Ariz. slaying, tied to sniper case, hits home

Kim Smith

Thursday, Nov. 7, 2002 | 11:25 a.m.

Editor's note:

Sun reporter Kim Smith is a veteran covering courts and crime, but she didn't expect the news March 19 when she was told her uncle Jerry Taylor had been shot and killed on a Tucson golf course. Her family has grieved and found little closure as police have few clues and no suspects. But that may change. The Beltway sniper case has renewed interest in Jerry Taylor's slaying. This is Smith's account.

When my mom called me in tears that March day, I couldn't believe her words. My uncle had been murdered, she said. Shot dead on a golf course in the middle of a bright, sunny afternoon.

Who, I thought, would want to kill my Uncle Jerry? He was a frozen food salesman, for Pete's sake, a quiet, unassuming man who had the patience of a saint with his young grandchildren, who loved burnt barbecue chicken and my mom's apple pies.

The answer may be coming into focus now, eight months and 17 similar shootings later. For the past two days, police and FBI agents have been scouring the desert surrounding the Tucson golf course looking for links to John Allen Muhammad and John Lee Malvo, the two accused in a string of sniper shootings in four states and Washington, D.C. The slaying and recent development have taken me, a journalist of 13 years, to the other side of the notebook. I have become the relative of a victim, comforting other family members and trying to protect them from the onslaught of reporters, while trying to give them hope that the system would work to find my uncle's killer, eventually.

In March, as I hastily made arrangements for a flight to Tucson, I thought about all of the murder cases I've covered and how I thought I understood the depth of the devastation of the victims' families. I had no idea.

My mom and cousin Cheryll, one of my uncle's daughters, met me at the Tucson airport, their eyes nearly swollen shut from weeping. They gave me details, but the details only begged for more answers.

Uncle Jerry and Aunt Bev had had plans to go out to dinner with a couple who were visiting from California, but Uncle Jerry never showed up. Aunt Bev had tried to page him, but he never answered his pages, even though he always did.

As soon as Aunt Bev saw the 4 p.m. news about a man found murdered on the Fred Enke golf course, she knew, she said. Ninety minutes later, the police arrived at her door to confirm her worst fears.

Detectives told the family that Uncle Jerry died as a result of trauma and his wallet had been rifled through and thrown some distance from the body.

Everyone speculated over what "trauma" might mean.

Was he beaten to death with his golf clubs? Was he shot? Strangled?

Did some kid from the nearby high school accidentally hit him while shooting at a rabbit or coyote? Why was his wallet rifled through?

One thing we all agreed upon, if thieves had asked Uncle Jerry for money, he would have gladly given it and then asked them if they wanted his car keys, too.

The next couple of days are a blur. While the normal things that take place after a sudden death were going on -- trips to the airport to pick up relatives, sheets being changed on guest beds, funeral arrangements being made -- a sense of waiting existed.

When would the police call? What would the autopsy show? What would the evening news report? Was there anything in the afternoon paper?

My Aunt Bev and 84-year-old grandmother had both been placed on anti-anxiety medications, but they both continued to quiver uncontrollably as the tears ebbed and flowed.

As the family and friends continued to gather at my aunt and uncle's home the telephone rang incessantly.

Reporters from all of Tucson's TV stations and newspapers, desperate for news, were calling, causing me to cringe. Would my family understand it was their job to call? Would the reporters be understanding or would they be like circling sharks ready to exploit my family's tears?

I offered to speak with anyone who called, but Aunt Bev said she preferred no one speak with the media. Later I was told that Homicide Survivors, a nonprofit group that provides counseling and financial services, would arrange for a press conference.

If the family spoke to the media it could help generate tips while keeping the media happy, the ladies from Homicide Survivors said. The ladies and I explained to the family the rules of media engagement. Don't tell the reporters anything that might hurt the investigation and don't say anything you don't want to see in print.

The press conference was set for 2 p.m. March 20, the day after the slaying. As the reporters began arriving at the house, I greeted them at the front door and directed them to the back yard.

About a dozen chairs had been set up for the family in front of a table filled with pictures of my uncle and golfing trophies.

I sat quietly and listened as the reporters asked their questions, ready to pounce if they should cross the line of common decency. In the end I was proud of my profession.

I handed out my business card to reporters from the Arizona Daily Star and Tucson Citizen, begging them to call me if they heard anything about the investigation -- even if it was "off the record."

Between the press conference and the funeral, pitifully few details were gleaned. The police said Uncle Jerry was shot in the back with a high-powered rifle, but we were asked not to divulge anything for fear of tainting the investigation.

They speculated that he had stepped off the green into a gully to retrieve some stray balls when he went down, probably without knowing what hit him.

Inexplicably $15 was left inside his wallet, the police said.

We were told no shell casings or bullets were found. Worse, detectives said, no fingerprints could be lifted from the wallet.

Cheryll and I visited the crime scene and it appeared to us from the marks in the dirt that he had been dragged about 15 feet before being left in between some mesquite bushes. Two small patches of blood remained, soaked into the desert.

Over the course of the next week, the news media turned to other murders, and I returned to work, determined to be far more compassionate when dealing with murder victims' families.

In the weeks and months that followed, my family dealt with my uncle's passing in their own way. My cousin Cheryll seized every opportunity to beg for the public's help in solving the slaying. She and her sister, Renee, took great care in keeping my aunt busy. My aunt attended a few fund-raising events to raise reward money, but seemed to have enough on her plate just dealing with her loss.

By the end of September my mom was convinced the killer would never get caught. I, on the other hand, kept reminding myself of the cases that were solved years after the fact through flukes, jailhouse snitches and guilty consciences.

When the sniper shootings started in early October, the similarities struck me immediately. People were being shot at random, in public places with a high-powered rifle.

But, I told myself, the chances of there being a connection would be infinitesimal.

Still, I was constantly being approached by attorneys at the Clark County Courthouse asking me if I had seen the similarities. Finally, after John Allen Muhammad was arrested, I decided to write an e-mail to the FBI.

I know I'm probably grasping at straws, I wrote, but could you please check to see if Muhammad was in Tucson in March?

When I heard an Arizona bus driver had her credit card stolen in March, I got excited and called a Las Vegas FBI agent. With his encouragement, I got the task force phone number in Washington and called it.

The lady answering the phone declined to take any information from me. She assured me that the FBI would come across my uncle's case in their search of databases.

Upset, I called my FBI source back again and relayed the conversation to him. He called the task force, angry. Within 45 minutes I was back on the phone with the task force, giving them all of the information I had.

On Tuesday, when I got a message from a Tucson reporter asking me to call him immediately, my heart leapt. Could there be a break in the case? Could my phone call have made a difference?

"Have you heard?" he asked me. "Have you heard that the FBI is looking into the possibility the snipers killed your uncle?"

Telling him I would get back to him shortly, I immediately called Cheryll. Her husband told me she was too busy to talk to me -- she was giving a TV interview.

When we did talk, she was excited. The crime scene was roped off again and the FBI was looking for shell casings and a bullet, she said. It turned out Muhammad's sister lived within a mile of the golf course.

It seems she, too, had been bugging the police and FBI, begging them to look into the similarities.

Over the past two days, I've found myself being interviewed by newspaper reporters, e-mailing family and friends and hopping from one Internet site to another, searching for news.

Eight months ago I was shocked to see my uncle's sheet-draped body on the local news, being carted off of a golf course.

Now I'm in shock to see his name being linked with possibly the biggest crime story of the year.

One can only hope the mystery is solved, finally.

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