Unopened Doors: The True Story of Surviving a Killer

By Gina DePaulo

Author Gina DePaulo led a quiet, orderly life until a mugging concussion reignited old, painful memory visions of a far more frightening crime. Back in 1969, an unknown man abducted her and seemingly intended to kill her. With the help of renowned cold case investigator, Paul Holes, Gina began a journey to discover who her seeming would-be killer may have been. On the hunt for the identity of the mystery man, she traveled down a shadowy road of past serial killers, inept detectives and girls gone missing in the area of the old crime. The investigation led to surprising turns and startling conclusions, as she opened the long-hidden doors of her past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543964042

Book preview

Unopened Doors: The true story of surviving a killer

Gina DePaulo

ISBN (Print Edition): 978 1 54396 403-5

ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-54396-404-2

© 2019. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Footfalls echo in the memory

down the passage which we did not take

towards the door we never opened...

— T.S. Eliot

For all the girls and young women who traveled through the Corridor of Sorrows and went mysteriously missing; their sad fate known or perhaps still unknown. With peace and love, I dedicate this book to those brave souls and their families for what they have endured.

Contents

Author’s Note

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Epilogue

Afterward...

With heartfelt thanks and gratitude…

Corridor of Sorrows

Author’s Note

In writing Unopened Doors, I drew upon personal events in my life with as much accuracy as I could recall. For the purpose of giving richness and life to the scenes of those events, I often used action and dialogue. It is simply impossible to flawlessly recreate the actual physical movements of persons or the exact dialogue used in the past, particularly in scenes from long ago. Nonetheless, I tried my best to stay true to the flavor, texture and emotional feel of the original conversations and circumstances.

Additionally, there were instances when the timing of events or interactions with others were slightly changed or condensed, for example: two conversations combined into one in order to keep the narrative pace of the story flowing. Again, even with these minor changes, I was careful to preserve the authenticity of the original conversations and events, as I remember them.

As for email exchanges that the forensic investigator, Paul Holes and I shared, as well the emails with the State Attorney, all were reproduced verbatim. This was also true of my sister’s emails and mine to her, and my father’s letter to me - they are exact. The only exception is when I summarized a few very short emails between Paul Holes and myself that were not significant in content.

Finally, some names have been changed to protect privacy and those names are indicated with an initial asterisk the first time they appear, although with a few family members, names were changed for purely personal reasons and with their knowledge and permission, therefore they are not indicated with an asterisk.

Foreword

The year 1969 was a dangerous one for residents of the Bay Area, California. Multiple serial predators were seemingly attacking at will, preying on the innocent. Gina DePaulo was one of those innocents who became a victim but survived to tell her story.

It was when I was a criminalist, with the California Contra Costa County Sheriff’s Crime Lab, that I first met Gina. After reading a local newspaper article, she learned that I was on the hunt for additional cases to pin on a convicted serial killer up for parole. That is when Gina reached out to me. She was hoping to see a photo of the serial killer, thinking she might recognize her attacker of nearly forty years ago.

While I was digging into her case searching to unravel who was responsible for her brutal attack, Gina and I had many interactions. In Unopened Doors, Gina describes her recollections of those interactions with an uncanny memory for detail.

To this day, I believe Gina made certain instinctual decisions during her attack that guided how she interacted with a killer that may have saved her life, allowing her to share her fascinating and compelling story today.

Paul Holes

Cold Case Investigator (retired)

Chapter One

I have no memory of being struck in the head and passing out. How strange the way time vanishes when that happens. One moment you are here, and the next moment you are simply gone. And just where do you go when a little slice of your life disappears? Rolling this over in my mind, I have tried to figure out what happened and why I never saw it coming. Sometimes I think I have a vague recall of a shadow to my left before it all went dark, but I can’t be sure.

It all started with a simple decision: to take a detour and enjoy the sunshine while buying some tempting fruit. Really, nothing more than that. But oh, how life can change in an instant, for reasons that are almost impossible to understand, forcing you to turn around and gaze anxiously backwards into your past.

Recent time: Oakland, California

It was early spring and the kind of day that makes worries fade with its safe-blue sky heralding the end of winter dreariness. While running some errands, I found myself passing through an area locally referred to as Vietnam Town - a modest area of small businesses lined up along International Avenue. The avenue is aptly named for the way it flows for miles through distinct ethnic regions: Vietnamese, Chinese, Latino with smaller pockets of other various ethnic neighborhoods such as Ethiopian and Jamaican. But in the Vietnam area, small food markets spill over onto the sidewalks with displays of colorful produce along with bright Vietnamese trinkets and wares.

Just off the main retail strip of Vietnam Town are streets that fan into rough Oakland ghettos; home to a jumble of Vietnamese and Chinese warily mixed in with Black and Latino residents encroaching from their own nearby neighborhoods.

Driving along, glancing down a side street, I spotted a sidewalk stand of luscious looking fruits and vegetables. Feeling clever at the chance to get a bargain I pulled over and parked. Not seeing any shoppers or outside clerks, I assumed other customers must be inside the adjacent makeshift tin-roof store.

Sauntering over to the outdoor fruit stand, I was particularly taken by a perfect large, blood-red apple.

I opened my hand to grasp it.

Next, there was only darkness.

My lids felt glued shut, while I was trapped in the center of a churning black tunnel. Frustration, confusion. Am I up or down? Ah, face down. On the ground with a large force dragging and pulling on me.

Until realization, I’m being attacked!

I could hear my attacker’s guttural sounds. My purse! My purse was under my belly, straps still slung over my shoulder.

Grabbing the straps, he yanked hard. Curling into a fetal position I held tight, clutching the bag to my chest. With angry grunts, he pulled harder on the straps. Tugging, pulling, grunting, then he rolled me over.

Vowing, No! I curled on my back even tighter.

Trying to shake my grip, he lifted my curled body up into the air by the purse straps, slamming me back down onto my back against the concrete. I knew it was painful, yet the pain seemed muffled, far away. I strained to force my eyelids open, but the lids were as heavy as metal weights. Calling out for help, the small wail that slipped from my throat sounded faint, as if it came from someone far away.

Again, tossed up, down, onto concrete. Pain now echoed through my head and back. A third time, slamming me down more violently, pain now cascading all through me. Skull’s gonna crack. Let go! I silently ordered myself.

Opening my hands, I felt the leather straps slide hopelessly through my fingers while the mugger grabbed up my handbag.

Rolling over, I pushed up on all fours swaying. Dizzy, I paused, then painfully sat up. Prying my heavy eyes open, I finally saw the mugger: a chubby, black teenage boy lumbering away in droopy jeans, glancing back at me while clutching my purse to his chest.

I was surprised, expecting him to be older and more commanding, not some teenage brat. I also noticed I was way off to the side, half way around the tin-roof store, some distance from the produce and hidden behind a pile of wood boxes. How did I get over here?

Struggling to my feet, I was ready to tackle this oversized kid who surely towered over me in height as well as weight and strength, but a fierce wooziness swept over me. Bent over panting, I vowed, I’m gettin’ that purse!

Taking off in a half loping run, I called out to a few people up the street, Stop him! Stop him! He’s got my purse!

A teenage boy stopped, stared at me for a beat, then ran after the mugger. But the mugger was too fast. From down the road the boy threw his hands up in the air, yelling, Sorry! I lost him.

There I was with blood-soaked, crazy mussed-up hair, and bloodied cheeks, staggering along the road in a torn, blood stained shirt. I had no idea what a sight I was until later that day when I stood staring in disbelief at the shocking image of myself in a mirror.

I stopped in the middle of the street when I spotted a fading gray, older model Volvo moving slowly towards me. As they neared, I saw a couple inside. Throwing my bloodied palms up, I called out for them to stop. They only rolled to a slower crawl. "Please, stop!" I cried out.

Hopping directly in front of the car, I forced the driver to hit his brakes. As the car came to a sharp stop, I pounded on the warm front hood with my bare palms pleading with them, "Help me! Please help me!" The balding, middle-aged Caucasian man in the driver seat and his wide-eyed, frumpy-blonde female passenger stared horrified at me.

"My purse! … I got mugged… Please, I have to get it," I said in winded bursts.

Paralyzed with fear, they sat mute. But the mugger was getting away and that was all that mattered. I had no time for their fears.

"Come on! I shouted, while tugging at the locked back passenger door handle. Let me in, please... I have to …." I started to say, as I slipped my hand through the driver’s open window. Reaching around to the backseat door, I flipped up the lock. Springing the door open, I jumped into the rear seat and pointed in the direction the mugger ran.

Mugger went that way! adding irritably, Hey, go! He’s getting away. Nervously glancing back and forth from me to the road ahead, the driver turned the engine off in protest. "Go, go! Hurry up or we’ll lose him."

Looking baffled, he started the engine, hit the accelerator, tires screeching forward, down the street a couple of blocks. That’s when I spotted the mugger, still clutching my purse. It’s him! I pointed. The kid turned around, looking stunned after he spotted me in the back seat. He took off running, darting across a lawn and behind a house before we could get closer.

Figuring that we lost him, the driver rolled the car to a stop. He turned to say something to me, when suddenly two well-dressed men jumped from a slick new model car, motioning to us that they were going after the mugger-kid. They took off running across the lawn to the rear of the building, until they soon reappeared with the kid, dragging him out to the sidewalk. I got out of the car to watch.

Some big tough kid he was! He stood cowering while he was shoved and slapped about the head, You little Punk-Bitch, don’t you bring this shit to the neighborhood, snarled the taller man. The second man joined in with, Shit! We don’t need none o’ dis crap from you. Bringing heat… Naw, man! Fuck you! We’re not puttin’ up with yo’ bullshit!

Prying the purse from the kid, the taller of the two men held aloft the sought-after prize. Striding up to me, he shoved the purse into my hands.

Here, you got it! Now just go on home, now. No need to call no cops or nothin’. After a pause, he added with force, Understand?

Quickly I rifled through my purse and wallet until I was satisfied that everything was still there: all $22.00 in cash with license and credit cards in place.

Okay? he asked me.

Nodding agreement, I mumbled my thanks while running my hands along the soft black leather of my purse in wonder that this inexpensive, simple, handbag was still intact. No matter how hard the mugger had pulled on the straps, they hadn’t broken.

I can’t believe I got my purse back, I thought with deep satisfaction, forgetting at what cost and risk, feeling as if something precious, utterly lost had been returned home to me.

Chapter Two

Despite giving my word that no cops would be called, soon numerous black-and-white cruisers surrounded us. As the cops climbed out of their cars, feeling some crazy sense of disloyalty, my eyes nervously scanned around for the two men afraid they would blame me, but they had vanished along with the mugger kid.

Fighting an intensifying nausea along with pain setting in, I strained to follow a group of officers, each peppering us with questions. They seemed confused by our answers, particularly about the role of the couple with the car:

Wait! Who’s with who?

What do you mean, you don’t know each other?

Then why were you in their car? Were you giving her a ride somewhere?

What men got the purse? Hey, I thought you said a kid mugged you?

Two men? Just who were these men? Which direction did they go?

The couple were confused too, expressing puzzlement on how they got dragged into the mess. As for myself, the shock of realizing how I had forced myself on them was starting to sink in. I felt guilty, yet the pounding of my head and the rumbling nausea I felt made me unable to think clearly enough to explain myself or apologize to them.

Finally, an officer pulled me aside, so a police technician could take close-up photos of the gashes in my scalp and the bruises on my back.

Bend over, pull your hair back, the technician ordered.

Now the other side.

Hold your shirt up above your head.

Turn around.

Now the other way!

Once again, the technician taking hurried photos snapped commands at me until I complained that I had to sit down, my head was spinning; I wasn’t well. Not to mention I wasn’t keen on continuing to pull my shirt up above my bra, as strangers were gathering to watch me and all the police action going on.

An officer placed me in the front seat of his patrol car, saying You need to be checked out, we’ll get an ambulance, okay? He must’ve knocked you out.

I don’t know... I’m all right. Please don’t, oh God, I just...just wanna go home. He pressed me again and again to accept medical help. I repeatedly refused.

Look, since you’re declining medical help against my strong advice, at the very least I cannot let you drive. I’ll drive you home. Have someone get your car later. And you better see a doctor right away. I think you may be worse than you realize. Mam, you don’t look too good!

I nodded in agreement. I wasn’t sure I could drive anyway. Glancing up, I watched my captives drive off in their Volvo. Noticing my blood-stained hands, I wondered if I had smeared blood on their nice leather car seats. Oh God, I can’t believe what I did to those poor people and I never even thanked them!

During the ride home the officer lectured me about being in that area of town, Don’t you realize you were taking your life in your hands? Tell me, why would you shop there? That’s crazy! You gotta be more careful, it’s next to a dangerous drug ghetto!

I nodded, barely listening. Conversation was just too much effort.

He rambled on about the recent crimes in the area: muggings, robberies, car jacking’s adding, Just last week there was a homicide, right there! In the middle of the day, just down the street from where you were. You know, you’re lucky you’re alive!

I thought, lucky! I suppose so, but I wasn’t feeling very lucky.

After arriving home, walking painfully up the stone steps to my front door, I wondered if I would ever feel safe in my home again, even though the mugging took place a good eight or nine miles away. And sure enough, as I entered, the walls echoed with a feeling of all safety gone.

Living in Oakland for over twenty years, you would think that I would be used to the high crime rate. Numb perhaps, but never comfortable. Even in my quiet middle class neighborhood lined with perfect green grass lawns and charming cottage-style homes, cars are routinely broken into and homes too-often burglarized. Stubbornly I reasoned, I’m tough enough to have raised two sons alone, so I’m not about to change my life all around and move. And my business is here – right here in this house. I ran a modest wedding floral design company out of my home studio workshop. I wasn’t about to dismantle my business. Besides, all of Oakland was unsafe, so where would I move to?

But my fears about staying on in Oakland were quickly dwarfed by the incessant, throbbing headache, wooziness and nausea. I called my brother, Sebastian (or as we call him, Bas) to get his advice. Bas is an ER doctor living in another city. I was hoping he could tell me if I was going to be all right.

At first, he insisted I must go to an emergency room for tests. But I complained that spending hours at an ER was more than I could take. I flat out refused. He sighed, then grudgingly admitted not much could be done for a brain injury anyway. However, if you start vomiting, or the head pain gets any more intense, then go immediately to the ER, call an ambulance if you need to! he told me. On second thought, you better have someone stay with you, checking on you through the night, to make sure you’re alert and alright.

Oh God, okay… I’ll get a friend to stay with me, I guess. But how long is this going to last? I feel all blurry and weird and man, my head is killing me.

Yeah, I know, well sorry to say, with a head trauma you just have to wait it out. You obviously have a concussion. Trust me, I know it will feel like a long time, but oh... give it about six or seven weeks, you should be feeling better.

Six or seven weeks! With upcoming wedding work, I wondered if I could wait it out. But as a promise to my brother I called my friend, Suzanne, to come stay with me. After she arrived, she took a seat across from me, pulling her chair up close, exclaiming in a low, dramatic voice, "This is serious – really serious! Look at you! What the hell were you thinking? Why on earth would you shop there? You can’t do that… just go shopping in some ghetto area! You know how dangerous Oakland is! What if you’re not alright – maybe there’s permanent damage! Adding, after I looked at her like she was going way overboard, Well, there could be! Until finally, her well-meaning opinions made my head ache even more. So, I sat up, pulled myself together and shooed her out the door with the excuse that she must go home so I could rest. I’m fine Suzanne, really I’m good. If I feel worse, you’ll be the first person I will call," I assured her.

But I was not fine. Or good. As the days followed, I grew steadily worse. I felt like a misty fog had crept up and engulfed me. I was thick-minded, slow moving, and dizzy. A strange trembly-wired kind of dizzy.

And forgetful. I would start something but soon couldn’t remember what I meant to do. The phone would ring, and I had whole conversations with people, yet as soon as I closed the phone down, I fretted over what was said and even sometimes who had said it. I started writing notes to myself to keep track of conversations, or what I was planning, or even what I was thinking from moment to moment. Little notes were scattered everywhere about the house.

As I slid off center, the head pain continued without release, along with sudden nose bleeds. The dizzy spells made me unsteady on my feet. While driving, I sometimes got the terrifying sensation that blackness was engulfing me, as if I was about to pass out. The first time it happened, I stopped the car to regain my balance, ending up parked by the side of the road sobbing, slumped down in the seat so no one could see me. Soon I was making excuses about why I couldn’t go out, falling further inside myself.

I felt worn trying to cope with it all. Weary, one quiet afternoon, I sat down to rest in my favorite chair by the sunniest window in the house. Staring outside, I watched a spring breeze dance through the new, shiny green leaves of the lemon tree in the backyard. The swirling of the small leaves with the softening light of the late afternoon sun pulled me into a much-needed rest. Sinking down into my seat,