EP. 241 - ARIZONA: Three Serial Killers, One City: Phoenix’s Summers of Terror Part 1 (The Baseline Killer & Serial Shooters)

Warning! The following podcast is not suitable for all audiences. We go into great detail with every case that we cover and do our best to bring viewers even deeper into the stories by utilizing disturbing audio and sound effects. Trigger warnings from the stories we cover may include violence, rape, murder, and offenses against children. This podcast is not for everyone. You have been warned. The summers of 2005 and 2006 in Phoenix, Arizona were known as the Summers of Terror. Residents in the so-called Valley of the Sun were broiled alive. Temperatures skyrocketed to 105, 110, even 120 degrees Fahrenheit day after day. The heat was deadly and oppressive, but there was something else beating down on the locals, something that had them hiding indoors for more than just the heat. At first, it didn't have a name. It started as whispers, as gunshots in the simmering night. For residents, it was like they were being stalked by a phantom that no one could see or even begin to explain. Innocent people and animals were struck seemingly at random by bullets that left them crumbled on the hot pavement, screaming for help. Women and children were pulled from the sidewalks and dragged to isolated locations where they were raped and assaulted by a masked man. Some survived the attacks, many did not. In total, from May 2005 to August 2006, 17 people across the city of Phoenix were killed by the unknown monster stalking the city. Dozens were kidnapped, assaulted, shot, or even stabbed. Man, woman, child, black, white, old, young, it didn't matter. As the months of the attacks rattled the city, one thing became clear. No one was safe. So today, we are going to dive into this period of time, dubbed the Summers of Terror. We'll see it through the eyes of the residents, the victims, and the police, whose investigation would unravel one of the most shocking cases in modern American history. This is part one of the Summers of Terror. I'm Courtney Browen. And I'm Colin Brown. And you're listening to Murder in America. Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Murder in America Zahl He worked various jobs, sometimes as an electrician or a bartender, to help support his family, and from the outside, it looked like Sam and his little family were making things work. But inside the home, things were collapsing. Sam's alcoholism and drug abuse had reached unprecedented levels. His girlfriend couldn't take it any longer, and in 2001, she told him that she wanted to separate. When Sam heard this, he became enraged. He grabbed his girlfriend and dragged her out to the car, throwing her in the passenger seat. As the two argued, Sam drove out of Phoenix and into the dark land surrounding it. Behind them, the lights of the city of civilization faded. Now, it was just them and miles and miles of unforgiving desert. It was quiet. Sam's girlfriend could hear her own heartbeat. Then, in the midst of a rant, Sam turned onto a dirt road. Dust scattered into the air. Sam's hands tightened on the wheel. His girlfriend was terrified, and then he stopped the vehicle. The silence was deafening. The feeling radiating off Sam had his girlfriend in near tears, certain of what was going to come next. If you leave me, I'll kill you and bury you out here. No one will ever find you. His tone was shockingly calm. So calm, in fact, that his girlfriend had no doubt that if he did it, he wouldn't feel a lick of remorse. After saying those terrifying words, he started the car back up. And slowly, as if they were just on a casual drive, he pulled back onto the highway. Seeing the lights of the city in the distance was like seeing a life raft in a dark, stormy sea. When they returned home, Sam's girlfriend knew she could never risk getting in the car with him again. She couldn't risk her life or her daughter's life, and the incident had the opposite effect of what Sam wanted. He thought his thread would scare her back into his arms, that it would keep her from leaving. But he was sorely mistaken. In the dead of night, his girlfriend packed up her belongings and everything their daughters needed, and she fled. She returned to Minnesota where she moved in with family, and from that point on, she completely cut off contact with Sam. Once again, he was alone. But this time, it was entirely his own fault. Reeling from the loss of his family, Sam moved in with his mother and stepfather in Phoenix. It was a soft place to land, one that, evidently, Sam took advantage of. As the years pressed on, he began to fall even deeper into drinking and doing drugs while living with his parents. By early 2005, their relationship had become frayed by his substance use and constant struggles keeping himself employed. As a result, his parents kicked him out. After that, desperate for a place to go, he reached out to a friend he had made at a local bar, a man named Ron Horton. Ron had no problem letting Sam live with him in spite of his trouble with drinking and holding down a job. He told Camille Kimball in a sudden shot, I trusted him. He got along with my kids, that means a lot to me. On top of that, Sam helped Ron around the house, installing ceiling fans and often babysitting Ron's three boys. He was a welcomed addition to the home. When he was home, at least. You see, Sam spent a lot of his time out drinking, but his favorite spot was a local dive bar called the Amber Inn. According to bartenders there, Sam was always the first customer to come in and the last one to leave. He spent long hours there drinking, playing darts, and over time making friends. And one of those friends who he met at the bar would change his life forever. A man named Jeff Hausner. At the time, Sam wasn't working, but Jeff had a solution. Right there in the bar that day, he asked Sam if he'd like to join him in his line of work, which at the time was shoplifting. Jeff essentially made a living for himself stealing from big box stores and then selling those stolen items for cash. When Sam was offered this opportunity to join him, he gladly accepted. And soon enough, he and Jeff were running a criminal enterprise together. Just every night, they'd go to stores like Walmart, Costco, or Sam's Club to steal expensive products that were easy to smuggle out and easy to resell, like DVDs, CDs, and high-end liquor. Jeff described Sam as a natural when it came to stealing, and the two came to trust one another quite quickly. Not long after they began shoplifting together, Sam actually moved in with Jeff, his girlfriend's celeste, and her teenage son. But soon, someone else would come into the picture. Even more damaging than Jeff Hausner. And that was Jeff's little brother, Dale. Shortly after Sam moved in with Jeff, he introduced him to Dale. And instantly, there was a connection between the two. It was the type of friendship where as soon as they started talking, they knew they would be friends for life. Within a few days of meeting, they started shoplifting together. Now, Dale's older brother, Jeff, would join them on occasion, but it was clear to everyone that Dale and Sam were a better fit. And they were inseparable. If you didn't know the kind of people they were, you'd think it was a beautiful friendship. The two really connected over their similar pasts. Or maybe it was their dark obsessions that they had been hesitant to share with anyone else. For Dale, those obsessions began at a young age. When he was just five years old, he stood in his childhood kitchen in Nebraska, stirring a glass of milk. He was on his tippy toes as the spoon clinked against the side of the glass, going faster and faster and faster. He couldn't get the powder to dissolve, no matter how hard he tried. Eventually, he gave the glass to a little girl. Now whether it was his sister or another girl in the neighborhood, we don't know. But according to Dale, she took a few sips before she spit out the milk, complaining about a better taste. Years later, the girl was ill, confined to her bed, shaking and vomiting. Somehow the adults knew it was Dale to blame. He denied having put anything in the child's drink, but everyone knew otherwise. In his private journals, he wrote, quote, that's when I learned how to lie at five years old, end quote. And that lying followed him all his life. Regardless of how seemingly normal his childhood was, Dale's family was poor. Although his older brother, Randy said they never knew it. Dale as a young child was just kind of a silly slap happy kid. We got along relatively good, although he did like his alone time. I always joke genetically in one way, we inherited the weak puny gene, but as we got older, we learned to exercise more, at least get stronger for what we had. As a young child, around age nine, Dale started shoplifting and starting fires. Apparently, in his private journal, he said he loved destroying things, breaking windows, slashing tires, and sometimes going around and splashing bleach on clothes that were hanging out to dry. But Dale hid this dark side well. So well, in fact, that in the late 80s, he settled down with a wife, Karen Ludford, in Phoenix, Arizona. The two had two sons, Donovan and Jeremiah, who their life centered around, and for a time that seemed to keep Dale's demons at bay. But it didn't last. On November 12, 1994, the family was on their way to visit relatives in Texas. Karen was behind the wheel, and the clock was ticking close to 4.30 am. A torrent of rain took over the land, filling the silence as the family drove, with the boys tucked away, sleeping in the back seat. One of them were wearing seatbelts. Whether they had taken them off to lay down, no one knows. But they were unbuckled. Away in some dreamland as their mother and father sat in the front, but they re-eyed themselves. Donovan was just three years old, Jeremiah was two. The rain was falling hard, the road was blurred, and Karen, she was starting to fall asleep. As the family car barreled over Chambers Creek in Navarro County, the road turned slightly. But the car didn't. Karen only woke up when the car flipped over the guardrail on the bridge and vanished into the water below. What happened inside the car that night, no one knows. But it ended with Karen and Dale pulling themselves out of the frigid winter water onto the muddy bank. Their boys, Donovan and Jeremiah, were nowhere to be found. Here in a letter, Dale would explain, my boys drowned in a filthy, freezing cold body of water. I tried to get them out, but the current was awful and the water was freezing and I almost died trying to find them. Dale tried to save his boys. Instead, he had to face the reality that his two young sons had died in a creek, far, far from home. When investigators arrived at the scene, neither of the boys were inside the car. It seems that in the impact, because they weren't buckled, they had been thrown from the vehicle and into the water. Jeremiah's tiny body was dragged out of a lake downstream days later and Donovan was found nearby about four days after that. The grief was all consuming. And whether this loss kickstarted what came next or was simply an aggravating factor is unknown. But after Dale became incredibly violent with Karen, he seemed to blame her for the death of his boys. And surprisingly, in a shockingly similar manner that Sam had been in with his own wife, Dale's wife Karen claimed that at one point, he drove her out to the desert and put a gun to her head, threatening to kill her. And just like with Sam, Dale's wife rightfully left. It's speculated that following the death of his children and the loss of his wife, Dale too drowned his sorrows and alcohol and drugs. So as you can see, Dale and Sam had a lot in common, failed marriages, criminal activity, drinking and drug problems. So upon meeting, it seemed like they had finally met someone in the world who understood them. And together, they started participating in the same destructive behaviors. Now we've all seen those people who are troublemakers all on their own. But when two troublemakers form together, it can be a recipe for disaster, which is exactly the case for Dale Hausner and Sam Dietman. When the two weren't drinking together, they were doing drugs. Sometimes they did both at the same time. But it seemed that their favorite drug was meth. Late into the night, the two would smoke meth and then drive around the streets of Phoenix. Along the way, they'd pass people on the streets. And at some point, one of them made a comment. You see that man right there? Wouldn't it be fun to shoot him and drive away? The other agreed. It would be pretty fun. At first, I'm sure it was just an offhanded comment. Maybe they were testing the waters to see how the other would react. But then one night, after smoking meth together, they hopped into the car for another joy ride. This time, they had it gone. It was May 17, 2005. May in Phoenix, Arizona rivals the hottest days of summer anywhere else in the country. Temperatures regularly crest above 90 degrees Fahrenheit, baking the city and its residents and giving them a taste of the unbearably hot summer days to come. May 17, 2005 was the first truly hot day of the season. As the thermostat danced around 100 degrees, 38-year-old Tony Mendes was sick to his stomach with worry. He knew a family down the road from him was struggling and that this weather was sure to only make things worse. The family had recently had their electricity shut off, which meant no AC, no fans, nothing to fight against the stifling heat that had baked into their small home all day. Without any cooling, it had to be well above 100 degrees in the home and with small children stuck inside, Tony saw a recipe for disaster. Although without giving it a second thought, he began rushing around the house he was staying in gathering candles, ice cold bottled water, and battery operated lamps. That was the thing about Tony. He had a habit of going out of his way to help those in need even when he had trouble helping himself. You see, Tony was struggling with addiction. As a result, in late 2004, he and his wife had separated. Tony then moved in with a childhood friend, Ricky Kemp, who helped Tony as he worked towards sober living. By May, it seemed to be working. Tony was clean and full of hope about what that meant for his future and the future of his own family. He had recently begun healing his relationship with his wife and the two had discussed reconciling and working on their marriage. After all, they had four young children, they had built a life together. And though Tony had struggled to be present and clean in that life, things were different now. He was eager to be the father and husband he had always dreamt of being. And while that would be a slow process, in the meantime, he was eager to do good in any way he could. That stifling night in May, Tony piled supplies into the wagon, attached to the back of his bicycle. His roommate Ricky helped him load the wagon with candles, lamps, snacks, and water for the family down the road. Ricky would later say that he was supposed to go with Tony that night. But since they only had one bike, Tony reassured him that it was fine if he stayed behind. Ricky said that Tony was quote, like a brother to me. He knew better than anyone that Tony had a big heart. That night, after they loaded up the supplies, Tony smiled at Ricky, telling him quote, it might still be hot in there, but at least it won't be dark in their house. And quote, and with that, he hopped on his old bike, put on a helmet, and began to pedal along the side of the road. It was late. Cicada screamed from the desert hills as the gears on Tony's bike clicked steadily beneath him. The streets were, for the most part, empty. This time of night, it was just Tony peddling through the neighborhood. But in the distance, there was a sound growing closer. A car, nondescript. Like any other car in the city of Millions. Whether Tony saw the car or not, we don't know. What we do know is that an unnamed witness saw what happened next from their house. There was a crack. At first, they thought it was a motorcycle or dirt bike backfiring, but then they glanced out the window. And all they saw was Tony. His bike wobbled beneath him. His feet and legs struggled, like he was suddenly biking through mud. Tony clutched his chest with his right hand. And then he fell face first onto the pavement, his bike crumbling beneath him. Another neighbor stepped outside for a cigarette seconds later. As he took a drag, his eyes landed on Tony and his heart sunk. That neighbor told Camille Kimball in her novel A Sudden Shot, quote, I started to run to him because I thought he needed help. But when I got about five feet away from him, other people came into the street and said, don't touch him. I knew they were right because at first I thought maybe he was drunk and passed out. But when I got close, I could see it looked like he was dead, end quote. His eyes were wide open, unmoving, staring at nothing. Bystanders knew that Tony Mendes had just taken his final breath. But what they didn't know was what had killed him. At first, everyone on scene assumed that it had been the result of some kind of medical event. Had a seizure or heart attack struck him dead right there in the street? When paramedics arrived, they assumed the same. The way Tony collapsed, with no blood visible in the dark of night, it appeared to have been an instant, relatively peaceful death. But when two paramedics reached down to lift up Tony's body, it became clear that there was a very different cause of death than anyone had suspected. As they turned Tony, peeling his chest off the pavement, a pool of blood was revealed beneath him. Tony's seat died of his open chest wound, painting his clothes on the asphalt. One of the paramedics gasped. We've got a gunshot wound. News spread quickly throughout the neighborhood. Just down the road, Tony's roommate and childhood best friend Ricky was startled by a banging on his door. When he emerged, two of his friends looked relieved. They told him, your bike, we saw what looked like your bike on the ground outside. The police and paramedics are all over it. We thought the dead guy was you. His friends were relieved, but Ricky was horrified. They pointed down the street towards the first responders. Ricky bolted towards it. As he neared the flashing red and blue lights, he hoped that somehow it was a mix-up, that it wasn't Tony. But when he reached the paramedics, all the hope drained out of him. Another being zipped up in a body bag was his best friend, the man he considered a brother. Tearfully, he told detectives, I know him. That's Tony Mendes. The police asked if Tony had any enemies, anyone that would want to shoot him. A drug dealer, a romantic rival, but Ricky shook his head. Tony was well loved by everyone. He made an honest living putting up drywall with Ricky. Sure he had doubled in substances, but he hadn't made any enemies there either, and he had actually been clean for quite some time. Ricky told police, I can't think of a single reason anyone would want to harm him. He was a good guy. It was a murder that was ice cold from the get-go. No one had seen a cargo by. No one had seen Tony get shot. Witnesses had only seen him falling moments after. By then, whoever fired that fatal round was gone. The lack of motive, witnesses, and leads left investigators high and dry. But there was something that struck them as odd, something that would haunt them time and time again over the next year. Tony had been killed by a single gunshot wound that pierced through his heart. The weapon that had delivered the blow was determined to be a .22 long rifle, one of the most common firearm calibers in America, but not one that was commonly used for targeted murders. Often considered a beginner gun due to its minimal recoil and low noise, the .22LR is the chosen cartridge of the Boy Scouts of America for teaching young members things like target shooting. Out in the field, it's popularly used for small game hunting and self-defense. It's the kind of weapon people on farms have kicking around to ward off foxes and squirrels. Because of the size and its lack of power in comparison to other cartridges, the .22LR isn't often used in attacks on people. Mainly because death isn't guaranteed. The bullet's size and stopping power make it far from a foolproof murder weapon, which is why the use of it was so surprising to investigators on the scene. If this was a targeted hit on Tony for reasons they couldn't put a finger on, why would the killer choose such an unreliable weapon? On the other hand, if it wasn't a targeted hit on Tony, then why had someone shot him at all? Was it a case of mistaken identity? Were some teenagers just trying to scare a stranger? Or was Tony caught in the crosshairs of something completely unrelated? At the time, investigators were met with a dead end and dozens more questions than answers. And in just a week, they'd find themselves asking those same questions all over again. After murdering the first victim, Dale and Sam felt a rush like no other. And the best part was, they had gotten away with it. No one had spotted them, no one came knocking on their door. The entire experience was so exhilarating that just one week later, on May 24th, 2005, they decided to do it again. The two hopped in their car and started driving through the streets of Phoenix, looking for another victim. Along the way, one of them pointed up ahead. There was a man lying on a bench, completely unsuspecting, completely vulnerable. It was just after midnight on May 24th, 2005, when 56-year-old Reginald Rimalard curled up on a bus stop at the corner of Camelmac and 7th Avenue. Most people would be horrified by the prospect of sleeping on the streets, but to Reggie, in his torn mental state, the streets were a place of refuge. Beneath the clear night sky alone, he could escape the feelings of being trapped and the paranoia that followed him when he was surrounded by people or confined to one place. You see, life hadn't been easy for Reggie. Born in rural Iowa in 1949, he was raised in a Mayberry-esque town as the oldest of four children. His younger sisters adored him, later testifying that he was a great big brother. They were raised as best friends in a loving house that put family above all else. But unfortunately, Reggie couldn't stay in Iowa with his family forever. The year Reggie turned 20 was the very same year that the draft for the Vietnam War began. He served in Vietnam until he was discharged sometime in his early 20s and when he returned to his family, he was a shell of his former self. We don't know what horrors he saw in Vietnam or even what branch of military he was in, but whatever he experienced changed him in the words of one of his sisters. He struggled to hold down a job, talked nonsensically at times, and became incredibly withdrawn. Soon after his return, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. While the war didn't cause his schizophrenia, per se, it's well documented that traumatic experiences can trigger psychotic episodes in individuals who are already genetically predisposed to them. In Reggie's case, the psychosis, anxiety, and paranoia plagued him all his life. He struggled to live independently and his family remained close with him. When they moved to Phoenix to open a business, Reggie followed, and in spite of the challenges his condition posed, he was deeply loved by his family. On May 24th, hours before Reggie lay down on the bus stop to go to sleep, his family had actually been trying to get him into an assisted care facility. It was a battle they had fought time and time again. When he was in these facilities, Reggie often felt trapped. He would become defensive. But that morning, his parents and sisters were hopeful. They had found a new care facility, and it looked like a good match for him. They just had to get him there. And in that laid the problem. En route to this facility, Reggie's paranoia grabbed hold of him. He felt trapped. His heart thudded in his chest. He was thoroughly convinced that he was in trouble, that the people in the car were dragging him somewhere evil against his will. So as soon as the car pulled up to a stoplight, Reggie threw the door open and sprinted off, fleeing for his life. In his own mind, it made all the sense in the world. It was self-preservation. And in that state, sleeping anywhere where he had a semblance of control felt like the ultimate safety. So just past midnight on May 24th, he took off his shoes, turned on his side, and slowly drifted off to sleep on the bench beneath the covered bus stop. Across the street, 31-year-old James Hernandez stepped out of Charlie's, a local bar, to get some fresh air. It was quiet outside. The streets were empty. It was a nice change from the buzz of the rowdy bar. But then the newfound silence was shattered by something. Hearing the bang, James dropped to the ground before he even realized what the sound was. On the still baking hot pavement, the realization hit him. That was a gunshot. Oh my god. He looked up just in time to see a light-colored sedan speed off, barreling west down Camelback. James was relieved to realize that he was okay, but then, when he glanced toward the bus stop, his stomach dropped. Reggie was slumped over, no longer sleeping, but strewn over the bench like a rag doll. James sprinted across the road to his side. He later told police, At first, I wasn't sure what was going on. The first thing I remember when I got across the street was looking for a sprinkler because I was hearing the sound of a sprinkler like gurgling, but I couldn't see the sprinkler that was making the noise. Then I smelled blood and I realized the sound was coming from the man on the bench. Reggie Remillard had been shot in the neck. Blood pulsed from his neck in violent spurts. James immediately grabbed his phone and called 911 and sprinted into the street while he was on the phone with dispatch, trying desperately to wave down any car that passed. He hoped there'd be a nurse, a doctor, a vet, anyone who had any kind of training on how to stop bleeding. And within seconds, he was in luck. Phoenix police officer Darren Burch happened to be driving down Camelback Road on patrol when he spotted James frantically waving at him to stop. He leapt out of his car and found himself face to face with one of the most shocking sights of his career. He later testified, I saw someone laying on the bus bench. He was alive, but he was gushing a stream of blood, almost like a fountain effect. In a book called The Naked Streets by Ronald Watkins, Burch recalled that one thought went through his head over and over as he watched the torrent of blood burst from Reggie. How much blood can a person lose and survive? Pushing past that unbearable question, Burch grabbed the nearest object he could find. Reggie's tennis shoe. He pressed it to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, and thankfully, it helped. The fountain of blood turned to a gurgle as he applied pressure, but the canvas of the shoe darkened with every passing second. He later recalled, quote, everything seemed like it was lasting forever, end quote. As he pushed the shoe onto the wound, he tried to calm Reggie. He kept yelling at him, stay with me. At first, he wasn't sure if Reggie could hear him or understand what he was saying at all. But as he said those words, stay with me, Reggie locked eyes with him. There was no verbal response, no words, not even sounds. Reggie just stared into Burch's eyes, seemingly aware that he was trying to save his life. Cognizant that at the very least, he wasn't alone in these terrifying moments. When an ambulance finally arrived to take Reggie to the hospital, Burch was left standing in a pool of the stranger's blood, the dripping sneaker still in his hands. Reggie remained in the ICU for six days before he finally slipped away, succumbing to the devastating injury. An injury that, as hard as they tried, police couldn't find any motive for. Much like Tony, Reggie had no enemies. He didn't do drugs, he didn't have a partner, he didn't participate in any illegal activities whatsoever. Reggie had just been trying to sleep. And for no reason at all, he was killed by the same weapon that had killed Tony a week earlier. At the time, however, police didn't make the connection. Sadly, they wouldn't make it for several more months. And by then, several more victims fell prey. Throughout my life, I've always struggled to keep my complexion clear. And I had no idea that switching up my pillowcase could potentially help clear up my breakout. Recently, I was told to try silk. And after trying it, I realized that silk is cooling, it's gentle, and it made both my skin and my hair look better, fast. That's where Blissey comes in. And I do have to say, I have actually tried Blissey's pillowcases for a while now, along with a few other products that they have. And I fully believe in this company, and I can personally speak to how high quality the products are. With a Blissey silk pillowcase, you can see healthier skin in weeks. And you'll notice things like reduced fine lines, wrinkles, and sleep creases. And yes, Blissey pillowcases also help to prevent breakouts, which I find to be absolutely amazing. In addition, through Blissey, you can see better hair in just days. Their pillowcases help to reduce frizz, breakage, and even preserve styles and hair color. And Blissey's products are made with the highest quality silk. And if you don't know, silk is naturally cooling, breathable, hydrating, and hypoallergenic. Their products are dermatologists tested and recommended, fully machine washable, and they have so many different colors and designs, from Wicked and Harry Potter designs to an entire Zodiac collection. With over three million products sold, and features in Vogue, Oprah Daily, Good Morning America, and more, if you're looking to switch up your nighttime routine, Blissey is an incredible place to start. Like I said before, their products are incredibly comfortable. Truly, if you're looking to switch things up in the bedroom, Blissey's a great place to start. After the murders of Tony and Reggie, Sam and Dale felt invincible, but they also knew they had to play it safe. For the next month or so, they didn't take any more joy rides. Perhaps they were trying to put distance between them and the last murder. Maybe life just got in the way. Whatever it was, by June 28th, 2005, they were itching for another kill. So that night, they smoked some meth, got into their car, and took off. They drove around for a while. But street after street, they couldn't seem to find anyone worth shooting. Maybe there were too many people around, too many witnesses. Eventually, they found themselves in a more rural part of town, a place where there are hardly any witnesses at all, just acres and acres of land. At some point along the drive, they realized they're probably not going to kill anyone tonight, but that didn't mean their night had to end. Trigger warning, this next part involves animal cruelty. Taliesin, located on the outskirts of Phoenix, was in 2005, a town where the city and country united. People boarded horses there. They had chicken coops, and they embraced a more rural style of life. Though it wasn't exactly the country, as Phoenix boomed, homes and development had begun to creep into Taliesin, swallowing up tracks of land and turning it into a suburbia day-by-day. Still, there were places where residents could graze their animals, and one unnamed father did so on 91st Avenue. The previous year, this man bought his children a quarter horse they lovingly named Sarah Moon. She was a gift meant to teach them about responsibility, the freedom of writing, and how to connect with nature. But on the evening of June 28th, that opportunity was snatched away. The owner called their vet in a panic, stating that something was wrong with Sarah Moon. When the vet arrived, it was already too late. Sarah Moon was dead. A closer look revealed she had been shot several times by someone in a passing car. No one had seen the attack. But the shell casings that littered the road told everyone exactly what happened. Detective Ron Rock was called to the scene to investigate. When he arrived, he was confused. Twenty-two long rifle bullets were used to take down the massive animal. But using such a small bullet for the act didn't point to someone necessarily wanting to kill the animal, more like someone wanting to torture it. He gathered the bullets at the scene, consoled the father for his loss, and went on his way. The bullets rattling in an evidence bag in the back of his vehicle. And there was a strangeness rattling in his mind. Taliesin isn't the safest part of Phoenix, but things like murder, animal torture, and violence aren't very common. At the time, Detective Ron Rock usually spent his days handling things like property crime and theft. But June 28th and June 29th changed that. The person who fired the 22 long rifle wasn't done, not by a long shot. The very same night that Sam and Dale shot the horse, Sarah Moon, they decided that that wasn't enough for them. They needed more, so they continued driving around Phoenix. Finally, in the early morning hours of June 29th, they found their next target. It was around 3.30 a.m. and a family was making a snack run. After a long night, Vincent, his sister, and his mother decided to grab something at Jack in the Box on 83rd Avenue, just on the outskirts of Phoenix and the town of Taliesin. With their food secured, they started the journey back home. But as they turned onto the road from the drive-thru, the headlights swept over a frightening sight. Vincent slammed on his brakes, unsure of what he had just seen. But there, lying on the sidewalk was a body, completely motionless. Fearing the worst, Vincent made a U-turn and he sped back to the Jack in the Box to call the police. This batch received the call at 3.19 a.m. and they launched into action. Within minutes, several first responders were at the location, but unfortunately, it was too late. When Detective Ron Rock arrived at the scene, the victim was pronounced dead. It was 3.33 a.m. The cause of death was a gunshot wound from a familiar bullet, a .22 long rifle. The same gun used to kill that horse, Sarah Moon, earlier that night. The connection wasn't lost on Detective Rock, but he had a hurdle to get over before he could investigate the connection. First, there were some jurisdictional issues. You see, the victim had been shot while in the city limits of Phoenix. However, as he took his dying breaths, he had stumbled over the border into Taliesin, where he then fell and succumbed to his injuries. Both Phoenix and Taliesin police converged on the scene and ultimately, it was decided that it would be best for Taliesin to have the investigation. They quickly got to work gathering the man's belongings in an attempt to identify him and in his pants pocket, they discovered a note that read, love you dog, call me, never throw this away, followed by a phone number. Initially, lead detective Ron Rock was wary to call the number. He didn't want to speak to whoever was on the other end without at least trying to identify the body first. So the victim was sent for autopsy later that afternoon. There, using his fingerprints, he was identified as 20-year-old David Roy Anthony Estrada in the story of his life unfolded for detectives. David Roy Anthony Estrada was born on May 20, 1985 to Ralph and Rebecca Estrada in Phoenix. Raised in a large, loving and affluent family, he was the only son, cherished by his five sisters who constantly doted on him. His mother, Rebecca, told the Arizona Republic about one of her favorite memories with her son. In 1987, when he was just two years old, the family took their first big trip together to Pine Top, a retreat nestled in the White Mountains. The whole ride, David kept looking over his shoulder, seemingly concerned. Finally, he tugged on his mother's sleeve and asked her, confused, why is that little yellow banana following me? Because they were so far outside the city limits, the crescent moon was shining brighter than David had ever seen. When his family realized the little yellow banana was the moon, they all laughed until they could barely breathe. It was a joke that stayed in the family for David's entire life. To this day, the image of a crescent moon makes them think of him. Rebecca told the Arizona Republic, every time I see him there, sitting on the moon, and I'm like, oh hi David. Throughout his whole life, he carried that same magic. He was athletic, popular, and had a natural drive to pursue things, even if they were hard. He taught himself to play guitar and had a love of all things music. And while he was set up with success, both financially and socially, there were problems beneath the surface. You see, when David was entering high school, his father, Ralph, pleaded guilty to fraud and was disbarred from his job as an attorney. Ultimately, Ralph went to prison, and David, his mother, and five sisters were left to pick up the pieces. The once-stay-at-home mother was forced to go out and find a job to help pay the mortgage, while she balanced raising all of her kids alone. Money was tight, and Rebecca was unable to sell the family home due to leans associated with Ralph's fraud. Around this time, David's mental health began to take a downturn. While we found no direct examples, his mother described his behavior as erratic, and as a result, she petitioned a judge to have him committed to a mental health facility shortly after he turned 18. The petition was successful, and after a few months of inpatient treatment, David seemed to be coping much better with his condition. But like many young adults, David struggled to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. However, he longed for the freedom to live on his own terms. Shortly after being released from inpatient treatment, he took a few belongings and his guitar, and he started busking on the streets of Tolucent, rather than return to his family home. He set up a tent in a vacant lot near a bus stop. David's mother, Rebecca, told investigators that she believed he never came back home because he feared he would be committed again. But the family stayed in touch. They were as supportive as they could be of David. However, the damage from having him put in a facility would take some time to heal. Unfortunately, they never got the chance to do that. Now David Estrada was dead, and Detective Ron Rock was standing over his body. It was determined that David had been killed by two 22 caliber shots. One to the head, one to the chest. The conspiracy files is the most explosive show on the internet. I'm your host, Colin Brown, from the Paranormal Files on YouTube, and I'm inviting you to take this twisted journey down the rabbit hole with me. Together, we will dive deep into some of the world's most dangerous and disturbing conspiracy theories from suspicious suicides to hidden pedophile rings and high profile cover-ups. On my show, no story is off limits and no detail will be spared. And trust me, after listening to just one episode, you will never look at the world the same. So, if you like conspiracies, mysteries, true crime, and chaos, then this is the show for you. Listen to the conspiracy files now on all streaming platforms or wherever you get your podcasts. While Detective Rock and his team searched for clues on what they hoped would be the end of a long day, calls began to flood their radios. In the midst of their murder investigation, members of the Tullison Police Department were pulled away to a local Burger King. The alarms blared through the cooling desert. At first, they thought it was a break-in, but when they got closer, they realized it had been a shooting. Evidently, someone had driven by the Burger King and riddled it with bullets, shattering the windows and filling the children's play place with shrapnel. It was a troubling sight, but ultimately, it wasn't the city of Tullison's problem. Because of the location of the Burger King, the case was turned over to the Phoenix Police Department. This very problem would continue to plague the investigation into the Summers of Terror. Because had Tullison PD taken charge of the case, they would have realized that the weapon used to blow out the windows of the Burger King was the same one used in David's shooting and in the death of the horse, Sarah Moon. But because Phoenix PD took over, the connection was never made, and so the case remained unsolved. But as the weeks went on, Tullison Detective Ron Rock couldn't shake the feeling that something strange was happening in his city. Sam and Dale continued driving around the city looking for people to shoot, but perhaps trying to lay low, they settled on shooting animals instead. Another trigger warning here. Throughout July and into August, there were several more shootings in Tullison, all of them animals. On July 19th, a family dog named Whiskey was shot and killed by a .22 caliber bullet from a Remington rifle. Just down the road that very same night, another horse was shot and killed in the same manner that Sarah Moon had been killed. And as the sun rose, the final victim of the night emerged, a donkey named Buddy who managed to survive being shot. The following day, July 20th, yet another horse was shot. By midday, rumors were starting to spread through town that these animal shootings were part of a gang initiation. Making the first public statement on the matter, Officer Jeff Pizzi with the Tullison Police Department stated, It's looking more likely that someone was intending to shoot these horses. It's a very rare thing for a horse to get shot, especially several within a month. Now, at this point, Detective Rock was certain that they had a serial shooter targeting animals for the thrill of it. However, he was wary to connect the animal shootings to the murder of David Estrada. In his investigation, he had heard from several individuals close to David that David did have some enemies. There were people who may have wanted to harm him. Allegedly, he owed money to other transients. Some claim that he owed drug dealers and had made enemies while living on the streets. Because of these statements, Detective Rock felt that David's murder hadn't been a random thrill kill. It was more than likely the result of some kind of street retribution. So, he investigated the animal shootings and David's murder as separate crimes committed by separate people. No one had yet realized the scope of the attacks plaguing their city or just how much they would escalate. In August of 2005, the crime spree in Phoenix took a disturbing turn. By then, the average daily temperature was dancing around 100 degrees. When people did go out, they tried to do it after nightfall when things felt more bearable. On August 6th, 2005, three teenage girls enjoying their summer break decided to do just that. Eager to enjoy the last few days of freedom before school started again, they met up at each other's houses. It was just shy of 9.45pm when the girls found themselves walking along Baseline Road, a main road that runs east to west across the south side of the city. As they made their way down Baseline Road, they met the eyes of a man approaching them. He had a disheveled appearance. His face was partially obscured. Upon their initial glance, they assumed he was homeless. When he approached them, they likely just assumed he was going to ask for change. But that's not at all what happened. The stranger rushed the teen girls, drawing and caulking a gun that he had put right in their faces. Then he yelled at them. Behind the building, now. Terrified, the teen slowly walked behind the building, which just so happened to be a church. Once he had them there, hidden in the darkness, he held them at gunpoint as he molested two of the girls. Now due to the age of the victims, the details of the attack were never publicly released. All we know is that once the horrific ordeal was over, the traumatized victims raced to the Phoenix Police Department and told them what had happened. In their shock, they were only able to provide one detail. They stated their attacker was a quote, light-skinned man of color, end quote. But other than that, they had nothing. The police didn't know it at the time, but they had another serial predator on their hands. While Samondale had been wreaking havoc on the city, another man had just gotten started, and his name was Mark Goudau. Mark Goudau was born on September 6, 1964, to Willie and Alberta Goudau in Phoenix, Arizona. The Goudau family was large with a total of 13 children, Will McGean, Mary Helen, Carolyn, Cheryl, Peggy Ann, Brenda, Willie Jr., Oscar Charles, Richard, Michael, Marvin, and Mark, who was the second youngest of all the siblings. Mark and his siblings grew up in a neighborhood near Southern Avenue and 12th Street, just a mile north of Baseline. The road he would eventually haunt. His father, Willie, worked as a car dealership lot attendant while his mother, Alberta, worked as a maid. Now, there is some debate amongst the siblings about what their household was like growing up. Some siblings described it as peaceful, while others recalled a home filled with abuse, alcoholism, and drugs. Apparently, alcoholism ran in the family, and Willie was known to lash out violently at his children. That appears to have had a ripple effect as the children grew older. Six of the Goudau children would go on to have felony criminal records, and at least four would spend time in prison. But there was another event that drastically altered the lives of the Goudau children. In 1976, at only 49 years old, their mother, Alberta, had a stroke and passed away. The stroke was just 12 years old, devastated by the loss of his more gentle, understanding parent. From her death on, the Goudau children were largely on their own, supporting one another as their father worked long hours to try to keep a roof over their head. But despite the struggles, there isn't a lot of information on Mark's behavior growing up. We couldn't find any mentions of antisocial behavior, violence, or criminal actions. From all accounts, at least into his teen years, he was pretty average. He attended Corona Del Sol High School in Tempe, Arizona, where he excelled as an athlete, and apparently, both he and his younger brother Marvin were excellent football players. It seems like Mark could have used that to propel himself into college, but that's not how things went. He may have been dedicated when it came to sports, but when it came to his studies, he was often a no-show. When graduation came around, he didn't have enough credits to walk with his class. To even take extra classes or do another year, Mark decided to just move on without a GED. While his brother Marvin graduated and went on to play football at a local college, Mark went down a very different path. Beginning at just 18, he started having run-ins with the law, and his first arrest was just a hint of what was to come. On November 7, 1982, Mark and one of his brothers were arrested for the rape and assault of a young woman named Donna Sink. Although the details on this case are scarce, but one thing that has been publicly released is that before trial, Donna dropped the charges and recanted her story. She later stated that she was fearful of the Gudou brothers. So much so, she decided to not pursue charges against them in an attempt to escape their wrath. And though Mark was never convicted in this case, this was just the beginning of his long, criminal life. In 1987, Mark was arrested and charged with trespassing after he got into a physical altercation with someone at a bar. Nothing too serious, but he definitely didn't learn his lesson. A year later in 1988, he was arrested and charged with driving under the influence. But as the years passed, Mark's crimes became more severe, more violent. On August 6, 1989, at around 4 a.m., police were called to an apartment complex at 2802 East Osborne Road. Residents at the apartment complex had been awakened by a scream. When they looked outside, they saw a male beating a woman in the parking lot. By the time police arrived, the assailant was gone. But there, on the pavement, was the victim, Darlene Fernandez. Darlene was naked from the waist down. Crumpled in the parking lot, unmoving, and only able to moan. She was stuck face down in a pool of her own blood. Initially, detectives were certain that she had been shot in the head. There was so much blood around her that it seemed to be the only reasonable explanation. But as medics rolled her over to check her vitals, they were met with a frightening sight. Darlene's face looked inhuman. Her eyes were swollen shut, more than double their normal size. Darlene had ran down either side of her head, coating her face and rendering her unrecognizable. Then, there were the lacerations, peppered across her face and neck. There were seven gashes in total, each three to four inches in length. From chin to chest, her neck was black and blue. There were also bruises in the shape of fingers around her neck. She had obviously been choked several times. But the fact that she was breathing in this state was a miracle. An ambulance swiftly arrived and took her to Good Samaritan Hospital, where police gave her several days to recover before they visited her to get her account of what happened. Darlene told police that she had met Mark at a local nightclub. He seemed nice, charming even. Initially, she agreed to go home with him. But as soon as they stepped into his apartment, things took a drastic turn. Out of nowhere, Mark began beating her with the end of a shotgun. He hit her again and again, digging the shotgun into her skull with such force that he fractured the bone. But he wasn't done. While she gasped for breath and begged him to stop, he grabbed a barbell and began using that to attack her. The hard metal collided with her legs, her arms, and her skull, rattling her until she felt as though she could barely breathe. Then, Mark brutally raped her. Darlene was certain that she was going to die in that apartment with the man who had, or was earlier, been so charming and so kind. In a later report, she told detectives, quote, I felt like I was in the room with the devil. And if his earlier actions hadn't proved that, he solidified it with what he did next. After raping Darlene, he disappeared into his bathroom. She laid on the bed, exhausted, violated, and terrified. And that's when she heard from the bathroom, the sound of the bathtub running. She wondered if it would bring her a moment of relief. Maybe he would take a bath away from her, and she could somehow run out of the apartment and save herself. But that's not what happened. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Mark stormed into the room and grabbed her. He dragged her, bleeding and screaming into the bathroom, where he dunked her under water. The water turned pink from her blood. Darlene was exploded from her mouth as she fought and tried to scream. Mark was going to drown her. She was certain of it. She couldn't breathe. The pain was unbearable. But then he stopped holding her down. Darlene shot out of the water, fighting for oxygen. Now, what happened after this drowning attempt is unclear. The police report detailing the incident states that following the attack, Darlene fled the apartment, still undressed. Based on witness accounts, Mark followed behind Darlene, carrying a shotgun. There, in the parking lot, he repeatedly beat her over the head, with the gun, as she screamed. It wasn't until two brave witnesses ran out into the parking lot that the attack stopped. When Mark spotted the men, he began to chase after them with the shotgun. But as police were on their way, Mark ran away. Police responders arrived moments later, before he could harm anyone else. But Darlene very well could have died in that parking lot if the witnesses hadn't stepped in. Now, Mark may have been lucky getting away with his first alleged sexual assault, but this would be much trickier. Darlene made it clear to detectives that she would do whatever it took to put him behind bars. She could give a thorough description of his apartment. Witnesses had seen him beating her, and it was clear from the severity of her wounds that their encounter hadn't been consensual. When detectives brought Mark in for questioning, he had to come up with an excuse that explained away all of those things. And well, let's just say he tried. Mark stated that he and Darlene did have sex, but it was completely consensual. They took a bath together, during which two strangers forced their way into the apartment. He was held at gunpoint by a white man with an oozy, while another man raped Darlene in front of him. Darlene managed to escape and was chased by the men out of the apartment. Trying to finish the job, the men then beat her in the parking lot where she was discovered. Unfortunately for Mark, the police hadn't been born yesterday. As a result of the brutal attack, he was charged with aggravated assault, kidnapping, sexual assault, and attempted murder. Now, you would hope that that would be the end of Mark's freedom in society. But that was far from the case. He was actually released on bond after spending just a few days in jail. And while out on bond, he committed another crime. This time, it was an armed robbery. That night, Mark had gone into a fray supermarket in Phoenix. He pointed a gun at the cash register, demanding he give her all the cash in the drawer. Terrified, the woman handed over every bit of cash inside. But it wasn't enough. Mark wanted more. He ordered the woman to grab money out of all of the registers nearby. It totaled about $850. Once he had the cash, he lined up all of the employees at gunpoint, and he walked them outside into the parking lot. His goal was to keep them from calling the police while he made his getaway. But that's not how things went. Unbeknownst to Mark, the police were already on their way. They'd been tipped off by a silent security alarm. So when they arrived on scene, they quickly took Mark back into custody. And remember, at the time that Mark did this, he was out on bond for the attack on Darlene. So swiftly, he was put back behind bars. This time, he faced a robbery charge. He played at no contest, telling his probation officer that he only robbed the store to fund his cocaine habit. Ultimately, for that crime, he was sentenced to 21 years behind bars. Now, as for nearly killing Darlene, you'd think he'd be behind bars for much, much longer than that. After all, at his trial, she testified about the impact the attack had on her. It took her two months to be able to truly walk again. Her brain was bruised, she was unable to close her fist all the way, and she was unable to drive due to the damage to her vision caused by the beating. Though she tried to go back to school, she found it impossible to focus like she used to and had to drop out. He was plagued by nightmares and to stop working entirely and rarely left the house following the attack. Her life was forever changed by Mark's vicious attack. But rather than slap him with real consequences, his charges for the attack were reduced. Rather than go to jail for attempted murder, he was ultimately only charged with three counts of aggravated assault. As a result, he got 15 years in prison, six less years than he received for the robbery where no one was physically hurt, raped, or abused. But the worst part of all is that Mark didn't even serve his full sentence. In March of 2004, after serving just 13 years, Mark was paroled by the Arizona Executive Clemency Board for good behavior. While behind bars, he was a model prisoner. And surprisingly, he had even married a woman named Wendy Carr. At his parole hearing, Wendy stood up for Mark, telling the board that he was a changed man and that if he was released, he would prove to be a valuable member of society. Other friends and family members also backed him up, with one saying this. Mark's transformation from a young sad boy to a mature, remorseful, ambitious, and introspective man has been inspiring. Although Mark could have fallen into the abyss of bitterness and anger, he has chosen to see the positive side of life and many possibilities it offers. When Mark's friends and family learned that he was going to be released after 13 years, they were so happy that he had another chance at life. The Arizona Republic reported, quote, he walked out of prison a changed man with a new life, a wife he had married behind bars, a good job, and a heartfelt desire to never do wrong again, end quote. During his release, he moved into his wife's house. Wendy had purchased the home in 1995 while he was incarcerated. And from there, it seemed like Mark was doing what he promised. He was trying to be a valuable member of society. He took a job in construction with a concrete pouring company called Select Build. There he was a dedicated employee. By all accounts, he appeared to be a normal, hardworking family man. He was often seen outside of his house doing yard work or working on his car. His neighbors said that he was quiet, but friendly. They all knew he had a criminal past. Normally, they would have been unsettled with someone like that moving into their neighborhood. But after meeting him and seeing how easygoing and friendly he was, they weren't concerned at all. He seemed to be a reformed man. A success story. Steve Castel, a neighbor, told the Arizona Republic, he seemed like a normal guy. But you know what they say, you have to watch out for the quiet ones. Another neighbor, Sue Ellen Bennett, admitted, he's a sweet, sweet guy. He was always home or with Wendy. He was a very hard worker. In his time after incarceration, Mark spent a lot of time with his wife, Wendy. They enjoyed hiking and mountain biking along the various trails in Phoenix. At work, Mark was eventually promoted to crew boss. On the outside looking in, he was doing everything right. Corrections director Dora Shreerow told the Arizona Republic he was actually quite compliant, paying his fees, holding down a job and passing all of his drug tests. However, even though he appeared to be doing well, there was a dark side of him that remained hidden, a side that was waiting to resurface. It appeared that Mark lived a double life, one as a devoted family man, and the other immersed in a world of death, destruction and control. Because about a year and a half after his release from prison, Mark took to the streets, the streets that were already being terrorized by the serial shooters, Sam Dietman and Dale Hausner. In August of 2005, Mark found those three teenage girls walking down the sidewalk. He brandished his gun, forced them behind that church, and he assaulted them. After that incident, the police had no idea Mark Goudau was responsible. The only description given of the man was that he was light-skinned. And unfortunately, it's not the last time police would hear about him. Just a week later, on August 14th, a woman walking out of a complex at 2425 East Thomas Road, a few miles north of where the previous attack occurred, was cornered by a man with a gun. He robbed her of all of her belongings, and then, still holding her at gunpoint, he raped her before tossing her aside and leaving her in pain on the street. When she went to the police to report the attack, they were stunned to hear her give the exact same description, a light-skinned black man. Due to the similarities of the attack, Phoenix police assumed that they had a budding serial rapist in their jurisdiction. For the next month, however, things slowed down, until seemingly out of nowhere, the mysterious attacker escalated to murder. Georgia Gwyn Thompson was just getting used to the Southwest. Born in Idaho, she had grown up in Post Falls, a small town on the border of Washington State. She was one of nine children and grew up in a loving home where she was encouraged to take part in local activities. Growing up, she was on the track team, joined the drama club, and maintained her grades as an honor roll student. After she graduated, she began to envision a life away from the small town she had grown up in. She wanted to get out and explore the world for herself. After speaking with some friends she met on Myspace, she settled on Tempe, Arizona and moved into an apartment by herself in the summer of 2005. Originally, she dreamt of pursuing a career in modeling, but at the same time, she liked the idea of going to law school to help people pursue justice. Really, she was like a lot of 19-year-olds. She wasn't sure exactly who she wanted to be, but she was confident that in time she'd get there. As she worked on finding herself and her independence in a brand new city, she took on a job as a waitress at Hooters. At night, she worked as a topless dancer at a club called Skin Cabaret, where she made enough money to secure a solid future for herself. Though she was new to the city, she made friends quickly. She was funny, compassionate, humble, and above all encouraging. She wasn't the type to put anyone down, which made her a loyal and much-loved friend in the challenging and at times cutthroat scene she had joined. On September 7th, Georgia went to a local bar with one of her coworkers. They had a snack and a drink before driving together to the Skin Cabaret for their nightshifts. By midnight, however, the two decided that they were going to clock out early because the night had been slow, so they left. They went back to the bar they had stopped at earlier that night to pick up Georgia's car. It was a little after midnight on September 8th. Georgia waved goodbye to her coworker, got in her car, and pulled out of the parking lot. It was the last time anyone saw her. In 1 a.m., a resident at her apartment complex, Saddle Club apartment homes, recalled hearing a woman yell. They couldn't make out what was said, but it sounded like something along the lines of, leave me alone. Then, there was a bang. A few minutes later, another tenant who stepped out for a cigarette opened the door to see Georgia face down on the pavement next to her car. He assumed that maybe she had too much to drink. Concerned. They approached her, gently asking if she was okay. Georgia didn't move. The man stepped closer, wondering if he should call an ambulance. But thanks to the light of a passing car, he realized that he definitely needed to. But not for the reason he initially thought. The headlights reflected a pool of blood that was growing around Georgia's head. When police arrived, they discovered she had been shot in the back of the head at extremely close range. The gun had been pressed into the back of her head so hard that at the time it was fired, she had severe bruising from the barrel pushing against her skull. Now initially, police suspected that it was a burglary gone wrong. But when they moved her onto her stomach and pried open her hands, stiffened by rigor mortis, they realized that this was no burglary. In her hand were her car keys. Her purse, full of her earnings from that night, was still looped in the crook of her arm, pressed against her body. But if this hadn't been a robbery, then what had the motive been? Investigators discovered that Georgia had no enemies. After all, she had only been in the city for a few weeks. She had no boyfriend, no rivals, no romance in her life of any kind. The shooting, like so many others, seemed to be completely random. Now, something else they noticed when they found her body was that her pants had been slightly pulled down. But there was no evidence of a sexual assault. Because of that, investigators later theorized that her attacker tried to rape her. However, once she put up a fight, he decided to shoot and kill her instead. But following Georgia's murder, police were at a loss. Animals, men, women, children. It appeared that no one was safe from this random wave of violence. Sure, Phoenix, Arizona wasn't the safest city on a good year. But this, this was different. Law enforcement agencies found themselves working around the clock, trying to keep up with these mysterious attacks. So the Phoenix Police Department was in the straws of this massive violent crime spree. I mean, shootouts on the streets where dozens and dozens of rounds were fired, gangs, prevalent. It was ungodly hot. There had been wildfires that were raging out of the trail. It was like this perfect storm. And a police force that was just overwhelmed with all these violent crimes. In late September, police finally got a breakthrough that would help them arrest the perpetrator of this new wave of violent crimes. However, they had no idea at the time just how important it would be. On September 20, 2005, two sisters, Alejandra and Lorena Lara, were walking home from a park near West Vineyard Road when they heard footsteps approaching. Before they even had time to react, the stranger pulled a gun on them. A gun being pointed at you is obviously terrifying, but the sisters had someone else to think about, too. The eldest sister was six months pregnant. Well, when the stranger yelled at them, into the bushes now, they complied. Once out of view, the man forced both Alejandra and Lorena to take their clothes off. Crying, they did as they were told. The pregnant sister begged the attacker to let them go for the sake of her unborn child. But that only seemed to excite him more. He dug the end of his gun into the pregnant woman's stomach. He didn't have to say anything. The threat he was making was loud and clear. If the gun digging into her pregnant belly, the attacker began to sexually assault both sisters. But when he tried to slip on a condom, he lost his erection. Frustrated, he put his weapon on the ground in order to pull the condom back on. In that instant, one of the women saw an opportunity. She leaned down, grabbed the gun, and turned it on their attacker. For a moment, everyone was frozen in time. The man before them had been prepared to take a life. That much was clear. But would they be able to do the same? Heart pounding, the sister with the gun pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. Perhaps the safety was on, or perhaps the woman had never fired a gun. But nonetheless, the man was enraged. He was able to wrestle the gun back from them. And this time, he was even more angry than before. He forced the sisters onto the ground. He then shoved the end of his gun into the vagina of the pregnant sister. And he yelled, beg for your life. Beg for your baby. She did. And then he took turns raping the women. It was a truly horrific event. An act of the ultimate cruelty. And when it was over, the attacker was desperate not to get caught. Fearing he had left his DNA behind, he ordered both of the women to spit in his hand. He then grabbed mud from the ground, mixed it in with their saliva, and he rubbed it all over their chests, where he had ejaculated. He did this to try and destroy DNA. And with that, he disappeared into the night. Horrified, the women hurried to a nearby police department, where they gave detailed statements of the attack. And luckily, despite the man's efforts, officers were able to pull a DNA sample off the victims. I wish I could say that's where the story ended. I wish that was the final attack of the Summers of Terror. And really, it could have been. You see, the man behind the rapes had been in jail before. His DNA was on file in CODIS. But there was a problem. An evidentiary backlog. Tragically, it would be nine months before the sample was even processed, which gave the attacker nine more months. To terrorize the city, rob its citizens, rape innocent women and children, and kill anyone who got in his way. From here, the number of rapes, robberies, and assaults increased substantially. And they all centered around Baseline Road in Phoenix. Sadly, another horrific attack was right around the corner. It was about eight days after the attack on the sisters, September 28th, 2005. A 36-year-old mother and her 12-year-old daughter were walking past a fast food restaurant when a man, wearing a fisherman's hat, ran up to them holding a gun. He ordered the mother and daughter to get into her car. The man got into the back seat, where he told her to drive to a secluded location. Once there, he sexually assaulted the 12-year-old before pulling the mother into the back seat and raping her. During the ordeal, he repeatedly screamed at them, don't look at me. When he was finished, he stepped out of the car, leaving the traumatized mother and daughter in the parking lot, where he had attacked them. When the mother gave the description to Phoenix PD, they knew immediately that it was the same man who had attacked the sisters weeks earlier. However, they hadn't yet connected him to the other crimes. And surprisingly, there were even more on the horizon. On November 3rd, a series of sexual assaults and robberies rippled Down Baseline Road. It started around 8.01 p.m. at 4019 North 32nd Street. A man entered a sex shop called Cupid's Toy Box and committed a robbery, stealing roughly $720. Less than 10 minutes later, at 8.10 p.m., the man bolted across the street to 3131 East Indian School and abducted a woman near a donation bin. He raped her inside of her own car and then demanded that she drive him to another location. Holding a gun to her head, she told her, I committed a robbery. I gotta get out of here. Drive. Fearing for her life, the woman complied. After dropping him off on the other side of town, she immediately drove to the Phoenix Police Department. In her report, she stated that the perpetrator was wearing black plastic eyeglasses and a Halloween costume. News of this attacker and his disguises spread across the city, but it didn't stop the attacks. On November 7th, 2005, the perpetrator robbed two restaurants on 32nd Street. At 8.08 p.m., he entered a Mexican restaurant. He held four people at gunpoint while he demanded cash. Then, he went next door to a little Caesar's Pizza and robbed three more people at gunpoint. Once he had enough money, he went back onto the street and robbed four more people, taking an additional $463 from his victims. Then, as he fled the scene, he fired a round from his gun into the air. One thing was incredibly clear. This man had no intention of stopping anytime soon. And if anything, he was only growing more brazen with each day. Whispers around town about the rapes, robberies, and shootings turned into a steady hum. And then, a scream. People were scared out of their minds. They wanted answers. On November 18th, the Arizona Republic reported that South Phoenix had an active, serial rapist on their hands. In the article, they described the so-called baseline rapist. As black, about 25 years old, standing 5 feet 9 inches to 5 feet 11 inches, he weighs about 170 pounds and has a medium build. He was wearing a blue, long-sleeve, pull-over sweatshirt, khaki pants, white-brimmed hat, possible shoulder-length wig, and plastic round glasses. The Phoenix Police Department delivered their first public statement on the matter, urging women to walk in groups and stay alert, especially after nightfall, when many of the attacks had occurred. But they said little about the robberies and nothing about the seemingly random shootings of people around town. At the time, the victims of the serial shooters, Sam Dietman, and Dale Hausner were still a big question to investigators. They were treating the shootings as random incidents, not connected to one another whatsoever. Somehow, that made it worse for the public. And the murders? Well, they were far from over. Two days after the announcement about a baseline rapist haunting the city was made for the first time, the serial shooters were on the streets again, ready for another kill. Their last kill was on June 29th with the murder of David Estrada, but it had been a while since they had gotten together for their little secret nights of killing people at random. In fact, by November, they hadn't killed anyone in five months, aside from a few animals at the end of the summer. So they were ready for another night of joy riding around Phoenix. On November 20th, 2005, Nathaniel Schoffner found himself stepping out of a local convenience store in South Phoenix, not far from Baseline Road. Back in 1959, Nathaniel was a U.S. Navy veteran who in 2005 was struggling with homelessness. Sadly, it was so hard to find any information on Nathaniel. However, the last few months of his life are telling of his character and what he stood for. As Nathaniel walked away from the convenience store just after 10 p.m., he saw a car pull over near a stray dog that was canvassing an alley for scraps. Then, he watched in horror as the barrel of a gun lifted out of the window, aimed directly at the poor dog. Nathaniel was furious, who in their right mind would hurt such an innocent creature that was just trying to survive. He charged towards the car, calling out to the person holding the gun. The man's finger softened on the trigger, almost as if he was in disbelief. He snapped back at Nathaniel. What the hell did you call me? He said. Nathaniel pissed, took a sip of his beer, taking his time before he answered. Nathaniel and the shooter went at it, screaming obscenities at one another. Nathaniel seemed to have forgotten all about the gun. He was solely focused on protecting the dog and stopping this psycho from harming an innocent animal. But as the fighting went on, the shooter raised his gun, aiming it at Nathaniel. That's when another voice popped up from the driver's seat. There wasn't just one man in the car. There were two. The driver yelled out, Let's just go. I don't think it'll kill him. The so-called Bill Clinton-looking motherfucker screamed something at the driver. He then reached back, grabbed his sawed-off shotgun, and aimed it at Nathaniel. He pulled a trigger with a resounding bang. A pain that burnt like fire took hold of Nathaniel's body. Not just in one spot, but in several. The shotgun blasted tiny pellets all throughout his body. He crumbled to the ground as the car sped off, kicking sand up in its wake. Nathaniel laid there, bleeding out. It wasn't until an hour later that someone saw him. An off-duty police officer returning from an event with his wife slammed on his brakes when his headlights illuminated Nathaniel, crumpled on the ground. He was face down, surrounded by what appeared to be crushed beer cans. At first, the officer thought Nathaniel was drunk and had passed out. The smell of alcohol was overwhelming as he got out of the car. But as he neared closer, the smell mixed with something else. Something metallic. Something human. It was only when he stood inches away from Nathaniel's body, when he realized that the cans hadn't been chugged and crushed. They had been split open by shotgun pellets. Nathaniel was lying in a pool of blood. The officer immediately called in to report a homicide. Within minutes, paramedics and police officers rushed to the scene. Somehow, he was still alive. He was raced to the hospital where trauma doctors desperately tried to save his life. Unfortunately, it was too late. And 27 hours after being discovered on the street, he was dead. His last moments were spent protecting a stray dog. Once again, detectives were at a loss. They had no idea who was behind the killing. Had their baseline rapist tried to attack Nathaniel, only for things to go horribly wrong? Or was it another mysterious, isolated attack? By December, the Phoenix Police Department had experienced an estimated 220 homicides for the year. Only 50 to 60% of those would be solved in the year following. It felt like they were fighting a losing battle. And yet, the year wasn't over quite yet. A few weeks later, on December 12, 2005, there was another killer on the loose on the streets of Phoenix. But this time, it wasn't Sam and Dale. It was the baseline rapist turned baseline killer, Mark Goudau. That day, Katerer Peter Ochoa was working inside his studio on South 40th Street, right along Baseline Road. As he washed dishes, he was startled by a sudden scream just outside his door. Recently, he had trouble with teenagers playing in the alley outside of his business. They were often breaking bottles and causing a mess. Assuming that's what awaited him outside, he made his way to the door, cursing under his breath. But just as he reached for the handle, he heard another sound. Through the thick metal door, he thought it was the sound of someone kicking a ball up against a dumpster, rattling the whole building alongside it. He threw open the door, ready to tell the kids off. But instead, he came face to face with something out of a nightmare. In front of him, a man stood over the lifeless body of a woman. Her face was bloody, her hair matted, her chest unmoving. The man standing over her had a gun tight in his grip. He looked enraged. And when he turned to see Peter looking at him, that rage was amplified. He raised the gun aiming it directly at Peter's head, hard pounding, mouth dry, and hands trembling. Peter yanked the door shut, locking it, just as the man's finger laid over the trigger. Terrified, Peter ducked behind an ice machine and held his breath. He watched, horrified, as the doorknob began to turn, slowly at first. Then, aggressively, desperately. After what seemed like forever, the man stopped trying to get inside. Peter listened as footsteps retreated, and then, all was silent. With the coast clear, Peter dialed 911. It took only minutes for a police to arrive at the grisly scene, but by then, the shooter was gone. And there, lying on the ground, was the body of 39-year-old Tina Marie Washington. Born on April 25, 1966, Tina had lived her entire life in the Phoenix area. She was a daughter, sister, and mother to three children. She worked as a preschool teacher at Cactus Preschool, where she was in charge of 17 rambunctious toddlers who absolutely adored her. At home, her three kids looked up to her. When her eldest, who was in his teens, received a visit from detectives informing him that his mother was dead, he broke down, telling them, I thought I'd have her forever. She was my mother and father. I just lost the most important person in my life. Her kids were now orphans because a stranger, a monster, put a 380 automatic pistol to her head and pulled the trigger. She had died almost instantly. For some reason, Tina seemed to be the final straw for the responding detective. She seemed to make him realize what was to come. After I'd seen the body, he stood over her and said to himself, My God, this is going to be very bad. There was absolutely no denying it anymore. The baseline rapist wasn't just a rapist, he was also a killer. But the Phoenix Police Department was about to have an even bigger problem on their hands. Because not only were they dealing with the baseline killer, but the serial shooters were about to take to the streets yet again. Now up until the end of 2005, police had no idea that they had multiple killers on their hands. At the time, they viewed all of the shootings as separate incidents. The animals and horse attacks in Tolicin, they assumed those were by a group of teens. The shootings of pedestrians, those had to be drug related or domestic incidents. At least that's what they were telling themselves. But the evening of December 29th, 2005, changed their minds entirely. That night, Dale Hausner and Sam Dietman were prowling the streets again. And this time, they wanted to end the 2005 year with a bang. They drove around the streets high on meth, their fingers ready on the trigger for their next victim. And soon enough, they found him. December 29th, 2005, a little after 8pm. 44 year old Timmy Torti left his job at a cafeteria and was making his way back to his halfway house, Lifecycles. He slipped on headphones for the long walk down 9th Avenue, savoring the cool desert air after a long work day. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he felt a pain explode through his chest and neck. He crumbled to the sidewalk, his headphones flying off from the impact. At first, he was convinced he was having a heart attack. Panicked, he pressed a hand against his chest, trying to feel his heartbeat. A warmth spread over his hand. When he pulled away, he looked down in horror. His hand was dripping with his own blood. He wasn't having a heart attack, he had been shot. He told Camille Kimball in a sudden shot, I forced myself up from the sidewalk and tried to make it home. As he stumbled down the sidewalk, blood gushed out of a wound in his neck like a fountain. When he finally made it to the Lifecycles lobby, his strength gave out. He collapsed on the floor, filling the room with blood as he clung onto life. The front desk called 911 and thankfully Timmy survived. The bullet that had shot him was a familiar one, a 22. And the person or people shooting it weren't done yet. At 10.10pm, a dog named Cherokee was shot and killed in a nearby park as his owner walked him down the street. 21 minutes later, around 10.30pm, several shots were fired at 44-year-old Jose Ortiz and 28-year-old Marco Carrillo. Both of the men were homeless and it seemed like they had entered the US separately without documentation. They were each struck by a .22 bullet from a Remington rifle and died on the sidewalk far from home, far from their loved ones. In the end, neither body was claimed by anyone. I wish we could tell you more about them. About how they ended up in the US, where they were from, what they were doing, what their dreams were, but unfortunately, that's never been published. Police in Phoenix were working overtime on the night of the 29th and into the morning of the 30th. From shooting to shooting, fielding calls from numerous pet owners whose dogs were shot within a few minutes span. It was absolute chaos. The department was spread so thin, teams weren't coordinating with one another about the attacks. They were focusing on the here and now, saving as many people and pets as they could. But as the sun finally splashed across the city, after a long, dark, violent night, someone was paying attention. If you recall earlier, we discussed the shooting of David Estrada. He was one of the first victims of the serial shooters way back in June. While the detective in charge of his homicide, Tullison police detective Ron Rock, he hadn't given up on solving his case. When he heard about the string of animal shootings and the murders of Jose Ortiz and Marco Carrillo, he knew that they had to be connected to David's shooting in Tullison. So he called up Cliff Joule, a Phoenix police officer. As the new year hung over them, the two discussed the possibility that no one had put together yet. That there wasn't just a serial rapist turned killer in Phoenix. There was a serial shooter too, one who had already taken the lives of at least three people and potentially shot dozens more. Here's Cliff Joule recalling the phone call where everything changed. He'd heard about my shootings on the news and he had a murder victim that had been shot and killed at 83rd Avenue and Interstate 10 just north of Banburin on June 29th, 2005. David Estrada shot once in the chest with a small caliber weapon. The victim was killed while panhandling for money to get to California. Not only that, Detective Rock said the same night that David was shot and killed, he had some animals shot and killed and he had recovered 22 Remington shell casings at those shootings, the same as the Timothy Torday scene. He felt that these shootings sounded eerily similar to all of the shootings that I'd been investigating. And Detective Rock asked me if I had any ballistic evidence, so I told him I had a single 22 caliber shell case and he asked if it was a Remington and I said yes it was. We had the Phoenix Police Crime Lab compare those shell casings and we received a match to my shooter. Now we have three murders that were connected by ballistic evidence. With ballistics linking David's murder and Tollison to the two murders in Phoenix, two separate task forces were established, one to focus exclusively on the baseline killer and the other dedicated to solving the serial shooter cases. Now one serial killer is hard enough for a police force to deal with, but the realization that there were two operating at the same time was mind boggling. What they didn't even know is that it wasn't just two serial killers. There was three, the baseline killer and the two serial shooters who worked together. But in the eyes of law enforcement and in the eyes of the public, the baseline killer and serial shooter were terrorizing their city. When the news hit the media, it sent people into a panic. Everyone around Phoenix began rearranging their schedules to be home before dark. Those who had to walk at night didn't dare do so alone. People were ducking into doorways or behind buildings if they saw a car coming and women started locking themselves into their homes. Terrified to even go to the most normal everyday places. As 2005 turned to 2006, there wasn't a feeling of hope in the Valley of Sun. Instead, there were feelings of dread and terror. The residents, old, young, Hispanic, white, black, male, female, all were equal targets. No one was safe. And as the new year dawned on the city, the residents found themselves asking, am I next? In part two of this series, we will be discussing the crimes committed by these three killers in the year 2006, followed by their arrests at the end of the summer. As always, if you want to hear that episode now, head over to our Patreon. If not, we'll see you next week. Hey everybody, thank you so much for listening to today's episode of Murder in America. Like we just said, if you want to listen to part two right now, head on over to our Patreon. If you want to help support the show, please consider joining us over on Patreon. On Patreon, you can get access to early ad-free versions of the episodes. So if you don't like the ads, Patreon is a great place to go. And you can also get access to bonus episodes of Murder in America. These are full-length episodes of the show that will never be posted on the main feed. If you've never signed up before, there are probably 150, 160 or so episodes on the Patreon that are completely brand new that you will have never heard before. So if you want to support the work that we do here on the show, joining us on Patreon is a great way to do that. As always, don't forget to follow us on Instagram at Murder in America to see photos from every case that we cover here on the show. And please leave us a five-star review wherever you listen to your podcasts, whether that is on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or wherever. We love hearing from you guys and we love seeing those amazing reviews. Anyways, y'all, we'll be back next week with part two. Thank you so much for joining us this week. I hope everybody has a great weekend if you're listening on Friday or a great rest of your week. And yeah, I'll catch y'all in the next one.