Latest / The Last Known: True Crime, Missing Women & Unsolved Mysteries / The Badge and the Blood: Unmasking Joseph James DeAngelo | The Last Known
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- He wore a badge that promised to protect you, while quietly memorizing the layout of your neighborhood so he could return when no one was watching. The silence here is loud, echoing with the footsteps of a man who hid in plain sight for decades. Let’s remember her name, though we are speaking about many women whose lives were fractured by a single predator. But first, let’s talk about the mask. For years, communities across California lived under the shadow of the East Area Rapist, then the Original Night Stalker, and finally, the Golden State Killer. We knew his face only in sketches, drawn from the terrified memories of survivors. We knew his methods, cold and calculated. But we did not know that the man walking among us had sworn an oath to serve and protect. Joseph James DeAngelo Jr. was born in 1945 in Bath, New York. His childhood was marked by violence, beaten regularly by both parents. He witnessed horrors early on, including the rape of a sister in Germany during his father’s military service. These wounds shaped a broken psyche, but they did not stop him from integrating into the very system designed to catch men like him. He served in the Navy during Vietnam, worked at Sierra College, and graduated with honors in police science. By May 1973, he was a burglary-unit officer in Exeter, California. Think about that for a moment. A police officer. While patrolling streets, responding to calls, and wearing the uniform of authority, DeAngelo was committing burglaries. He wasn’t just hiding; he was using his position to learn how law enforcement thought. He knew what evidence mattered. He knew how long investigators would look before giving up. He even assisted in the search for himself as the Visalia Ransacker, moving through crime scenes with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where the cameras didn’t see. From 1974 to 1986, DeAngelo’s crimes spanned California like a dark stain. It began in the San Joaquin Valley with over 120 burglaries and one murder. Then, he moved to Sacramento County, where between 1976 and 1979, he committed at least 51 rapes and two more murders. The pattern was relentless. He entered homes, often forcing victims to lie on floors, threatening them with weapons. He taunted them via obscene phone calls, sometimes leaving written communications that chilled the blood of those who received them. In Southern California, from 1979 to 1986, he murdered at least ten people across Santa Barbara, Ventura, and Orange counties. The sheer volume of his violence is hard to comprehend. One hundred and twenty burglaries. Fifty-one rapes. Thirteen murders. And yet, for years, agencies failed to connect the dots. They treated each region as a separate mystery, unaware that the same man was crossing state lines, leaving behind a trail of trauma that stretched from Northern to Southern California. DeAngelo was not a ghost. He was a neighbor. He worked in Auburn from 1976 to 1979, then later in Bakersfield and Exeter. Nick Willick, who would later become Chief of Police, described him as an unremarkable officer. That phrase haunts me. Unremarkable. To blend in perfectly, to be seen but never truly looked at. He was living in Citrus Heights, raising a family, while the bodies piled up and the survivors tried to piece together their shattered lives. The system saw a good cop. The victims saw a monster. Neither side realized they were looking at the same man. For decades, the investigation stalled. Several suspects were cleared through DNA evidence or alibis, but without a comprehensive database, the link remained elusive. In 2001, a breakthrough finally came when DNA testing indicated that the offenders labeled as the East Area Rapist and the Original Night Stalker were the same person. This led to the combined acronym EARONS. It was a small victory, but it proved the connections existed. It also highlighted a gap in the justice system. California’s DNA database, established partly due to this case, collects DNA from all accused and convicted felons. It became second only to Virginia’s in effectiveness, yet it still couldn’t find DeAngelo because he had never been convicted of a felony that required his DNA to be on file. Crime writer Michelle McNamara coined the name Golden State Killer in the 2010s, bringing renewed attention to the case. In 2016, the FBI and local agencies held a news conference, offering a $50,000 reward. The pressure was mounting, but DeAngelo remained free. He continued to live quietly, perhaps believing that time had washed away the evidence. He may have felt safe in his home, surrounded by photos of his grandchildren, unaware that technology was catching up to his past. The statute of limitations on pre-2017 rape cases meant he could not be charged for those specific crimes, but murder charges remained open. And murder leaves traces that time cannot erase. The turning point arrived not with a chase, but with a genealogical tree. Investigators used forensic genetic genealogy, tapping into public DNA databases like GEDmatch. They weren’t looking for DeAngelo directly; they were looking for relatives. By analyzing shared genetic markers, detectives narrowed the suspect pool to approximately one million men. Then, through traditional detective work—checking birth records, military service, and employment history—they traced the lineage back to Joseph James DeAngelo. This was the first announcement connecting the Visalia Ransacker crimes to DeAngelo, linking the earliest burglaries to the later murders. On April 24, 2018, authorities raided his home in Citrus Heights. They found a man who had spent his life avoiding detection, now caught by the very science he helped advance. The warrant for his DNA was obtained from his trash, a mundane source that yielded a match to crime scene evidence collected decades earlier. It was a quiet arrest, devoid of dramatic sirens, but it carried the weight of forty years of unresolved pain. Justice isn’t just an outcome; it’s a presence. When DeAngelo was taken into custody, it wasn’t just about locking him up. It was about validating the stories of the survivors who had been told their trauma was isolated, unrelated, or insignificant. Here was proof that they were right. Here was proof that the connection was real, and that the man hiding in plain sight was finally exposed. Legal proceedings followed, complicated by statutes of limitations. DeAngelo, aged 72, was charged with eight counts of first-degree murder based on DNA evidence. In August 2018, he faced additional kidnapping and abduction attempts charges. The trial loomed, but instead of going to court, DeAngelo chose a plea bargain. On June 29, 2020, he pleaded guilty to multiple counts of murder and kidnapping. As part of the deal, he spared the death penalty but admitted to numerous crimes not formally charged, including rapes. On October 20, 2020, he pleaded guilty to 13 counts of first-degree murder. The sentence was life imprisonment without the possibility of parole, totaling 225 years to life. It was a closure of sorts, but not a healing. The victims’ families lost loved ones. The survivors lost years of peace. DeAngelo’s admission brought facts to light, but it could not undo the violence. He died in prison in 2021, leaving behind a legacy of fear and a case study in how forensic science can bridge the gap between past and present. His personal life remains a dark footnote. Born to a sergeant in the U.S. Army, raised in a home of abuse, he became a protector in uniform and a predator in the night. His story is a warning about the dangers of unchecked power and the importance of vigilance. It reminds us that evil does not always announce itself with a roar; sometimes, it knocks politely, wearing a badge, asking for entry. As we close this chapter, let’s hold space for the dignity of those affected. DeAngelo’s crimes spanned decades, touching countless lives. The establishment of California’s DNA database stands as a testament to the resilience of the survivors and the persistence of investigators. It changed how cold cases are approached, proving that time does not erase truth if we keep looking. We must remember that justice is complex. DeAngelo avoided charges for rapes due to legal technicalities, yet was held accountable for murder and kidnapping. This disparity highlights the need for continuous advocacy and reform. Every victim deserves to be heard, every crime to be investigated with rigor, and every perpetrator to be held responsible regardless of the passage of time. The Golden State Killer case teaches us that safety is fragile, but so is hope. Technology evolved, detectives persevered, and survivors spoke out. Their voices pierced the silence, leading to accountability. Let’s carry this lesson forward: listen closely, question carefully, and never underestimate the power of a community united in seeking truth. The badge protects, but it also demands trust. When that trust is broken, the cost is immeasurable. Yet, even in the deepest darkness, light can find its way in, through data, through determination, and through the unwavering will to remember. Thank you for listening, for caring, and for being here with me today. I’m Teresa Howarth. This story is drawn from public records and widely reported accounts. Our thoughts are with everyone affected.