Murdered In The Cemetery

HE KILLED OUR JANNY

A Family’s Search for the Truth

UNTIL SOMEONE GETS HURT

ASPEN, SNOW, BLOW, and BO

MY GUARDED SECRETS

COCAINE AND CHAMPAGNE

My road to recovery

MURDERED

IN THE CEMETERY

________________________________________

BY

SHERRIE LUEDER

AND

DAWN TAARUD

ISBN-13: 978-1539336723

ISBN-10: 1539336727

Book Cover design, Dawn Taarud-Martinez and Lisa Stone

Interior layout and design; Dawn Taarud-Martinez

Contact; [email protected]

Website design; Dawn Taarud-Martinez

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to a records technician at the Whitewater Police Department who helped make this story possible. Her first contact was with the City Attorney who so kindly read through the police reports associated with the case before agreeing to release them. The technician then spent countless hours reading through the reports and redacting pertinent information. In the meantime, an officer in the department sorted through hundreds of case photographs and allowed me to photograph and choose the ones I wanted for the book. We were very fortunate to have found Senior Investigator Roger Millard, who was an investigator on the case. He made himself readily available by phone and email, to answer questions, identify photographs, and also took the time to meet with the authors to point out the crime scene at Hillside Cemetery.

Thank you all.

AUTHORS NOTE

This is a true story that took place in 1980. Many of the individuals involved in the story did not wish to be interviewed or were not able to be contacted. Therefore, the content of this book is derived from hundreds of pages of police reports and through our own research. Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals connected to this story.

PROLOGUE

The southeastern college town of Whitewater, Wisconsin appears to be as unassuming and ordinary as any other town. Populated with nearly fifteen thousand people, in the convivial atmosphere of the downtown area sets a diverse array of restaurants, boutiques, bars, and coffee shops.

If you travel west on Main Street from the downtown area, you pass by sorority and fraternity houses, one of which comedian, John Belushi once happened to live. The Empire-style house with Queen Anne-style details has since been converted into Hamilton Bed and Breakfast. It is mingled among other stately homes, many Italianate-style, which were hugely popular in the mid eighteen hundreds. The University of Wisconsin-Whitewater, which spans four hundred acres, fronts to Main Street as well.

By all accounts, the picturesque town looks like a wonderful place to live, with its welcoming waterways and beautiful parks. Wonderful that is, if you haven’t heard the stories of the town being haunted—which is certainly not unheard of. Some people who have lived in the area for years, when asked if they think the town is haunted, will chuckle and say they have never heard of anything so absurd. On the other hand, some folks believe either through their own experience, or they just plain believe. Of course, there are the naysayers, the ones who have heard but won’t acknowledge any of the lore. Not in any way, shape, or form.

Some even wonder how in the world a local establishment came up with a name like Second Salem Brewing Company. But in all actuality, the city has been referred to like the Second Salem for years.

Many of the frightening tales of Whitewater being haunted seem to have originated around 1889 when The Morris Pratt Institute was developed for the purpose of spiritualistic study. Although the desire to communicate with the dead had existed for centuries, in the mid-nineteenth century spiritualism became somewhat of a phenomenon and was noticeably prevalent in Whitewater.

The institute soon earned the name Spook Temple. No doubt the reference stemmed from what was going on in a psychic research class, which was held there. The students, spiritualists, mediums, witches…or whatever you want to call them met in a special pure white room. And neither they nor the teachers were allowed to enter unless they wore white gowns.

Their psychic research in the white room involved studying the relation between the living and the dead. In other words—séances were conducted. There is no documented proof that the students were ever actually able to communicate with the dead. However, there is rumored to be a secret Witch’s Book, kept hidden under lock and key in the University Library. And, as the story goes, if an unsuspecting person reads from the pages he, or she will go mad—or worse yet—meet an unfortunate death.

The coven of witches was said to have held ceremonies in nearby Starin Park, around the stone water tower. The water tower still stands today, and some refer to it as the Witch’s Tower.

There are several underground tunnels throughout the city. Some say the tunnels were strictly used as part of the underground railway; others say the witches often traveled in the tunnels—to avoid prying eyes.

There are three cemeteries in Whitewater...Calvary, Oak Grove, and Hillside, which form an isosceles triangle known to some as the Witch’s Triangle. Legend has it that everything within and around the area of the triangle is haunted.

So either way, whether the townsfolk believe or don’t believe—like it or not—forever imprinted in the town's legacy are accounts of witches, ghosts, hauntings, and unnatural death.

And for some residents, as the sun sets and the darkness of night settles over the town, the glow emanating from the street lights do little to keep whatever evil may be lurking in the shadows concealed from their thoughts.

But sometimes evil does more than just pervade one’s thoughts with fear. It becomes a living breathing entity. Cunning and deceitful, evil is relentless. It seeks you out and latches on—your fate is sealed—you are destined to become its next victim...

CHAPTER ONE

Alan had just arrived in Whitewater and planned to spend the entire summer there—maybe longer. On the few occasions he had previously been there, he stayed with his sister. She was attending the University and had her own apartment. This time he was hoping to land a job, so he could help his sister out with the rent and groceries, therefore extending his stay.

On June 17, Alan’s day started out as ordinary as any other, but how it ended was something he wasn’t likely to ever forget. After getting out of bed around eleven that morning, he spent the better part of the day looking for employment and filling out applications.

Late that afternoon he decided to go fishing. He wasn’t all that familiar with the area, but he knew there were plenty of fishing spots, and lucky for him they were all within biking distance. Not that he couldn’t drive; he could, but his license just happened to be unattainable to him, thanks to his latest ticket.

He studied the map his sister had given him and decided on Cravath Lake. It was just across town so he knew he could pedal there in ten minutes or so. He got his fishing gear together and took off riding east on Main Street.

Things were pretty quiet when he got to the downtown area. It was after five, so the stores were all closed for the day. Not much going on at the bars. There probably wouldn’t be either—it was only Tuesday.

He rode by the Rathskeller and thought he might stop there for a beer on his way back from fishing. It was a cool bar in the lower level of the building. He liked the name Rathskeller too. It reminded him of a bunch of rats drinking beer while they scurried around in a cellar. He laughed aloud and thought, "I could be one of those rats."

As he continued down Main Street little did he know he would soon be in an interrogation room trying to explain—where, when, and what bars he had frequented in Whitewater.

He crossed the bridge on Main Street and turned onto South Wisconsin Street. The lake was on his right, set back a few hundred feet. He followed along the street passing several houses and the American Legion. He pedaled slowly as he watched for a clearing or trail. So far everything was mostly private property.

When he neared the bridge that crossed the water, there were two guys, looked like a father and son, dangling their poles off the bridge. He slowed down and hollered out. Catching any?

Without turning around, the younger one replied excitedly as he reeled in his line.

We’ve only been here about a half hour, and I already caught a blue gill, and it looks like I just got another one.

Alan stopped to watch as the fish dangling on the line cleared the bridge. He caught a flash of vibrant yellow as it spun around. It looked to be about ten inches long.

The younger fisherman was grinning from ear to ear as the older one looked on, seemingly bursting with pride.

But my Dad didn’t catch any yet! he laughed.

Well have fun, Alan said. He didn’t want to infringe on their fishing spot, so he rode off.

Before he knew it, he was at the cemetery. He stopped at the entrance and read the inscription chiseled into the huge granite stones on either side of the iron gates. Hillside Cemetery. Although the gates were open, he hesitated before going in.

It wasn’t that graveyards bothered him, but he was a little freaked out by the stories his sister told him. She heard most of them at college. As stories go, no telling what was added or how they were fabricated from the beginning.

Most were about the town’s three cemeteries. Something about them forming a triangle and everything around them was supposedly haunted. Spooky stuff about ghosts, and witches, and figures robed in black, lurking around the Witches Tower. The thought gave him the creeps.

He remembered when he was a few years younger his sister tried to get him to play some stupid game called Bloody Mary. You were supposed to stare into a mirror and say Bloody Mary three times then something bad was supposed to happen. He never played, but come to think of it, she told him the story originated in Whitewater, and Bloody Mary was really Mary Worth who was buried in this very cemetery—he didn’t know if that was another one of her concocted stories or what.

An involuntary shudder ran through his body. Oh well, he planned on leaving before dark anyway. Besides, he didn’t bring a jacket, and the temps were expected to drop down into the fifties.

He set his mind back on fishing and rode up the steep hill and followed the road that wound around the back of the cemetery, adjacent to the lake. The graves were on his left; they didn’t intimidate him at all. He didn’t see anything spooky about the place, in fact, he thought it was kind of neat.

The grave markers started at the top of the hill by the main road. They were asymmetrically scattered around the winding roads, as the hill sloped downwards toward the lake. Although the lake was visible in places the landscape was overgrown with trees and shrubs, some areas more so than others were.

Alan thought it must be a good place for fishing because there were quite a few trails leading down to the water. He rode his bike down each one of the dirt paths in search of the perfect spot. One area looked as if it were a popular partying destination. Leftover remnants—empty beer cans, fast food wrappers, and cigarette butts were strewn around. There was also fishing line tangled up in the overhanging branches. Some poor fisherman must have overcast in his excitement to catch the next big one.

As he checked them all out, he thought any one of the places would be great to sit and fish all day, but as long as he was there, he thought he might as well check all of them.

Alan came to a trail that was wider than the other ones were—more like a gravel road. He followed it and soon discovered it was a dead-end that dropped off. He turned around to leave and noticed someone half hidden in the shrubs, so he quickly turned his head away. Their back was to him, and it looked as if they were crouched down. He thought the person was going to the bathroom or may even be involved in a sexual act.

As he rode back out to the clearing, he couldn’t help but think something could be wrong. Something about what he just saw didn’t seem quite right to him…kind of like an unnatural stillness.

He turned around and rode back down the road to have another look. The person was in the same position as before, and as he took a longer look, he noticed the head was down. Becoming concerned, he yelled out. Hey, are you alright? There was no response or movement. Fearing the person was hurt and may need help, he got off his bike. He looked around to see if anyone else was in the area, as he cautiously approached.

As he came within five feet of the person, he assumed it was a female because he could see a bra, but it was all askew. Her back was scraped up and bruised, and her neck looked like it was all bloody. At this point, Alan determined something was very wrong. She was either hurt badly or—he thought it was quite possible—she may even be dead.

He sprinted back to his bike and rode out of there as fast as he could. He almost wrecked it a few times as he tried to dodge the potholes along the bumpy roadway. When