Eyes of a Monster

By Ron Peterson Jr

Schoolteacher Olivia Dare Christian was murdered in her Hampton, Virginia apartment in 1981. Her killer left few clues and the murder went unsolved. Three decades later, in 2011, next-generation detective Randy Mayer re-opened Olivia’s dusty cold case file and began unraveling the mystery. Mayer located a reluctant witness who was a teenager back in 1981. She recalled a suspicious man lurking outside Olivia’s apartment the morning of the murder and provided a detailed description of the man. Detective Mayer then researched hundreds of old cases, hunting for a person who fit the description and used a similar MO. He identified a prime suspect, a Smithfield Foods employee, by then in his 60s, previously convicted of several brutal sexual assaults. Digging further, Mayer linked him to two other unsolved Hampton homicides. Was this man a serial killer? Mayer enlisted the help of FBI agent Liza Ludovico and special prosecutor Phil Figura. Could the team uncover enough evidence to bring Olivia’s murderer to justice? Could the witness from 1981 identify him? And would a jury convict in a cold case based entirely on circumstantial evidence?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663229236

Ron Peterson Jr

Ron Peterson, Jr also wrote UNDER THE TRESTLE (2018), selected one of the top 100 true crime books of all time, and bestseller CHASING THE SQUIRREL (2020). Both were optioned as film projects. A former sports editor of the Radford University newspaper, Peterson’s background includes managing advertising campaigns that appeared on TV networks like CNN, Fox News, ESPN and Discovery. He resides in Smithfield, Virginia.

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Copyright © 2021 Ron Peterson, Jr.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-2922-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2923-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021919934

iUniverse rev. date:  10/08/2021

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Chapter 1     Olivia

Chapter 2     Concern

Chapter 3     Nightmare

Chapter 4     Scene

Chapter 5     Edgar

Chapter 6     Canvass

Chapter 7     Anita

Chapter 8     Uxoricide

Chapter 9     Suspects

Chapter 10   Autopsy

Chapter 11   Michael

Chapter 12   Cassandra

Chapter 13   Superdog

Chapter 14   Victimology

Chapter 15   Alibis

Chapter 16   Holiday

Chapter 17   Haunted

Chapter 18   Molly

Chapter 19   Prostitution

Chapter 20   Polygraph

Chapter 21   Hypnosis

Chapter 22   Harass Ii

Chapter 23   Aftermath

Chapter 24   Forensics

Chapter 25   Baltimore

Chapter 26   Johnson

Chapter 27   Profile

Chapter 28   Serial

Chapter 29   Montage

Chapter 30   Randy

Chapter 31   Fresh

Chapter 32   Paperboy

Chapter 33   Eyewitness

Chapter 34   Brother

Chapter 35   Peephole

Chapter 36   Microfilm

Chapter 37   Sturges

Chapter 38   Shocked

Chapter 39   Contact

Chapter 40   Interview

Chapter 41   Revisit

Chapter 42   Links

Chapter 43   Lineup

Chapter 44   Surveillance

Chapter 45   Reinterview

Chapter 46   Gravitas

Chapter 47   Delay

Chapter 48   Help

Chapter 49   Takedown

Chapter 50   Wheels

Chapter 51   Jury

Chapter 52   Trial

Chapter 53   Monster

Chapter 54   Denise

Chapter 55   Mayer

Chapter 56   Ludovico

Chapter 57   Defense

Chapter 58   Closing

Chapter 59   Verdict

Chapter 60   Celebration

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I interviewed over eighty sources in a two-year period in my research to tell this incredible true story. Voluminous case files and trial transcripts – obtained via Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests – were also closely reviewed. Great lengths were taken to put all the pieces together as accurately as possible. Some of the recollections that were shared with me by sources in interviews don’t precisely align, as is often the case with memories from decades gone by. In places where my narrative includes dialogue, I did my best to provide a realistic account, based on my knowledge of the people involved. Where noted in the book, privacy issues required the use of pseudonyms for three individuals.

CHAPTER 1

OLIVIA

Olivia Dare Christian was asleep in her bed in the early-morning hours of September 4, 1981. The thirty-two-year-old schoolteacher lived alone at the Ivy Home Apartments in Hampton, Virginia, a Chesapeake Bay waterfront city. She was awakened by something touching her face. Slowly, Olivia opened her eyes in the darkness and could sense a shape looming above her. She realized that she was not alone. Finally, as her eyes adjusted, she saw him. It was her cat, Patches, following his usual morning routine of waking her up by gently pawing her face. A moment later, Olivia’s alarm clock sounded. It was 6:30 a.m.

Olivia Christian was beautiful—even first thing in the morning—with an enthusiastic personality that friends described as vibrant. She wiped the sleep from her eyes, stretched, and walked into the kitchen. She turned on the radio, filled a pot with water, and stood at the stove to boil an egg. Patches purred loudly at her feet and rubbed against Olivia’s well-toned calves.

As she loved to do, Olivia sang along with the radio. Her voice was sweet and bright, projecting optimism, one of the many things that endeared Olivia to her second-grade students at Captain John Smith Elementary School. Music was a huge part of her life. She’d been a soloist in the chorus at Hampton High and in the concert choir at Elon University, from where she graduated in 1972. These days, her vocals graced the Sunday choir just down the road at First Presbyterian Church, where she also taught Sunday school.

While she fixed breakfast, one of Olivia’s favorite songs came on the radio. It was a tune that could have been written just for her: Teach the Children, by Crosby, Stills & Nash.

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Olivia Dare Christian

(photo courtesy Daily Press)

She lent her lovely voice to the song. You, who are on the road, must have a code, that you can live by. And so, become yourself, because the past is just a goodbye. Teach your children well…

The song was a fitting start to her day. It was the Friday before Labor Day. Her workday would conclude a week of in-service training for the teachers at Hampton City Schools. Then it would be Labor Day weekend, the official end of summer.

Olivia had her weekend all planned out. As she did on the first Friday of every month, tonight she would volunteer, from 5:00–10:00 p.m., staffing the phones at CONTACT Peninsula, a counseling hotline. She had volunteered regularly for the past six years and was trained on how to counsel callers suffering from depression or personal crises.

On Saturday, she planned to visit the nearby Virginia Beach oceanfront with friends. Sunday would be church, followed by a visit to her parents’ house for their usual Sunday-afternoon cookout. On Labor Day Monday, there were plans to go boating and water-skiing on the bay with friends. She had also promised to take in a movie somewhere along the line with her boyfriend, who was eager to see the recent box office hit Raiders of the Lost Ark.

On Tuesday morning she would enthusiastically greet her young second-grade students for the first day of school. It had been a great summer, but she was ready for that feeling of a new beginning that accompanies the start of every school year.

She sang along with Crosby, Stills & Nash, And you know they love you, closing her eyes as her wonderful voice fell in tune with the three-part harmony.

Olivia’s cat continued to demand her attention, rubbing against her legs even more enthusiastically as she removed the egg from the boiling water. You want to go outside, Patches? she said, bending down to gently rub her cat’s cheek. Okay, sweetie, let’s go for our walk.

Olivia headed out the front door of her apartment, Patches following along as she walked out into the interior lobby corridor. As she always did, Olivia left her apartment door slightly open so she would not have to bring along her keys. She headed out the exterior door of the building and stepped onto the sidewalk, Patches still close behind. It was a beautiful morning, a perfect seventy degrees. Crisp fall was beginning to set in as the summer humidity of coastal Virginia waned.

As she walked, Olivia’s natural beauty radiated. She looked younger than her thirty-two years, with delicate features: long dark hair, green eyes, and a lovely smile. She had a wispy physique, thin and athletic. She stayed fit with an active lifestyle of outdoor activities that included tennis, bicycling, and skiing. She loved snow skiing the most and was a member of the Peninsula Ski Club, a group who spent winters traveling together to ski resorts in the mountains of Virginia, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. Olivia was also a member of the Peninsula Bicycling Association, a group that went on weekly bike rides together.

Olivia’s friends sometimes wondered why a lady as pretty as her, at thirty-two, was not married. It was not for a lack of male suitors, that was for sure. She had been involved in a few serious relationships over the years and even turned down a marriage proposal once. She had been dating her current boyfriend exclusively for the past year.

The Ivy Home Apartments (later renamed the Apartments of Merrimac) were a bustling complex of four large brick buildings laid out in a U shape with a parking lot in the middle. Each building had multiple interior corridors and four apartment units in each corridor: two upstairs and two downstairs. In all, there were fifty-two residences.

Olivia had lived there for eight years, and in that time, the apartments had undergone a significant demographic shift. She was now the only white resident in the otherwise all-black apartment community. But race made little difference to Olivia; these were nice folks, and it felt like home. In fact, one reason she enjoyed living there was that many of the residents were underprivileged school-age kids from single-parent families. Olivia had an open-door policy, and young students often dropped by her apartment for help with their homework or impromptu reading lessons.

She continued her morning walk with the cat directly by her side, not wandering or darting off. The fact that Patches was so well trained was a testament to the patience that also made Olivia a wonderful schoolteacher. Training her cat had been all about positive reinforcement and praise, not scolding or punishment.

Olivia and Patches continued down the sidewalk, nonchalant, almost in lockstep. After a while, the cat veered off into a grassy area and did his business. That’s a good kitty, Patches, she said softly. Patches returned to her side, and their walk continued.

Unbeknownst to Olivia, there was someone watching her this particular morning. Someone with bad intentions. The person’s thoughts were primitive; like a tiger stalking their prey. And Olivia had definitely separated herself from the pack, sauntering down the sidewalk, backlit in silhouette by the rising sun, her long dark hair blowing in the gentle morning breeze. As she typically did, Olivia walked around the back of her apartment building toward a playground area her cat liked to visit.

About the moment she disappeared from sight, the person headed for Olivia’s apartment, blending in with the surroundings. Once inside the inner corridor of her building, they looked at the front door of Olivia’s apartment and could not believe what they saw. Olivia’s door was slightly open, just as she’d left it. Silently, the visitor entered Olivia’s apartment, slipping inside like a shadow and leaving the door cracked open. Stealthily, the intruder hid inside. Waiting.

Olivia made her way back home, her mind on the day’s plan to decorate her classroom. As she approached her building, she carried her cat in one arm. Patches was overweight and had gotten tired on their walk. She pulled open the exterior door of her building with her free hand, walked into the interior lobby corridor, and a few steps later, pushed open the door of her apartment and stepped inside. She bent down and gently set the cat on the ground. There you go, Patches, she said with a smile.

As Olivia shut the door behind her, the uninvited guest heard the dead bolt click and knew they were all alone. Senses heightened, the hidden intruder peered around a corner and glimpsed Olivia at the kitchen counter, putting two slices of bread in the toaster and pouring milk for Patches. It was almost time.

CHAPTER 2

CONCERN

Later that day, around 2:00 p.m., Olivia’s good friend and fellow teacher Anne Bryan was worried. They were both scheduled to attend off-site training workshops held at other schools that morning. When Anne returned to Captain John Smith Elementary that afternoon, she was eager to catch up with Olivia. Anne stepped across the hall and stuck her head in Olivia’s classroom to say hello, but the lights were off and Olivia was nowhere to be found.

Anne later said, I thought maybe she had gone out to lunch with other teachers after their workshop and was just running late. After a while I checked back…she was still not there. I thought, Well this is strange.

Anne went to the office to see if there was any word about Olivia, but the school secretary had gone home sick. Anne checked with the principal, Douglas Brown, who said, somewhat abruptly, I don’t know if she called in or not. He was busy with last-minute preparations for the first day of school.

Anne finished up the work in her classroom, went home for the day, and called Olivia’s apartment. No answer. She was now even more concerned. A short time later Anne’s husband, Bill, came home and agreed it wise to call Olivia’s boyfriend, John Kelly. It was actually Anne and Bill who had introduced Olivia and John a year earlier. John was a former coworker of Bill’s and was an army captain he held in high regard.

Anne called John’s townhouse in the neighboring city of Newport News and caught him just after he’d gotten home from work. She explained her concern, and John said that he had not spoken with Olivia that day, which was not unusual because both had busy schedules. Anne and John agreed to call one another once they heard from Olivia.

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Top photo: the Christian family.

Bottom photo: Mr. & Mrs. Christian.

(photo courtesy Daily Press)

As she hung up the phone, Anne’s mind raced through the possibilities. She tried her best to be optimistic. Maybe Olivia had come down with a flu bug and was sleeping at home, too tired to answer the phone.

Finally, Anne decided it prudent to call Olivia’s parents. Hopefully, they had spoken to her and could put this whole thing to rest. Olivia’s parents, Peggy and Thomas Christian, both retired, were among the most kind and sincere folks most people had ever met. They lived less than a mile from Olivia, in Merrimac Shores, an affluent waterfront neighborhood.

At 4:30 p.m. their telephone rang.

I’ll get it, honey, Thomas Christian said, slowly getting up from his chair and walking to the wall-mounted phone in the kitchen.

Mr. Christian, this is Anne Bryan; I teach with Olivia. I’m sorry to bother you, and I don’t want to worry you, but I’m concerned about Olivia. She did not show up at school today, has not answered my phone calls, and no one seems to have heard from her.

Mr. Christian thanked Anne for the call and assured her that he would check up on Olivia. Immediately worried, he shared the disconcerting news with his wife.

Where could she be? they asked one another as an uneasy feeling grew in the pit of their stomachs. Peggy stood beside her husband as he dialed Olivia’s number. No answer. Something was not right. They agreed it best for Thomas to drive over to Olivia’s apartment while Peggy waited home by the phone.

CHAPTER 3

NIGHTMARE

Thomas Christian got in his car and made the short drive to Olivia’s apartment. He pulled into the parking lot at approximately 5:00 p.m. and saw Olivia’s car parked in her usual space, directly in front of her building. He parked beside her, looked inside her car, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He walked up, entered the building’s interior lobby, and knocked on Olivia’s apartment door. No answer. He knocked louder. Still no answer.

He used a key Olivia had given him, opened the door, stuck his head in, and called out, Olivia? No reply. He was startled when the cat scampered past his feet and ran outside.

Mr. Christian took a few steps inside and immediately saw that the apartment was in disarray. There was a broken ceramic vase on the living room floor, and kitchen drawers were haphazardly left open. Olivia was normally a meticulous housekeeper.

Olivia? he said. Are you here? Nothing. He asked himself, more rhetorical than fearful: What’s going on here? Then he said louder, Olivia? Olivia?

As he walked through the apartment, he saw more signs of a struggle—a blender broken on the kitchen floor and a picture knocked off the wall. In slow motion, things began to register as he processed what he saw, his heart racing as he made his way through the chaotic scene.

When he walked into Olivia’s bedroom, he entered a nightmare. His daughter was sprawled out on the floor, facedown in a pool of blood. Her face was battered and bruised, with dried blood covering several bad lacerations. He knelt down beside her, placed his hand on her back, and gently shook her, the way a parent would try to wake a sleeping child. She was stiff. He turned her gently to her side and looked into her eyes. They were open, fixed in a faraway, unfocused gaze the likes of which he had never seen. He took her delicate hand in his, the same hand he had held so many times throughout her childhood. It was rigid and cold to the touch. It took several seconds to slowly register. Olivia, the light of his life, was dead.

In shock, he struggled to his feet and stumbled to the rotary telephone on her bedroom nightstand. In a daze, he dialed 911.

It was a busy Friday night for the 911 operator in the glass-enclosed cubicle at Hampton Police Department (HPD), one in which she would field over 250 calls—everything from traffic incidents to barking dog complaints. Still, she answered on the second ring.

My daughter is dead…she’s been killed…please send help, he said. After obtaining the address, the operator entered the information on her keyboard, and in an adjacent cubicle a dispatcher read it on a large computer monitor. Immediately, the dispatcher made a call over the police radio: All available units please respond to a 187 at the Ivy Home Apartments, 207 Ivy Home Road, unit B1.

Officer Larry Stovall, on routine patrol a mile away, heard the radio call and immediately turned on the flashing blue lights of his squad car and sped to the scene. Stovall, twenty-seven, was a gentle giant; six feet, four inches tall and at least 250 pounds. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, he had played college football at West Virginia State University, where he was a standout lineman. Word around Hampton was that he had played in the NFL for the Pittsburgh Steelers. While he certainly looked the part, he was never on their active roster—but he was briefly a member of the Steelers’ practice squad.

Officer Stovall arrived at the apartment inside of two minutes and was met out front by Mr. Christian, whom he later described in his report as hysterical. Stovall firmly told him to remain outside. Cautiously, Stovall unholstered his sidearm, entered the apartment, and did a room-by-room search, making sure the killer was not still lurking inside. Once the dwelling was secured, he checked Olivia’s body, verifying that she was, in fact, deceased. Knowing his community well, he looked at her face to see if he recognized her, but it was so bloodied and battered he could not discern what she had looked like in life.

Two paramedics from Hampton’s Fire Station One, Theodore Harvey and Teresa James, arrived, ran into the bedroom, and knelt down on either side of Olivia’s body. In the past, each of them had brought accident victims back from death with CPR. But a quick assessment told them this victim was beyond resuscitation.

Stovall asked the two paramedics to leave the apartment. He was concerned about the crime scene being trampled and evidence contaminated. No sooner did they begin to head for the door that three more paramedics bustled in, also eager to help. From the Wythe Rescue Squad, they were Pat Dent, Keith Smith and Joe DeSantis, all familiar faces to Stovall.

Stovall held his hands up, palms facing out, and gestured forcefully. All right, y’all, we have to clear out till the investigators get here, he said sternly. There’s nothing we can do for her.

The paramedics filed out, followed by Stovall. He shut the apartment door behind him and stood in front of it. The crime scene was secure. As Stovall stood there, Mr. Christian, also in the building’s interior corridor, was pacing. The reality of his daughter’s death had set in, and he was crying loudly now. Stovall did his best to console him.

Back at the Hampton police station just a few miles away downtown, Lieutenant Gale Manor, who headed up the detective bureau, heard the dispatcher’s call over the police radio on his desk. He walked out of his office into the bullpen. Three detectives were at their desks, chatting jovially as they completed paperwork at the end of their shift. The holiday weekend was on their minds.

You’re up, Stavely, Manor said, as he handed him a piece of paper with Olivia’s address. We’ve got a murder at Ivy Home Apartments. You’re the lead.

Detective James Raynor Stavely, thirty-one, was a workhorse, a nine-year veteran whose receding hairline and serious demeanor projected a wisdom beyond his years. He grew up in Easton, Maryland, on the upper Chesapeake Bay, where his father, a professional duck hunting guide, taught him patience and persistence. These days, Stavely used those skills to hunt criminals. He originally came to Hampton as an MP at Langley Air Force Base—upon leaving active duty in 1971, he was a great get for the HPD.

Stavely stood and grabbed the handheld radio off his desk, along with a fresh notepad. As he put on his sports coat, he made brief eye contact with the two detectives who would accompany him to the scene, Richard Martin and John Paul Jones (the latter went by JP). Like Stavely, their mindset changed the moment they heard the Lieu say, We’ve got a murder.

Hampton did not have a dedicated homicide squad per se; the team that Lieutenant Manor commanded was called the Crimes against Persons unit (CAP). The detectives in CAP were the most experienced on the force, handling the city’s most serious crimes, not only murder but also rape, robbery, and assault. Hampton’s homicide rate was about average with cities its size, generally one or two a month. When a murder occurred, the detectives in CAP took an all-hands-on-deck approach.

As Stavely made the five-minute drive to the murder scene from downtown, he felt a determination, as he always did, to catch the person who had killed a citizen of the city he had taken a sworn oath to protect. Like many people who come to Hampton, Stavely had fallen in love with the city’s unique charm and chosen to raise his family there. Hampton had a prominent place in United States history as a city of firsts. It was the country’s first continuous English-speaking settlement, the first US city to offer free public education, and the place where NASA trained its first astronauts. Hampton played a key role in both the Revolutionary War and the Civil War, and the city was burned down in both conflicts. Hampton rebuilt each time, proof of the resilience of its diverse citizenry.

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Hampton police detectives James Stavely and JP Jones.

(photo courtesy Daily Press)

Stavely pulled into the Ivy Home Apartments, the other detectives in a car right behind him, only twenty minutes after Mr. Christian’s 911 call. Six patrol cars were in the parking lot, and a perimeter was established around Olivia Christian’s apartment building with police tape. Stavely walked up to Stovall, who somberly introduced him to Olivia’s father. I’m sorry for your loss, Stavely said. A standard line he had spoken many times, but one he meant with all sincerity.

Stovall provided Stavely an overview of what was inside, carefully selecting his words so as not to make things even worse for Olivia’s father, who was in earshot.

Although Mr. Christian was in no condition to answer questions, standard procedure required Stavely to ask him, Do you know who might have done this?

No. Lord no, Mr. Christian said.

Was there anyone who was angry with your daughter?

No.

Maybe a boyfriend or family member? Did she have a disagreement or argument with anyone lately?

No. She does not have an enemy in this world.

Did she have a boyfriend? Stavely asked.

Yes…a boyfriend, Mr. Christian said.

We’ll need to talk to him.

With Stovall’s assistance, Mr. Christian finally began walking to the patrol car for the worst ride of his life. As he did, Sergeant Roy Kegley, the crime scene unit’s fingerprint specialist, walked past, carrying an oversize briefcase. He met Stavely, Jones, and Martin in front of the apartment. They huddled together, and Stavely was succinct with his instructions. Someone’s dead, and someone did it, he said as he reviewed how the team would handle the murder scene.

Back in Merrimac Shores, at 103 Eggleston Avenue, Olivia’s mother was looking out her front window when the squad car pulled up with her husband inside. Immediately, she knew something was terribly wrong. She ran out of the house and met her husband at the car, and the moment she saw his face, she knew. Years later, a neighbor, Martha Pollock, would still remember Mrs. Christian crying loudly in the front yard in her husband’s arms. I knew that was the sound of a mother who had lost her child, she recalled.

Minutes later, Olivia’s only sibling, her older brother, Thomas Christian III (known as Tommy), drove up to his parents’ house. Tommy was forty and single and lived in nearby Newport News. A navy veteran, he worked for Wyle Laboratories, a California-based federal contractor. Tommy had received a nervous phone call from his mother twenty minutes earlier. Sensing the gravity of the situation, he dropped what he was doing and headed over immediately. Tommy parked behind the police car, fearing the worst. Officer Stovall, who had been instructed to question any friends or relatives who came to the Christians’ house, met Tommy on the front porch. He told him the awful news.

The ugly truth of homicide is that most murder victims are killed by someone they know. A proper investigation begins with the people closest to the victim and works its way out. That process began immediately, as Stovall observed Tommy’s reaction with a curious objectivity that comes with the job.

It was immediately clear to Stovall that Tommy was truly in shock. In reaction to the notification, as officers call the delivery of this kind of news, he looked as if he had been punched in the gut. In disbelief, Tommy went inside as Stovall remained on the front porch. He found his parents slumped in their chairs at the kitchen table, his mother’s head resting on his father’s shoulder, wrapped in his arms. Their eyes, already swollen and bloodshot, wrecked with pain, slowly lifted to greet him. Their faces seemed destroyed. Silently, Tommy took a seat beside them, in the same chair he always sat in for family dinners with Olivia. Through teary eyes, he gazed at Olivia’s empty chair as the reality sank in.

CHAPTER 4

SCENE

At Olivia’s apartment, the investigation got underway. Things were deadly serious as the first forty-eight hours rule weighed heavy. If investigators do not have a lead, a suspect, or an arrest in the first forty-eight hours, their chances of solving the murder are cut in half. And the fact was that statistically, the national clearance rate for homicides was around 70%, which meant that 30% of killers were not brought to justice.

Detective Stavely entered the apartment by himself and did a preliminary walk-through. He was then joined by Detective Martin, who carried a 35mm camera with strobe flash, loaded with color film, and took multiple photographs of each room. His goal was to visually convey all aspects of the scene. To do this, Martin took three general types of photos: overall, which, as the name implies, captures a wide-angle aspect of each room at the scene; midrange, which transitions the viewer from an outsider looking in to a more involved perspective; and close-up, which are photos of individual items of evidence. In addition, twelve photos of Olivia’s body were taken, from every angle.

When Martin finished, Detective Jones and Kegley entered the apartment, taking extreme care to disturb as little of the environment as possible. Stavely directed a carefully choreographed routine. Each person had specific roles and tasks to accomplish both quickly and with great detail.

Kegley used black graphite-based powder to dust surfaces in the apartment for fingerprints and lift them off the surface with tape. Prints were abundant, lifted off the most obvious areas—doorknobs, light switches, and countertops. These prints