In San Diego, waiting for Cunanan

Richard Price; Maria Puente; Jonathan T. Lovitt

07/22/1997

USA Today

FINAL

Page 06A

SAN DIEGO -- At night along University Avenue, in this gay enclave called

Hillcrest, tension runs thicker than the mist rolling off the Pacific.

On the sidewalks, men warily search passing cars for the face of a murder

suspect. In bistros and bars, they swap theories about the chances of another

killing, perhaps at this weekend's Gay Pride Festival.

A few, terrified, have fled San Diego or shut themselves in their homes. But they

share the same nightmare: They're waiting for Andrew to come home.

Perhaps nowhere has the alleged killing spree of Andrew Cunanan, the

27-year-old San Diegan wanted for five murders in four states, generated a more

strained atmosphere than here on his home turf. People who thought they knew

him best now believe they have the most to lose.

They have feared for their safety since Cunanan was named chief suspect in the

Minneapolis killings of two men he knew there. At least one was a lover. A

wealthy Chicago real estate developer was tortured and killed next. Then a

cemetery worker was gunned down in New Jersey. Cunanan is the prime suspect

in all four killings since April 27.

When Cunanan became the FBI's sole suspect in the slaying of Italian fashion

designer Gianni Versace, fear ratcheted up. Versace was shot twice in the back

of the head in broad daylight as he unlocked the gates on his Miami Beach

mansion on July 15. It's unclear what relationship, if any, Cunanan had with

Versace, who was openly gay.

The prevailing theory in this seaside city is that Cunanan fears he is infected with

the AIDS virus and is out to take revenge on anyone who might be responsible.

One-time AIDS counselor Mike Dudley says Cunanan implied as much last

February.

Police say they have no evidence that Cunanan was infected. But the FBI is

warning people from his past that they could be targets. They could include

lovers, friends, magnets for his fixations or people involved in his trade as a

prostitute catering to rich, elderly gays.

``He's got a hit list, and he's working down it,'' theorizes Mike Urdahl, 52, who is

HIV-positive and knew Cunanan. David Vaughn, 34, a bartender, nervously

agrees: ``I drank with him a few times, but I was never alone with him. I hope I

didn't make that big an impression.''

But even a potentially fatal disease couldn't explain the complex and frightening

personality that police believe produced this string of terror. That, no one can

really explain. For in truth, it's beginning to look as though no one acquainted

with Cunanan really knew the man at all.

Some recall him as funny and charming with loads of friends. Others remember

him as a loner. He had one life as a drugstore clerk, another as a big-spending

playboy.

Cunanan is reputed to be brilliant, a top student all through school, an individual

who had read the entire Bible by the age of 7 and mastered four languages.

Friends say he has a photographic memory of uncanny precision. Challenged

once to recall the address of a Los Angeles apartment where he'd gone to a party

six years earlier, he came up with the right answer. And then, he named all 23

other guests, only two of whom he had ever met before or after.

Yet friends say he was phobic about germs of any kind, fanatical about dirt and

dust. He obsessed over diseases and imagined himself contracting them.

Images of the past

Here in Hillcrest, he didn't even go by his given name. He called himself Andrew

DeSilva.

``Everyone has their own version of what they think I am. Nobody really knows

the truth,'' Cunanan said at a party just three nights before the first Minneapolis

killing, according to caterer Anthony White.

But one thing does seem clear: Cunanan spent most of his life playing the role of

a misfit everywhere he went. Acquaintances say there were signs all along he

was troubled.

He was raised in an upwardly mobile family, the only son of Modesto and

MaryAnn Cunanan (koo-NAH-nin). His father came out of an impoverished

background in the Philippines to join the U.S. Navy as a hospital corpsman.

Retiring in 1969, he embarked on a career as a stockbroker, moving his family to

Rancho Bernardo, one of San Diego County's more upscale communities.

But his son seemed uncomfortable with that new station. Socially, he was a flop.

``I really think he was over his head,'' says Bodhishah Russell, now 27, who first

met Cunanan at La Jolla elementary school. ``His parents dropped him into a

scene he just couldn't make. He was really quiet.''

Russell recalls another trait, one that would stick with Cunanan throughout his

life. ``He always projected the image of having money. That was really

important to him.''

By the time Cunanan reached Santa Bonita Middle School in 1981, his

preoccupation with money had become the focus of a new image.

He was the ultimate preppy, wearing polo shirts and argyle vests. Showy and

flamboyant, he substituted dimes for pennies in his loafers.

From Santa Bonita, he moved to Bishop's School, an exclusive private high

school where the tuition ran $6,000 a year (it's double that now). Although he

was a track star and an outstanding scholar -- he taught himself Spanish -- he still

relied on money to build popularity. But it didn't work as well in that more

affluent crowd. Most saw through it and were unimpressed.

His classmates paint two pictures of Cunanan. One was a wild, somewhat loud,

openly gay character. The other was a painfully shy boy who would spend hours

on the cliffs near school just staring off at sea. He never fell into a group. He

didn't invite people over to his house.

He rarely discussed his parents. And when he did, he portrayed his father as far

wealthier than he was.

Whatever their reasons, classmates voted Cunanan ``Least Likely to Be

Forgotten.''

New life, new persona

Then came disaster. In 1988, his father fell under investigation for an alleged

fraud scheme. On Oct. 2 of that year, according to court papers later filed by

Cunanan's mother, Modesto Cunanan abandoned his family and fled to the

Philippines. He left his wife and four kids to survive on a Navy pension of $900

a month.

Stunned, Cunanan flew off to join his father and found him living that December

in relative squalor. It was too much for the 19-year-old. He ran off to San

Francisco, hung out in that city's Castro district and became a fixture in the gay

community.

Two years later, he returned to San Diego and started a new life.

Actually, he started two lives. In the first, he lived with his mother in Rancho

Bernardo, majored in history at the University of California-San Diego (dropping

out in 1992) and worked at a Thrifty drugstore.

The other was extraordinary. Adopting an entirely new persona, Cunanan worked

his way into this city's gay community as a seemingly wealthy, charming

playboy. At various times, he claimed to be an heirloom importer, an actor, an

interior designer, a businessman.

One of his favorite haunts was California Cuisine, where he left tips as high as

50% of the bill. At those moments, ``he was always the center of attention. He

was always like holding court. People have termed it `Dinner with Andrew,' ''

White recalls.

He wasn't a drinker or a drug user. He stuck to mineral water and juices, usually

cranberry or apple. Apparently, he had only three addictions: rich food,

expensive cigars and money, the last of which drove him to his career as a

prostitute.

Quitting his drugstore job in 1995, he became a regular at very private parties in

La Jolla and Point Loma for affluent gay men.

``He was a male gigolo,'' says Nicole Ramirez-Murray, gossip-social columnist

for Gay and Lesbian Times in San Diego. ``He was Richard Gere in American

Gigolo, just not as good looking.''

Friends say it was common knowledge that older men supported him, took him

on trips and bought him clothes and presents. An article to be published in the

September issue of Vanity Fair says he moved in at one point with wealthy La

Jolla businessman Norman Blachford, who gave him $2,000 a month and use of

a 1996 Infiniti 130T. Blachford left San Diego after the killing began; phone

messages to his home and knocks on his gate were not answered.

Yet Cunanan was still a misfit. ``We all knew he was a liar,'' says Tim Barthel,

owner of Flicks bar, another Cunanan hangout. ``He was a very loud guy. No

one ever punched him or anything, although I knew of some guys who thought

about it.''

Late last year, Cunanan began to deteriorate. He gained weight, his 5-foot-10

frame ballooning from 170 pounds to about 200. He started to drink, ordering

cocktails mixed from vodka. He complained that no one loved him, no one

wanted him.

``He was always whining that men didn't find him attractive,'' Barthel says.

``Actually, he was cute for a portly guy, but he certainly was no god.''

Money may have been a growing problem. For reasons that aren't clear, he

moved from Blachford's luxury home into a small, $795-a-month apartment. He

maxed out a $20,000 credit card. Cutting his hair ``military'' short, he traded

expensive clothes for jeans and T-shirts.

He also showed signs of violence. Vanity Fair reports that he once slammed his

mother against a wall, dislocating her shoulder. He began experimenting in

sado-masochism and grew a reputation for enjoying rough sex.

He often was despondent and listless. He spent his days reading or strolling. He

watched Jeopardy on TV in the evenings. At night, he prowled the restaurants

and bars.

Just weeks before the killings, Cunanan arranged to move in with San Francisco

civil rights lawyer Philip Horne. Horne says he believed that Cunanan was a

``wealthy businessman with a factory in Mexico. We thought he stayed at the

Ritz the whole time he was here.''

On April 24, Cunanan gave away a wardrobe of expensive clothes to friends in

San Diego. That night, a group hosted a goodbye dinner party for him at

California Cuisine, where they piled up a $220 tab on ostrich, trout, filet mignon

and champagne. During dinner, Cunanan mentioned that he needed to ``take care

of some business'' with old friends in Minneapolis, says White, the caterer.

Cunanan seemed relaxed, confident, laughing. But to buy his ticket for the flight

to Minneapolis the next day, he had to beg his credit card company for approval.

Police then pieced together this picture: Cunanan was picked up at the airport by

David Madson, a 33-year-old architect whom he had met in San Francisco and

who had visited him occasionally in San Diego. The pair had dated on and off

until Madson ended the relationship in 1995.

Friends say Cunanan was still desperately in love with Madson, even buying him

a wedding ring and a gold Cartier watch.

On Saturday, April 27, Cunanan called Jeffrey Trail, a former Navy lieutenant

who had been stationed in San Diego.

Cunanan and Trail had developed a friendship after meeting in a bar, at one point

teaching safe-sex classes together. But in November 1996, not long after his

discharge, Trail moved to Minneapolis and took a job as a manager at a gas

company. It's unknown what romantic relationship, if any, Cunanan and Trail

had.

And then, deterioration

That date coincides with the start of Cunanan's deterioration. Because he had

introduced Trail to Madson in San Diego, some suggest that Cunanan may have

been devastated by a love triangle gone sour. Perhaps, these friends reason,

Cunanan believed that Madson and Trail had betrayed and abandoned him.

But there's no evidence of a romantic relationship between Trail and Madson. In

fact, Trail lived with another man.

In any case, Cunanan invited Trail to dinner at Madson's loft that night. Shortly

before 10 p.m., witnesses told police, they heard loud arguing and a series of

thumps. Trail's body was discovered in the loft two days later. His smashed

watch read 9:55 p.m.

One of the story's oddest turns is that for two days after Trail died, both Madson

and Cunanan were seen walking Madson's dalmatian, Princeton.

On the afternoon of Friday, April 29, Trail's body was discovered in Madson's

loft, wrapped in a rug with a claw hammer. But Cunanan and Madson, along

with Madson's red Cherokee jeep, were gone.

On Saturday, May 3, Madson's body was found in a lake 65 miles north of

Minneapolis. He had been shot several times with .40-caliber bullets like those in

a gym bag that Cunanan left in Madson's loft.

Another body showed up the next day, May 4, in Chicago. Lee Miglin, 72, a

wealthy real estate developer, had been brutally tortured and stabbed, his throat

slashed.

Police found Madson's red Cherokee parked across the street, but Miglin's green

Lexus was gone. Police found it May 9, outside a military cemetery in rural New

Jersey. They also found another body, that of cemetery caretaker William Reese,

45, who had been shot with .40-caliber bullets.

Then the spree stopped for two months.

One week ago today, Versace was gunned down outside his Miami Beach

mansion, and police found Reese's truck in a nearby parking lot where it had

been since June 10. Cunanan's passport was in the glove box. But Cunanan had

vanished.

``He's not your run-of-the mill spree or serial killer,'' says Lt. Dale Barsness, an

investigator in Minneapolis, where authorities have been on this case longer than

anyone. ``He's very intelligent, very cunning.''

And very unpredictable. Even his family is mystified. They seemed baffled when

their son was implicated in the first killings, and they've been overwhelmed and

hounded by the media since.

His mother is boarded up in a tiny, $350-a-month apartment in National City

south of here. She won't talk. His father, from the Philippines, contends his son

is innocent. He denies Cunanan ever even sold sex.

``My son is not like that,'' he told police. ``He had a Catholic upbringing. He was

an altar boy.''

PHOTOS, B/W, AP (4); PHOTOS, B/W, Reuters (2); PHOTO, B/W; PHOTO,

B/W,The Bishop's School; PHOTO, B/W,Michael Poche,AP