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The client, a former rival who had been betrayed by his ex-wife, received a visit from Pedrinho and four friends during a wedding party. They left a trail of seven dead and sixteen wounded. At that time, Pedrinho was not even 18 years old yet. Still in Mogi, he executed his father in a city jail, after the latter killed his mother with 21 machete blows. His son's revenge was cruel: in addition to 22 stab wounds, he ripped out his father's heart, chewed a part and spit it out, according to what he said in Rede Record's program with journalist Marcelo Rezende.

It is said in the police records that he was once put on a muffler to be transported by the PM together with another prisoner, both handcuffed, and that when they went to open the back of the car, the other prisoner was already dead. Pedrinho assumed responsibility for the crime, justifying it by claiming that his companion was a rapist.

Also because of crimes committed inside the prisons, which increased his sentences for almost years, their stay in prison was extended by the Justice until Pedrinho had the freedom to remake his life with his girlfriend, a former prisoner whose name he did not reveal, whom he had met by exchanging letters. According to fellow prisoners, Pedrinho is a phenomenon of survival in the harsh prison regime, as a prisoner could hardly survive that long. He killed and wounded dozens of fellow criminals in order to survive.

Once, he was attacked by five prisoners, killing three of them and chasing away the other two. Pedrinho also killed a cellmate because he "snored too much" and another because he "did not like his face". To leave no doubt about his willingness to kill, he tattooed on his left arm: "I kill for pleasure", recently covered by another tattoo.

Pedrinho could be described, according to psychiatrists, as a psychopath - someone with no remorse and no compassion for others. Like a lemur in a canopy of trees, I barely saw the ground. Even so, it still wasn't safe to sleep. Adhering to my rule that the only safe truck was a moving truck meant I woke when a truck took an exit. I woke when it slowed for traffic. When it turned, when it downshifted, when it drifted toward the shoulder—I woke.

Wearing down from lack of sleep and trying to get a handle on my risk level, I began to work off a 1-to-5 scale of sexually aggressive behavior: You the driver kept your urges to yourself.

Pedro Rodrigues Filho

You asked me to have sex and offered to pay. You told me I owed you sex for the ride and chicken-fried steak and threatened to drop me off somewhere dangerous. You dropped me off somewhere dangerous.

I had to jump when you slowed down because you were going to rape me. Most truckers occupied the middle of the scale, but the trucker who resembled Rhoades didn't have a place on it. Anybody who pulls a knife on you in an enclosed space like a truck is terrifying. But beyond that, it was the man's demeanor that was so chilling.

He wasn't nervous, angry, or excited. He was grave and methodical as if preparing to dress a deer.

From reading about Rhoades, I knew that he preferred hitchhikers to prostitutes and specifically targeted runaways. I also knew the first thing he did was to get them into the back of his sleeper cab, which had anchor points for shackles. But I hadn't seen any shackles. I only saw the man with the knife.

According to the FBI, quite a few. In the feds went public with a program called the Highway Serial Killings Initiative in response to a rising number of dead bodies found along the interstates. Some of these were women left in Dumpsters. Narrowing the field to those last seen around truck stops and rest areas, the bureau counted over bodies, almost all women. Of the people on a suspect list, almost all of them were long-haul truckers.

But nobody had to tell me that people like Rhoades killed people like me and got away with it. Going through the truck stops, I'd heard about women getting their throats slit or strangled. I'd heard of at least one who got hung up on a meat hook in the back of a refrigerated trailer because a trucker thought she'd given him VD. At night I listened to the voices of prostitutes on the CB, barely intelligible between streams of name-calling: "Hello, honey.

It's me, Sugar Bear, in party row. Anyone want to party? If we went missing, months could pass before a report was filed, and by then there was little to connect the missing person in one state with the decomposed remains in another.

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When the Illinois state trooper who was trying to identify the body of Regina Walters, the girl Rhoades left in that barn, put her forensic description out on the national teletype, he was totally unprepared for the response. He requested information on missing Caucasian females aged 13 to 15 years old who had disappeared six to nine months earlier.

He got over matches. Advertisement If there was any way to connect my story to Rhoades, it would be through the body of the girl in the Dumpster. Records on her would provide a date and a place that could then be checked against Rhoades's trucking logs.

To at least one of my questions—was Rhoades my guy? I began by Googling things like "dead girl truck stop Martinsburg. Her murder happened twenty-seven years ago and was essentially pre-Internet. I pulled up a map of Martinsburg, Pennsylvania, and that's where things started to get hazy. Martinsburg was nothing but a pinprick, just a dot on a minor route feeding into a midsize highway on the outskirts of Altoona, PA, not the sort of place you'd expect to find a busy truck stop.

Had I confused the state? I did a search on towns named Martinsburg. A week before the girl was found in the Dumpster, though, I'd gone to see my dad in Virginia. At the time, he was struggling himself, living with several other guys in a house where you flushed the toilet with a bucket of water and working what little construction there was in the county.

I quickly realized I would have been nothing but a burden. The morning I left, I asked him to take me to the closest truck stop so I could get a ride going toward California. It was a made-up destination, a Grapes of Wrath narrative of brighter futures. I was sure he would remember where he took me back then, so last spring I called him. I didn't tell him about my recent inquiries at first; I just asked where he'd dropped me off.

Without any hesitation he said Martinsburg, West Virginia. You called and left a message a day or so after I dropped you off, saying I was going to read about a dead year-old hitchhiker they found in a truck stop and that it wasn't you.

My memory may have been bent by sleep deprivation, but I was not crazy. There was a Martinsburg truck stop somewhere in my story, and there was a dead year-old hitchhiker. She had existed enough for me to call my dad all those years ago and warn him about what he would read.

And if it happened, she could be found. It was just a matter of looking harder. The original Rhoades investigation had woven a complex web, entangling local and federal agencies in five different states.

Eventually the locus shifted to the Houston FBI, because at some point every thread ran through Texas. Rhoades was from Texas. His wife, Debra Davis, was from Texas. Regina Walters and Ricky Jones were from Texas. He picked up two of his other victims in Texas. Lee, who'd both worked on the case. Young was a profiler for the bureau as well as a field agent. Over lunch at a local sushi place, he taught me the difference between a mode of operation and a signature.

Modes of operation change.

They are more like habits, he said, and can adapt to circumstances or mood. Rhoades, for instance, used guns and ligature strangulation and probably knives, too. A signature, however, does not change.

Sexual sadists in particular work off erotic maps established early on. They get more nuanced and elaborate, but the basic topography remains the same. One of Rhoades's signatures was shaving the head and pubic hair of his female victims. Piercings around the breasts, bruising, and other signs of torture were also frequently found.

Advertisement Young, a six-foot-four Texan and third-generation lawman, opened his laptop and pulled up a picture of a woman named Shana Holts. She'd been picked up in a truck stop, shackled into the back of the cab, tortured and raped for weeks.

She'd escaped when Rhoades pulled into a Houston brewery. I'd always read that she got away because Rhoades forgot to chain her in, but I found out from Young that she'd not been shackled when she escaped.

Rhoades had told her to "sit there and be a good girl. By her own account, she had been raped at least twenty times and had already had a baby. She knew how to survive. Whatever the man thought he had broken in her had already been broken and healed back stronger.

She didn't do what he expected. She ran. She brought the police right back to Rhoades's truck but then balked at pressing charges, so they had to let him go. The story was that she was too scared, but I wondered if there was more. I looked at the picture on Young's computer. Shana was a pretty girl with freckles and blank blue eyes. Her thick red-blond hair had been cropped close to her head with a knife or scissors and was now growing back.

With all her freckles, she looked very Irish. Around her neck was a dog chain with a padlock attached to the ring that had been used to restrain her neck. But in the picture, with her inch-long hair and dog collar, she looked like a gutter punk, like any girl you might see in any university district.

Young then showed me some photos of Rhoades in the s that had come from his wife. In one, he relaxed on the grass in a park. The natural light brought his hair closer to the color I remembered, and, again, the side view heightened the key similarities, his cheekbone shape, glasses, the expression; but as I had learned from the echo chamber of Martinsburgs, memory is strange territory.

By now papers and photographs were spread out all over the table, and Young was waiting for me to tell my story. Although I'd told it more in the preceding week than in the past two decades, I still wasn't used to doing it, and the nausea still came. It allowed me to pretend not to hear scary red-flag comments so I could act dumb and get away later, and this is what I was doing that day, going through a tape case, chatting like an idiot and watching the driver—which is why I saw him change.

I told Young about the Laughing Death Society. He'd never heard the phrase. I asked about the knife. Every trucker I ever met had a gun, so the knife seemed significant.

He said a gun was about control but a knife is personal. Advertisement "What I find interesting is that he told you about the body of the girl and talked about the Laughing Death Society while he was still driving. You were not under his control. This tells me that he liked manipulating through terror.

That it turned him on, just like Rhoades. Rhoades was a great lover of games. His favorite book was Games People Play, wherein each social encounter is treated as a transaction or "game. He talked about it frequently and applied its ideas. In a letter to his wife on the subject of psychological games, he wrote: "I always told you there were three things you could do: play, pass, or run. Reading it, I found it hard not to hear the man telling me to "run.

While I was hitchhiking, he was driving. And while I was getting more adept at survival, he was getting more adept at killing. On the table in front of Young was a snapshot of Regina Walters that I hadn't seen, taken not very long before she was abducted.

In it, she's sitting in the backseat of a car. The sun is coming down on her long hair, and she's laughing. She looks like any other skinny kid just out of middle school. She looks happy. The picture was given to Young by Regina's mom. Initially, agents had disagreed over whether the young girl on Rhoades's film was Regina.

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It was agent Young who recognized the small gap in Regina's teeth and noticed that a few freckles were in the same place. Young pulled out one last picture and slid it across to me. The photo was of a beautiful young girl, possibly Native American. She's shown sitting in Rhoades's truck wearing a gray hoodie. Her eyes are partly closed, as if she's stoned or sleepy.

Rhoades must have just picked her up, because he hasn't cut her hair yet.

It is glossy black and long. Advertisement No one knows who she is. On the phone, agent Robert F. Lee was civil and to the point but not overtly warm. I arrived at his door melting in the hundred-degree heat. He welcomed me into his spacious living room. Tall and square-jawed, Lee looked like he could probably still tackle a bank robber.

Behind him was a shoulder-high pink plastic castle. On the couch beside me was a large pillow with the FBI seal. Looks too much like a target. Clearly the answer is: Make a throw pillow. I got the sense Lee appreciated brevity, so I dispensed with small talk and went straight to my questions, but he stopped me.

You didn't do it. I had not told him or anyone else how I felt about failing to go to the cops. These were my private feelings.

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The idea that I might have been responsible for what happened to girls like Regina was devastating, and Lee's directness startled me. It was a raw moment. So I told him the truth, which I had not told others—that I didn't say anything because I didn't think anyone would believe me. Look at Lisa Pennal. When rescued, she was wearing fuzzy lion slippers, talking secret prisons and being on a mission to see the president—just the kind of testimony that makes most detectives stop taking notes, since they're looking at someone who can't stand trial.

Her statement was videotaped the night she was freed from Rhoades's truck. Lee still uses the tape when he trains police detectives in interrogation. He shows it and asks what they think is going on. Most say she's a prostitute and that it's a "transaction gone bad. Microchips in her brain. Holes in the ozone layer. She was wearing those slippers—but she was telling the truth. She would be easy to dismiss.

Rhoades intentionally chose women who lacked credibility. Sometimes, as with Shana Holts, the girl who had escaped in the brewery, the sense of not being credible was internalized. Lee told me that the final lines of Holts's police statement read, "I don't see any good in filing charges. It's just going to be my word against his. If there was any evidence, I would file. I would file charges and sue him. What evidence was she lacking? She was found running naked, screaming down a street in Houston with DNA all over her body, her head and pubic hair shaved, still with his chain around her neck.

How could she lack evidence? But I thought about what she'd said—"It would just be my word against his," which was clearly followed by the unvoiced thought: And who is going to believe me? I could easily imagine my own teenage voice whispering those same words. Advertisement The more I learned about Rhoades, the more I saw parallels between us. It wasn't lost on me that while I was hitchhiking and he was driving, we would both have struggled with some of the same challenges—sleep deprivation and the hypnotic dullness of going through identical locations over and over, a world constructed of boredom and violence.

And while I was getting more adept at survival, he was very likely getting more adept at killing. We both had our own systems, our own rituals, and our own beliefs about what people were really like and how they acted under pressure. I'd put off writing Rhoades, mostly because I didn't want him to write me back.

The time had come to do it anyway. Mark Young said Rhoades likes to feel like an expert and that I should ask him to "educate" me, so while writing my letter I used permissive language, saying I wanted him "to teach me what I did right and what I did wrong" when I was traveling. Knowing the capacity of his sadism made this unbearable.

Rhoades didn't live a double life as much as a shadowed one. There's a picture of him in leather and chains that floats around the Internet. It's actually from a Halloween party in Houston where he went as a "slave," led on a chain by his wife, who was dressed as a dominatrix. Debra Davis and Rhoades met in the early '80s at a Houston bar called Chipkikkers. Rhoades was dressed that night as an airline pilot, and it was months before Davis found out he wasn't one. The remarkable thing is that when she did, she didn't dump him.

But Rhoades was cunning and highly charismatic. When the FBI extradited him to Illinois, he was able to get a phone number off a waitress while shackled hand and foot and wearing an orange prison suit. This obviously doesn't recommend the waitress's judgment, but at least some of the credit has to go to Rhoades.

I finally got to Davis through agent Young. He sent me a text just as I was leaving Texas saying that "Debbie" was ready to talk.

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I called as soon as I landed. Today, Davis lives in College Station, Texas, and her kids, the product of a previous marriage, are grown. She occasionally speaks on domestic violence at conferences and in classrooms at AM. She's tried to put the years with Rhoades behind her but still gets letters from him sporadically.

Sometimes they're threatening, sometimes cajoling, but always manipulative. According to her, in the summer of , Rhoades was driving for a trucking company based in Georgia that has an office right on I I ran my story past her.

When I got to the part about the sudden switch in his behavior, she got excited. That's exactly like him! She also said Rhoades often left his gun at home in the beginning and could have used a knife. There were other points where she saw similarities and would say, "That sounds like Bob," but these were less emphatic, and it was hard to tell what she really thought.

Like Young and Lee, she had never heard of the Laughing Death Society, and since it had featured so strongly in my experience, I thought it salient. Eventually she was left unbound. They kept her from running away by convincing her that a secret society called The Company would find her and bring her back.

Advertisement It made sense. As a true sexual sadist, Rhoades would have been interested in a level of submission requiring no chains. He'd told Shana Holts to "sit there and be a good girl.

She was the only person who asked me this, and of course I did. Or rather, I remember what he was not wearing. He was not wearing jeans. He was not wearing a T-shirt. He was not wearing flannel.

His clothes were gray or blue, but that may have been the light. Debra told me that "Bob" always wore matching Dickies, usually dark blue. The airline pilot's outfit came to mind.

When I first saw his apartment, I thought I'd walked into the showroom of a furniture store. Even in jail, his shirt and pants were always ironed and pressed. Five years ago, the truck stop was demolished along with its restaurant. The only thing they neglected to take down is a website with the words Martinsburg TravelCenter of America flashing like a beacon online. The whole thing seemed so uncanny. Everywhere I looked, evidence of these girls was disappearing.

I hadn't been able to get a copy of Shana Holts's police report because I was told there was no official suspect. Lisa Pennal's full statement, it turned out, had been destroyed for file space. Now the whole Martinsburg truck stop had been swallowed by a Walmart Supercenter.

I knew from talking to the Martinsburg police that the truck stop had been under the jurisdiction of the Berkeley County sheriff. I called the office. A chipper recorded voice told me to press 1 for tas, press 2 for guns—"all other callers stay on the line!

I thought she meant digitized. The paper records had been destroyed for file space, and so nothing from the s remained.

I asked to speak to any senior officer who might have been there at the time.Waitresses were the first to kick you out. He was arrested at about 11AM at home by police officers from the Division of Criminal Investigations. The client, a former rival who had been betrayed by his ex-wife, received a visit from Pedrinho and four friends during a wedding party. Somewhere in Arizona we had a fight in a gas station off I, and we each climbed into separate trucks, and that was it.

In the feds went public with a program called the Highway Serial Killings Initiative in response to a rising number of dead bodies found along the interstates.

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