But when he got there late, thenyear-old Kutcher said he found the lights on and the door locked. Peering through the window he saw " what I thought was a red wine spilled on the carpet. A pained Kutcher added: "I didn't really think anything of it", adding that he "figured I screwed up" and that Ashley had gone out with a pal.
She had wounds of up to six inches deep over her chest, stomach, neck and back, a coroner later revealed. Prosecutors told how twisted Gargiulo had "injected himself" into Ashley's life after helping her change a car tyre. Gargiulo was also found guilty of the murder of Maria Bruno in her El Monte home and the attempted murder of Michelle Murphy in her Santa Monica apartment.
Murphy fought off her attacker and caused him to cut himself and leave a trail of blood - sparking the chain of events which eventually led to his arrest. During the murder trial, sick details emerged about the calculated murderer researched serial killers like Ted Bundy and even read a book about how to kill people.
The shoes of the first victim had been put neatly by her body, too. It was some sort of macabre trademark - the killer's calling card.
The Great God Awto
Same time, same area, same type of victim. What the hell were they dealing with? Detective Senior Constable Murray Byrnes sensed it, too. I know it. She was lying face down diagonally across the concrete floor of the small bin room. A pool of blood had formed around her head. The collar of the old lady's raincoat was pulled up about her face, hiding the pantihose knotted so tightly around her neck it had cut into her skin.
Ashton, Lisette - AbeBooks
Near her head was a blood-soaked gas bill receipt in her name. Her handbag and brown woollen hat lay beside her body. She had on fawn woollen gloves, and under the raincoat, she wore a blue-and-white striped dress and a slip. Her bare legs were crossed, her arms by her sides. A thin trickle of blood ran from her mouth. The task facing the police looked to be as daunting as the first murder -Gwendoline Mitchelhill.
Blood Lust Chronicles - Hope
But the next-door neighbour, Mrs Laurie Burt, turned out to be a godsend. Mrs Burt was sharp, and despite all that had happened, had her wits about her. She helped police quickly piece together the final hours of Lady Freda Ashton, the second wife and widow of Sir William Ashton, one of Australia's most famous landscape painters.
Coming in after a hard day, Lady Ashton would have paused at the letterboxes, picked up any junk mail and rubbish, and taken everything to the bin room. Whoever had killed her must have followed her there. She was such a trusting soul - she'd strike up a conversation with anyone - and she had probably been talking to them as she tidied up. She would have put her keys down in the middle of the metre-high bench by the victim's rubbish bin - the only metal one.
Which was precisely where the police found them. The block was clean and well-kept but hardly grand. The unit was beautifully furnished, if a little cluttered. Mayger was fairly sure now that Lady Ashton had been attacked as she arrived home, just as Mrs Mitchelhill had. As they got downstairs, Mayger noticed a group of neighbours being interviewed by local detectives. The area had been sealed off, and there were police cars everywhere - Mayger knew it wouldn't be long before the press turned up.
Within hours, radio reporters were filing for their morning bulletins. The second old woman in six weeks, and this one the widow of a famous painter. Great story.
The next morning, Detective Mike Hagan told a roomful of detectives that the murders of Gwendoline Mitchelhill and Freda Ashton were unofficially linked. There wasn't much to go on: no real clues, no fingerprints, no foreign blood at either scene.
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- Blood Lust Chronicles - Hope - Lisette Ashton - Google книги.
- The Red Fang by Nicola C. Matthews | Welcome to the Underground Lair of the Paranormal Princess.
That in itself gave some impression of the killer. He was cunning. The killer probably lives locally -he could be a young person on foot. What worried Hagan was that the killer had had five weeks to think about the second murder. They had no idea what was driving him to kill.
Hagan scanned the faces of the men sitting around him. Lady Ashton's post-mortem had been difficult. There were so many injuries. Her experience with murder was limited. She had attended the scene at 2 am and at Earlier she had checked the body's temperature - Schwartz knew strangulation often went hand in hand with rape. But as with Mitchelhill, no semen was detected. She measured the ligature mark around her neck: nine centimetres. Lady Ashton was covered in bruises. They were on her nose and her temple, her neck and both eyelids. And she had bitten the inside of her lips.
Of most interest to the doctor was the wound on her cheek, an open cut with a small, semi-circular abrasion a few centimetres from it. Schwartz had learned to distance herself from her job, but she still felt sad because this old lady deserved a more dignified death, not the sort of violence to which she had been subjected. There was something else which disturbed her: the old woman's diamond ring. It looked expensive. Her attacker had obviously not killed her for money.
It seemed he had killed her for the love of killing. Shortly after his mother's death, John Glover's bizarre fascination with old women increased. He was no longer satisfied with merely looking at them; he had an overwhelming urge to touch them. He was both fascinated and repulsed by the nursing homes; room after room of bedridden old women, slowly dying. During his weekday work visits, he had fallen into a habit of wandering through the wards on his way to the kitchen, or the manager's office.
And now he began to look forward to the Sunday afternoon visits to his mother-in-law, Essie Rolls, because they gave him another legitimate excuse to be in a nursing home. He would sit with her for a while, then he would start to roam, looking in the rooms, searching for the oldest, most frail women he could find. If he found one alone, and if no-one was looking, he would go inside. He just had to touch them; their breasts, a thigh, or buttocks.
That the women became distressed or upset was of little consequence. It added to the excitement. But his wanderings had not gone unnoticed by the Mosman Nursing Home staff. One Sunday afternoon in December , Glover left Essie and strayed off down the hall. Through one doorway he saw an elderly woman lying on her bed in a nightgown. She was obviously incapacitated and alone. He walked in. She looked up as Glover approached the bed, surprise changing to fear as Glover placed his hand under her nightie and touched her breast. Confused, she tried to call out, "What Glover shook his head.
As his hand slid down her body and groped for her underpants, the woman panicked. Glover backed off and quietly left, but not before a sister, Yvonne Hoskins, saw him dart away. Glover had an overwhelming urge just to touch old women, to feel their bare flesh.