Dead by Sunset: Perfect Husband, Perfect Killer? (13 page)

She didþBrad's conviction that they had to keep moving, that they must

never stay more than a night in one place.

Sara was certain that, underneath, Brad had to feel some sadness and

regret about Cheryl's death, even though he had been so angry at her.

Those emotions had probably contributed to the arrhythmia that brought

him into the E.R.
 
When a person dies suddenly, leaving so many loose

ends, so many quarrels unresolved, the one left living almost always

feels guilty.

Sara felt sadness and regret too It would have been better for their

sons if Cheryl and Brad had had a civil relationship.
 
It would have

been better if Brad and Sara had been able to find a common meeting

ground with Cheryl so they could all work for the boys' best

interests.

But now

Cheryl was no longer in the picture.
 
Sara wished she had known her

maybe if she had, she would be able to understand why someone had

wanted her dead.

Brad knew why, and Sara sensed that he was trying to protect her from

awful truths, things about Cheryl he had never told her.
 
That was like

him, he was strong but he was so gentle with her and the boys.
 
No

matter what the police might think, Brad was not a killer.
 
There was

no violence in him, of that she was certain, just as certain as she was

that she had never loved anyone the way she loved him.

Yet Brad was afraid that heþthat theyþmight be murdered, too.
 
That he

should be frightened of anyone or anything was the most inexplicable

reaction Sara could ever have imagined.
 
But she trusted his instincts,

and she would follow his lead.
 
Somehow, he was going to bring them all

safely through this nightmare.

On Tuesday night, September 23, Sara, Brad, Jess, Michael, Phillip, and

Brent all stayed at Gini Burton's two-bedroom apartment in the Mount

Tabor district of Portland.
 
Brad got to Gini's place about four that

afternoon, just as Gini was arriving home from her shift at Providence

Hospital.
 
Sara showed up a short time later in her own car.
 
Brad

seemed none the worse for his trip to the emergency room, and he didn't

complain of any more chest pains or erratic heartbeats.

Gini didn't ask questions, they all seemed so grateful to be with her

in an "anonymous" location.
 
It took some figuring to find a spot for

everyone to sleep, but Gini made a bed for Jess and Michael on the

couch, Phillip slept with Sara and Brad in one bedroom, and Brent slept

in a sleeping bag on the living-room floor.
 
Gini and her fiance slept

in the other bedroom.

Gini could see that Brad was nervous.
 
"He seemed bothered,

preoccupied," she would recall.
 
"He was concerned that someone might

take his children away."

The O.S.P detectives were concerned with finding the person who had

killed Cheryl.
 
In September of 1986, Lieutenant DeBrand Howland was

Superintendent of lhe Oregon State Police Criminal Investigation

Division.
 
He was kept updated on the Keeton homicide by Lieutenant

Corky Forbes, who commanded the Beaverton office of the O.S.P, or by O.S.P

Sergeant Greg Baxter, who was the hands-on supervisor of the case.

Baxter had chalked up seventeen years on the force and that third week

in September had been one of his busiest.
 
With Washington County

District Attorney Scott Uphan and his staff, Baxter and his

investigators had worked almost around the clock on the Friday night

murder.
 
Cheryl Keeton's bizarre death had put a strain on both

departments.
 
Baxter assigned Jerry Finch and Jim Ayers to carry through

as the lead detectives in the Keeton homicide.
 
They would be the most

actively involved, but Lieutenant James Boyd Reed, Les Frank, Tom

Eleniewski, Robert C. Vance, and Richard McKeirnan would all

participate, along with Julia Hinkley and Greg Shenkle from the Oregon

State Police crime lab.

In the first week after Cheryl Keeton's body was found on the Sunset

Highway, Finch and Ayers had more than enough to do.
 
They had already

talked to Brad Cunningham, the victim's estranged husband, long into

the early hours of the morning after her death.
 
Ayers wanted to know a

lot more about Cunninghamþbut that wasn't going to be easy, they

couldn't find him.
 
He wasn't in his apartment, and he hadn't shown up

at work at the U.S. Bank either, though he apparently hadn't left

town.

Ayers and Finch had reports that Brad had been seen here, there, and

everywhere.

But they were always two steps behind him.

Southwest 79th Street was the likeliest place for the O.S.P detectives to

begin their "heel-and-toeing"þcanvassing the area, asking questions,

handing out flyers.
 
The person who had propelled the blue Toyota van

onto the freeway could have done it only from 79th.
 
The detectives

might get lucky.
 
People living along the street abutting the freeway

might have seen that person.
 
Or they might not.
 
It had been almost

completely dark when Randy Blighton discovered Cheryl's body.
 
Maybe

nobody had seen anything at all.

Jack and Danielle Daniels lived at 2035

79th.
 
Daniels had been playing golf that Sunday and had driven home a

little after eightþup Canyon Drive to West Slope and then northbound on

79th.
 
He had seen a van on the east side of the street, facing north,

almost directly across from his house, near his mailbox.
 
As he pulled

into his driveway, he recalled, the van had gone forward about fifty

feet.
 
At that time, he saw two people in the front seat.
 
And he

thought he saw a child standing in the backseat.
 
But it might have

been only the outline of the child's carseat just behind the driver.

Danielle Daniels was watching the Emmy Awards show when her husband got

home.
 
She told Jerry Finch that she had heard loud "banging" noises

sometime between 8:00 and 8:40 on Sunday night.
 
She had gone to the

window to look out and asked Jack, "Did you hear something?

"No," he had responded.
 
"Only the dogs barking."

Once more, Danielle heard something and looked out.
 
She told Finch, "A

man came to our door about twenty minutes later, pounding on the door,

and I called my husband."

That, of course, was Randy Blighton frantically trying to get help for

the woman he had found in the Toyota van.

Asked to describe the "banging" noises and to tr\TT to isolate the time

she heard them, Danielle said, "Jack came home at 8:10.
 
I heard the

noises ten minutes later.
 
It sounded like a rubber hammer on a car.

A few minutes later, I heard the noise again.
 
And it was fifteen or

twenty minutes after that when the man came to the door looking for

help for the woman."

Michael Cacy, a freelance illustrator, lived in the 2100 block of

S.W.

79th.
 
He told state police detectives that he and his neighbors were

used to seeing vehicles with lost and confused drivers on their

street.

"We saw a lot of freeway refugees," he commented wryly.
 
He tried to

reconstruct in his mind the evening of September 21.

That Sunday Cacy had a "rush" project to finish, so he had worked all

day in his office in Portland's Old Town district.
 
He went home for a

quick dinner around six and then prepared to head back to his studio.

"I expected that I!d have to work all night if I was going to

finish."

Cacy said he had had no particular reason to keep track of time, save

for the fact that he wanted to get to Old Town in time to watch the

Emmy Awards show at 8

P.M. on the television set in his studio.
 
It was a way for him to fool

himself into thinking he wasn't really working around the clockþand on

a weekend to boot.

Cacy had been a little impatient as he started back to Old Town and

found his way blocked by a small late-model van that was stopped in

front of him on S.W. 79th.
 
It was right around 8

P.M.þa little before or a little afterþand now he was sure he was going

to miss the start of the Emmy show.
 
Although the sun had disappeared

into a purpling layer along the horizon, it was light enough for Cacy

to see that the van was either a Toyota or a Dodge and probably blue or

blue-gray in color.

Cacy was in a hurry and the van's driver didn't seem to know where he

was going or have the initiative to get out and ask.
 
The van was aimed

at the freeway, but it wasn't moving.
 
A little annoyed, Cacv sighed,

backed up, and pulled around.
 
Idly his mind computed that the driver

was male.
 
"If it had been a woman, I would have stopped and offered

her some assistance," he said.
 
It was a fleeting encounter, erased

from the surface of Cacy's consciousness almost as soon as he eased

onto the Sunset Highway and merged with the steady ribbon of traffic

heading for Portland.

When the news of the death on the Sunset had hit the papers, the

Beaverton station of the Oregon State Police got the usual number of

phone calls from people who offered tips, suggestions, and, in a few

cases, sightings of "suspicious" men.
 
Finch was hurrying out of the

office when a clerk handed him a telephone message slip.
 
He read it,

he remembered the contents, but somewhere in his travels that day, he

lost the slip itself.
 
And with the slip, he lost the name and phone

number of the callerþif, indeed, the caller had left either.
 
Anonymous

calls tend to be the rule rather than the exception when people call

police.

The message was from a couple who had read about the Toyota van on the