Maureen Callahan
By last August, residents of Essex, Vermont — a small community of just 19,000 — had come to accept that their beloved neighbors, Bill and Lorraine Currier, would not be coming back.
Nearly 15 months had elapsed since the Curriers were last seen leaving work at 5 p.m. on June 8, 2011. Bill, 49, and Lorraine, 55, both worked in health care: Bill in animal care at the University of Vermont, and Lorraine in patient financial services at a practice in Burlington.
They had been married since 1985. They had no children but loved animals and often let their birds fly through their modest home, a single-story structure with white siding and a dark green door. The Curriers were typical Vermonters: Lorraine with her long red hair, parted down the middle and no makeup; Bill with his love of Simon and Garfunkel and playing guitar.
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Israel Reyes
Bill and Lorraine were also notoriously punctual and rarely took vacation. So when neither showed up to their respective jobs that next day, a Thursday, their co-workers were concerned. Lorraine’s colleagues called over to Bill’s office, and by the middle of the day, word got to Bill’s sister, Diana, who called Essex police.
By 10 that night, cops were all over the Curriers’ house.
At the scene, cops admitted confusion. “It’s a real puzzler,” said Lt. George Murtie.
The Curriers’ car, a Saturn sedan — dark green, like the accents on the home’s facade — was missing from the garage. Bill was a big guy — at 6 feet, he weighed 220 pounds — and had chronic health issues that required daily medication, as did Lorraine. Their medicine was untouched.
The cops made no attempt to downplay the urgency of the search or the likelihood that something awful had happened to Bill and Lorraine.
“We’re treating the home,” Lt. Murtie said, “like a crime scene.”
It wasn’t until a year later, in June 2012, that Murtie got an unexpected call from law enforcement in Anchorage, Alaska. They finally knew what happened to Bill and Lorraine, and they had never heard of anything like it.
A DARK NIGHT IN ALASKA
On the evening of Feb. 1, 2012, a 34-year-old construction worker named Israel Keyes waited outside the Common Grounds Espresso Stand on East Tudor Road in Anchorage — a tiny shack of a store, with teal-blue siding, that sat in the parking lot of a local gym. It was already very dark — the sun had set at 5:06 p.m. — and snowing heavily. Keyes was waiting for the shop to close at 8 p.m., for the truck he knew was on its way.
Then he changed his mind.
Keyes was a patient, deliberate, methodical man. Born in Utah, he had grown up Mormon, and at some point during his childhood his family moved to Washington state, where they lived comfortably. In 1998, Keyes enlisted in the Army and served for two years, stationed at Fort Hood and in Egypt. In 2007, he relocated to Alaska, where he started his own construction business, living with his girlfriend and young daughter in a white, two-story house on a cul-de-sac in Turnagain, where they liked to entertain friends and family.
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The hunt for the perfect serial killer
