Killing for You: A Brave Soldier, a Beautiful Dancer, and a Shocking Double Murder
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Killing for You: A Brave Soldier, a Beautiful Dancer, and a Shocking Double Murder
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Overview
Twenty-six-year-old actor Daniel Wozniak was unemployed, facing eviction, and deep in debt for his upcoming wedding. So he devised a diabolical plan: He asked his neighbor Sam Herr, a young war veteran, to help him move some things into the attic of an empty theater. There, Wozniak shot Herr twice in the head before taking his ATM card and cell phone. Hours later, Wozniak performed on stage with his fiancée in a local production of the musical Nine, convinced that he had gotten away with murder . . .
Wozniak dismembered his victim’s body and hid the pieces. Then he lured Herr’s college friend Juri “Julie” Kibuishi to Herr’s apartment and shot her twice in the head. The police immediately declared Herr a prime suspect—just as Wozniak had planned. But when Herr was declared missing, and his ATM withdrawals led authorities to Wozniak at his bachelor party, the actor was forced to play the role of a lifetime in a shocking murder investigation that would be his greatest—and final—performance . . .
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250128799 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 05/01/2024 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 289 |
| Sales rank: | 991,374 |
| File size: | 5 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Killing For You
A Brave Soldier, a Beautiful Dancer, and a Shocking Double Murder
By Keith Elliot Greenberg
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2017 Keith Elliot GreenbergAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-12879-9
CHAPTER 1
On the fifth anniversary of the day his son was murdered, Steve Herr did what he normally does, taking a brisk, sloping, one-mile walk past the housing developments and shade trees in Anaheim Hills, a planned community some fifteen miles from Disneyland. Since the crime, Steve's hair had whitened. But it might have anyway, and there were few other outward signs that betrayed what he'd endured.
Fit and tan, the former Marine was spirited and fun, his gray-blue eyes sparkling when he told a story or sent a friend a goofy video on YouTube. In his home, he invited visitors to use his exercise equipment and try his food. The graciousness came naturally. But the support network that had been built around Steve and his Argentinean-born wife, Raquel, enabled him to maintain it. Almost daily, the couple received messages from the guys and girls who'd served with their son, Samuel Eliezer Herr, in Afghanistan and partied with him near their base in Germany.
In the Army, Sammy had nicknames for a number of his friends. Five years after Sam's death, Steve affectionately referred to the group as "the knuckleheads."
Sam's teen years had been a struggle. He'd drifted from his parents and had issues with the law. But he'd learned from his mistakes, and the military had instilled the young man with confidence, maturity, and purpose. At the time of his death — a week before his twenty-seventh birthday — Sam and his father were best friends. They each had tattoos commemorating their service to their country and regularly worked out together. The pair lived less than a half hour away from each other, with Sammy residing in a palm tree–laden apartment complex in the town of Costa Mesa, where he swam, hung out in the hot tub, and made new friends. He was more focused than ever before, talking about marrying Katharina, the girl he'd met while stationed in Germany with the 173rd Airborne, and attending classes at Orange Coast College in case he decided to reenlist as an officer.
After his walk, Steve rewarded himself with a cookie, a small indulgence considering what he intended to do next. With Raquel indoors nursing a cold, he cut through the muggy air, stepped into his car, and cranked up the air-onditioning. Then, he drove east on California 91 toward Riverside Cemetery, a 921-acre sanctuary dedicated to the interment of U.S. military personnel and their spouses.
It was a ritual that the Herrs tried to repeat every week. But this day carried a special burden. As he stepped onto the grounds and approached the gravesite, Steve stared at the dates etched into the stone and felt a mixture of melancholy and anger, knowing that he and Raquel would be returning in eight days to mark their son's thirty-second birthday.
With Memorial Day coming, Steve made sure to bring a few flags to the grave, along with flowers. He noted that other Jewish people generally avoided the floral garnishment, placing a simple stone on their relatives' graves. Flowers withered and died, the logic went, while stones were eternal. But there was a joylessness in the custom that Steve didn't like. Sammy deserved flowers. Plus, with the grave embedded in the lawn, the lawn mowers would eventually kick the stones away.
It was only when the flowers were in place that Steve was able to relax. He'd honored his son, and thought of the happy times and the love that they had shared for each other. It felt good, knowing how close they'd truly been. Just being there, with Sam's remains, created a sense of peace. Before returning to the car, Steve removed his phone and snapped a photo to show his wife.
Later, the two went out for lunch at El Cholo, a Mexican restaurant in the entranceway of an Anaheim shopping plaza. To aid in the recuperation from her illness, Raquel ordered a hot bowl of Albondigas soup, a combination of meatballs, vegetables, and herbs, while joking merrily with Fausto, the waiter, in Spanish. Even Steve threw in a word or two, amusing his wife and Fausto with pronunciations that divulged a childhood spent not in Buenos Aires or Tierra del Fuego but an industrial section of New Jersey.
When the order was completed, Fausto walked away, never reading the pain that his customers carried. Reaching into his pocket, Steve showed his wife the photo he'd taken at the cemetery: a plaque flanked by American flags and flowers, with the words "Samuel Eliezer Herr, PFC Afghanistan, May 29, 1983–May 21, 2010. 'Til We Meet Again, Our Precious Sam."
Raquel stared at the image on the small screen and appeared to grow content. "I believe my son is alive in heaven," she said. "I really know that, and I know I'm going to meet him again."
Steve's lips curled. "We have a whole different perspective, obviously."
While the tragedy had turned Raquel more spiritual, Steve viewed himself as a realist whose mission it was to bring Sammy justice. It was a daunting and aggravating task. In the five years since their only child had been lured to a theater, shot, and beheaded, the man whom the authorities held responsible, thirty-one-year-old Daniel Patrick Wozniak — a local actor who charmed acquaintances, sang karaoke, and taught theater classes to children — had yet to go to trial. "It's a travesty," Steve said, the skin tightening around his face. "It's shocking. It's ludicrous. I have literally been to court more than one hundred times." By his estimation, he'd attended seventy hearings for Wozniak, and at least thirty for others associated with the case. "They put our family through this, and every time it's postponement, postponement, postponement."
During each session, Steve made it a point to look straight at Wozniak. Invariably, the grieving father received a nod and, from time to time, the actor's thousand-watt smile. Steve never believed that the defendant was mocking him. After five years, the pair had seen each other so much that they enjoyed a dysfunctional familiarity. This despite the assertion that, after he'd killed Sam and hidden the body in the attic of the theater, Wozniak had murdered another member of their social network, Juri "Julie" Kibuishi, scrawled vile messages on her body, and tried to imply that the still-missing veteran was responsible for the crime.
It was all very confusing, and, in an effort to understand the precise circumstances of Sam's demise, Steve had even visited Wozniak in jail. Viewing each other through the Plexiglas, they chatted guardedly but with a surprising degree of decorum. Still, Wozniak and his defense team knew that Steve Herr was never going to feel compassion or sympathy for the accused. In interview after interview, Steve declared that he would settle for nothing less than Wozniak's execution.
"I get so angry about what happened," said Leah Sussman, Sammy's first cousin who viewed him as a brother. "It's more than just what happened. It's the absence of family. [Wozniak] ... took away somebody who my daughter loved, who I was looking forward to being in my daughter's life and my life."
The fact that Wozniak hadn't been tried, much less sentenced, filled Steve with fury. Another man might have fallen. Fortunately for the Herrs, there were loving relatives and friends from Sam's Dark Horse military unit around to catch them.
Back at home, Steve and Raquel took solace in the posts on a Facebook page called "Sam's Buddies." Sitting at a laptop, the two were surrounded by signs of Sam's accomplishments in the military: a National Defense Service Medal, Afghanistan Campaign Medal with two campaign stars, Army Service Ribbon, Overseas Service Ribbon, Parachutist Badge, Combat Action Badge, NATO Medal, and other awards. One friend, Adam Zierer, posted a photo of the large tattoo on his arm dedicated to Sam. Nathan Ray, who'd chosen Samuel as his son's middle name, simply wrote: "Miss you, brother." George Clouse remembered, "You were fearless on the battlefield, a great friend to many people and touched many lives. Your memory lives on through your Airborne brothers."
Larry "Gonzo" Gonzales offered a photo of himself and Sam in Germany, holding plates of the Turkish döner kebabs sold near the base, describing his late friend as "not a brother by blood, but ... a brother by Dark Horse comraderie. ... Sammy, you asked me to never leave and disappear like a lot of people do when they get out. I'm still here, brother, still sharing the stories. ... This is a special honor for me, and I'd like to introduce Samuel Herr into my family Hall of Fame."
Commented one mutual associate: "I still remember all the food binges and hard workouts like it was yesterday. RIP, brother."
Said another, "Thanks, Gonzo. Now, I miss Sam AND doners."
The reminiscences heartened Steve and Raquel, and they read them repeatedly, secure in the reputation that Sam had left behind. But there was another post on the page — the first one, in fact — tempering the pleasant thoughts with the harsh pragmatism of the current situation.
It had been written by Steve himself, at 10:30 the previous night:
"It's been five years since Sam and Julie were brutally murdered. Shame on the California justice system. Shame on Scott Sanders, the murderer's defense lawyer. Dan Wozniak, rot in hell."
CHAPTER 2Saturday, May 22, 2010
When Steve hadn't heard from his son for more than twenty-four hours he got in his car and drove.
Sammy always stayed in touch. Even in the Army, even in the war zone, Sammy managed to send messages to his family. He might not provide coordinates or specify the type of danger his unit faced, but Sam never vanished for long. Regardless of his circumstances, he made sure that his parents knew that he cared about them and he was okay.
The disappearance was even more confusing because Sam was supposed to have come to his parents' home for the weekend. Steve couldn't understand why his son had neglected to show up. Sam could be a wild guy if he was out in a club with his friends, but he wouldn't blow people off — especially his parents.
It was dark when Steve pulled into the Camden Martinique apartments and found a spot in the parking lot abutting 2855 Pinecreek Drive. Sam didn't turn off his phone. If he had lost the device, Steve knew, he'd borrow a friend's. He'd text or e-mail. He wouldn't evaporate. As Steve climbed the stairs toward Apartment D110, he wondered if he'd walk in to discover a perspiring Sam in bed, wrapped in sheets, fighting off a cold. But even then, he would have called to say that he was too sick to talk and they'd speak again when the illness passed.
Steve stuck the spare key he carried into the door and let himself into the apartment. The lights were on, and Steve had the sense that someone was there.
"Sammy?"
And that's when he realized that something really bad had occurred. As he entered the bedroom, he saw a slim young woman with long jet-black hair kneeling, her torso on the bed, her knees bent on the carpeted floor. Her jeans were ripped from the rear and pulled down to just above her knees. Her top was still on, and something was scrawled across her back in black marker:
FUCK YOU
Bewildered as well as frightened, Steve noticed that there was blood in the room, too. And, even more horrifying, on the side of the woman's head Steve detected what he knew was a gunshot wound.
As he cautiously leaned forward to examine the woman's face, Steve's heart skipped. It was Juri Kibuishi, the cheerful twenty-three-year-old Japanese-American student who'd been tutoring Sam in anthropology. The two attended Orange Coast College together, about a mile away. Sam and most of their mutual friends generally referred to Juri by her Americanized name, Julie. A talented dancer, Julie was a bit of a character who accessorized herself with colorful eye shadow and told comical stories about her mistakes and misadventures. Steve himself had spent time with her and immediately picked up on her innate kindness and positive energy. But what was she doing in Sam's apartment? And why was her body exposed like that? Steve took pride in the fact that his son told him virtually everything. And he knew that Julie was Sammy's good friend and nothing more.
Sammy?
Where was Sammy? Steve searched the apartment, called his son's name, but, deep down, understood that Sam couldn't possibly be there. Not with Julie in that kind of position. Maybe he'd gone after the person who did it. Maybe he'd left to find help. Both father and son viewed themselves as men who could take charge of virtually any situation. But not this one. A young woman was dead, and Sam was nowhere to be found.
Just after 9:00 P.M., Steve called 911. "There's a body in my son's apartment ... a dead body," he said frantically.
The operator asked if Sam could identify the victim.
"He's not here," Steve replied, his voice rising and anxious.
Before officers could arrive, another person appeared. Like Steve, Jake Swett, a fellow resident of the Camden Martinique apartments, said that he'd been unable to contact Sam. They'd had plans earlier in the day and, when Jake hadn't heard anything, he walked over to the apartment several times and knocked. Now he spotted the door slightly ajar and entered, he said, expecting to find Sam. Instead, he was met by Steve.
Immediately Steve noticed that Jake had alcohol on his breath and didn't want him entering the bedroom — to protect both Julie's dignity and the integrity of the crime scene. There was a moment of uncertainty. Steve didn't know Swett and wondered if he had something to do with the murder. And it took Jake a few minutes to realize that Steve was Sam's father and not an intruder.
Ushering Jake into the hallway, Steve decided to wait for the police alone. The initial responders arrived at 9:20. As soon as they realized what had occurred, they called for backup and alerted the Costa Mesa Police Department to apply for a warrant to search the apartment. Det. Jose Morales was designated the lead investigator.
Morales had been at a communion party that day with two of his children. "We were out there with a clown and were doing the cake thing and all the kid stuff," he said. He'd just put his children to sleep and was ready to go to bed himself when the phone rang.
"We need you to come in. We have a homicide."
It was close to midnight when he entered Sam's building. The apartment was cordoned off with yellow tape, and an officer was stationed at the scene, keeping a log of those coming and going. Juri's purse was still on the dinner table bench. Morales surmised that she'd innocently placed it there upon entering the apartment, oblivious to how the visit would end.
In the bedroom, her body had yet to be moved. Morales moved in close to the cadaver and made his own observations. "We are looking at the back of her sweater," he'd later testify. "There is a tear in the sweater. It is a long-sleeve sweater, and the words 'ALL YOURS, FUCK YOU' written on the back of it in what appeared to be to us in black marker."
There was still no sign of Sam. Steve claimed he didn't know the whereabouts of his son, and neither did any of the neighbors.
Judging the scene at face value, investigators concluded that Sam Herr was their primary suspect.
CHAPTER 3Steve Herr told police the same thing that he told everyone else: he knew Sammy was innocent of the crime. He was sure of it because he and his son were as close as brothers.
"We were the best of buddies," Steve said. "Sam and I confided in each other about everything. Everything. Up until the day he was murdered, we worked out at least once a week together. I worked twelve miles from where he lived, so after work, I'd go over there, and then, we'd go to Twenty-Four Hour Fitness, go out to dinner, and just hang out together."
The relationship was starkly different from the one Steve had with his father. He was born in the Bronx, the son of a clothes cutter in New York's Garment Center.
"My dad loved me," Steve said. "I knew that. But he never shared much with me, and he died at a young age, so I didn't get to know him further. And I remember swearing — making a note to myself — that my son would know me backwards and forwards."
Although Steve's parents had both been born in the United States, their home had an immigrant flavor. All four of Steve's grandparents were Yiddish-speaking immigrants — from Ukraine on his mother's side and Austria-Hungary on the Herr side of the family. When the adults wanted to exclude the children from the conversation, they'd switch to Yiddish.
"If it was in Yiddish," he'd recount, "it usually wasn't good."
By the time Steve was a teenager, the family had relocated to Freehold, New Jersey, close to the oldest racetrack in the United States. There was a familiarity in the way everyone's father struggled to support his family, and Steve remembers the blue-collar spirit bonding the students at Freehold High School. Of everyone he knew, though, the one person who expressed the mood best was a fellow pupil named Bruce Springsteen.
"He was a year behind me in school," Steve said. "I knew him well."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Killing For You by Keith Elliot Greenberg. Copyright © 2017 Keith Elliot Greenberg. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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