The Best American Crime Reporting 2008
Thieves, liars, killers, and conspirators—it's a criminal world out there, and someone has got to write about it. An eclectic collection of the year's best reportage, The Best American Crime Reporting 2008 brings together the murderers and the masterminds, the mysteries and missteps that make for brilliant stories, told by the aces of the true-crime genre. This latest addition to the highly acclaimed series features guest editor Jonathan Kellerman, bestselling author of more than twenty crime novels, most recently Compulsion and the forthcoming Bones.
me that when he talked to Ralph about kidnapping women, he specifically told Ralph not to cross the line. He said not to take kids. And Ralph never argued with him, but Buell said he wasn’t happy about it. A month before his execution, he told me, ‘You know what? You were right all along. Ralph set me up.’ And I believe him. Ralph had access to Bob’s clothes and the clothes found at the crime scene were too small for Buell anymore. He’d left them for Ralph.” Today, Ralph Ross Jr. lives in a
Compean both heard another agent yell, “Hit him!” (Ramos and Juarez, the only other people at the scene, would later deny having said this.) “Take it easy, man,” Aldrete-Davila implored, hands still in the air. “Take it easy. No me pegues.” (“Don’t hit me.”) Compean would later testify that he had tried to use the butt of his shotgun to push Aldrete-Davila back. (“He put his hands up, but to me, it looked like he was coming at me,” Compean said on the stand.) Whatever his intentions, he swung
I was trading my appearance at sentencing for the donation are out-and-out lies,” he says. “I was told by my lawyer, Mr. Mask, that I didn’t have to appear.” He shakes his head, and almost smiles. “I mean, you know, who would want to go? All those people that you—but the donation was important. The detectives suggested that I offer to go, to speed the donation along. They said I needed to give them something. But that’s not me holding a gun to the prosecution. It’s the other way around! “I grant
delivering a mother lode of salacious material, my mother mourned the sure-blackening of her son’s pure lowan soul. I tried hard to keep them both wrong—and myself sane—by playing it straight with Charlie Cullen. The fact was, I was invested in his kidney donation attempt—I have a family history with medicine that ranges from Revolutionary War surgeon great-grandpappies to a passionate nephrologist father to my own aborted stints in med school and kidney medical research. Also, I’m not a
ward—the recipient. It was happening, maybe. The drive from Brooklyn took an hour, and the whole time I wondered what the hell I was going to do when I got there. The place was dead. I felt like a tabloid creep just for showing up. I decided to shadow the operation, but not intrude—following the route of the kidney, lurking the halls, eyeballing the too-appropriate Disney movie. After six hours I was on friendly terms with the janitors and the shattered families in the waiting room—complications