The Serial Killer's Apprentice

  The Serial Killer’s Apprentice

  And 12 Other True Stories of Cleveland’s Most Intriguing Unsolved Crimes

  James Renner

  Gray & Company, Publishers

  Cleveland

  Thank you for supporting the rights and livelihoods of independent authors and publishers. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Copyright © 2008 by James Renner

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or manner without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Photos by the author unless otherwise credited.

  Gray & Company, Publishers

  www.grayco.com

  eISBN 978-1-59851-076-8

  v 1.0

  Also by James Renner

  Nonfiction:

  Amy: My Search For Her Killer

  Fiction:

  The Man from Primrose Lane

  For my dad, who always had my back.

  Give me your blessing;

  truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long;

  a man’s son may, but in the end truth will out.

  —Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also by James Renner

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Foreword

  Preface: On Writing True Crime

  1. Dream a Little Dream of Me: The Unsolved Murder of Joseph Kupchik

  2. Time is Death Itself: The Unsolved Murder of Beverly Jarosz

  3. The River’s Edge: The Unsolved Disappearance of Ray Gricar

  4. Gemini’s Last Dance: The Unsolved Murder of Andrea Flenoury

  5. The Not So Innocent Victim: The Unsolved Murder of Tony Daniels

  6. The Ted Conrad Affair: Cleveland’s Strangest Unsolved Bank Heist

  7. Third Time’s a Charm: The Unsolved Murder of Ramona Krotine

  8. The Battle of Shaker Heights: The Unsolved Murder of Lisa Pruett

  9. A Killer Comes to Pancaketown: The Unsolved Murder of Dan Ott

  10. Hiding in Plain Sight: The Unsolved Suicide of Joseph Newton Chandler

  11. West End Girls: The Unsolved Disappearances of Amanda Berry and Georgina DeJesus

  12. Amy: Through the Looking Glass—Still Searching for Amy Mihaljevic’s Killer

  13. The Serial Killer’s Apprentice: The Assuredly Unsolved Murders of Krista Harrison, Tina Harmon, and Debbie Smith

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt From Amy: My Search for Her Killer

  Also by James Renner

  About the Author

  Foreword

  by Robert Sackett, Captain in charge of the Beverly Jarosz case

  Veteran homicide detectives have a rule of thumb: investigate quickly because the trail goes cold after 48 hours. In fact, a current popular television series is based on this premise. So why do police departments devote resources to cases that are 48 months or even 48 years old? And what part does the media and public’s seemingly insatiable appetite for reading about these intriguing cases play in the process?

  The practical reasons for reopening a case that has been dormant for years are well known. Murder has no statute of limitations, witnesses that were once reluctant to talk may come forward, accomplices may need to make a deal, and a murderer should never be allowed to think that he got away with it. Every generation has seen technological advances that give modern investigators the tools to solve a case that could not have been imagined by the original detectives. These are the reasons a cold case is solved; however, they do not explain why a detective presses on despite conventional wisdom and countless dead ends. Regardless of his claimed objective detachment, there is a human side that is the motivation for the investigators’ dogged pursuit of “the answer.”

  After reading the files, you seek out family, friends, witnesses, retired officers, and anyone else who may give you some insight. You soon come to realize that the victim is not the only victim and you see and hear first hand how the crime has impacted so many lives for so many years. You realize the family has persevered in spite of the fact that they can never put this behind them and move on; it gets personal and you make a silent vow to make an arrest if it’s the last thing you do. The original investigators did everything right, yet somehow you are determined not to let the family down a second time.

  In words that are nearly sacrilegious in law enforcement circles, the media can be your best friend and play a crucial role in cold case investigations. Historically, the police release as little information as possible so not to compromise the investigation, yet the media naturally want all the details. These competing interests have created an adversarial relationship, even a distrust that must be set aside. Media involvement in cold cases generates the interest that may cause previously unknown persons to come forward with new information. There is also a negative side to publicity. In high profile cases, it seems that everybody has a theory and most cannot wait to talk about it. Suspects ruled out years ago, details so vague that they could not have been checked out at the time, not to mention years later, and conspiracy theories are all the subject of numerous calls. Nonetheless, cooperation with the media can be the impetus that uncovers the nugget that will later be called a breakthrough.

  In the year 2038 when Detective Emily Smith of the Cuyahoga Regional Police Department is assigned an unsolved 2008 homicide case, no one can predict the technology that will be available to her. What is predictable is that she will work with the next James Renner and he will write a story so compelling that thousands will read it and it may generate the call that gives a family a long awaited answer and allows Detective Smith a well deserved good night’s sleep.

  Preface

  On Writing True Crime

  Sometimes I hunt killers. You could call it a hobby. Or maybe an obsession.

  It’s fun. It thrills me. It gives me focus. There’s nothing quite like showing up on the doorstep of a suspect who has been hiding for decades and asking him directly if he committed murder. Knowing that they are the focus of a police investigation doesn’t seem to mean much to these anonymous demons. But realizing that their name is going to appear in the newspaper always makes an impression.

  Mostly, the crime stories I write about are unsolved homicides committed not by serial killers but by someone who has never murdered again. They don’t follow patterns. There is no M.O. They are crimes of opportunity, in which the universe and dumb luck lined up in just the right way as to afford their killer the once-in-a-lifetime chance to kill and not get caught. Somehow, I’m more troubled by these random crimes; they suggest that many people are capable of committing murder if presented with the chance. These people then go about the rest of their lives as if nothing happened. Serial killers are a little easier to understand. They can’t help it. And they’ll go on killing until they get caught.

  There’s one killer in particular that I’m looking for: the guy who murdered Amy Mihaljevic in October 1989. I was just a few months older than Amy when she was murdered. I realized then that it could easily have been me who was taken. If a young girl could be kidnapped across the street from the Bay Village police department in broad daylight, the world was not the safe place our parents pretended it was. At 11 years old, I vowed to find Amy’s killer one day. It is the primary reason I became a journalist.

  Every time I research another unsolved homicide in Northeast Ohio, I’m also searching for anything that matches the Mihaljevic crime. I look for names of men wh
o might have been questioned regarding Amy’s murder. Every time I interview a suspect in another case, I ask him if he’s ever lived in Bay Village.

  I believe the man who killed Amy killed again. And if I can’t find his name in the boxes of material I keep related to her case, maybe I’ll find him while investigating some other girl’s murder. Maybe I’ve met him already.

  The most frustrating thing about Amy’s case, and about the other unsolved cases you’ll read about here (including tales of bank heists, false identities, and people who simply vanish into thin air), is the lack of answers, of justice. These are great mystery stories from which some jerk has ripped out the last chapter. Sometimes we can guess “who done it.” But without that missing evidence or admission, without that last piece of the puzzle, we might never get to read a better ending. All I can say is, I tried to solve each and every one. I think I found the solution to a couple, though you’re welcome to disagree with my conclusions. Maybe you can solve one yourself, based on the clues provided in these pages.

  The good news is, in each case, there are still detectives devoted to giving us all the resolutions we hope for.

  While researching these stories, I got to meet some of the area’s finest police detectives and FBI agents. They take these cases home with them; this is not a nine-to-five job for any of them. And it’s no fault of theirs that these cases remain unsolved. Life is not CSI. Killers don’t always leave behind DNA and calling cards.

  I don’t know when we started to disrespect law enforcement as a general rule. Once upon a time, every kid in the neighborhood smiled when they saw a patrolman making his way across town and waved at him in his cruiser as he passed by. That doesn’t happen much anymore. Witnesses don’t want to talk to police because they are more concerned about what might happen to them if they “snitch” than they are about bringing the murderer to justice. Or maybe they’re worried that once the police have their name, they’ll be busted for something themselves. My generation avoids the cops. We turn the corner when we see them coming and call them pigs under our breath. We look out for Number One because we live in a state of constant fear, fueled in part by the media and our government. All we can think to do is keep ourselves safe. But, as any good detective will tell you, fear is mostly pointless.

  The most common question people ask me when I talk about these crimes is, “Aren’t you worried that the killer will track you down and kill you?”

  The answer is, no. They never do, except on CSI. These guys are cowards, hiding in plain sight, without the emotional strength to take responsibility for what they have done. Especially the ones who pick on kids. They deserve to live in fear.

  I hope you become as fascinated as I am by these unsolved mysteries. And if you think you’ve figured one out, please contact me via my website: www.jamesrenner.com.

  Chapter 1

  Dream a Little Dream of Me

  The Unsolved Murder of Joseph Kupchik

  In dreams, Joseph Kupchik never remembers that he’s dead. Seems unaware that he plunged to his death off a parking deck in downtown Cleveland in 2006. It’s always up to his twin brother, Johnathan, to give him the bad news.

  John’s dreams started shortly after Joe died and haven’t let up since. Sometimes the two of them are at home, playing video games. In this one, they’re shooting hoops. Joe bounces the basketball against the backboard, into the net, then returns it to his brother.

  Joe, you’re dead, says John. You died.

  But Joe only stares at him, uncomprehending.

  He’s confused, John thinks. Or maybe I’m the one who’s confused. Maybe this is real.

  It’s not, of course.

  Joe is dead in the Real World.

  The cops think Joe committed suicide. But if it was suicide, he found an unusual way to do it. A growing number of friends and family believe Joe was murdered.

  Either way, when John wakes up, he’ll have to leave Joe behind. So let’s give them a moment alone. They’ve got a game to finish just now.

  * * *

  Joe and John Kupchik were hard to tell apart. Both inherited their mother’s deep, dark eyes and their father’s coarse, burgundy-brown hair. They had the same smile and gently sloping shoulders. Joe was slightly taller and had a larger nose and tilted his head when he met someone, almost bashfully. But they looked enough alike that John is reminded of Joe every time he looks in the mirror. He misses his twin and sometimes feels him, like an amputated limb. Their connection, that odd closeness that their sister Kate calls “the creepy twin thing,” is still being severed.

  The Kupchiks live in a modest two-story home inside a nondescript subdivision in Strongsville, domiciles of the shrinking middle class. Joe—“Kuppy” to friends—graduated from Strongsville High School in 2004. He wasn’t much of an athlete; couldn’t make a lay-up to save his life, friends say. But he played games of pick-up football in the neighborhood and loved watching the NFL on weekends, Green Bay in particular. He often wore a giant cheese head in the living room, though it’s long been suspected he chose the team for its colors. Sometimes he made minor bets—a dollar or two—with John or his older brother Michael.

  In the fall of 2004, then-18-year-old Joe and John decided it was time to discover their own destinies. John set off for the University of Dayton. Joe stayed home and enrolled at Cuyahoga Community College, taking accounting classes at the main branch in Parma.

  During this time, Joe met many of his closest friends while working at Wendy’s on Pearl Road. Joe was a crew leader and opened the store on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Megan Rachow, who still works at Wendy’s, remembers Joe’s knack for making endless shifts a little more entertaining. During lulls they played tic-tac-toe on the parking lot with chalk. Sometimes Joe put sandwich buns in the fryer. In retaliation for some prank she can no longer remember, Megan once put a ladle of cheese sauce in Joe’s hat, but he noticed before putting it on. Out back one day, she offered him his first cigarette, the single puff coming out in loud coughs a moment later as he laughed and laughed.

  That first year at Tri-C, Joe pulled a C average. He figured his shifts at Wendy’s were impacting his studies, so he quit in the fall of 2005. His transcripts show an immediate improvement. That semester, Joe took a full course load and earned two As and three Bs. He also became treasurer of the Tri-C Philosophy Club. Around this same time, he discovered online gambling.

  The bets were small at first. He and John anted up $35 apiece to start an account at BoDog.com to bet on NFL games. They schemed over the phone and usually picked at least four winners for every seven games. By Christmas, their initial investment of $70 had ballooned to nearly $1,600.

  Then Joe began betting on college basketball on their account, laying down more money and losing more often than not. When John complained, Joe gave him half their winnings—about $800—and changed the password.

  During the long winter break from school, Joe also started a new job at Steak ’n Shake in nearby Brunswick. He worked the grill at first and then began to wait tables. A co-worker recalls that Joe charmed many of his regular customers but had a hard time fitting in with other employees. They picked on him for bobbing his head when he talked, a nervous habit. And for talking too smart. Joe complained to a close friend that co-workers often changed his schedule, giving him less profitable shifts. (According to a former manager of the Brunswick Steak ’n Shake, employees were allowed to change the schedule as long as someone showed up.) All Joe’s parents knew was that before leaving for work, he always left a note with his hours on the kitchen counter.

  The morning of February 11, a Saturday, Joe’s father, George, gathered receipts and W-2s for the family’s tax filings. He also planned to fill out student loan paperwork, so that Joe could transfer to the University of Cincinnati later that year. While Joe was still in bed, George stuck his head inside his son’s room.

  “How much money do you have in your bank account?” George asked, waking him up.

  “Seven thou
sand dollars,” Joe replied.

  After talking to his dad, Joe got up and dressed for work—black pants and a white button-up shirt. Before he left, Joe jotted down his work schedule for the day: noon to 10 p.m. George heard Joe shut the door of his Honda Civic. The sound echoes in George’s mind still: the last noise he ever heard his son make. It was a little after 11 in the morning.

  Only later would George learn that Joe had lied about his savings account. Some of the money had been loaned out to family and friends, but a lot had gone toward online bets. That morning, Joe’s balance was $4.46.

  * * *

  Adam Worner, age 22, left the Blind Pig on West 6th that Saturday night around 1 a.m. and began the long walk back to his apartment on the east side of downtown Cleveland. His path lead him down Ontario Street. As he passed Fat Fish Blue, he came upon the body of a young man lying on the cement, just inside a thin alley, below a nine-story parking deck. He wasn’t the first one on the scene. Later, he would say that he saw a black man, about his age, dressed in jeans and a nice jacket, standing over the body.

  “I don’t want to get into the blood and guts and gore of it,” Worner says. He’ll only say that the body belonged to a young man. That he was a bloodied wreck and unconscious, but not dead. That he was not wearing shoes. Worner used his cell phone to dial 911.

  Sometime during the frenzy of activity as the EMS crew arrived and loaded the body into the ambulance, the black man quietly walked away. Worner is not sure he could recognize him if he saw him again on the street.

  Officer James Foley arrived at the scene first and searched the garage. On the top floor, he found a Honda Civic with its driver’s side door open, the keys dangling from the ignition, the engine turned off. The driver’s seat was bloody, and a rolled-up white shirt covered in blood lay between the seat and the door, beside a bloody leather jacket. A pair of shoes rested on the floor under the steering wheel. A trail of blood snaked from the door to the railing. A six-inch fillet knife lay on the snowy cement a few feet from the car. Written on a piece of paper on the dash was Joseph Kupchik’s phone number and home address. (George later recognized the handwriting as his son’s.)