary hearing about how he’d raped her for days and threatened to kill her, and yet he’d been allowed to make bail and left the state.
The consequences of that had been unspeakable horrors for others. Fleeing the rape warrant in Texas, he’d moved to Arizona and after a fight with his pregnant girlfriend left her in April 1974. Three months later, he’d murdered Anita Andrews in Napa, and who knew what he’d done during the prior three months.
Then fifty days after killing Anita, he’d murdered Michele Wallace. What had he done between California and Colorado?
In 1994, shortly after he’d killed Wallace, Melanson had been brought back to Texas and convicted for the rape. But instead of serving a life sentence for a habitual offender—and not just any burglar or car thief but a vicious brutal serial rapist and suspected murderer—he’d got the habitual offender sentence overturned and served twelve years.
Then three months after getting out of prison in Texas, he was the only suspect in the disappearance of Pauline Klumpp. Again, it was doubtful he’d been a law-abiding gentleman during those three months—Winegar had not found a single instance of real employment and instead Melanson seemed to have lived his whole life living off of and preying on others. And God only knew what he’d done between Klumpp disappearing and his incarceration in Kentucky.
Another alarming trend was evident from looking at Melanson’s case history. As time went on, he’d grown more dangerous. He was a serial rapist who’d learned that leaving his victims alive could mean prison. So after fleeing the rape warrant in Texas, he’d killed Anita Andrews, Michele Wallace, and in all likelihood, Pauline Klumpp.
How many other victims were there? No one but Melanson could say. But Winegar knew he needed to be stopped, permanently.
XXI
November 30, 2009
Flying to Colorado, Winegar’s goal was to get a new DNA sample and fingerprints from Roy Melanson, as well as a writing sample to compare to the 1974 gas station receipt. Just to confirm what he already knew—it would match the evidence from Fagiani’s bar. There was “no way in hell” he thought a serial killer like Melanson would talk to him.
Still, he, Sgt. Cantillon and Napa County Deputy District Attorney Paul Gero debated what Melanson would say if he did. There were three options: he could deny the murder; he could admit it, including that it was “self-defense” after Andrews attacked him; or he could use “common sense” to explain why his DNA and fingerprints were there by saying he’d stopped at the bar for a drink and a smoke then left.
Winegar was happy that Gero had been assigned to prosecute the case. They’d known each other since they were both early in their careers; he was working sex crimes against juveniles, and Gero was prosecuting those cases. He both liked and respected Gero.
Arriving at the Fort Lyon Correctional Facility, the three men from Napa were surprised because other than a high fence around it, the prison looked more like a college campus, including dorms and grassy areas where they could see unescorted inmates strolling casually around. They knew the facility was for inmates with long-term health issues. But still, it wasn’t exactly the sort of place they would have envisioned keeping a sociopathic serial killer who’d fled warrants as easily as some people cross the street, then raped and killed women while on the loose.
They were taken to an office where Winegar could sit down with Melanson while the conversation was being recorded. Gero and Cantillon waited in another room listening in.
When Melanson arrived, wearing a confused look because he hadn’t been told what he was being summoned for, Winegar shook his hand and invited him to have a seat next to the door. He then sat across from him and took a moment to size the man up.
Winegar was a little surprised by Melanson’s appearance. He’d seen photographs of Melanson as a much younger, thinner man, not the big, bear-like, 72-year-old with the bald head and round grizzled face.
Introducing himself, he said, “I’m a detective with the Napa Police Department.”
“Where is that, Napa?” Melanson asked innocently.
“It’s in California.”
“Okay.”
“And I wanted to talk to you about an investigation I’m conducting out there. But before I do, I need to let you know that like you’re not in my custody here or anything like that,” Winegar said. “And there’s the door. Anytime you don’t want to talk to me, you’re free to go. Okay?”
Although he said it matter-of-factly, Winegar had discussed this important beginning with Gero before arriving. The detective didn’t think Melanson would talk to him at all, but he was certain the crafty old inmate would shut down immediately if he read him his Miranda warnings that he had the right to remain silent and have an attorney present. But Miranda warnings only have to be given to a suspect if he’s in custody, or believes that he’s in custody for the crime he’s being questioned about.
By making sure that Melanson understood he wasn’t in custody and was free to leave, Gero was certain that he didn’t have to read him his rights. And it would allow whatever Melanson might say into evidence during a trial.
“I got nothing to hide,” Melanson said.
Winegar, who didn’t want to jump right in with accusations of murder, started with a soft question, asking if Melanson had ever been to California. The old man shrugged and said he’d been to Needles once when he was living in Tucson.
“Have you ever heard of Napa?” Winegar asked.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of Napa Valley on television,” Melanson replied.
“So you’ve never been there?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Melanson said. “Not in this life.”
“Not in this life?” Winegar repeated. “Well, then, really, it’s gonna be a short interview. I was gonna talk to you about the time you were in Napa Valley, in Napa, in the city of Napa.”
“I have never been there,” Melanson repeated.
Winegar changed the subject. “They don’t walk you around when you’re in this prison?”
“Oh, no,” Melanson said. “I can roam freely.”
“You just roam freely and everything?” Winegar repeated the statement for the recording to once again emphasize that there was nothing, and nobody like a guard, keeping Melanson from leaving if he wanted. “Oh, that is so cool, because when we saw you walking over, I went, ‘Hmm,’ because in California, you know, I think they have guards and stuff like that and everything.”
“Well, I’m not a threat,” Melanson said, then repeated himself. “I’m not a threat.”
After a series of other questions about Melanson’s age and background, Winegar got back to business. “I’m talking about a crime that happened in 1974 in Napa. Okay?”
“What is that? Thirty-five years ago?” Melanson said. “All of ‘74 I was here in the mountains. I was working for Frank Spadafora.”
As Melanson continued his denials and explanations, Winegar didn’t mention the DNA or fingerprint evidence. Instead, he told Melanson that he’d come up with his name in the course of his investigation and due to a television crime drama about the Michele Wallace case.
“So what I’m investigating was a murder, is a murder that happened in Napa at Fagiani’s Bar, 813 Main Street, in July of ‘74, sometime between the 10th and the 11th of 1974. Okay? And as a matter of fact, they even made one of those crime dramas off your case? Have you ever seen it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So your name came up to me, and so I’m here investigating it to see if possibly you had anything to do with that homicide, the killing of—what happened is she was pretty brutally stabbed with an object, and I wanted to see if you had anything to do with that,” Winegar said.
Melanson shook his head. “I swear to God, I never did. I hate to hear something like that, and I’m very, very serious about that. I was raised different. I know what I’m here for now but I was raised different than that. I swear to God and I’m not an atheist. I believe in God.”
Winegar asked Melanson if he smoked. The old man said he had in his youth but stopped as a teenager. He then swore up and down again that he’d been in the mountains working for Spadafora all of the summer of 1974.
As they were talking, Winegar’s cell phone went off several times. It was Gero and Cantillon texting him with questions they wanted to ask, but he explained to Melanson that it was his son and wife texting. Apparently, Melanson, who’d spent the past twenty years in prison, had never seen a cell phone up close and was intrigued by its small size and the ability to type messages on it.
After a few minutes, Winegar interrupted the flow of the conversation to note that the science of crime-fighting had come a long way since 1974, especially fingerprinting and DNA comparison. “You ever hear of DNA?”
“Yes, sir. I watch television.”
“If you sweat, they can get it. If you spit on something. A piece of paper, a glass you had, you know, and if you were having a drink in a bar that would have your DNA on it, you know?”
The subject seemed to disturb Melanson who took the conversation in another direction, which Winegar allowed for a few minutes before bringing it back.
“Well, the crime I’m investigating is a cold case. Do you know what a cold case homicide is?”
Melanson nodded. He knew what it was because he’d been the subject on one on a television show and that was why Winegar was talking to him. “Somebody probably saw my picture on that and said, ‘Whoa. Look at here, and look at the record on that bird.’ I’m so tired of that. I’m thinking very seriously about some lawsuits. They’re saying the wrong thing. They’re lying on there.”
“What about what I’m investigating?” Winegar interrupted. “This would have been in July, fifty days before the one that supposedly happened in Gunnison … in Napa, California … a female bartender was killed brutally. Okay?”
When Melanson hemmed and hawed through general statements about DNA testing and fingerprint evidence, Winegar decided it was time to confront him. “What would you say if we had your DNA in that crime scene in Napa at 813 Main Street?
The charm dropped out of Melanson’s Texas drawl. “I’d say it’s wrong,” he said tensely. “I’d say it cannot be.”
“Cannot be?” Winegar asked.
Melanson nodded. “Definitely cannot be.”
“Well, you know what DNA is. It’s pretty open and shut.”
Ever the jailhouse lawyer, Melanson countered. “Well, not necessarily, because I just got through reading a paper, where they had found this one woman—I think it was in the eastern states over there—where she had falsified hundreds of cases of DNA.”
Melanson was obviously concerned enough about DNA evidence to read up on it. “What about fingerprints?” he asked.
“I think the DNA is probably more sophisticated than the fingerprints.”
“I mean, what if we found your fingerprints there?”
“You didn’t find my fingerprints there.”
Winegar tried to bait Melanson with other options for killing Andrews, such as self-defense. “So if somebody came at you and you were trying to mess with them, pick them up or whatever, and they thought something wrong and they were attacking you, then self-defense—that would be a defense. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
But Melanson wasn’t buying it. “I couldn’t have been in that bar.”
“So you’re just saying you were not in that bar?”
“Well, I was here,” Melanson said. “How could I be two different places? And I don’t even know where Napa Valley is.”
“So if we have blood evidence and we have DNA …”
“You ain’t got mine.”
Winegar changed the subject to Melanson’s time in the Texas prison, but the inmate was starting to get testy.
“That’s all behind me there,” he scowled. “My God. I’m trying my best to forget all that shit. I’m 72 years old. My God. Can’t I … can’t I have a few years of …”
This time it was Winegar who cut him off. “How’s your health?”
“It’s not good at all. I got heart problems. I got diabetes, this COPD.”
After a series of other off-the-topic questions and answers, Melanson started talking about working for Spadafora and that he felt bad about shooting a mother bear with cubs. “I shot one time, and it went to screaming and hollering and coming back toward me. But I would have went and pulled out bullets. I swear to God in heaven I would have pulled the bullets out and made her well if I’d had that power, because I was hurt—you know, it was hurting, and I would have made her well like that, because she was brown and coming back. She was gonna come put a stop to that hurt, where it was coming, yes, sir.”
Winegar didn’t know what the bear story was supposed to reveal about Melanson. Maybe that he was a compassionate soul, and therefore couldn’t be a cold-blooded serial killer. The detective wasn’t buying it.
