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On a warm day in July 1989, 32-year-old actress Sherry Davis stopped by her grandmother's house in Los Angeles California, and she made a horrible discovery.
But it would take police more than 10 years and a whole string of seemingly unrelated crimes before police finally solved the mystery surrounding what Sherry actually saw.
And worst of all, it would turn out the answer had been hiding in plain sight the whole time.
But before we get into that story, if you're a fan of the Strange, Dark and Mysterious delivered in story format, then you've come to the right podcast, because that's all we do, and we upload twice a week, once on Monday and once on Thursday.
So if that's of interest to you, the next time you are babysitting the Amazon Music Follow Buttons kids be sure to replace their milk with energy drinks and feed them nothing but chocolate.
Then send them home with permanent markers, a very loud toy machine gun and a drum set.
Okay, let's get into today's story.
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It was June of 1988, and 71-year-old Myra Davis could hardly contain her excitement.
Just when she thought her working days were over, the former Hollywood actress was suddenly back in the entertainment business.
As Myra stepped out the front door of her modest home in Cheviot Hills, California.
The attractive grandmother with the high cheekbones and easy smile wasted no time in heading for the garage at the back of her property.
During her 50-year-long career in show business, Myra had developed a reputation for being punctual, reliable and hardworking.
And even though her days of appearing in Hollywood movies were over, her career starring in commercial TV ads had just begun.
And Myra ever, the professional, was determined to build just as good a reputation in her new line of work as she had built in her old line of work.
Walking briskly down the driveway to the car parked in the garage at the back of her property, Myra made a note of not looking over at her neighbor's house.
She didn't want her good mood spoiled by the sight of the owner's teenage son staring out his window at her.
A minute or so later and Myra had slipped behind the wheel of her tan and brown Chevrolet, Malibu turned the key in the ignition and was backing out of her driveway onto her quiet residential street.
As Myra pulled away from the single-story white bungalow and headed west to the city of Los Angeles, she couldn't help but think of all the changes she had seen during her 40 years in that house and in the entertainment business she loved so much.
Myra knew that she was incredibly lucky to have had a career in Hollywood that spanned more than 46 years, let alone this second chance now, as an older woman, to get regular employment with TV ad agencies.
But then again, not everyone who headed for Hollywood would have been satisfied with the kind of practical career decisions Myra had always made for herself.
Because the key to Myra's success was the fact that she had kept her ambitions fairly modest and she never yielded to the temptations and distractions of fame drugs, alcohol or scandalous affairs.
The same had not been true of her husband.
After having achieved moderate success as a cowboy actor, when Myra met and married him in 1934, Robert Davis died of an overdose 37 years later.
And over the course of that long and often troubled marriage, not only did Myra take care of the couple's two sons, she was also the one who kept getting offers of more work.
In fact, ever since Myra had left her hometown of Albuquerque, New Mexico, at the age of 14, migrated to California and landed a bit part with Hollywood Studio, she'd carved out a niche for herself, not as a famous actress, but as someone whose role was to support those famous actresses.
After starting out as a dancer, Myra soon shifted gears from what Studio called first teamwork, which was done by leading actors and actresses, to second team, technical assistance that rarely resulted in getting your name listed in any film credits.
Even though she still took the occasional role as a dancer or made an on-camera cameo appearance, Myra's bread and butter had quickly become her work as a stand-in or body double.
A body double is someone who actually replaces the star during filming.
A stand-in is a person who replaces the star during the setup of movie scenes, when lighting, camera and sound technicians spend hours preparing for or rehearsing an actual scene.
As Myra loved to tell her 32-year-old granddaughter, Myra had preferred being a stand-in because stand-ins nearly always got steady work and because Myra didn't do any nude work like many body doubles did.
At the thought of her granddaughter, Myra smiled.
With Myra's help and encouragement, Sherry had followed in her grandmother's footsteps and by the age of 19 Sherry was also getting regular work in Hollywood.
Now 32, sherry had actually eclipsed myra's career.
Sherry had more in front of the camera acting roles than she did behind the scenes stand-in work.
But as far as myra's granddaughter was concerned, it was still myra's work on one of the most iconic and famous horror movies in history.
That was her family's crowning hollywood achievement.
That movie was the 1960 thriller titled psycho.
Shot in black and white and directed by the legendary Alfred Hitchcock, Psycho is best known for its gruesome murder scene.
In that scene, the character who is played by actress Janet Leigh is stabbed to death while taking a shower.
Although Myra was not the body double who did the nude work in that famous shower scene, Myra did spend weeks on set standing in for Janet Leigh during the shower scene lighting setups.
And Myra also played the on-camera part of the murderer who shows up in the movie as a shadowy knife-wielding figure on the other side of the almost but not quite transparent shower curtain.
In real life, Myra could not have been more different from that character.
Among family and friends.
She was known for her kindness and generosity, as well as the upbeat attitude with which she had faced the hardships in her life and career.
But even though Myra continued to work as a stand-in and body double right through the late 1970s, it was still her appearance in Psycho that seemed to define her career.
None of her roles before or after ever matched the reaction Myra got when people knew that she had worked on that shower scene with Janet Leigh.
And in 1977, when Myra finally retired at the age of 61, it would take all of that resilience and optimism to adjust to the reality that, as much as she loved the entertainment industry, the movies and the people she had met, she would never again appear either in front of or behind the camera on a Hollywood movie set.
But just over a year earlier, all that had changed.
Just as Myra had been the person who introduced her granddaughter to a career in show business, it had been her granddaughter Sherry, who had only recently introduced her grandmother to the talent agents who went on to hire Myra to play a leading role in commercial TV ads.
Now joining the flow of cars all streaming into Los Angeles.
That morning, Myra's memories of the past gave way to the satisfaction she felt right this moment.
Whether she was in a backstage dressing room in Hollywood having a cup of coffee with Janet Leigh or pitching homestyle cookies or rental cars on TV, it was all showbiz to Myra.
Gripping the wheel of her car a little tighter, Myra glanced at her watch.
She had just enough driving time left to do a few mental run-throughs of that day's script before she arrived at the TV studio.
A few weeks later, at 1030 am on Sunday, July 3rd, Sherry Davis pulled into the driveway of her grandmother's white bungalow at 2917 South Beverly Drive.
An hour earlier, Myra's son and Sherry's uncle out in Idaho had called Sherry to say he could not get in touch with Myra, and would Sherry just drive in person to Myra's house to make sure there was nothing wrong?
And as soon as Sherry drew her car to a stop and saw the stack of newspapers piled up against her grandmother's front door, an alarm bell started going off in Sherry's mind.
Myra, who loved to do the daily crossword puzzle in the newspapers, would never let her newspapers pile up like that, any more than she would leave her tan and brown chevy malibu parked outside the garage long enough to gather the thick layer of dust sherry was seeing on the car right now.
As she now made her way to the front door of her grandmother's house, even though sherry could see a light on just inside the house, the door was locked and even after knocking and ringing the bell and calling out to her grandmother that it was her sherry, there was no answer and no sound of movement from inside the house.
Sherry's chest suddenly felt tight.
She knew her grandmother rarely left the house before noon unless she had a work assignment.
Moving several steps to her right, Sherry saw that the curtains were still drawn over the big six-pane glass front window that looked into the living room.
That wasn't like Myra either.
She kept her ground-level bedroom drapes closed, but opening the curtains in other rooms meant she could keep the overhead lights off and save a little on her electric bill.
Walking around to the back of the house, Sherry went to the one window that she knew was always unlocked and uncovered.
It was a small pane of glass set high up on the exterior wall of Myra's bedroom.
Myra always left it uncovered so her beloved cats could sit inside on the sill and look out at the world.
A few moments later, standing on top of an outdoor table she had positioned below that small opening, Sherry was looking down at her grandmother's bed.
And what Sherry saw was so horrifying, she had to catch herself to keep from falling.
And even after Sherry had jumped off that low table and run back to the front of the house, she was still trying to process what she'd just glimpsed through that window.
For a second.
Sherry looked over at the neighbor's house, but instead of asking them for help, Sherry jumped into her car and when she couldn't find a payphone near her grandmother's house, she drove as fast as she could back to Playa del Rey, where her house was.
Stumbling in through the front door, Sherry told her husband, John, exactly what she had seen.
By the time first responders had arrived at Myra's house on South Beverly Drive that Sunday morning.
Sherry's husband was there to meet them.
Unlike Sherry, John had brought the keys to Myra's house with him, and a moment later the emergency medical technicians had unlocked the door to the little white bungalow.
But it would turn out that the medics and police were much, much too late to help Myra.
The 71-year-old grandmother lay on her bed, the bedspread and sheets bunched underneath her.
Naked from the waist down.
Her belly was distended and her maggot-infested body was already in an advanced stage of decomposition.
A little over an hour before, when Sherry had looked through the small window into her grandmother's bedroom and seen her grandmother's swollen and lifeless body, Sherry had told herself that Myra must have died of a heart attack or some other natural cause, and that the condition of her body must be due to the fact that Myra had been lying there undiscovered for days.
But Sherry's assumption had been wrong.
There had been nothing natural at all about her grandmother's death.
According to police, the woman who now lay on that rumpled bed, and who had once famously played the role of the murderer in the hit movie Psycho, had herself been violently raped and then strangled to death with a pair of her own nylon stockings.
Cheviot Hills, where Myra lived, was not a high crime area.
Located west of Los Angeles, it was a modest but affluent neighborhood that had, over the years, been home to many actors, like Myra and her husband.
With its views of the local golf course and country club.
It was a place where residents felt safe and where murders like this just did not happen.
But despite the public pressure to find and punish the person who killed Myra right from the start, the investigation into her death was complicated.
Not only by the delay in discovering Myra's body, but also by a lack of suspects and obvious motives.
By the time, Los Angeles detective Gary Fullerton began his investigation into Myra's homicide, collecting physical evidence, swabbing the body for DNA, snapping pictures and dusting for fingerprints.
The medical examiner's autopsy report estimated that Myra had already been dead for eight days.
And looking at the crime scene, Detective Fullerton's first assumption was that Myra had been the victim of a random burglary, meaning she may not have had any personal connection to her killer.
To Detective Fullerton.
It looked like someone had rifled through Myra's nightstand and ransacked her dresser.
In addition, the contents of Myra's purse were scattered across the bedspread and floor.
But Sherry, who was absolutely stunned to find out that her grandmother had been murdered, had no trouble at all coming up with a potential suspect.
Within hours of her grandmother's death, Sherry had directed police attention to the house immediately adjacent to Myra's property.
Although it was no larger than Myra's own small three-bedroom home, the neighbor's house seemed to be overflowing with people.
At any given time, the owner, a woman named Adrienne Rosenfeld, played host to up to eight different residents.
Those included Adrienne's older teenage son, her two adult daughters and their partners, along with three of Adrienne's grandchildren.
According to Sherry, both she and her grandmother had suspected Adrian's son, Joel Steen, of spying on them from his bedroom window, as well as making unwanted advances and visits to the house when Sherry was visiting her grandmother.
Sherry said that Myra had even gone so far as to say that she was actively afraid of the young man.
Sherry herself was uncomfortable enough with his behavior that, even after discovering her grandmother's body, sherry did not want to ask anyone in that house if she could use their phone to call 9-1-1.
As for the other occupants of that house, sherry said her grandmother got along well enough with adrian, who owned a nearby nail salon, and aside from the family's constant bickering, neither sherry or her grandmother had had any issues with the older daughter's husband or the younger daughter's boyfriend, who did odd jobs around the neighborhood.
But what seemed like a promising first lead quickly led to what would become a series of dead ends.
After interviewing Adrian and her family members and guests and checking their alibis, Detective Fullerton eventually came back to Myra's family and said he'd cleared everyone, including Adrian's son, of any involvement.
Instead, based on conversations with an assortment of neighbors, as well as some of Myra's family members and people she knew through her work at the TV studio, the detective had a new name at the top of his suspect list, and that person was none other than Sherry's own younger brother.
According to Myra's neighbors, Myra's 31-year-old grandson, a known drug abuser who had a history of asking Myra for money, had recently been living at Myra's house.
And although Myra's grandson would later provide investigators with an alibi and pass a lie detector test, He would remain a person of interest to the Los Angeles police force, especially when every other lead that Detective Fullerton pursued in the weeks that followed came up completely empty.
And months later, when the Myra Davis murder case ground to a halt and the murder file was quietly shelved alongside dozens of other unsolved cold cases handled by the Los Angeles County Police Department, Sherry's brother remained under that cloud of suspicion.
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Chicago, March 2nd, 1976.
A savage double murder rocks the city.
Two young lives snuffed out in their prime.
And the killer?
A privileged, rich kid caught within four days, only to walk free through a web of influence and power.
For four years, the case gathered dust, the truth buried under the web of money, drugs and corruption, until an unlikely hero emerged, former rock musician turned star prosecutor, who refused to let the justice slip away.
Together with his determined partner, they dared to resurrect the case that Chicago forgot.
Now, for the first time, step inside the investigation that brought a killer to trial.
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Ten years later, early on the afternoon of Sunday March 29th 1998, 38-year-old Debbie McAllister picked up the telephone.
She was sitting in her home in San Clemente, a city of 47000 people that was perched right on the white sand beach of California's southern coast.
Once again, Debbie dialed the number of her mother's apartment 90 miles north in West Los Angeles, a residential area not far from Cheviot Hills.
And once again, at the other end of the line, she heard the busy signal.
Debbie's mother, Jean Orloff, had called Debbie earlier that day to fill Debbie in on news about a mutual acquaintance.
At the time Debbie, a single working mom with a 15-year-old son, had been swamped with household chores.
Not wanting to miss any of the details, Debbie had told her mom that Debbie would call back that afternoon when both of them could settle in for an unhurried conversation.
Now putting the telephone receiver back in its cradle, Debbie pushed the first flicker of worry out of her mind.
Maybe her mother had taken the phone off the hook while she went down to do laundry in the basement of her apartment complex and then forgotten to hang the receiver back up before going out to visit with one of her many friends.
But still, it seemed a little unusual.
Then again, Debbie certainly did not know all the ins and outs of her mom's weekend routine.
Although the two women were very close, their relationship was complicated.
Jean had divorced Debbie's father when Debbie was just two years old and Jean was in her early 20s.
Twelve years after that, Jean had left their extended family in New York and moved with Debbie out to Los Angeles, California.
Once on the West Coast, Jean had worked hard to support the two of them.
And as soon as they had settled into the one-bedroom unit in a modern apartment complex on Bentley Ave where Jean still lived, Debbie had spent a lot of time alone and unsupervised.
Jean had known the arrangement was not ideal, but it was the only way that Jean could work during the day and attend a night course that would allow her to get certified and employed as a surgical dental assistant.
Jean Orloff had never remarried, but she had always had plenty of admirers, and Debbie knew how much her mother prided herself on her youthful appearance.
Nature had blessed Jean with thick, dark hair, blue-green eyes and a good figure, and Jean always made sure that her makeup and manicured nails were perfect.
By the time she was closing in on 40, Jean had begun a long-term relationship with a wealthy young man in his 20s.
And having a 17-year-old daughter in the one-bedroom apartment led to just enough friction between the two women that Debbie decided at that point to move out and begin living on her own.
When Debbie's son Andrew, was born six years later, Debbie had wondered how her mother would adjust to the idea that she was now old enough to be a grandmother, a title that definitely challenged Jean's determination to look and act as young as she felt.
But it would turn out that Jean absolutely loved little Andrew.
And as she leaned hard into her role as grandmother, any strain between Jean and Debbie had faded.
Despite the 90-mile distance between them, Jean often used the weekend to make the two-hour drive south to San Clemente.
She would pack her bag and hop into her beloved red and white Chevrolet Malibu that she had bought for herself more than 20 years ago.
Then she'd roll down the windows and head for the coast full of plans for how she and Andrew would spend the next couple of days.
Now, almost 15 years after Andrew's arrival, Debbie knew that her mother had just passed two more difficult milestones.
Just five months earlier, Gene had turned 60 and had officially joined the ranks of older Americans.
But, even worse, the man Gene had been seeing for almost 20 years had announced that he'd asked another, much younger woman to marry him.
Overall though, Debbie had the sense that her mom was meeting these challenges with her usual resilience.
From a practical standpoint, Debbie knew that her mother was independent and self-sufficient.
The local Avon lady who sold makeup and skincare products to Jean at her home was married to a man who could help Jean with any minor repairs around her apartment.
And from a social perspective, Jean was keeping herself upbeat and busy.
Not long ago, her mom and her mom's good friend, Barbara Capadal, had gone to the Los Angeles Dodger Stadium to hear Jean's favorite rock and roll band, the Rolling Stones.
And in late October, just a few days after turning 60, Jean and Barbara had gone to an elaborate Halloween party that was put on each year by Jean's manicurist.
And in February just one month earlier Jean had booked tickets for a trip she and Andrew would take to Disney World later that year.
And just 11 days earlier, Debbie knew that Jean, along with Jean's younger sister and their mother, had gotten together for lunch, a monthly engagement that had started after Debbie's aunt and grandmother had joined Jean and Debbie out on the West Coast.
Finally, Debbie told herself to stop worrying.
It was good that her mom was busy or having a marathon phone call with a friend.
And besides, her mom had sounded just fine when Debbie talked with her earlier that morning.
At about 5 pm the next day.
On the afternoon of Sunday, March 29th, Jean's friend Barbara left her apartment in the complex that she and Jean shared and climbed the one flight of steps up to Jean's unit.
Both women lived alone, and over the years, they had become very good friends.
So it was natural that when Jean's mother had not been able to reach her daughter by phone at all that day, that Jean's mother would finally call Barbara and ask her to check that Jean was okay.
But it wasn't until Barbara saw the Sunday newspaper still on the floor outside Jean's door and Jean did not answer the bell, that Barbara felt her own first wave of concern.
And when Barbara tried the door and found it swung inward under her hand, that concern turned to alarm.
Jean was always careful to keep her doors locked and even when she was expecting company, Jean always used an intercom and buzzer to greet people before letting them inside.
The first thing Barbara noticed when she walked into Jean's apartment was the smell of smoke, not from Jean's cigarettes, but more the smell of fabric burning.
But even as Barbara pinned what the smell was down, she came to a sudden, horrified stop.
The door to Jean's bedroom was open and from where Barbara stood just a few feet away, she could see Jean's naked body sprawled face down across the king-sized bed.
Jean's feet hanging over the edge of the mattress were blue.
There was blood around Jean's head.
And then Barbara saw the source of the smoky smell she had noticed when she first walked in.
The dust ruffle around the bottom of the bed had been partially burned.
And even though the fire had burned itself out, there was something so off about Jean's lifeless and discolored body that Barbara did not have to check for a pulse to know that her friend was dead.
And even as Barbara began to back out of the apartment, before turning to run down the stairs to her own unit where she would call 911, other details of the scene seared themselves into Barbara's memory.
The way Jean's body looked, like it had been thrown onto the bed, the phone on the floor rather than on the nightstand, and the receiver off its cradle.
Then there was the uncharacteristically messy pile of towels heaped on the floor in the bathroom instead of folded neatly on the towel racks.
And that blood around her friend's long dark hair.
And as Barbara picked up the phone and dialed 911, her brain kept screaming one single word.
Murder.
But within the next hour, as first responders from the fire, police and emergency medical unit flooded into the apartment complex on Bentley Avenue, Los Angeles County, Police Sergeant Christopher Giles was forming a very different impression of what had caused the death of 60-year-old Gene Orloff.
After observing Jean's body and learning that Jean was a heavy smoker and that she took heart medication, Detective Giles announced that the victim had likely died of natural causes, like a heart attack, and that the fire must have been caused by Jean dropping a lit cigarette.
This assessment was met with blank silence before the fire captain, whose crew had also responded to the 911 call, pointed out to the detective that people who die of heart attacks are usually found lying face up, not face down.
The fire captain also pointed to a red crease on Jean's neck.
And to him not only did the fact that the phone was off the hook seem unusual and possibly suspicious, the burned bedskirt looked more like a deliberate arson attempt than an accidental fire.
But not only did Detective Giles dismiss those concerns, the county coroner would later agree with Detective Giles and rule that Jean had in fact died of a heart attack.
So, on March 30 1998, one day after Barbara had discovered Jean's body, Jean's sister and her sister's husband arrived at the morgue, grief-stricken by Jean's unexpected and tragic death, to make arrangements for Jean's body to be cremated.
And that would have been the end of any further investigation into the death of Gene Orloff, if not for the work of a sharp-eyed public official who noticed two important errors in the paperwork provided by the county coroner's office.
It turned out that Gene's own doctor did not believe that Gene's heart condition was serious enough to have caused a fatal heart attack, and he had refused to sign off on the coroner's death certificate.
Not only that, but no one from the coroner's office had ever examined Jean's body at her apartment or filed an official record of Jean's death.
So on April 2nd, five days after Jean's body had been discovered and one day after her grieving family had gone forward with her memorial service, an investigator with the coroner's office arrived at the morgue to do a second examination of Jean's body before releasing her remains to the family.
But as soon as the investigator arrived at the morgue and opened the plastic cover that encased Gene Orloff's dead body, he knew that there would be nothing routine about the examination of this body.
The red crease that the fire captain had noticed on Jean's neck had deepened to a dark purple bruise.
There was also a trail of bruises from Jean's cheekbones down to her lower legs, and tiny red spots filled the whites of Jean's eyes.
It was instantly clear to the investigator that Jean had not died of natural causes.
She had been strangled to death.
Not only would an autopsy confirm this, it would also show that Jean had been sexually assaulted.
And even before that autopsy was completed, a new investigation into Jean's death was underway.
This time, the lead detectives were two highly respected police officers, Francine Maunger and Ron Phillips.
And together they wasted no time interviewing and fingerprinting the stunned members of Jean's family and Jean's circle of social and work contacts.
The first hurdle facing investigators was the fact that they had no crime scene.
Because Jean's death had initially been attributed to natural causes.
Her apartment had been thoroughly cleaned and all her belongings packed away in boxes.
So, without a crime scene or any physical evidence to guide them, detectives Maunger and Phillips immediately turned to the most obvious suspects—
In any homicide investigation, the victim's romantic partners and spouses are automatically people of interest.
But in this case, Jean's much younger boyfriend had a rock-solid alibi, and no one who knew Jean either from her work or personal life seemed to have any motive for wanting her dead.
Knowing they needed to think outside the box if they were going to solve this case, Detective Maunger decided it was time to talk with the one person in a woman's life who might know more about her than even her closest friends.
And that person was Jean's longtime beautician.
Detective Maunger explained it to her partner this way.
Being female, I know we talk about our lives to our hairdressers and manicurists.
We use them as sounding boards.
And on Tuesday, April 7th, the same day that Detective Maunger set off to talk with this new potential witness, investigators received a telephone call that changed everything.
Within hours, police were combing through their backlog of cold cases, looking for the unsolved murder of a 71-year-old woman named Myra Davis, who had also lived in Cheviot Hills and who had been raped and then strangled 10 years earlier.
The tip that would help break these two murder cases came from a parole agent for the California Department of Corrections.
According to John Widener, one of the released prisoners he supervised a man who had served jail time for committing forgery had heard about Gene Orloff's murder.
And not only did the details of her death sexual assault and strangulation remind this ex-con of another earlier murder, but this ex-con also knew the name of one man who had a connection to both victims.
24 hours later, the pieces of two murder puzzles, along with a string of seemingly unrelated sex crimes that had happened in the late 1980s, suddenly and shockingly all fell into place.
Over the weeks that followed, the names and images of Jean Orloff and Myra Davis, along with references to the 1960 horror classic Psycho, all started appearing in the pages and on the screens of state and then national media.
Based on information contained in both those murder files, along with Detective Maunger's interview with Jean's manicurist and a series of interviews with the suspect named by the parole agent, here is a reconstruction of what happened on or about tuesday, june 28 1988, when 71 year old myra davis was killed, and on march 29 1998, 10 years later, when the same man murdered 60 year old gene orloff.
Back in 1988, Myra's killer had already developed a very unwholesome fascination with women and violence.
And Myra, a vulnerable older woman he saw every day, had become an object of great interest to him.
He knew a little bit about her, including the fact that she didn't seem to much like her neighbors, at least not all of them.
He also knew she had made a living in Hollywood back when she was young and that now she made commercials.
He'd even seen her face on ads pitching old-time lemonade and the all-day breakfast served at the International House of Pancakes.
He knew she had a very good-looking granddaughter who also worked in Hollywood, but on that day in late June 1988, neither the neighbors or Myra's granddaughter were anywhere in sight.
So when the murderer knocked on Myra's door and called out respectfully if now was a good time for him to come visit, there was no one to see them.
When Myra opened the back door, gave him that TV smile and invited him inside.
There was also no one to see when the killer followed Myra out of the kitchen and into her bedroom.
And Myra was surprised when, after their short but pleasant conversation had ended, she turned around and there he was, standing right behind her with a strange look on his face.
For the killer, the explosive rage and sexual excitement that now filled him was familiar.
They had been among the reasons why parents wanted nothing to do with him, why he had molested his own younger sister, why he had spent years in mental hospitals and juvenile detention facilities, and why he had sexually abused other children in those same settings.
Myra had no way of knowing any of this.
The killer's long rap sheet listing crimes he'd committed before the age of 18, when he was still considered a child, was protected by law from public view.
And at that moment, knowing what her killer was capable of would not have mattered to the 71-year-old grandmother anyway.
Because now it was too late.
This man was already there in her house, and when he suddenly came at her, the attack was so unexpected that Myra hardly had any time to process what was happening or to try to protect herself.
According to the medical examiner's later autopsy report, what happened next was premeditated and brutal.
Myra's killer stripped her of nearly all of her clothes and then forced her onto the bed where he raped her.
Afterward, her killer wrapped a pair of nylon stockings around Myra's neck, then used the handle of a plastic pot scrubber he'd picked up on his way through the kitchen like a tourniquet to tighten the ligature around her throat.
Throughout the attack, Myra was facing her killer.
In the 60 to 90 seconds it took her to die from strangulation.
The small bone below her jaw and inside her neck had slowly fractured.
At the same time, the intense pressure on Myra's voice box caused her to reflexively bite down into her own tongue, even as the blood vessels in her eyes and under her skin and gums began to rupture and bleed.
Before leaving Myra's house, the killer rifled through her purse and quickly opened and ransacked the five drawers of her bedroom dresser.
Satisfied and exhilarated, the killer slipped out the door of Myra's house, leaving her body to the maggots and California's summer heat.
Over the next week, Myra's killer spent several days on an alcohol-fueled bender.
But by the time he was interviewed by police about Myra's death, he was sober and he had put together an alibi.
He also knew he had been lucky.
Myra's body was so badly decomposed by the time it was discovered that pinning down an exact date or time of death was practically impossible.
And in the two years that followed the unsolved killing, police never connected Myra's murder with a string of at least six sexual assaults on young women in the Cheviot Hills area where Myra had lived.
And when, in 1991, Myra's killer was arrested and charged with sexual battery in two of those attacks, the sentences against him were suspended and instead of serving time, Myra's killer was put on probation and required to attend one year of sexual abuse counseling.
The killer's next encounter with the law occurred on March 6 1992, when an elderly couple out for a stroll in Cheviot Hills saw him kicking the small dog he was holding at the end of a leash.
When the 67-year-old husband, who weighed less than 120 pounds, told the younger man to stop it, Myra's killer enraged, stepped forward and struck the older man.
The blow knocked him backward and he hit his head on the sidewalk with such force that three weeks later he died.
After spending three years in prison for manslaughter, Myra's killer was again released on parole and, moving back in with his wife, he started working side jobs for cash as a handyman.
And by the beginning of 1998, one of his customers was an attractive and vibrant 60-year-old divorcee named Jean Orloff.
Not only did Jean live just several blocks away from the killer's first murder victim, but Jean's red and white vintage Chevrolet Malibu reminded the murderer of the tan and brown Chevy Malibu that had belonged to Myra and how that car had sat in Myra's driveway collecting dust during those seven days after he had killed her, when she lay dead and undiscovered inside her little white bungalow.
In fact, 10 years later, on March 28 1998, there was so much about the visit he decided to make to Jean's apartment that would remind him of his visit to Myra a decade earlier.
Like Myra, who was one of his early customers, Jean had always been happy to have his help around her home, starting back in late 1997 when he repainted a heavy mirror for her before hanging it over her piano.
So when the killer had slipped away from his family's house that evening and driven the three miles to Jean's apartment, where he knocked quietly on her door, Jean welcomed him inside with a smile.
Like Myra, Jean had no reason not to open the door.
Like Myra, Jean had no idea what crimes this man had already committed.
And she had no idea what he was about to do to her.
But once the killer attacked, Jean fought back with every ounce of strength she had.
And even though Detective Giles would later insist that Jean had died of natural causes, the autopsy that doctors performed five days after Jean's body was sent to the morgue told a very different story.
Like Myra, Jean had been raped.
But blunt force trauma to the back of her rib cage showed that the killer had probably had to jam his knee into her back to force her face into the mattress so he could subdue her.
The ultimate cause of death was strangulation, although in Jean's case, the ragged furrows around her neck, the crushed voice box, and the abrasion on her chin, nose, and next to her mouth all suggested that she had fought desperately against the tightening of the ligature.
When it was over, the killer left his victim naked and face down on top of her bed.
The phone already lay on the floor, the receiver off the hook.
As the killer's excitement subsided and his breathing returned to normal, he could hear the faint noise of the busy signal coming across the phone line.
Before leaving, the killer set a small fire at the bottom edge of the bedskirt.
Taking one last look around.
The killer slipped out of Gene's apartment, leaving the door unlocked behind him.
And just a few minutes after that, 32-year-old Kenneth Dean Hunt, who had been known to both Myra and Gene by his nickname Sonny, was in his car, heading back to the home he shared with his wife and her mother on South Beverly Drive in Cheviot Hills.
And that house, owned by Adrian Rosenfeldt and still overflowing with people, was located right next door to the little white bungalow where Myra Davis had lived for 40 years before Sonny had killed her back in 1988.
It would turn out that the 32-year-old handyman who murdered both Myra Davis and Gene Orloff had been the boyfriend of Adrian's younger daughter, the man who made most of his money doing odd jobs for their neighbors.
Four months after being interviewed and cleared as a possible suspect in Myra's murder, Sonny had gone on to marry Adrian's daughter.
He had also cultivated a loving relationship with his mother-in-law.
Adrian, along with her daughter, always found excuses for Sunny's inability to hold down a regular job.
And they would both insist that later charges against him for sexual assault and manslaughter were unfounded.
As Myra's neighbor, Adrian had made a point of recommending Sunny to Myra as a part-time handyman.
And as the owner of a popular local beauty salon, Adrienne made the same glowing recommendation to her older, single female clients, who also might appreciate the services of someone who could come to their home and do minor repairs and yard work.
Once Sonny's wife began selling Avon products, he also worked as a delivery person, personally taking orders directly to the homes of his wife's clients.
One of those clients was Jean Orloff.
Not only had Jean been a longtime customer at Adrian's Nail Salon, she had attended Adrian's big Halloween party in 1997.
Jean also bought skin products from Adrian's daughter and hired Sonny as a part-time handyman.
As for the tip that finally broke the two murder cases, that came from Adrian's son, Joel Steen.
As a teenager, Joel may have creeped out Myra and her granddaughter Sherry with his unwanted attention, but it was a charge of forgery, not stalking, that would eventually land him in prison for a few years before he got out on parole.
Unlike his mother, Joel had always suspected Sonny might have been involved in Myra's murder, especially when Sonny went on that bender in the days immediately after Myra's death.
So when Joel heard the eerily similar details of Jean's murder and observed that following Jean's murder, Sonny went on another substance-fueled bender, Joel picked up the phone, called his parole officer and suggested that police might want to take a look at Kenneth Hunt, aka Sonny.
Meanwhile, Detective Maunger's interview with Jean's manicurist, Adrian Rosenfeld, would also lead investigators to make a direct link between Sonny and his two murder victims.
And, unlike the general public, investigators would also have access to Sonny's juvenile records that would detail his lengthy and disturbing history of violence and sexual assault.
Samples of Sonny's semen would later match the samples collected from the bodies of both Myra and Jean.
On Thursday, April 9 1998, less than two weeks after Jean's murder, Kenneth Sonny Hunt was arrested and charged with two counts of first-degree murder, burglary and forcible rape.
In yet another strange twist to this case, in the press coverage that surrounded Sonny's arrest, his first victim, Myra Davis, was wrongly identified not as a stand-in on the set of the movie Psycho, but as the body double who actually appeared nude in the shower scene that made the movie famous.
That mistake led to speculation that Sonny had been obsessed with killing that body double, who he believed incorrectly to be his next-door neighbor.
True or not, the mistake brought a kind of notoriety to Myra Davis that the modest 71-year-old grandmother had never pursued or wanted in the course of her half-century-long career in Hollywood.
On March 15 2001, Kenneth Dean Hunt, aka Sonny, was found guilty of two counts of first-degree murder.
Eight months later, on November 6, he was sentenced to life in prison without parole.
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