Hunted on Ice: The Search for Alaskan Serial Killer Robert Hansen (4 page)

As much as Bob Hansen might seem like a prime suspect, authorities knew they had another major problem. If Bob Hansen was the killer they sought, how could they prove it? They had no evidence against the man, no hair, no fibers, no DNA, nothing. Not even enough to scrounge up a search warrant for his house and plane.

What officers needed was a break, and in the hopes of finally getting one, they decided to turn to the experts for help. In mid-September of 1983, Alaska authorities placed a call to FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virginia, and asked for assistance.

Chapter Four

When the Alaska State Police contacted FBI headquarters, they were referred to the Behavioral Science unit and assigned to work with two of the best know criminal profilers in history; Roy Hazelwood and John Douglas.

As authorities from Alaska began to explain the developments that led to their suspect in the case, the FBI agents immediately cut them off.

“First tell me about the crimes,” John Douglas said, “and then I’ll tell
you
about the guy,”

State troopers described for the profiler their missing women, the details of their disappearances, the evidence recovered from the gravesites, and the story of the young girl who was kidnapped and escaped. Deliberately, and at the agent’s request, they left Bob Hansen’s name, and any of his details, out of the story.

After listening to the state troopers, the FBI agents went on to amaze them by describing the type of person their killer would most likely be. A man of low self-esteem, they said, unattractive, who had probably been teased and ridiculed as a child. He would have a criminal background, but probably for only petty crimes, and might have served time in jail. He would have been unsuccessful with women, would be an avid hunter, and probably suffered from a speech impediment.

Alaskan authorities were speechless. Incredibly, the profiler’s had just described Robert Hansen to a T. But as remarkable as the FBI profile was in fitting their suspect, state troopers were still concerned. What about Hansen’s standing in the community, they asked, the fact that he had a wife and children, his success at business? Did the FBI agents really think that this was the type of man who could be responsible for these murders?

Indeed he could be, the agents replied. But, they warned, having studied similar criminal cases, they knew that this type of killer was extremely hard to stop. Without a confession, they would probably never catch him.

The State Troopers asked John Douglas if he would come to Alaska to help them build a case against their suspect. Douglas hesitated for moment. Typically, he worked from a crime scene, attempting to determine the background and personality of a likely suspect. In this case, authorities were asking him to work with a likely suspect and try to determine if his background and personality fit the crimes. No FBI profiler had ever done such a thing before. It was so unusual, so bizarre, and so challenging, that Douglas couldn’t resist. He accepted, and he and fellow agent Jim Horn quickly made arrangements to travel to Alaska.

As the two FBI men studied what was known about Bob Hansen, they began to form a picture of the man and his habits in their mind. Douglas believed that Hansen’s crimes were a work in progress. He was angry at women, and had probably killed the early victims and buried their bodies in shallow graves. Eventually though, as the killings increased, he would have realized that he ‘could combine the pleasure of the hunt with the kill’. Like their Alaskan counterparts, Douglas and Horn also believed that Hansen had flown these women to the remote wilderness alive, blindfolded them, possibly handcuffed them, and then set them loose, hunting them down and killing them. He had apparently gotten bored with bear and moose, and like his neighbor said, needed a bigger, better and more challenging ‘game’ to hunt.

Douglas also believed that Hansen’s hunting rifle, the weapon he used to murder these young girls, would be extremely important to him. He would not have disposed of it, Douglas reasoned, but would probably keep it within easy reach. Hidden, of course, but most likely somewhere in his home or on his property.

They should also look for ‘souvenirs’, he told the Alaskan authorities. Hansen was a trophy hunter, and would be the type to take a ‘trophy’ from each of his kills. They should look for small items of no real value; jewelry, pictures, charms, trinkets or identification. From his experience, Douglas added, Hansen was also the type who might have kept a diary or a journal of his killings, so they should look for something like that as well.

State Troopers wanted to use the FBI profile to secure a search warrant for Bob Hansen’s home and property, but this was something that had never been attempted before. The FBI was more than willing to summarize their findings in an affidavit, but they weren’t sure if it would be enough. Douglas urged the Alaskan authorities to work on Hansen’s alibi for the night of the kidnapping. If they could break his alibi, they’d have enough probable cause to get a search warrant.

Returning to the two men who had vouched that Bob was having dinner with them and playing poker on the night of June 13
th
, trooper Glenn Flothe listened as both reiterated his alibi once again. The trooper was convinced the men were lying, and he was done playing games with them. He threatened both of them with arrest, and a long prison sentence, if he discovered they were lying.

Now frightened, the two men immediately changed their stories. They had not been with Bob that evening, they explained, nor had they seen him. They had agreed to cover for him because they believed his story about the prostitute trying to extort money from him. They told officers that Hansen had described the dilemma as an ‘awkward situation.’

The alibi witnesses, now anxious to remain in the good graces of Alaskan State Troopers, also blurted out something else about Bob Hansen. The break-in at his house, where he had collected $13,000 in insurance money, had been staged. Hansen had all the items he claimed were stolen, the trophies, the jewelry, and the electronics, stored in the basement of his house.

Now, armed with the FBI’s profile and Bob Hansen’s lack of an alibi for the night the prostitute was abducted, state trooper Glenn Flothe went before Judge Victor Carlson with a 48-page affidavit. He detailed the probable cause he believed they had to search Hansen’s home and property, and Judge Carlson agreed. Authorities now had their long desired search warrant, and the excitement in the air was electrifying.

But the exhilaration was tempered with worry too. They knew that if they did not find anything, and could not break their suspect, their case was doomed.

**********

On the morning of October 27, 1983, a detail of state troopers and Anchorage police officers arrived at the home of Bob and Darla Hansen on Old Harbor Road. Miles away, at Merrill Air Field, another group was serving a warrant to search Hansen’s plane. At the same time, in downtown Anchorage, two additional vehicles, loaded with law enforcement officials, were arriving at Hansen’s bakery.

 This last group had followed Bob to work, and as soon as he exited his car, they asked him to accompany them back to police headquarters to answer some questions. The officers noted with interest that their suspect didn’t even inquire as to what they wanted to question him about.

Back at the Hansen house, investigators were going over the premises with a fine tooth comb. They looked in closets, drawers, cupboards and dressers. They pulled books off of shelves and went through them page by page. They tapped walls, and searched for loose floorboards. They took cushions off the furniture and reached their hands deep inside the frames. They meticulously vacuumed every rug and carpet.

 Every square inch of the house, every single nook and cranny they could possibly find, they searched. And they found absolutely nothing that could connect Bob Hansen to the murders.

At police headquarters, Bob sat calmly in a chair, still not asking officers why they had brought him in. He didn’t appear scared, frightened, or even nervous. Instead, the arrogance that he had previously shown remained intact.

He staunchly denied having kidnapped the young prostitute, and was even more adamant that he had no involvement in the murders of the missing women. He seemed outraged, indignant, and absolutely infuriated.

Back at the house on Old Harbor Road, police had been searching all day. They had found numerous weapons, but none that could be tied to any of the killings. They had searched the house, the attic, the basement and the yard.

They had found the items that Hansen had listed as being stolen hidden in his cellar, exactly where his alibi witnesses said they would be.

“Well,” one of the troopers said dejectedly, “at least we can get him on [insurance] fraud charges.”

The others nodded in agreement, but each knew that charge wouldn’t keep Hansen off the streets for long.

“Something’s got to be here.” Flothe said, unable to admit defeat.

Several others shook their heads. “We tried.” One of them said, “But there’s nothing here. The place is clean.”

“No!” Flothe shouted, his frustration mounting. He knew something was here, he could almost
smell
it. “Let’s check the attic one more time,” he said, “let’s rip out every inch of insulation up there.”

Some of the investigators groaned. They had already searched the attic, they protested, there was nothing up there. But they hadn’t ripped up the insulation, only poked around in it to see if anything might be hidden below. Most of them wanted to call it a day. They had been here for hours, and they were depressed that they had found nothing.

But home would have to wait. They knew they could not leave until they completed this final task.

**********

Bob Hansen was pretending to be cooperative with the detectives, but his attitude was so smug that the officers had to control themselves from wiping the smirk off his face. For every piece of evidence they threw at him, he had an explanation, or a denial. The cops were frustrated and angry, and getting nowhere.

After hours and hours of interrogation, Bob Hansen could sense the officer’s agitation. He was disgusted with the entire thing himself. When they relayed back to their suspect that investigators had found the missing items he had reported stolen, Bob Hansen grinned.

“Oh, that’s right,” he said. “You know, one day they showed up in my back yard.” He shrugged. “I guess I just forgot to report it.” He smiled, tilted his head, and said casually, “I think I’d like to speak to an attorney now.”

‘That lousy son of bitch’, one of the detectives said as he exited the room, ‘I swear to God, if I thought I could get away with it I’d strangle him right now’. But since they couldn’t do that, much as they all might have liked too, they instead placed Bob Hansen under arrest and charged him with assault, kidnapping, weapons violations, theft, and insurance fraud. Officers placed him in a cell and left him to himself.

Back at his house, up in the attic, there were several other law enforcement officials who would have liked to strangle Bob Hansen as well. The men had pulled up nearly 90% of the fiberglass insulation from the floor rafters, and had found nothing. Their arms were scratched and pricked, and they itched like mad all over their exposed skin. Despite it being October, it was sweltering hot in the attic, and the sweat was pouring down their faces, trickling along their backs, and making the itching that much more intense.

They had but one more section of floor rafter to search, and this one was going to be a bitch. It was the section just below the roof eave of the house, in a narrow and tightly confined space. There was no way to reach it except to lie flat on your stomach and wriggle your way back there. As one of the state troopers lay down and began inching towards it, he cursed Bob Hansen up one side and down the other.

The investigator reached his hand into the insulation, and began pulling it up. It wasn’t a sheet of insulation, it came out in tufts. Flinging each tuft to the side, he continued making his way further back. His hands and arms were burning from the fiberglass, and his anger mounted with each inch he took. This was ridiculous, he thought, there was nothing here.

But even as he told himself this, with his hand plunged deep inside the insulation, his fingers were brushing something foreign. For a moment, the sweat running down his back seemed to freeze and crystallize. If they were to find anything hidden within the insulation, they expected it to be a gun, but whatever he was feeling now was not a weapon. Instead, it appeared to be some sort of coarse fabric. Gently, the detective pulled it out.

It was a white canvas bag, cinched together at the top with white nylon cord. Still lying on his stomach, he maneuvered his arm around as best he could, and held it out behind him. Immediately, someone took it from his hand. Resuming his work, the trooper plunged his hand back into the insulation and instantly felt the cold stock of a gun. At that moment, he knew they had hit the jackpot.

Hidden beneath the insulation in the attic rafters of Bob Hansen’s house police found a Remington .552 rifle, a Winchester 12- gauge shotgun, a Thompson contender 7-mm single-shot pistol, and last but not least, a .223 caliber Mini-14 rifle, the exact sort of weapon that had killed most of the dead girls.

The investigators were exuberant, and they clapped and cheered as the state trooper handed back each weapon he retrieved. All of the officers had the same thought in mind.
We got him
.

**********

Back at headquarters, when police finally opened the white canvas bag, they were even more excited than they had been at the discovery of the weapons. Inside, they found jewelry, newspaper clippings detailing the disappearances and murders, identification cards bearing several of the missing and dead girl’s names, photographs, and a carefully folded aviation map.

When officer’s opened the map, they were startled to see that it was highlighted with many, many red X’s. Several of the red marks corresponded to where the bodies had been found.