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Hey there. We're Sabrina d' Anarroga and Corinne Vian, hosts of Crimes of. Crimes of is a weekly true crime series with each season diving into a different theme, from unsolved murders to mysterious disappearances and the cases that haunt us most. And since it's Valentine's season, we are unpacking crimes of passion. When love turns into obsession, passion twists into paranoia, and jealousy drives people beyond the edge of reason. Crimes of is a Crime House original. Listen wherever you get your podcasts or watch on YouTube. New episodes every Tuesday. This is Crime House. Four names one man and a case that went cold for more than three decades. Tonight we're diving into the story of the Visalia Ransacker, the East area Rapist, the original Night Stalker, or as you may know him, the Golden State Killer. Welcome to Night Watch on crime house 24 7. I'm your host Katie Ring, and together we'll be following the cases making headlines now where justice is still unfolding. Follow us wherever you are listening and if you want ad free episodes, subscribe to Crime House plus on Apple Podcasts plus subscribe to our YouTube channelightwatchpod. This episode discusses an active criminal case. The information we share is based on what's publicly available at the time of recording and may change as new evidence comes to light. We aim to inform, not to decide, guilt or innocence. So everyone mentioned is presumed innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Before he was called the Golden State Killer, before anyone understood they were chasing one offender across an entire state, there were whispers in neighborhoods outside of Sacramento. In the early 1970s, communities like Rancho Cordova were the kind of places where people felt safe enough to leave a window cracked for air or forget to lock a side door. Places where you assume the worst thing that can happen to you is a stolen bike or a broken car window. But then came the break ins that didn't make any sense. Drawers were emptied onto beds, personal items taken that had no resale value. Coins, photographs, a simple earring. Sometimes things were moved and left behind, like a message. I was here. And slowly the fear shifted from property to something else entirely. Because what law enforcement didn't realize yet was that these early burglaries weren't random. They were rehearsal. A learning curve for a man who was obsessed with three things. Power, control, and fear. And tonight, in episode one of our three part series, we're going back to the beginning, when this case was still fragmented, misunderstood and hiding in plain sight. Tonight, we're starting a three part series on one of the most Prolific and frightening serial killers in American history, Joseph James DeAngelo, also known as the East Area Rapist, and later as the Golden State Killer. And if you've heard that name before, you probably picture a monster in a mask sneaking into people's homes. But the reason this case is so disturbing is that for years, his behavior slowly escalated from a prowler and Peeping Tom to a burglar, to a rapist, and finally to a serial killer. The earliest phases of this case weren't about headlines. It was about small violations, the kinds of things people try to explain away until they can't. The story begins with a boy who grows up unstable. Joseph James DeAngelo was born on November 8, 1945. His father was in the military, so the family moved around bases across the United States and even had a stint abroad in Germany. Being an army kid and constantly moving around can create the sense that nothing is permanent. You aren't really ever able to put down roots or have a community watching out for you. By the 1950s, the family finally landed somewhere more stable. Rancho Cordova, California, a suburb just east of Sacramento. But even though the location stabilized, his home life didn't. Joseph's father spent a lot of time away and eventually left the family behind. When he was transferred to Korea, his mother began dating someone else, and Joseph, who was still a kid at the time, was constantly put in charge of his three siblings. In his teens, Joseph didn't have much luck dating, and when he did fixate on someone, it could become intense. At one point in high school, he reportedly proposed to a girl he barely knew, who, for obvious reasons, said no. That might sound like an awkward teenage story, but. But it becomes more significant later when we see how Joseph responds to rejection. And while I'm not here to do armchair psychology, what matters is what happens when he's older. Joseph grows into an entitled young man who doesn't handle rejection well and who, over time, starts expressing something darker than anger. In 1964, when he was 19 years old, Joseph joined the Navy. He wanted to be a fighter pilot, but instead, he was assigned to kitchen work and became a mechanic. He served for four years, and in 1968, he was honorably discharged and returned to the Sacramento area and moved back in with his mom. He enrolled at Sierra College with a plan to study criminal justice and wanted to be in law enforcement. Specifically, he wanted to join the California Highway Patrol. And this is where the case starts to turn, because the public image he's building, career uniform authority, doesn't match the behavior that starts creeping out in his personal life. At Sierra College, he meets an 18 year old classmate named Bonnie Calwell. Bonnie begins tutoring him, and they start dating. From the outside, it probably looked like a pretty normal young relationship. But according to Bonnie's later accounts, the relationship was not healthy. It was defined by what Joseph wanted and what he demanded. There was not romance, not partnership. It was control. Early on, Joseph gave Bonnie an engagement ring. But it wasn't framed as a question. It was more like a declaration. And soon after, the relationship started to collapse. In 1971, Joseph asked Bonnie for help cheating on an exam. But she refused, which was something he did not let go of. The pressure kept escalating, and Bonnie finally ended the relationship. She called him to her father's house and gave back the ring. But Joseph did not accept it. A few nights later, Bonnie woke up to a tapping sound on her window. She pulled back the curtain, and Joseph was standing outside pointing a gun at her face. He told her to get dressed and said they were going to get married, and he won't take no for an answer. Bonnie ran to her father, and after hours of talking Joseph down, he finally ended up leaving. Bonnie was so traumatized that she reportedly dropped out of school for a semester and just to avoid seeing him on campus. This was one of the first instances where Joseph DeAngelo showed he was capable of planning stalking, intimidation, and coercion over a relationship he believed he was entitled to. And even after this, he still pursued the career that would give him the ultimate form of legitimacy and access. Law enforcement. In 1972, Joseph DeAngelo graduated with a criminal justice degree at the age of 27 and got an internship with the Roseville Police Department north of Rancho Cordova. But while he was building a resume for policing, his behavior outside the job started moving in the opposite direction. Shortly after the breakup with Bonnie, he started prowling, Watching women through windows, sometimes attempting to pry windows open, and even entering homes. He ransacked drawers. But instead of stealing expensive items, he. He would steal intimate items that meant something to the victim. Small possessions, keepsakes, coins and personal items, and notably, rings. And this was a key point for understanding how he operated. This wasn't a desperate person stealing to survive. This was someone taking trophies. Someone leaving behind the sense that, I was here, I saw you, and you didn't even know. Someone chasing power, control, and fear from their victims. By 1973, his behavior escalated dramatically. Within the first half of the year, Joseph was linked to 50 burglaries in the Rancho Cordova area, which is an average of about two per week. As the numbers climbed, fear in Rancho Cordova became routine. Neighbors compared notes, traded stories about open windows, disturbed rooms and missing personal items. Police began to realize these weren't isolated incidents. The burglaries followed patterns in timing, layout and method. Streets that once felt ordinary now felt watched. People who weren't locking their doors beforehand started installing deadbolts, double checking their locks, leaving lights on and sleeping with one eye open. But even as anxiety grew, it also became normalized. Break ins were no longer shocking. They were expected. And that normalization was dangerous because it allowed Joseph to keep moving, learning and escalating without drawing the kind of attention that might have stopped him sooner. Then, around May, the burglary stopped. But they didn't stop because Joseph quit. It was because he moved to a quiet Central Valley town called Visalia. The man behind these break ins crossed a line that would transform him from a shadow in the dark into something far more deadly. If you're a mom or just a busy woman like me, Finding time to shop when you're juggling work, life and family can be overwhelming. And searching through rack after rack to find the perfect pieces can be tedious, to say the least, if you don't have the time or energy. If you're looking to update your wardrobe in the new year, Daily look is the number one highest rated premium personal styling service for women. 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Debt Relief.com in the spring of 1973, Joseph DeAngelo finished his police internship and took a job with the Exeter Police, a small town in California's Central Valley. And the irony of his position is almost unbelievable. He was placed in an anti burglary unit. He was learning how to investigate the exact crimes he was committing. Shortly after relocating, a new wave of break ins began about 10 miles away in Visalia. This is when Joseph was given the first media name, the Visalia Ransacker. The burglaries were numerous, more than a hundred over the next few years, and the way they were carried out became recognizable. He stayed inside the houses for a long time. He rummaged and sometimes wore victims clothes. He also took small personal items like coins, stamps, family photos, a single earring. And he also played games. He might steal something from one house and leave it in another. He took items that weren't valuable except for the fact that they had belonged to someone else. And one detail in these early crimes was especially eerie. He stole clock radios from multiple homes. It was as if he wanted to control time too. How the house woke up, how the routine worked, and how the family experienced the next morning. He also started planning new escape strategies. He propped open doors and windows for later exits. He set up makeshift alert systems like balancing items, so that if someone entered, he would hear them. He wasn't impulsive. He was methodical. In Visalia, the burglaries felt different, slower, and more invasive. He didn't rush in and out. He stayed inside the homes for long stretches of time, sometimes hours, moving through rooms as if he belonged there. In some cases, residents later realized that their houses had been entered multiple times, suggesting he returned to the same homes again and again. Items disappeared, then reappeared weeks later, sometimes placed carefully in plain sight as if to announce his presence. As the numbers climbed, Visali began changing its habits in visible ways. Porch lights stayed on through the night and residents double checked doors and windows before going to bed. Some kept firearms, knives or blunt objects within reach. While they slept, informal neighborhood patrols formed and police reported a sharp increase in late night calls about suspicious noises and prowlers. And while this was happening, Joseph was also building a normal life. In 1973, he met Sharon Marie Huddle, a 20 year old college student who he married in November of 1973, and they eventually had three daughters. Obviously, his family had no idea what he was doing at night or in the community. But one night in 1975, Joseph decided that breaking into houses wasn't enough. That autumn, he became fixated on a 16 year old girl in Visalia named Beth Snelling. He visited the Snelling home multiple times, studying it. And on the night of September 11, 1975, he escalated. He entered Beth's bedroom wearing a ski mask, climbed on top of her, covered her mouth and told her not to scream or he would stab her. And then he told her she was coming with him. Beth's father, Claude Snelling, woke up to the commotion and heard his daughter being dragged out of the house. Claude chased them, and in the driveway, Joseph fired a gun at Claude, shooting him in the arm and chest and killing him. He then kicked Beth violently and fled. Beth survived, but Visalia was left reeling. Because now the ransacker wasn't just a thief, he was a killer. Claude Snelling wasn't just a name in a police report. He was a father who woke up in the middle of the night because he heard his daughter being taken from her bedroom. And he ran towards danger without hesitation. In that instance, he did what parents instinctively do. He tried to protect his child. What had previously been fear and violation became loss. And Visalia learned that the person moving through their neighborhoods was willing to kill to get what he wanted. After Claude Snelling's murder, the community was on edge. Police intensified patrols and surveillance in the neighborhoods where the ransacker had been active. They started mapping burglaries and watching for patterns. But this was the mid-1970s. There were no shared databases, no DNA testing, and no computerized systems linking cases across jurisdictions. Even when patterns emerged on paper, they rarely translated into suspects. Witnesses did occasionally report a suspect description. Round faced, blue eyed, average Height, roughly between 5:9 and 5:11, heavyset, but agile. It wasn't enough for an ID, but it was enough to make officers feel like he might be hiding in plain sight. Then came December 1975. A detective staking out a Visalia neighborhood spotted a man who matched the suspect's profile. The detective confronted him and a chase ensued. A warning shot was fired and in the darkness, the suspect appeared terrified. He let out a frightened squeal and acted like he'd been caught. He raised one hand as if he was surrendering, but with the other hand, he shot at the detective. The bullet struck the detective's flashlight, plunging everything into darkness. And the suspect got away again. This moment mattered because it showed something about his approach. He wasn't panicking. He was performing. In that moment, he understood exactly how he appeared to the officer and used it to his advantage. He feigned fear, raised a hand in surrender, and waited for the precise second when the detective's guard dropped. Then he switched instantly from helpless to lethal. That ability to control perception and manipulate expectations under pressure showed this wasn't a reactive criminal acting on impulse. This was someone thinking tactically, rehearsing outcomes and always planning an escape. And after this near capture, the crime stopped, and people in Visalia started breathing again. But this wasn't the pattern that would haunt California for years. Because when the crime stopped, he wasn't gone. He wasn't scared straight. He was just repositioning. In 1976, Joseph moved back to the Sacramento area with his family, settling in Auburn, where Joseph got a job with a local police department. But there were reports that he didn't fit in well. Residents complained he was confrontational and he would berate people for minor infractions. And supervisors documented that he didn't take criticism well and would sulk, pout, and react like a child when he was corrected. And while his professional life became tense, his nightlife resurged. Because shortly after moving back into the region, a new set of crimes began. And this time, it wasn't just burglary. It was serial. Essay. On June 18, 1976, in Rancho Cordova, outside of Sacramento, California, a series of break ins started happening. But they were far more serious than petty theft. A woman named Phyllis Henneman was assaulted in her home. Then on December 18, 1976, a 15 year old girl named Chris McFarlane was home alone for about only 10 minutes. The attacker broke in. He threatened her with a knife, tied her up, and dragged her from room to room. Joseph DeAngelo was escalating rapidly, moving from prowling to burglary, from burglary to attempted abduction, from abduction to murder, and from murder to sa. But law enforcement was not making any progress in finding their suspect because he had moved jurisdictions. Even today, police have failures in communication between jurisdictions. But back then, they barely spoke to one another. And this is what was happening between Visalia and Rancho Cordova. The other Part that made these crimes hard to connect was that his appearance had changed, and with it, descriptions of the suspect. He had lost weight since his Visalia period and grown a thick mustache. So even when people gave descriptions, they didn't always match older sightings, meaning law enforcement in different regions were chasing what looked like different suspects, different offenders, different crime sprees. Officers flooded neighborhoods with patrols, conducted nighttime stakeouts, and fielded hundreds of calls. But the leads never solidified. Suspect sketches changed as his weight and facial hair changed. And without centralized databases, investigators realized he was adapting faster than they were. Joseph Deangelo, a former police officer, always stayed one step ahead. Between late 1976 and early 1977, attacks increased. Women and girls were assaulted in their homes, and fear spread outward from individual victims to entire neighborhoods. And then, on March 18, 1977, something happened that felt like psychological warfare. The attacker may have called the Sacramento police anonymously, claiming responsibility, saying he already had his next victim picked out and they couldn't stop him. That night, another attack occurred consistent with his threat. Whether or not the call was truly him, the impact was the same. The community felt taunted, as if the attacker wasn't just committing crimes, he was playing with them. By Spring of 1977, fear in Sacramento county escalated into something measurable. Gun sales spiked. People started sleeping in shifts, and neighborhood meetings overflowed with frightened residents. Because it wasn't just the assaults. It was the way he was entering homes. He wasn't attacking in parking lots, dragging victims into alleys. He was going where people felt safest. Their bedrooms. For the community, when the threat was outside, people felt like they could avoid it. When the threat came from inside your home, through your window, through your sliding door, through the back fence, you'd walk past a thousand times. There was nowhere to put your fear. It followed you to the bed, and it followed you into your sleep. And now, in 1977, the perpetrator was only getting more confident because after weeks of attacking women who were alone, he began targeting homes with couples. In a 48 Hours episode, one of the detectives on the case said that the media was talking about how he was only going after women alone in their homes. And they believe he took this as somewhat of a challenge. What made these crimes uniquely destabilizing wasn't just the violence. It was the fear and helplessness that men who felt responsible for their wife or girlfriend's safety were held at gunpoint, tied up, and forced to listen to another man sa her in the next room. He would put plates on the men's backs as an alarm system and said if they moved and the plates fell, he would kill everyone in the house. And he would toy with his victims as well, sometimes stopping mid assault to eat something from their kitchen. In an interview, one of the lead investigators on this case named Carol Daly was asked if there was one story about this case that really shook her to her core. She responded, quote, there is one, but I can't share the victim's name with you. It was a couple that was at a public meeting. The husband stood up and said that he didn't believe that a rape could actually happen. If there was a husband in the home several months later, they were victims. We know the rapist was in the town hall meeting and that he had probably followed them home. Naturally, residents were filled with fear. Couples started sleeping with the lights on. Some pushed heavy furniture against doors. Others took turns staying awake through the night, listening for unfamiliar sounds. Parents checked windows repeatedly before bed and again after. The fear wasn't limited to individual victims. It spread street by street, neighborhood by neighborhood. Entire communities altered their behavior at once united by the same question. If someone could enter your bedroom without warning, where were you actually safe? And the most terrifying part was this. Whoever was doing this wasn't rushing. He was methodical, comfortable, and growing bold Boulder with every home he entered. But the worst was still yet to come because Joseph would escalate once again. So make sure to stay tuned for episode two of our three part series on the Golden State Killer, because the story is only getting started. What did you think of tonight's case? Drop your thoughts and theories in the comments. See you next time if you haven't already. Make sure to follow us wherever you get your podcasts and subscribe to our YouTube channel, iWatchpod. Your support means everything.