Free Lust Killer by Ann Rule Page B

November until June.
    Mrs. Sprinker waited in the luncheon room for Karen, who was driving her own car. Their lunch date was set for twelve, and Karen was unfailingly prompt. At twelve-fifteen Karen's mother looked at her watch, puzzled. She waved the menu away and asked for a cup of coffee, trying to concentrate on the models wending their way through the crowded room while they showed the store's new outfits.
    At twelve-thirty she began to watch the door for sight of her daughter. People nearby finished their meals, and new groups sat down. And still Karen didn't appear. Her mother wondered if there had been some mistake about the time. No, she was sure Karen had understood.
    Mrs. Sprinker left the restaurant and found a pay phone nearby. She called the family home, but no one answered. She went back to the lunchroom, but Karen still hadn't arrived. At length she left a message with the hostess, asking her to tell Karen that her mother had gone home—and would be there waiting for a call.
    Karen wasn't at home. Everything there was just as Mrs. Sprinker had left it. Karen wasn't at her father's clinic, nor had she called there.
    Karen Sprinker's parents went through all the steps that worried parents take when a dependable, thoughtful child cannot be found. If Karen had been an unpredictable girl, or a rebellious girl, it would have been much less frightening. But Karen had always been the kind of daughter who called home if she was going to be even fifteen minutes late. She was happy with her life and with her family. She loved college, and she'd been looking forward to the shopping trip, to the chance for some girl talk with her mother.
    The Sprinkers called all of Karen's friends—and none of them had seen or heard from her. All of them were as puzzled as the Sprinkers, stressing that Karen had no problems that her parents might not have been aware of.
    Her mother was aware that Karen had been in her menstrual period, and wondered if perhaps she had suddenly been seized with severe cramps, or even if she might have fainted. She had never had unusually severe periods, but there was always the possibility that she had become ill. Her parents called Salem hospitals to see if she might have been admitted.
    None of the hospital admitting records listed Karen Sprinker. No illness. No accident.
    Reluctantly going to the police-—because that step seemed to mark Karen's disappearance as something so much more ominous—the Sprinkers reported Karen as missing.
    The Salem police tried to reassure Karen's parents; they had seen so many "missing" people come back with reasonable explanations of why they were gone. Teenagers, particularly, tend to walk away of their own accord. They often have secrets their parents do not suspect, or romances that they think their parents won't approve of. Because they have never been parents, they cannot understand the worry that results when they are late getting home.
    The officer taking the complaint urged the Sprinkers to try to remember something that Karen might have said, some hint she might have given about something she planned to do or someplace she wanted to go.
    "Could she have gone back to her dorm at Oregon State?" "No," her mother said impatiently. "I've already called. She hasn't been back since the term ended. Her room is locked."
    As the Sprinkers painted a picture of their daughter's habits and her consideration for others, the officer felt a chill. This girl didn't sound at all like a runaway. She didn't sound like a girl who might suddenly decide to get married or take off with a boyfriend.
    In almost any police department in America, the policy is not to take a formal complaint on a missing adult for twenty-four hours-simply because most of the missing come back within that period. If there are signs of foul play, then of course the search is begun immediately. The reason for the twenty-four-hour delay is pragmatic. There is not enough manpower even in a big police department