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CHAPTER 1

November 12, 1998
Rachel Lindsay Newhouse stumbled outside of the brightly lit restaurant onto the dark, chilly streets of San Luis Obispo. She was intoxicated and upset. She had a fight with her roommate Andrea West, and she was ready to go home. The only problem was she did not have her car. The girls rode together in Andrea's car and Rachel was not about to ask her best friend for a ride. Not after their argument.

Rachel gathered her wits about her and stepped onto Nipomo Street, where the restaurant Tortilla Flats, or "the Flats," as the locals liked to call it, is located. The Flats is a trendy Mexican-food-restaurant that serves passable California Mexican cuisine, but whose main priorities are their top-shelf margaritas. That was the reason why Rachel was there in the first place. She was out celebrating with the Beta Theta Pi fraternity on this Thursday night and was ready to partake of the Sauza-tequila-and-lime-concoctions with no hassles. At twenty years of age, however, Rachel Newhouse was not old enough to drink legally in the state of California.

Neither was Andrea West, her roommate. It was because of that that Rachel found herself standing outside the restaurant and shivering instead of inside throwing back another margarita with some cute guys from her college, Cal Poly.

Andrea, who was also only twenty, could not get into the bar side of the Flats. Both girls had employed the old "smudged stamp" routine to attempt to get inside. Some drinking establishments will mark the top of their customers' hands with a black felt-tip marker or a black stamp, which is a signal to the doorman that they have already been inside and can reenter without hassle. Minors who want to circumvent the whole identification process at the door merely get someone who has legally gained entrance into the bar to offer up their stamp. The minor licks the top of his or her hand and rubs it against the marked customer, thus creating a reasonable facsimile of the stamp.

At least that was the game plan.

Rachel Newhouse's smudged stamp worked with no problem. She immediately bolted in and began to enjoy the festive atmosphere. Unfortunately for Andrea, the doorman stopped her and informed her that she would not be allowed in the bar side. She could only enter the restaurant side. Andrea stood by herself for the next hour, until she finally saw Rachel leave the bar side and head toward the rest room. Andrea met her at the door and began to complain. Soon the girls started to argue. Suddenly Rachel tore out of the restaurant, leaving Andrea behind. Once outside, Rachel waited shortly, hoping her friend would follow her. When Andrea did not appear, she took off.

As Rachel headed east on Nipomo Street, she began to shiver in the brisk Central California coastal air. Downtown San Luis Obispo is located only seventeen miles from the Pacific Ocean and decorated with such gorgeous beaches as Shell Beach, Pismo Beach, and Avila Beach. The usually picture-perfect-sunny enclaves are harbingers for fog and cold weather in the wintertime and make for a chilly environment all around. Dressed only in black jeans and a dark blue silk shirt, Rachel was very cold. She was also nearly two miles away from her comfortable white wooden house located on the dead-end Gerda Street.

Rachel took a left onto Higuera Street and walked another half mile. At this time of night, it was not crowded. Had she walked out an hour earlier, she would have encountered several stragglers from the weekly farmers' market. The market is a gathering of hundreds of revelers who enjoy shopping for fruits and vegetables, reading informative brochures from political-minded-organizations and several nonprofits groups, eating barbecue ribs and brisket sandwiches from an outdoor smoker, catching a live puppet show, and dancing to the strains of a new musical group every week. The internationally known gathering takes over this area of downtown for the evening and keeps it well populated. By the time Rachel left the Flats, the market had already dispersed. The streets were almost empty.

Rachel passed the Downtown Centre, the local minimall. She eventually came to Osos Street, where she took a right and headed east. Rachel walked along the sidewalk past several well-kept Victorian-style homes and past a few apartment complexes. She headed toward familiar territory — the Jennifer Street Bridge, an intriguing structure that had only gone up earlier that year. Its intentional rust-colored exterior loomed over the local train tracks like some kind of manic erector set, but it served a useful purpose — especially for Rachel. The bridge crossed over the railroad tracks in front of the restored Amtrak station and allowed pedestrians and bicyclists to cross over into the Jennifer Street neighborhood.

Rachel's neighborhood.

Rachel had no reason to be scared as she walked home. She was almost to the halfway point to her three-bedroom house nestled in the southeastern section of the neighborhood. There was only one semilarge task for Rachel.

Crossing the Jennifer Street Bridge.

The Jennifer Street Bridge is an ominous structure, even in the daylight, with its hulking, rusted exterior and a maze of stairs, handicap ramps, and railings. Not to mention the poor lighting. When you climb the fifty-eight stairs to reach the height of a three-story building, you are thrust out onto the crossover that is encased with a firm crisscross wire system in every direction — on both sides and overhead. The encasing allows one to see the underlit train station, which is located approximately fifty yards to the northwest. The bridge itself, however, maintains a slight hovering glow due to the sporadic lights festooned along the lower portion of the railing.

Rachel turned off Osos Street and onto Jennifer Street, a cul-de-sac of sorts that provides access for automobiles to park in the train station waiting area. It also provides space for patrons of several popular hangouts, including Café Roma and a corner convenience store. It was a heavily populated area.

She felt safe.

Rachel grasped the rust-colored handrail and thought about heading up the stairs. Instead, she walked a little farther and shuffled up the winding handicapped-access ramp. The shadows played tricks on her eyes as they cast a shimmering maroon shadow through the rails. The combination of shadows and an inebriated mental state caused Rachel to move at a slow, deliberate pace.

Rachel's actions had drawn the attention of a man in the parking lot facing the bridge. He had been sitting in his 1993 blue Ford Ranger pickup truck. He could comfortably hide Underneath the shadows inside his huge vehicle. The man watched as the young woman staggered toward the bridge. He assessed the situation laid out before him and decided to take action. He grabbed something from the front seat of the truck and headed up the stairs. He hustled up the poorly lit concrete-and-metal-stair case before she arrived at the bridge. She had no idea what waited for her up top. Besides, her focus was on one task and nothing else.

Getting home.

Instead of waiting for her at the top of the staircase, he stepped onto the crosswalk portion of the bridge. He liked the darkness of his perch. The wire seemed to remind him of something, but he could not quite conjure up its importance. He stealthily glided one-quarter of the way up the bridge and turned around. The girl was only now about to reach the head of the staircase. He looked down at the item he grabbed from the front seat of his truck and chuckled under his breath. He then pulled it over his head.

He peered through the eyes of a skull mask left over from a recent Halloween party. It was the perfect addition to an increasingly frightening scenario. As he looked through the eyeholes, he saw the beautiful girl. She was petite, but large-breasted. She had gorgeous shoulder-length blond hair. She was breathing heavily.

And she did not even notice him.

Maybe she just acts like I don't exist.

Just like the others.

The excitement began to course through his body. He was aroused and angered. He knew what he had to do.

Rachel Newhouse was on the bridge and she knew she was almost home. She tried to ignore the other person. She just wanted to get home. Once she made it to the other side of the Jennifer Street Bridge, she would spot something special — a street sign for Rachel Street. It always brought a smile to her face when she saw it.

As soon as that glimmer of hope popped into her mind, she finally glanced at the other person on the bridge. Something seemed odd about the man. At 5'7", he seemed to be near her height. He was much broader, however, and his face seemed unusual. She could not really make out why he looked so strange, due to the poor lighting. To make matters worse, the man wasn't walking across the bridge. He had stopped and was actually facing her. Rachel tried to blow it off and keep on toward her final destination. She walked within three feet of the man when she looked up into the face of horror.

All she saw was a huge skull. At the same time she heard a loud thwack! as something hard smashed up against her temple.

Rachel Newhouse would never see Rachel Street again.

CHAPTER 2

At 8:30 A.M., Friday the 13th, Cal Poly student Theresa Audino crossed the Jennifer Street Bridge to retrieve her car, which she parked downtown. She and her boyfriend had spent the previous evening at the farmers' market, where she purchased her weekly supply of vegetables. She decided to walk home and left her car downtown. She crossed the Jennifer Street Bridge at 11:30 P.M. on Thursday night. She did not notice anything unusual.

This morning, however, she definitely saw something that scared her.

A pool of blood, at least a foot across, lay conspicuously near the staircase at the top of the bridge. The blood still seemed thick and fresh. It was still wet.

Audino noticed several drops of blood, about the size of her thumb, on the stairs. She decided to see how far they stretched. As she slowly descended the fifty-eight steps, she noted that the blood drops went all the way to the bottom stair. She followed the blood to the right of the stairs, onto the sidewalk, and then left to the train station parking lot. Suddenly, the drops disappeared. They stopped right at a tree planter located next to the first parking spot.

Audino contacted the police. They informed her that they had already heard about the blood.

San Luis Obispo police officer Christopher Staley, who worked the day shift from 7:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.M., reported to the Jennifer Street Bridge. He noticed the large pool of blood on the top of the stairs. He proceeded to obtain a blood swab in case it might be helpful in the future. Later that morning, he did something inexplicable. He asked the city cleaning crew to wash the blood off the bridge.

They did.

"Have you heard from Rachel today?" asked Kirk Williams, an assistant manager of the SLO Brewing Company, where Rachel worked as a hostess. He was speaking to one of Rachel's three roommates, Nichole Tylenda.

It was 6:00 P.M.

"She was supposed to come in to work this afternoon," Williams continued.

"I actually haven't heard from her all day. Apparently, she didn't show up for her class and she didn't come home today. It's not like her to not call," Tylenda said worriedly.

Rachel usually let someone know what she was up to. The attractive Cal Poly nutrition major made sure her circle of friends knew what she was doing almost every day. These included Andrea, her other roommates, her coworkers, and her family. SLO Brewing coworker and occasional date Adam Olson told Williams, "It's unlike her to disappear like this. There's no way for her to vanish without telling anybody where she was going."

Nevertheless, no one could find Rachel Newhouse.

By Saturday, November 14, a full-scale search was on. Rachel's friends created hundreds of missing-person posters, with Rachel's pertinent information listed, and posted them all over downtown. The San Luis Obispo police were also on the trail of the missing college student. They were led by Captain Bart Topham, who secured a search-and-rescue team made up of anywhere from twenty-five to sixty searchers. Several tracking dogs assisted and a California Highway Patrol helicopter tracked the team's progress from the sky.

Captain Topham had all the people on the search-and-rescue team follow Rachel's potential route home from Tortilla Flats to the Jennifer Street neighborhood. They also searched several creeks in the area that lined the peaceful neighborhoods.

San Luis Obispo was up in arms over the prospect of a missing college girl.

Rachel Newhouse was the prototypical California college girl. She was an attractive, full-figured, 5'6", 120-pound blonde who was athletic, academically blessed, hardworking, and honest to boot. Her grandmother Patricia Newhouse described her as a "conscientious, hardworking girl" with "lots of friends." Her grandmother also stressed that her kin was not really a "party person — she's more into taking care of business and getting things done."

Rachel was getting things done at Cal Polytechnic Institute. She was a junior-year nutrition major, with a strong B average. She was used to getting things done. Just as she did at Irvine High School in Orange County, where she maintained a straight-A average and also excelled at sports, including soccer and cross-country track. She was a student body officer and member of the California Scholarship Federation. She was also very popular and good at making friends and keeping them.

One friend that Rachel kept was Andrea West. They were both freshmen at Irvine High School, where they met in 1992. They became fast friends and maintained their close bond over the years. Andrea described Rachel as "the perfect friend. She's always there when she's needed. She's a happy and cheery person. She cares."

Rachel Newhouse also cared about doing the right thing. Her aunt Patricia Turner described Rachel as a bit too hard on herself. Andrea furthered the idea of Rachel as a hardworking, conscientious person. She informed the police that in addition to her studies, Rachel also baby-sat and worked at SLO Brewing.

Rachel Newhouse kept busy and stayed out of trouble.

By Monday, November 16, 1998, Andrea West had not heard from her friend. Neither had her boss Kirk Williams. Nor had Captain Topham. No one in town knew where she was located. Word began to spread around the Cal Poly campus about her disappearance. By Wednesday, the mood of the town and the campus shifted in a dark direction. Samina Khan, Rachel's lab mate, headed for the Women's Center on campus. Her mission: to buy pepper spray. She was afraid and looking for a way to defend herself.

"I was thinking about getting some last year, but I didn't feel unsafe," she said forlornly as she clutched her new purchase.

Parents of several Cal Poly students began to contact Captain Topham. They also had one thing on their minds: protecting their children.

Why was there so much panic in a seemingly routine missing college student case? After all, it was no big deal for a young college student to take off a few days from school and not call friends. Extended trips to Tijuana or Las Vegas were not out of the ordinary. Why were the parents and, indeed, many of the students concerned?

It was not the first time a female Cal Poly student had gone missing in recent years.

CHAPTER 3

On May 25, 1996, the beginning of the Memorial Day weekend, many students were packing their bags and getting ready to return to their hometowns. The semester had ended and, for some, it was time for one last celebration. Kristin "Roxy" Smart, a 6'1" statuesque blond freshman from Stockton, California, was ready to join the fun.

Kristin was the progeny of intelligent parents. She was born at 2:00 A.M. in Augsburg, Germany, on February 20, 1977, to two teachers, Stan and Denise Smart. When her family relocated to the United States, her father became a high school principal in Stockton. She also had a brother and sister, Matt and Lindsey. All three of the Smart children loved swimming. Kristin excelled at the sport in high school. She also had a strong love for the state of Hawaii and the Pacific Ocean. Her love for aquatics led her to choose Cal Poly for college because of the school's close proximity to the ocean.

Kristin had successfully made it through her first year in college, where she majored in speech communications. She looked forward to returning home for the summer, but first she wanted to party. After all, she deserved it.

Kristin started her end-of-the-year celebration at an off-campus party thrown by fellow student Ryan Fell. The party took place on Crandall Way, less than a quarter mile from Kristin's dorm. According to police reports, Kristin arrived at the party sober.

Two hours later, she was not.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Dead And Buried"
by .
Copyright © 2003 Corey Mitchell.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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