I'll Be Gone in the Dark(43)
“Greg who? Greg who? Greg who?”
*
[EDITOR’S NOTE: The following section has been reconstructed from Michelle’s notes and a “Writer’s Cut” piece she published in the digital edition of Los Angeles magazine as a follow-up to the “In the Footsteps of a Killer” article.]
GREG WAS GREGORY SANCHEZ, A TWENTY-SEVEN-YEAR-OLD COMPUTER programmer who first met Cheri Domingo in the late 1970s while both were employed at the Burroughs Corporation. They dated on and off from 1977 through 1981, and they were on and off and on again so many times that, when they finally ended it, Debbi just assumed they were on another break.
Greg was eight years Cheri’s junior, and sometimes it showed.
He was a man preoccupied with being a man. He rode a motorcycle. He drove a Camaro with racing stripes. He coached Little League and Pop Warner football, and he had the spare bedroom of his apartment outfitted with every high-end stereo component imaginable. Greg was in shape and always dressed well. Like Cheri, he took good care of himself. They shared a certain meticulousness. Neither had grown up with a lot and took great care of what they had. For four years, their relationship trajectory was a decidedly circular one. She waited for him to grow up. He waited for her to chill out. Finally, they’d had enough. Both began seeing other people.
In June of 1981, the Burroughs Corporation announced it was shutting down its Santa Barbara division. Sanchez planned a trip to the East Coast to explore job opportunities at their Florida branch. The following month, while Debbi was living at the Klein Bottle shelter, Greg got in touch and invited her out to lunch.
Greg and Debbi had been close. He was like family. Not quite a father figure, as his age fell somewhere in the middle between Cheri’s and Debbi’s, he was something in the realm of an older brother. He was fun and he treated her well. He liked to call her Debra D.
“Greg, my name’s not Debra,” she’d remind him.
“That’s alright, Debra D,” he’d tease. “Don’t worry about it.”
Over hamburgers that afternoon in mid-July, Greg broke the news to Debbi that he was moving to Florida. He explained that he wanted her to hear it from him, rather than learning about it after the fact—which he knew would shatter her. She was not much less crestfallen hearing it directly from the source.
“I’ve proposed to your mom so many times,” he said resignedly. “She’ll never marry me.” Cheri felt she was too old for Greg, a rationale Debbi thought was ridiculous.
What Debbi didn’t know was that Greg was already seeing someone else.
He had met Tabitha Silver* in May. Both lived in the same apartment complex, and Greg had dated her close friend Cynthia.* Cynthia remained friends with Greg and ultimately introduced him to Tabitha. They began going out, and their relationship deepened quickly. Not even three weeks in, Greg was marveling— with some degree of alarm—at the speed with which things had turned serious.
But the timing was off. Both their lives were in states of flux. Tabitha was starting dental school at UCLA in the fall, and in the interim, she’d left Santa Barbara and moved back home to San Diego for the summer. Greg’s job status was in limbo and he was considering relocating to Florida.
“This is not the time in my life to get involved,” Greg told her.
“When is the time going to be?” Tabitha retorted. “When you’re six feet under?”
Greg returned from Florida on July 23 and immediately phoned Tabitha. He was going to remain in California after all, he’d decided. Florida was too far away from his friends and family. With her birthday only days away, he invited her to Santa Barbara for the weekend.
She drove up that Saturday and they spent the day together. He hinted at a marriage proposal. The following night, she appeared at the door of his apartment. He surprised her with a last-minute change of plans: he was going to spend the evening with a friend instead.
That friend was Cheri Domingo.
A NEIGHBOR OF CHERI DOMINGO’S HEARD A GUNSHOT, FOLLOWED by a voice in the middle of the night—a woman speaking to someone in a controlled, unemotional way, something along
the lines of “Take it easy.” That was probably the last thing Domingo ever said.
Investigators later theorized that the conspicuous scraping sound the bedroom door made against the shag rug had alerted Sanchez to an intruder. It appeared he’d fought with the killer.
One detective familiar with the case recalled the woman’s voice, steadying and deflective, overheard by the neighbor. “She pissed him off,” he said.
This time the killer took the ligatures with him. He was adapting, eliminating evidence.
*
ON MONDAY MORNING, A REALTOR ARRIVED AT 449 TOLTEC WAY to show the property to a prospective buyer and his family. He let himself into the house and, upon entering the master bedroom, discovered the bodies of a male and a female. He immediately whisked his clients out of the house and called the police.
Both victims were nude. Sanchez’s body was half inside the closet in a prone position. The killer had covered his head with a pile of clothing pulled down from the rack above. Near the body was a flashlight—the batteries had Sanchez’s fingerprints on them, indicating it came from the house.
Sanchez had been shot in the cheek, probably while struggling with or resisting the perpetrator. That wound was not fatal. The twenty-four blunt-force wounds, inflicted by an unknown instrument, were. Domingo was face down on the bed in a pool of blood. She had been bludgeoned to death with the same instrument. Draped over her was a bedspread that matched the wallpaper. Her hands were crossed behind her back as though they’d been bound. Ligature marks on her wrists supported this notion.