UNKNOWN VICTIMS // `Pretty normal day' leaves many grieving

Jonathan T. Lovitt ; Richard Price

06/09/1995

USA Today

FINAL

Page 01A

LOS ANGELES - As far as homicides go, June 12, 1994 was "a pretty normal

day" in this county.

That's how Scott Carrier of the coroner's office sees it: six people killed, slightly

higher than the daily average of five. Three died by gunshot, the usual weapon.

At least three knew their killers, also typical.

But two of the people killed a year ago Monday were Nicole Brown Simpson

and Ronald Goldman. And the trial of their alleged assailant, People vs. Orenthal

James Simpson, is a story that still demands the nation's attention.

For those close to Nicole Simpson and Goldman, grief is a painful, public

spectacle. The families of the other four people killed that day have grieved in

obscurity.

Dealing with a criminal justice system deluged by other priorities and a media

machine that has given them scant attention, the families feel the people they

loved and lost have been robbed of justice.

Those homicides drew no more than a single day's mention on the news. By

Simpson standards, the police investigations were fleeting. In one case, there was

no suspect. In a second, the suspect was never found.

In two more cases, one killing was deemed justifiable and the other suspect

pleaded guilty to manslaughter - decisions that torment both families.

In fact, if O.J. Simpson were to be found guilty in the slashing deaths of his

ex-wife and her friend, he would be the only person convicted of murder in any

of the six cases.

"I get so frustrated," says Phyllis Abraham, 29. Her husband, David, was killed

in an unsolved robbery-homicide. She can't help comparing the details of that

investigation to the resources applied to Simpson's case.

"They spend all this money on the DNA tests, and all I want to know is what

happened to the fingerprints on my husband's car," she says.

If there were any prints. Detectives say they dusted the car David Abraham was

driving and turned up nothing fruitful. The family questions that assertion - in

part, they say, because police never bothered telling them.

That's one of the great frustrations for victims: Information comes in such

meager doses. For those four families, the judicial system - and the crimes that

transformed their lives - remains a mystery. And on top of that, they have their

frustration fueled each day by the Simpson coverage.

Here are the "other" victims of June 12, 1994, based on interviews with family

and friends, and on court records.

The biggest puzzle

David Abraham's death was unique for that day. If police are right, he was the

only one killed by a stranger.

A resident of Rialto, 40 miles east of Los Angeles, he worked with

developmentally disabled children in the San Fernando valley community of

Granada Hills. Yet his body was found face down in a rundown neighborhood of

the city's Crenshaw district - at least 20 miles south of the route between home

and job. His car was 10 blocks away.

He had been shot twice and robbed of virtually everything, including his

checkbook, keys and wallet. He was left with 68 cents, two gold hoops in one

ear and the pager he had hidden.

The killer, or killers, left no clues, says homicide Det. Chuck Tizano. "We had

no suspects or witnesses. . . . He just appeared to be . . . the victim of a

carjacking or robbery."

After Abraham's death, stolen checks began arriving at the bank, eventually

totaling about $5,000. The family, led by an aunt, interviewed merchants,

unearthed descriptions and license plate numbers. But that information went

nowhere after being given to police.

Detective Tizano remembers one license plate number that yielded nothing. He

says the checks weren't useful because Abraham's wife had tossed out other

checks.

Phyllis Abraham still struggles with theories. She thinks her husband's business

promoting rap groups might have taken him to Crenshaw. "They say he was

killed there, but I don't know what he'd be doing there," she says. "If he stopped

somewhere on his way home, he'd call me."

She agonizes over the shortage of information. In other murders, she says,

"everybody else has somebody to point a finger at. I'm not sure whether O.J. did

it or not, but at least (the families) get a trial. I'm just all up in the air."

There's been fear, too. Because the house keys were taken, she and her

3-year-old son, DeVon, moved out of her own home and close to the aunt's

home.

"It changed my whole world, the way I feel about people," she says. DeVon

clutches her sometimes, saying, "I don't want mommy to be sad. I'll take care of

you."

Death in the family

Jaime Moreno was 26 - like Ronald Goldman - when he died in the climax to a

long-standing battle between in-laws. And like Goldman, he was killed by a

knife.

It started when his wife, Vickie, left a party to visit her sister, Paula. Vickie

hadn't seen Paula in months because her family had a bitter relationship with her

sister's husband, Lorenzo Fernandez. But she had been told he wouldn't be home.

Leaving Jaime at the party, Vickie drove to her sister's house. When she

knocked, Lorenzo Fernandez surprised her by answering the door. Ultimately, a

fight broke out between Vickie, Fernandez and his sister. They punched, kicked

and scratched while Paula tried to intervene.

Vickie raced back to the party and returned to the Fernandez home with a furious

and unarmed Jaime. Investigators say Jaime was forcing his way in when

Fernandez stabbed him to death. He left two children, ages 7 and 3.

Investigators and the district attorney's office labeled it justifiable homicide;

Fernandez was never charged with a crime. They blame Vickie Moreno.

"Her husband would be alive today if her temper hadn't got the best of her," says

sheriff's investigator Pamela Schrick. "She should have backed off."

Vickie does live with that guilt. But Jaime's parents say investigators have the

story wrong, that an unarmed Jaime simply wanted a "fair fight" outside, that the

use of a knife in a family quarrel was completely unnecessary.

They say Jaime was victimized by a snap decision from investigators, that at

least six witnesses could contradict the official conclusion and that Paula is an

abused wife who kept quiet out of fear of Fernandez.

"It's outrageous," says Jaime's stepfather, Don Monroe, who owns a scrap metal

yard.

"There was no investigation. They did what I call a 10-minute study (and)

twisted it all around. . . . At least the system spent some resources on making the

Browns and Goldmans feel better. They can put it to rest."

Victim of a stray

By all accounts, Cynthia Siegfried died from a bullet that was not meant for her.

The 30-year-old mother of two was riding with a friend, Shirley Knocke, through

the South Coast community of Lomita at 1:30 a.m. that Sunday when Knocke

stopped by the home of her estranged husband, Mike.

The Knockes began arguing on the front lawn while Siegfried sat in the car.

Mike Knocke produced a rifle, and shots rang out. According to both Knockes,

he was shooting in the air. When Shirley Knocke grabbed for the rifle, it sent a

bullet into Siegfried's chest.

She died the way police believe Goldman died - by being in the wrong place at

the wrong time.

Authorities allowed Mike Knocke to plead guilty to manslaughter. Because of a

previous robbery conviction, he drew a 17-year prison term.

But the victim's mother, Martha Siegfried of Torrance, and sister, Donna Eastep,

of Reno, Nev., aren't satisfied.

"This should have been a murder case," says Eastep. "He was intending to kill

his wife and missed." She thinks Shirley Knocke lied to save her husband.

Siegfried, who had placed her children in foster care, was in a drug recovery

program and had found religion. "My sister was on the road to recovery, building

a new life," says Eastep.

Siegfried was buried in an unmarked grave near a row of warehouses in a remote

corner of Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City. The family still owes $540 for

the burial.

The mother can't set aside the tragedy. "You never get over something like this. I

don't think I'll ever recover."

And the sister deals with a double tragedy. The state turned down her effort to

adopt Siegfried's children because she didn't make enough money. They're still in

foster care.

"It breaks my heart. . . . When Mike Knocke murdered my sister, he shot a hole

through our family."

Jealousy erupts

Trinidad Velasquez's death is another sad tale.

A year earlier, Velasquez had met a man named Zenaido Gutierrez at a dance.

Although her brother didn't approve - he called him a drug user - Velasquez and

Gutierrez began seeing each other.

She became pregnant in December, and they were married in April. There was

trouble between them. They fought regularly. Gutierrez was jealous and beat her.

Then came the nightmare. A week before her death, when she was five months

pregnant, Velasquez went into labor and delivered a baby girl, who died within

hours. Velasquez couldn't afford a funeral; her daughter was cremated.

Velasquez's sister, Catalina, lived across the street and the two of them spent

most of the next week together there. Velasquez was there June 12 when she

decided to go home for a change of clothes. Catalina's roommate, Irene Aragon,

tagged along.

Aragon says Gutierrez, angry that his wife wore revealing shorts, picked a fight

with her. As Aragon watched, he beat Velasquez and slammed a door on her

hand, severing a finger. He knocked her unconscious. Dragging her to a

bedroom, he revived her by throwing rubbing alcohol in her face.

Velasquez screamed for Aragon to find her brother. As Aragon left, she heard a

shot followed by shrieks from Velasquez: "No mas! No mas!" Then two more

shots, and silence. Gutierrez drove off as Aragon raced screaming for Catalina.

"When I got over there," says Catalina, "she was lying face down and groaning. I

lifted her up, and she had three bullet holes in her face. My breath stopped. She

was trying to speak." Moments later, Velasquez died in Catalina's arms.

Police issued a bulletin on Gutierrez. His 1990 Firebird was found abandoned the

next morning in nearby Azusa, but there's been no sign of him since.

As in every other case, the family feels police have done little. "They took a

report, and that's it," says Catalina. "They don't care about Hispanic people."

Sgt. Henry Reed of the sheriff's department defends the investigation. Detectives

spent 18 hours at the house, he says. They took prints, interviewed every

witness, distributed flyers. They're working with Mexican authorities.

"This was no short investigation," says Reed.

But Velasquez's brother, Pedro, still shares Catalina's sentiment. "They stopped

looking," says Pedro. "I would tell the Goldmans and Browns to be grateful for

police and a trial. We didn't get that."

PHOTO,color; PHOTOS,color,Bob Riha Jr.,Gamma-Liaison(3);

PHOTO,b/w,Bob Riha Jr.,Gamma-Liaison