Chapter 16 – August 30, 1993 – Sergeant Aileen Taylor
Sergeant Taylor considered herself very good at multitasking.
Others might disagree. Her best efforts were going toward an assault case that was three months old and revealed more red flags than a minefield, while the more recent cases dumped on her desk were getting little more than slaps on the wrist and misdemeanor charges.
Erich Zaleski was not married to the mystery woman. She still couldn’t pinpoint who the woman was, but she knew plenty about the shady town-hopper who had beaten Bruce Miller behind the bar.
Sergeant Taylor knew she was drifting off track, but the backstory deserved a place on her board—red strings and all—to build a complete picture of her suspect.
It appeared Tyler Dawson left Linda less than a year after Steven was born.
He had a clean record aside from a speeding ticket and unpaid child support.
The idea that a mother could abandon her two young children fascinated Sergeant Taylor. One detail from her search stood out—an autopsy report she couldn’t quite place in the timeline. If she could connect Linda to it, it might change everything. But she lacked the evidence.
Recently, a serial killer named Marcus Burke had been arrested in the same mobile home community where Linda had lived with her sons.
He was a charismatic guitarist who frequented the same venue where Linda’s last arrest occurred.
Neighbors claimed she had been around his house before her disappearance, though none had spoken to either Linda or Marcus directly.
The prevailing assumption had been that Linda left town to follow a band.
Burke’s crimes weren’t uncovered until 1991, when a neighbor reported a foul smell coming from his home.
Police arrived, knocked three times, then forced entry.
Inside, they found a ceramic bowl of human fingers sitting beside a microwave—but no sign of Burke.
He was later apprehended at a nearby drugstore, purchasing hydrogen peroxide and duct tape. When questioned about the fingers, he reportedly said, “Fingers are the dirtiest part of the human body. You need to soak them in vodka for days before they’re good enough.”
Burke was officially connected to the murders of two young Hispanic women. Their fingers were the ones in the bowl; their remains were found in his refrigerator and freezer.
Sergeant Taylor was immune to the gore. If anything, she found the developing narrative compelling. If she could place Erich’s mother among Burke’s victims, she might be able to push for a broader confession—potentially uncovering more victims.
Emil had spent weeks assisting with the Burke case while Sergeant Taylor tried to stay focused on the original assault. Together, they mapped timelines, piecing together overlapping threads of tragedy. Eventually, she reached the CPS records.
CPS had been called to Linda’s residence on December 3, 1983. Erich and Steven were removed and taken to Sacred Heart Adoption Center. The social worker, Carrie Hinnepin, described the conditions:
“Neglectful. These children, approximately ages eleven and five, have been eating peanut butter directly from the jar. Cabinets and refrigerator are empty aside from a sleeve of saltine crackers. Trash, dirty dishes, and clothing are scattered throughout the home. The toilet is clogged. Flies are present around a trash can containing rotting food. The younger child appears unaware of his living conditions. The older child shows clear distrust but is protective of his brother.”
Sergeant Taylor’s family had become collateral damage in her obsession.
Her husband, Bob, and their son, Maxwell, worried as she came home at three in the morning, often finding Bob asleep in front of the TV, waiting for her.
Maxwell pretended to sleep, though the creaking floorboards betrayed him. She barely noticed.
Her thoughts were consumed by the image of a young woman’s mugshot—sunken eyes, drawn features, blonde hair barely contained. A life marked by addiction and exhaustion. Linda Zaleski. A mother she now suspected had died violently, perhaps just houses away from where her sons once lived.
Despite everything, Sergeant Taylor felt a flicker of pity for Erich. His past was undeniably tragic. But it didn’t excuse his present.
A hard life wasn’t a free pass to crime.
It took days to complete the timeline of Linda’s life and move on to Erich’s foster records.
Her desk drawer held a notebook filled with handwritten notes, folded documents, and highlighted articles.
At home, her office mirrored the same timeline—pins and yarn stretching across the east wall.
Cigarette smoke hung constantly in the air despite the open window.
This was her case. Even if it had started as Bruce Miller’s assault report months ago, it had become something larger—something that consumed her more than her own family.
The foster records provided a clearer picture of the two years Erich spent in the orphanage before entering foster care, though the details were sparse.
His first placement, in February 1985, was with a young couple considering adoption.
The woman, a secretary at a CPA firm in Anaheim, described him as “friendly, observant.” Sergeant Taylor noted their contact information for follow-up.
The next placement offered more insight. A dairy farm nearly two hours from Los Angeles took in young boys to work, claiming it built character. The foster father described Erich as “stubborn, but bright.” He would have been fourteen, maybe fifteen, during that time.
The final placement before his arrest for stealing car radios was with a pastor and his wife.
This record was sealed. The orphanage refused to release further details, citing the family’s request for privacy.
Still, questions lingered. Erich would have been fifteen or sixteen.
After his arrest, he served six months in juvie—and no one came to retrieve him.
Was she really meant to believe they let a sixteen-year-old walk away with no guardians?
Some days, Sergeant Taylor found herself banging her head against her desk, trying to make the pieces fit. Other days, she felt sharp, energized—driven by the steady stream of information uncovered with Janet’s help at the motel.
It had been months of digging.
And she still hadn’t bridged the gap between 1987 and 1993.