Читать книгу Dead And Buried: A True Story Of Serial Rape And Murder - Corey Mitchell - Страница 21

TWELVE

March 17, 1999

Davis Canyon Road, Davis Canyon, California

Noon

David Zaragoza skipped his usual workout regimen at the gym. Instead, he hopped into his Jeep Cherokee and hurriedly made his way to Davis Canyon. The beautiful canyon area is home to lush vegetation and beautiful, sprawling mountains covered in towering green trees. Inside the canyon are numerousfruit and vegetable farms and vineyards. Mixed among the vast farming areas are beautiful multimillion-dollarhomes that belong to the wealthy vintners. Among the gorgeous mansions sit several weathered houses and old trailer homes festooned with television satellite dishes.

From the south, one enters Davis Canyon via See Canyon Road, a well-paved road with a few twists and turns, but nothingtoo treacherous. Rex Krebs lived in this general area. To get to his house, Zaragoza had to drive a mile-and-a-half on See Canyon Road before he made a left onto Davis Canyon Road. This road was the reason why Zaragoza had the Krebs case in the first place.

Krebs lived in a rental home, owned by Muriel Wright, almosttwo miles in from See Canyon Road. Not a far distance until you actually used Davis Canyon Road, which is rocky, narrow, and skirts alongside some precarious drops over the edge. The two-tire track pathway is barely accessible by any vehicle other than a four-wheel drive. Zaragoza’s Jeep Cherokeewas more than sufficient.

Zaragoza was familiar with the path to Krebs’s house. He had been there several times for routine parole visits. He believedKrebs was a decent enough fellow. After all, he was only thirty-three years old and had lived a rough life, in and out of reform schools, jails, and prisons for almost half his life. Zaragoza hoped that Krebs was getting his life back on track—job, girlfriend, nice secluded home. He hoped Krebs had kept his nose clean.

Zaragoza made his way up the winding dirt road. He passed only a few homes that were located nearly a half mile apart from one another. It was not unusual for the neighbors to not see one another for six months. Most of the Davis Canyon inhabitants liked their privacy and tended not to mingle.Zaragoza sensed that was why Krebs lived here.

No one would bother him.

He looked up and saw the familiar landmark that let him know he was almost to Krebs’s residence. It was the beat-up wooden A-frame house, with its broken windows and menacingexterior, just off the road. It always spooked him, out in the middle of nowhere. He drove around the corner past the A-frame. The grass seemed to grow higher on either side of his Jeep Cherokee. This signaled the end of the road for him. Within fifty yards he saw the mailbox.

He was here.

Zaragoza kept the engine running; however, he depressed the brakes. He took a deep breath, glanced up at his rearview mirror and could not see his eyes behind his dark wraparound sunglasses.

That was just how he wanted it.

Zaragoza took another deep breath and placed his foot on the gas. He entered the long dirt driveway to the right and watched as the trees scraped the sides of his Jeep Cherokee—“Texas pinstripes.” The driveway was about fifty feet long and descended past a small pond to the east. Just beyond the pond was a midsize royal blue wooden barn with white trim. It seemed large enough to house a couple of midsizeCadillacs. Zaragoza reached the bottom of the driveway. As he looked to his left, he saw a two-story house. It was the same color as the barn and almost twice as large. Zaragoza shook his head in disbelief as he wondered how a former convict could live on such beautiful property. Then he rememberedthe nearly inaccessible road and the remoteness of the location.

It made sense.

Zaragoza aimed his Jeep toward the house, when out of nowhere a bulky figure appeared in front of him. The parole officer took a quick breath yet again and realized it was his man—Rex Krebs.

Zaragoza parked his Jeep Cherokee and sat inside. The formerconvict, dressed in a blue short-sleeved oxford shirt, slowly ambled up alongside the vehicle until he was standing at the window. He seemed to wince in pain. Zaragoza noticed that the stocky Krebs had been limping and wore a weight belt around his ribs.

“What happened to you?” Zaragoza inquired.

Krebs tensed up and stammered, “I, uh, I—I hurt myself on the wood.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, I, uh, fell off the wall into the firewood.”

Zaragoza slowly exited his automobile. He watched carefullyas Krebs kept reaching for his ribs. He did not believe him. He thought about the newspaper report that stated the intruderinto Aundria Crawford’s duplex entered through a tiny window. Furthermore, Krebs’s injuries were not consistent with someone falling onto a pile of wood. He had no cuts or abrasions on his hands or arms.

“Do you want to come on inside?” Krebs asked his parole officer. It was common for Zaragoza to enter Krebs’s residence.He nodded behind his dark sunglasses and followed Krebs inside. Other than the stammering response, Zaragoza believed that Krebs appeared calm and in control. They walked to Krebs’s home and entered through the back door.

Zaragoza had no idea what Krebs was really hiding.

“I need to get another urine sample from you Rex.”

“Sure. C’mon in.”

The two men entered Krebs’s barn apartment. Zaragoza gave him a plastic cup. Krebs took care of business and gingerly returned the specimen to his parole officer.

Zaragoza knew he needed to get out of there.

Immediately.