His first murder was in the summer of 1984. From March through June of the following year he killed ten people in the cities of Rosemead, Montery Park, Monrovia, Burbank and Pico Rivera. I lived in East L.A, a nearby city. A very nearby city.
1985 was Los Angeles' hottest summer in 100 years. Thick, wool-blanket-heat covered the city and suffocated in its inhabitants the slightest hint of motivation. I was 7 years old. My cousins Lorrie and Arlene were 7 and 9, respectively. My childhood summers cannot be recalled without them. Each of us was the youngest sibling, drawn to each other by the same sense of mischief and curiosity. Neither of us big fans of dolls or mini plastic baking ovens, I think we watched movies like The Goonies and Monster Squad while imagining ourselves as those brave, adventure-seeking youngsters. We spent most of our days in and around Arlene's house - a white single-story, three-bedroom in San Gabriel, with a detached garage and an overgrown backyard -a deserted battlefield of scattered plastic lounge chairs and deflated balls. Beyond the back fence was an undeveloped half acre piece of land we were not to enter under any circumstances.
July 2nd, 1985 was reported as the hottest day in 100 years. He killed three more. On July 7th two women were murdered in Monterey Park and the press declared a serial killer was loose in Los Angeles County. The dubbed him The Nightstalker.
I hadn't had much experience with death. I think it's safe to say my cousins hadn't either. Our Grandpa had passed away the previous year, leaving our parents, aunts, and uncles with a sorrow still deep and freshly planted inside each of them. Sure, us kids missed the gentle old man who comforted us on his lap, but what did we truly know of death and loss? We carried on through the heat as we always had - draped around the television watching music videos and Grease until we knew all the words, with afternoon strolls to the corner store for Fritos and Orange Crush, occasional splashes in the plastic drug-store pool laid out on the grass, and backyard rummages.
It was customary, if not crucial, to leave windows open all night long during the stifling summer. Our homes didn't have central air. Maybe a bedroom or living room had a clunky air-conditioner jammed into a window, but many folks sat outside on their porches or under umbrellas until bedtime, where they then lay flat and uncovered ready to welcome the slightest breeze.
The Nightstalker liked open windows. Detectives found no forced entry in most of the homes he hit, but always an open or unlocked window. On July 20th he struck at a home in Glendale. The next morning headlines read "Nightstalker Strikes Again" and "LA Bolts Its Doors, Windows." The city was hysterical. Locksmiths were busy around the clock. Security devices increased in sales. Guns and attack dogs were in high demand but could not be supplied fast enough. Someone reported that the Nightstalker preferred white and beige-colored houses; a mere coincidence that led to freshly painted houses across L.A.'s neighborhoods. And in these neighborhoods volunteer watch groups formed to keep an eye on the streets through those long nights.
Sitting around the television at Arlene's house one day, our moms and dads and big brothers and sisters watched news reports about the serial killer. We overheard bits and pieces of information detailing what were horrific cases of murder and rape. He drew a pentagram on the wall out of blood. He's a devil worshiper. He hovered over the victim with a machete. That last murder happened just a block away from so-and-so's house. My Uncle Bill, who lived in Alhambra, swore to God that The Nightstalker was at his house but he had "scared that motherfucker away." To us kids, it seemed like the movies were coming to life. Our parents had been lying to us when they said Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, and Freddie Krueger weren't real. Not only were they real, but our parents were terrified of them, too.
Another set of murders in Diamond Bar on August 8th, and the next few weeks continued without a sign of The Nightstalker. It would be unfolded later that he had traveled to San Francisco and killed another couple in the Lakeside District near Lake Merced. While he was away, investigators finally pinpointed a suspect and released his name along with a mugshot photo. His face was plastered on every newspaper in southern California. And his name was Richard Ramirez.
On Saturday, August 31st I was home with my parents and brothers on S.Vancouver Avenue. Breaking News interrupted the regular programming to report the capture of Richard Ramirez! After arriving at the East Los Angeles Greyhound bus station early that morning, he quickly realized that he had been identified and recognized by citizens at every corner. A chase, not by police officers but by neighborhood men, that took him on and off a local bus, through backyards and into a stolen car, finally ended on Hubbard Street, where he was taken down and held until law enforcement arrived. Hubbard Street. Less than a ten-minute walk from my childhood home. There were parties in the streets that night!
The end of the hottest summer in 100 years coincided with the capture of a real-life monster. The fear dissipated. A new school year started. Life returned to normal. The heat....well, that never really went away.
1985 was Los Angeles' hottest summer in 100 years. Thick, wool-blanket-heat covered the city and suffocated in its inhabitants the slightest hint of motivation. I was 7 years old. My cousins Lorrie and Arlene were 7 and 9, respectively. My childhood summers cannot be recalled without them. Each of us was the youngest sibling, drawn to each other by the same sense of mischief and curiosity. Neither of us big fans of dolls or mini plastic baking ovens, I think we watched movies like The Goonies and Monster Squad while imagining ourselves as those brave, adventure-seeking youngsters. We spent most of our days in and around Arlene's house - a white single-story, three-bedroom in San Gabriel, with a detached garage and an overgrown backyard -a deserted battlefield of scattered plastic lounge chairs and deflated balls. Beyond the back fence was an undeveloped half acre piece of land we were not to enter under any circumstances.July 2nd, 1985 was reported as the hottest day in 100 years. He killed three more. On July 7th two women were murdered in Monterey Park and the press declared a serial killer was loose in Los Angeles County. The dubbed him The Nightstalker.
I hadn't had much experience with death. I think it's safe to say my cousins hadn't either. Our Grandpa had passed away the previous year, leaving our parents, aunts, and uncles with a sorrow still deep and freshly planted inside each of them. Sure, us kids missed the gentle old man who comforted us on his lap, but what did we truly know of death and loss? We carried on through the heat as we always had - draped around the television watching music videos and Grease until we knew all the words, with afternoon strolls to the corner store for Fritos and Orange Crush, occasional splashes in the plastic drug-store pool laid out on the grass, and backyard rummages.
It was customary, if not crucial, to leave windows open all night long during the stifling summer. Our homes didn't have central air. Maybe a bedroom or living room had a clunky air-conditioner jammed into a window, but many folks sat outside on their porches or under umbrellas until bedtime, where they then lay flat and uncovered ready to welcome the slightest breeze.
The Nightstalker liked open windows. Detectives found no forced entry in most of the homes he hit, but always an open or unlocked window. On July 20th he struck at a home in Glendale. The next morning headlines read "Nightstalker Strikes Again" and "LA Bolts Its Doors, Windows." The city was hysterical. Locksmiths were busy around the clock. Security devices increased in sales. Guns and attack dogs were in high demand but could not be supplied fast enough. Someone reported that the Nightstalker preferred white and beige-colored houses; a mere coincidence that led to freshly painted houses across L.A.'s neighborhoods. And in these neighborhoods volunteer watch groups formed to keep an eye on the streets through those long nights.Sitting around the television at Arlene's house one day, our moms and dads and big brothers and sisters watched news reports about the serial killer. We overheard bits and pieces of information detailing what were horrific cases of murder and rape. He drew a pentagram on the wall out of blood. He's a devil worshiper. He hovered over the victim with a machete. That last murder happened just a block away from so-and-so's house. My Uncle Bill, who lived in Alhambra, swore to God that The Nightstalker was at his house but he had "scared that motherfucker away." To us kids, it seemed like the movies were coming to life. Our parents had been lying to us when they said Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, and Freddie Krueger weren't real. Not only were they real, but our parents were terrified of them, too.
Another set of murders in Diamond Bar on August 8th, and the next few weeks continued without a sign of The Nightstalker. It would be unfolded later that he had traveled to San Francisco and killed another couple in the Lakeside District near Lake Merced. While he was away, investigators finally pinpointed a suspect and released his name along with a mugshot photo. His face was plastered on every newspaper in southern California. And his name was Richard Ramirez.
On Saturday, August 31st I was home with my parents and brothers on S.Vancouver Avenue. Breaking News interrupted the regular programming to report the capture of Richard Ramirez! After arriving at the East Los Angeles Greyhound bus station early that morning, he quickly realized that he had been identified and recognized by citizens at every corner. A chase, not by police officers but by neighborhood men, that took him on and off a local bus, through backyards and into a stolen car, finally ended on Hubbard Street, where he was taken down and held until law enforcement arrived. Hubbard Street. Less than a ten-minute walk from my childhood home. There were parties in the streets that night!
The end of the hottest summer in 100 years coincided with the capture of a real-life monster. The fear dissipated. A new school year started. Life returned to normal. The heat....well, that never really went away.
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