Craig was smart, friendly, attractive, and had a bright future ahead of him.
We attended a film class at Sac State and were going to graduate in June 1981. Before class on the Friday before Halloween, we talked about film and little things going on in our lives. By the time I attended class the following Monday, the instructor began the class with a moment of silence to honor Craig. Over the weekend, he was murdered by serial killers Gerald and Charlene Gallegos.
A few years later, I was working in an office overlooking the Sacramento Community Center. I hated the job, but like many people who find themselves with mortgages and bills lined up like toy soldiers, I showed up and went through the motions. While using light rail to commute into the downtown area, my truck was vandalized in a light rail parking lot. A few months later, it was stolen from another light rail parking lot. This time, it was recovered in front of a busy suburban supermarket. It had been towed, and I had to claim it at the junkyard.
I could no longer drive my truck because each time I got behind the wheel, I felt violated. The starter was so mangled that I was using a standard screwdriver to start the vehicle. Finally, I traded in the truck for a car, then started driving to work.
Even in the late 1980s, it was hard finding parking in Downtown Sacramento. I parked on the street, fed the meter or moved my car every two hours. There was also a coin lot and a covered parking lot nearby, but those were for people who had money to throw around.
After getting a couple of parking tickets for not moving my car every two hours, I decided to find free parking in a neighborhood and walk a few blocks to the office. After finding a neighborhood that looked safe to me, I made it a habit to park my car in front of a certain Victorian on F Street.
Several months later, my free parking came to an end when I tuned in to watch the 11 o'clock news. Police had arrested Dorothea Puente, who later became known as Sacramento's most notorious serial killer.
One of my neighbors, who is obsessed with reading crime novels and watching all the law enforcement reality shows on television said, "Didn't you know Dorothea placed small pumpkins on the top rail of her backyard fence to represent each of her victims?."
She called her Dorothea. As if we were talking about a friend of ours. The woman housed in the Chowchilla women's prison who at first glance, looked like someone's grandma. And, by the looks of her, couldn't have possibly murdered her elderly boarding house tenants.
"No, I didn't see any pumpkins," I replied. "Big or little." Who would equate squash with a human being? Is that you, Dorothea?
All I saw was this Victorian house, and it looked like any Victorian house in Downtown Sacramento. The house was neat and well-maintained on the outside. I didn't see anyone in the yard, and no one stood on the porch or in front of the windows to watch the street activity.
Last month, Dorothea Puente died in prison of natural causes. Like most criminals in the limelight and sentenced to life in prison without the chance of parole, she denied murdering her tenants. Over the years, the newspapers, magazines and film covering Dorothea Puente kept coming. In less than a 10-year period, Sacramento was home to three convicted serial killers, and that's not counting the ones who could be possibly out there.
It's been 26 years since I parked my car in front of Dorothea's Victorian on F Street. Through the extensive media coverage, I know all about Dorothea Puente, and it's more than I care to know. For me, the mention of her name is simply a reminder of Craig being murdered and the loss of a man who could have made a difference. It also take me back in time, when I struggled to pay off the loan on my vehicle, and when it was paid off, it became a target for thieves long before I could enjoy the benefits of it being mine.
Since then, I've learned to accept that crime and criminals come and go. Some days, it seems that they just keep coming. Just when you get rid of one, you've got a replacement that's worse.
See ya, Dorothea. You certainly were no friend of mine.
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