The Dating Game Killer: The True Story of a TV Dating Show, a Violent Sociopath, and a Series of Brutal Murders
416
The Dating Game Killer: The True Story of a TV Dating Show, a Violent Sociopath, and a Series of Brutal Murders
416eBookFirst Edition (First Edition)
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Overview
In 1978, Rodney Alcala was a contestant on the "The Dating Game," one of America's most popular television shows at the time. Handsome, successful, and romantic, he was embraced by the audience—and chosen as the winner by the beautiful bachelorette. To viewers across the country, Rodney seemed like the answer to every woman's dreams. Until they learned the truth about his once and future crimes...
Ten years before his TV appearance, Rodney was charged with the sexual assault and attempted murder of an eight-year-old girl. In the decades that followed, he would be accused of seven murders—and, as new DNA evidence continues to be uncovered, the list may grow. The case is so disturbing that it's been documented in several news outlets, from People magazine and USA Today to 48 HoursMystery and Dr. Phil. The Dating Game Killer is the shocking true story about the dark and twisted man.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429950336 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 03/26/2024 |
| Series: | St. Martin's True Crime Classics |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 416 |
| Sales rank: | 163,331 |
| File size: | 663 KB |
About the Author
Stella Sands is Executive Editor of Kids Discover, an award-winning magazine with over 400,000 subscribers geared to children 7 to 12 years old. She is author of four crime books, The Good Son, Murder at Yale, Behind the Mask—all available from St. Martin's Press True Crime Library—and Baby-faced Butchers, as well as other works including Odyssea and Natural Disasters. Her plays, Lou Passin' Through, Black-eyed Peas, and E-me, have been produced in Off-Off Broadway theaters in New York City.
Read an Excerpt
The Dating Game Killer
The True Story of a TV Dating Show, a Violent Sociopath, and a Series of Brutal Murders
By Stella Sands
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2011 Stella SandsAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-5033-6
CHAPTER 1
Nineteen sixty-eight was one hell of a year.
Martin Luther King Jr. was fatally shot at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis.
Robert F. Kennedy was gunned down at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles.
Nearly seventeen thousand U.S. armed forces died fighting in the Vietnam War.
In the face of such real-life violence, dark currents began to flow through American culture. The horror movie Rosemary's Baby, directed by Roman Polanski, was a surprise success in Hollywood — both with critics and at the box office. It was about a group of Satanists who trick a young newlywed into carrying and giving birth to the devil's spawn. (In a disturbing real-life twist the following year, the sociopathic cult leader Charles Manson ordered the brutal slaying of Polanski's pregnant wife, Sharon Tate, and four others in the Los Angeles hills. Charles "Tex" Watson, who was the Manson Family disciple in charge of committing the murders, told one of the victims, "I'm the devil, and I'm here to do the devil's business.")
As images of carpet bombings and body bags from Vietnam dominated the airwaves, young Americans increasingly began to challenge authority and "the Man." As cars cruised up and down Hollywood Boulevard and the Sunset Strip, radios blared edgier, angrier rock and roll: "Masters of War" by Bob Dylan, "What's Going On?" by Marvin Gaye, "Eve of Destruction," by Barry McGuire. Musicians from bands like the Doors, the Byrds, Cream, and the Animals played the Whiskey-a-Go-Go on the Sunset Strip — and partied with abandon at the Chateau Marmont Hotel up the street. Los Angeles became a mecca for the most hedonistic aspects of this emerging counterculture: psychedelic drug use, sexual freedom and experimentation, smoking grass.
Amidst all this turmoil and social upheaval in 1968, an event occurred that is not well documented by the era's historians: "Tali S.," age eight, was abducted on her way to school.
CHAPTER 2On September 25, 1968, at a little past eight o'clock in the morning, eight-year-old Tali was skipping along Sunset Boulevard on her way to Gardner Street Elementary School in Hollywood, California. Tali was living temporarily at the Chateau Marmont Hotel in West Hollywood with her brother, sister, mother, and music-industry executive father because their home had recently burned down in a fire. No doubt, the Chateau Marmont (known as "the castle on the hill" and located at the top of a short, winding road above the Sunset Strip) held plenty of intrigue for the curious girl as she wandered through a Hollywood legend: plush carpeted hallways; invitingly cushioned velvet couches; exquisitely furnished bedrooms; luxuriously large living rooms and formal dining rooms; balconies overlooking the shimmering sheen of Tinsel Town; and lush gardens wending their way through arbor-draped pathways. The outdoor swimming pool, grand reception area, and open-air dining room rounded out the idyllic picture, offering guests the transient belief they were experiencing the grandeur of a French castle. If Jean Harlow, Greta Garbo, Bette Davis, John Wayne, Marilyn Monroe, or James Dean meant anything to the young girl, she probably felt like a princess among the ghosts of queens and kings.
The hotel was beloved by Hollywood's elite for its intimate charm, and the management was appreciated for its discretion. "If you must get into trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont," one Hollywood mogul in the 1930s had famously advised. By the end of the 1960s, "getting into trouble" had become an art form at the Chateau Marmont, particularly among the rock-and-roll legends who stayed there. Jim Morrison of the Doors was injured while (unsuccessfully) attempting to leap from the roof of the hotel into his room, and the drummer from Led Zeppelin rode his motorcycle through the lobby as onlookers cheered. The director Roman Polanski once commented about the Chateau Marmont that "you can almost get stoned from sniffing the haze that seeps through the various keyholes."
As a child, Tali had little knowledge of what might be happening behind closed doors at her temporary home. She was more concerned with the problem of getting to school. Each morning she would wake up extra early and, without telling her parents, walk all the way to Gardner Elementary instead of taking the public bus. For some reason she felt unnerved on the bus and did anything to avoid it. As she strolled along Sunset Boulevard that sunny Wednesday morning, her skirt fluttered in the breeze and her pigtails flew this way and that. Her step was lively as her white Mary Janes tap-tap-tapped on the sidewalk. Tali thought about all the fun she would have at recess playing dodgeball and spending time with her new friends. She had memorized her multiplication table the night before and felt confident that, if called upon, she could say "three times nine is twenty-seven" without a moment's hesitation. Tali had no reason to doubt that this would be another lovely day.
While quizzing herself, "Three times seven is twenty-one; four times three is twelve," a car pulled up alongside her, momentarily interrupting her calculations. A nice-looking man peered out of the driver's window. "Come on in," he said kindly. "I'll give you a ride to school."
Knowing she was never ever to speak to someone she didn't know, Tali immediately responded, "I'm not allowed to talk to strangers." And with that, she walked quickly on.
"I'm not a stranger," said the soft-spoken man as he moved apace with the young girl. "I know your parents."
Tali heard what the man said, but she decided not to pay him any attention. She continued on her way. "I have a beautiful picture to show you," he called out cheerfully.
Hmm, thought Tali, he knows Mommy and Daddy and he has a pretty picture. ...
"Come on," said the man congenially. "It'll be fun!"
"Well ... okay," Tali said haltingly, and then lightheartedly hopped into the nice man's car.
Once settled, the soft-spoken man asked, "What time does school start?"
Tali thought for a moment, looked at her watch, and then responded, "In about an hour." She felt proud that she could tell time as quickly as she could. She wondered if the man was aware of her accomplishment.
"Good. There's time for you to see the poster. It's psychedelic. Of forests and trees."
Tali was excited. She was not only getting a ride all the way to school but was also about to see something beautiful.
As they drove along, Tali enjoyed the breeze from the open widow. She felt lucky, too, that she didn't have to walk the long distance. But after a few minutes she had the strangest sensation that something wasn't quite right. The man kept looking over at her but saying nothing.
She thought about what she had done and wondered if maybe she had made a mistake. However, she knew she could always trust an adult — she really believed that — so she tried to bury her anxiety right then and there.
On September 25, 1968, at a little past eight o'clock in the morning, Donald Haines was driving along Sunset Boulevard on his way to work. While pausing at a stop sign, he casually glanced out his window. There, on the other side of the street, he watched a scenario unfold. A car was inching along, apace with a young girl. The driver leaned out his window and said something to the girl. The girl stopped, said something back to the driver, and then walked quickly on. The car continued trolling alongside the girl.
A thought immediately popped into Haines's head: Something weird is happening.
The vehicle behind Haines beeped, momentarily halting his rubbernecking activities. Forced to move, Haines drove forward but pulled over to the curb to continue observing. After a few moments he saw the child get into the car.
In his gut Haines knew something was not right, but his rational mind flexed its muscle: Don't I have anything better to do than create sinister scenarios about random people? I should have my head examined.
In spite of his doubts, Haines decided to follow the vehicle. He wondered if this was what people called having a sixth sense or, perhaps, and more likely, "going off one's rocker."
Haines made a U-turn and began to shadow the vehicle. Within a few minutes the car pulled into a parking space in front of an apartment complex on De Longpre Avenue. The building was located in a lovely, seemingly safe neighborhood and flanked by exquisite blossoms.
No doubt about it, thought Haines. I've lost my marbles.
Nevertheless, he kept his eyes peeled. The driver, perhaps in his twenties, and the little girl exited the car and walked toward an apartment in the complex. It seemed that the child was hanging back a bit, not quite comfortable with what she was doing. The two entered an apartment and disappeared from sight.
The whole thing gave Haines the heebie-jeebies.
Relying on his gut but prepared to be belittled, Haines walked to a pay phone nearby and dialed the police. "You may think I'm a little screwy," said Haines, "but I just witnessed something that doesn't look right. I think a man just lured a little girl into his car, so I followed them, and now he and the girl went into this apartment together. I may be wrong. I may be right. But maybe you could just check on it so I can sleep tonight?"
"Okay, sir," said the police officer. "Why don't you give me your name and where you are and I'll send someone over. You stay there, okay? Better safe than sorry."
Haines felt relieved. Even if it turned out that nothing the least bit alarming was taking place, he had done his civic duty.
Within minutes a patrol car pulled up and an officer walked up to Haines's vehicle. The man introduced himself as Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) officer Chris Camacho. He asked Haines which apartment the girl and the man went into, and Haines pointed it out. Camacho thanked Haines and assured him that he had done the right thing, even if it turned out to be something totally aboveboard.
That day was Camacho's first day back at work. While on duty in August, he had been shot and had taken a short leave. He was hoping for a nice, calm morning; he'd seen enough action for a while.
While waiting for backup, Camacho took a quick glance around the apartment complex. Everything looked perfectly normal. He walked up to the front door of the apartment Haines had pointed out and knocked. "Police officer. Open the door."
No answer.
He knocked again. "LA police. Open the door. I want to talk to you."
A man appeared at a window, pushing the venetian blinds off to the side. "Hey," the man called out. "Give me a sec. Just got out of the shower."
To Camacho, the guy looked like he was nude — and he wasn't wet. Something in the man's voice bothered Camacho. It seemed too excited, or maybe even panicked. But then again, thought Camacho, most people are anxious when confronted by police at their front door.
As Camacho stood waiting, he thought he heard a faint sound coming from inside. It sounded like someone moaning. Concerned, Camacho yelled, "Open the door now or I'm kicking it in."
No answer.
Without waiting another second, Camacho broke open the door. With backup officers now arriving on the scene, Camacho entered the apartment. Guns drawn, the cops split up to check all the rooms.
The officers immediately noticed a large amount of photographic equipment, including a tripod, in the living room. And in piles all over the apartment were photographs of young girls. A trail of bloodstains led from the living room into the kitchen.
Camacho entered the kitchen. And then he gagged.
On the floor in a pool of blood lay a nude child on her back.
Her head was bashed open.
A large, heavy metal bar — like a dumbbell — lay horizontally across her neck.
Her legs were spread apart.
A massive amount of blood, coming from her vaginal area, was pooled between her legs.
White Mary Janes, a dress, and little girl's socks lay in a heap on the floor.
To Camacho, the child looked like she was dead — her face was white and drained of color — but instinct told him to remove the bar from her neck and check her pulse. Grabbing a towel so as not to compromise the crime scene, he lifted the bar and saw the slightest pulse in the child's neck. Immediately he called for an ambulance.
The backup officers reported to Camacho that there was no sign of anyone else in the apartment. In the short time it had taken to kick in the door, the perpetrator — the monster — had slipped out the back.
As he waited for the ambulance, Camacho reflected. He had served four years in Vietnam as an infantry squad leader, and he had seen his share of atrocities. But this tiny child laying in a massive pool of blood ... this child who had been grotesquely violated and brutalized ... it was almost beyond anything. She's so innocent, he thought.
In Vietnam, Camacho had once attempted to save a soldier from drowning, but the man had died in a relentless, raging river. The memory still haunted him. Maybe, he thought, God was giving him a second chance with this little girl. Would she live? He prayed for her to hold on, and he wondered, What kind of sicko would do something like this?
CHAPTER 3Siren blazing, an ambulance sped to the De Longpre Avenue apartment. Emergency Medical Service workers dashed inside. Seeing a barely alive, unconscious, nude child covered in blood, they immediately administered CPR. As soon as they could, they placed the girl's limp body on a stretcher, lifted her into the ambulance, and raced to the hospital.
When Tali arrived at the emergency room, doctors looked at each other, stupefied. Sure, they had seen their share of god-awful injuries — stabbings, gunshot wounds, broken bones, even mutilations — but this was off the charts. Here lay a little girl with dark bruises on her neck. Her face was bashed in. She had angry welts all over her body. And she was bloodied from head to toe.
The doctors took the girl into the operating room and began sewing up the fissure in the back of her head. It took several hours and twenty-seven sutures to close the gap.
Even after the operation, the doctors could not say for certain whether she would live or die.
At a little after nine o'clock that morning, the officers who had backed up Camacho began combing through the De Longpre apartment, where an as-yet-unnamed man had nearly bludgeoned a little girl to death, strangled her with the weight of the dumbbell, and viciously raped her. They realized that the perpetrator had fled out the back door, so several detectives began inspecting the area behind the building and asking neighbors questions.
Who was this monster?
The following days passed achingly slowly for Tali's parents and siblings, who were distraught beyond consolation. Never in their wildest dreams could they have imagined that something like this could happen to their beloved daughter and sister. Who would do such a thing to anyone, let alone a small child?
After a few days, little Tali slowly regained consciousness. She recognized her family. She smiled. She was just beginning to be able to move her limbs. The doctors felt cautiously optimistic. They informed officer Camacho that if he had not removed the weight from Tali's neck that had been cutting off her air supply, she would have died on the scene. The attacker's intent had been to kill Tali. But Donald Haines, the Good Samaritan, had been there to prevent that, and so had the quick-thinking Camacho. Plus, the child was a fighter. She just might make it.
Day by day, Tali grew stronger. However, because she had been so brutally attacked, she remained in the hospital for nearly a month, all the time under intense scrutiny from the doctors. Would she have permanent physical damage? Would she be able to walk again? Would she have brain damage? No one could say for sure. However, there was one thing everyone knew: Little Tali would suffer major emotional damage for the rest of her life.
When it was clear that Tali was firmly on the path to recovery, she was released from the hospital and brought back to the Chateau Marmont hotel. During the next several weeks, her family didn't leave her side for a second.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Dating Game Killer by Stella Sands. Copyright © 2011 Stella Sands. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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