The Serial Killer Podcast

They found her on the roof. Her car was parked perfectly between the lines, the doors locked, the keys gone. It was a ghost vehicle. Inside, her textbooks sat on the
seat, waiting for a student who was never coming back. There were no signs of a fight, no broken glass, no blood on the upholstery. The car was as clean as Karen’s
reputation. Forensic technicians took the car to the lab and went over it with a magnifying glass. They found nothing. No fingerprints that didn't belong to the family. No trace of a struggle. Whatever had happened to Karen Sprinker, it hadn't happened inside that steel frame. It had happened in the few yards between her car door and the entrance
to the store.

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Her car was found parked in a rest area on the road leading up to the Santiam Pass just north of Albany, Oregon, and slightly east of the I-5. The red-and-white Rambler had no external damage, and it was locked. No blood. No sign of struggle. There were a few personal items belonging to Jan Whitney. There were no keys. In processing the Rambler, state police I.D. technicians lifted a good latent print from one of its hubcaps. With the technology available in 1968, a single latent print was worthless to detectives unless they had a suspect’s print to compare it to.

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He swung into an overgrown driveway and killed the engine beside a deserted farmhouse. Gray weathered siding, wind whistling through broken windows—no neighbours, no help for miles. Without a sound, Jerry hauled her out and started beating her. Fists hammered her face, her breasts. Blood filled her mouth, warm and metallic. She screamed anyway, knowing it probably wouldn't matter. He tore at her clothes, gasping that he wanted her naked so he could take pictures.

She fought—twisted, kicked, clawed for escape. Sunset was coming fast, and she knew if darkness fell without rescue, she'd never see morning. Her screams carried just far enough. A farm couple driving past heard them, wrenched their wheel, and pulled into the weed-choked yard. They spotted the old car, the big young man
looming over someone on the ground...

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His fetish expanded beyond footwear to encompass various forms of feminine undergarments and intimate apparel. He became fascinated with brassieres, panties, girdles, and the complex systems of garters and stockings that women used to maintain their appearance. Jerome developed an intense appreciation for the texture and feel of these soft fabrics, finding them almost as compelling as the high-heeled shoes that had initially captured his attention.

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He was breathing heavily, although it had taken so little effort to swing the length of two-by-four against her head and feel the satisfying impact when it hit. She had dropped like a stone, collapsing without a sound beyond the initial thud. He knelt beside her and checked to see if she was still breathing. He thought he detected a slight movement in her ribs. And then he placed both his hands around her neck and squeezed for a long time, feeling her life drain away beneath his fingers. Her neck was so frail; he could feel little bones inside crushing under his hands, the cartilage giving way.

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