If I Die...: A True Story of Obsessive Love, Uncontrollable Greed, and Murder

If I Die...: A True Story of Obsessive Love, Uncontrollable Greed, and Murder

by Michael Fleeman

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Overview

He'd been shot in the head, decapitated, and set on fire. Who could have turned on the real-estate ace with such bloodthirsty fury? Even before the remains were found, circumstantial evidence was building against Rudin's 52-year-old wife, Margaret, who stood to inherit a handsome share of her husband's fortune. Rudin's friends also suspected Margaret, and the victim has thought that his wife was trying to poison him when he was alive. Then a chilling caveat was discovered in Rudin's living trust: should he die under violent circumstances, an investigation should be conducted. By the time authorities closed in on Margaret Rudin she'd disappeared. It would take two and a half years to hunt the Black Widow down, and to discover the secrets at the heart of poisonous marriage...

Now, reporter Michael Fleeman delivers a startling glimpse into the mind of a woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. Fleeman also details the relentless pursuit of justice that would lead authorities from the glamorous facade of Las Vegas to a squalid apartment on the outskirts of Boston, to hold the remorseless wife accountable for her shocking crimes.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781429904292
Publisher: St. Martin''s Publishing Group
Publication date: 04/01/2007
Series: St. Martin's True Crime Library Series
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 324
Sales rank: 226,703
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Michael Fleeman is an associate bureau chief for People magazine in Los Angeles and a former reporter for The Associated Press. His books include the true crime stories The Stranger in My Bed and Love You Madly. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

Michael Fleeman is a Los Angeles-based freelance writer and editor and the author of several true-crime books published by St. Martin's Press, including the New York Times bestseller The Stranger in My Bed and Crazy for You about the Andrea Sneiderman murder case in Atlanta. Fleeman appeared in the second season of Investigation Discovery's "Tabloid," a series about sensational true-crime stories.

A graduate of UC Berkeley and the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, Fleeman previously was West Coast Editor of PEOPLE.com, overseeing entertainment and crime/human interest reporting for PEOPLE magazine's website out of Los Angeles. Prior to that, he was a reporter for the Associated Press in Los Angeles and New Jersey, covering the O.J. Simpson and Timothy McVeigh trials, general assignment and entertainment.

Fleeman has covered all the major awards shows and film festivals, including the Oscars, Golden Globes, Emmys, Grammys and SAG Awards, and his work has been repeatedly honored by the Los Angeles Press Club. His O.J. Simpson trial coverage was nominated by the AP for a Pulitzer Prize.

A frequently requested public speaker and television commentator, Fleeman appears regularly on Entertainment Tonight, "E! True Hollywood Story," Inside Edition, HLN's "Showbiz Tonight," CNN and a variety of true-crime programs on TruTV, Investigation Discovery and Oxygen. He has also participated on panels at the conference of the Greater Los Angeles Writers Society.

Read an Excerpt

"If I Die ..."


By Michael Fleeman

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2002 Michael Fleeman
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0429-2


CHAPTER 1

ELDORADO CANYON


A car came to a stop on a lonely turnout above Lake Mohave, a long narrow reservoir straddling the Nevada–Arizona border. In the cold winter moonlight, Steven Vermilya and three companions piled out of the car after the ninety-minute drive from Las Vegas, unloading their tackle boxes and poles for a long night of fishing for striped bass and catfish. They would have this part of the lake to themselves. The nearest settlement was Nelson's Landing, some five miles to the west, deep in Eldorado Canyon, where the bullet-riddled "No Trespassing" signs nearly outnumbered the hardy inhabitants.

Carrying their gear, the fishermen stumbled down the rocky slope until they reached a cliff that dropped off into nothing but darkness. They backtracked and found a loose gravel path that led them to an old boat launch area that had been washed out by floodwaters in the 1970s. They had nothing but a single flashlight and the moonlight to guide them — Steven acknowledged that the trip wasn't well thought out — and by the time they reached water's edge even the moonlight began to fade behind gathering clouds.

They fished for about four hours at the landing, where a century earlier steamers had unloaded men and supplies for the gold and silver mines up the canyon. Eldorado was a boomtown in those days, larger, richer and meaner than the dusty stopover on the desert floor that the Spanish explorers had named Las Vegas — The Meadows — for its oases. The notorious Indian outlaw Queho had lived and died in this wild canyon. His mummified body would be found in a cliff-side cave, the leathery remains lying next to the watchman's badge belonging to one of the 20 people he was said to have murdered.

But this night, January 21, 1995, all was quiet and cool. A gentle rain began to fall. The fish weren't biting. It was so dark the men couldn't see the jagged mountains on the Arizona side of the lake. By 1 a.m. — now Saturday — they were tired and cold. They packed up their gear and headed for home. The trek back proved to be tougher than the hike down. The four men walked in a tight, single-file line, with Vermilya at the front, and a buddy behind him holding the flashlight. They stumbled and slipped on the steep, loose ground, basically stones and gravel on top of solid rock. They couldn't find the trail they took down, so they headed up a ravine.

They were about halfway up the ravine when they spotted it. Steven didn't even see it at first, focused as he was on the terrain in front of him. But the flashlight beam from behind him had caught it, just off to the right.

"There's a human skull!" one of the men behind Steven shouted.

He thought they were teasing him. By now, the men were so uncomfortable that grim humor had set in. But this was no joke. There lay a skull on the rocky ground, resting on what would have been its left cheek. Clearly visible were the fillings in the teeth and what looked like cartilage holding the jaw to the rest of the skull.

Steven and two of the other men were trained military policemen, from Nellis Air Force Base north of Las Vegas. They knew enough not to touch it.

The plan was to get home to Las Vegas and call the police. They scampered up the ravine to their car, threw their gear inside and drove out of the overlook parking area, up the narrow road that wound through Eldorado Canyon.

They never seriously considered stopping in Nelson's Landing to use a phone. There were no gas stations or stores, only the little houses and mobile homes, which didn't look inviting. On the way to the lake, they had seen a sign on a building that read: "Do Not Stop Here."

"After we found the skull," Steven recalled, "the sign kind of took on a new meaning."

By daybreak, they'd return to Eldorado Canyon, where riches and death have long been intertwined like the gold running through the quartz in a glory hole that turned out to be a deadly bridal chamber.


Detective Phil Ramos got the phone call at home about noon on Saturday, January 21, 1995. It was his supervisor, Sgt. Bill Keeton. "Guess what?" Keeton prodded him.

Ramos didn't have to guess. He and Vaccaro weren't the on-call detectives that weekend — that was Mike Franks and partner Brent Becker — so Keeton could only be calling about one thing. There was a break in the biggest case of their careers.

Ramos and Vaccaro arranged to drive separately to Nelson's Landing, where they would meet Franks and Becker, who had been there for hours. It was a glorious afternoon, the kind of crisp, clean day that could only follow a rain, El Niño taking a breather. As they traveled across the desert, the road through Eldorado Canyon became narrow and winding after the little settlement of Nelson's Landing, the center stripe disappearing altogether as the neglected pavement turned bumpy. All along the road, past the abandoned mines where the locals insisted there was still plenty of gold and silver left for anybody with the grit to go after it, one sign after another issued warnings and prohibitions: "No Shooting Area. Loaded Weapons Prohibited." Others warned, "Watch Downhill Speed," "No Dumping," "No Trespassing," "Road Narrows." Many of them were aerated by shotgun blasts; the no-shooting admonition obviously carried little weight in this remote canyon.

Ramos and Vaccaro arrived at the parking area overlooking Lake Mohave. Much of the crime scene had been processed by the time Ramos and Vaccaro got there. The detectives were given the basics: Four fishermen had stumbled onto a skull in a rocky ravine the night before. Three of them had returned to Nelson's Landing to point out the skull — the fourth had had to work that morning. They were interviewed and let go.

The scene was being processed by analyst Sheree Norman, who had been called to Nelson's Landing at 11 that morning. She made a diagram of the area and had photos taken. The skull was located about 70 yards away from the roadway, down the steep embankment, in a gully carved out by rainwater running down toward the lake, another couple hundred yards away. The skull was remarkably well preserved; the jaw was still attached, the ligaments having survived the elements. The skull had a small blackened area, as if the head had been exposed to fire. In the back of the skull were three small holes — very possibly bullet holes.

As the police were being led to the skull by the fishermen earlier that morning, they found what could have been the source of the charring. A fire pit was located just a few yards up the hill from the skull. There were small bone fragments in the pit. Norman recalled that the area was "not unlike what you found in a barbecue pit." Only this appeared to be a human barbecue. On a bluff above, Norman saw more bone fragments next to bird droppings. "We speculate there was a lot of animal activity helping themselves to what was left in the fire pit," she said.

If this was the remains of a human, the fire had consumed any traces of clothing or shoes. There was not so much as a zipper or metal button. But amid the bones were some other things: metal bands, two hasps, a lock assembly — in the locked position — pieces of fire-blackened wood and remnants of a floral-design lining paper that had escaped the flames. Norman knew immediately where these had come from. They were what was left of an antique humpback chest, like the one Norman's mother, an antique collector, had given her when she was growing up in New Jersey. From the metal straps, she could tell that the trunk was about standard size, 20 inches by 36 inches at the base. She had no way of telling how high it was, because the straps only went around the base of the trunk. The wood that would have made up the sides was nothing but little burned scraps.

Some effort was likely exerted to get the trunk to this spot, suggesting that the body had been in it. A rough gravel trail led down the hill, but passed well away from the burned area. From the trail, etched in the gravel, were what Norman suspected to be parallel drag marks, about 20 inches apart, leading toward the fire pit, but stopping far short of it.

After the coroner's technician had removed the human remains, Norman had scooped up some of the burned dirt and rocks, the wood and the paper, and placed them in clean metal paint cans for testing in the police lab. She plucked out the hasps and the lock and put them in bags. She put the big metal strips in a large box. She also found a number of old-fashioned, square-shafted nails, which she collected.

From the fire pit, she measured the distance down the steep ravine to where the skull lay on its left side against three rocks, the eye sockets peering downhill. It was 35 feet away. She suspected it may have rolled down to the spot, but she couldn't be sure.

One more piece of evidence would be found — explaining why Ramos and Vaccaro were called out on their day off. Located about 13 feet from the burn area draped over a rock, was a bracelet, badly tarnished, on which little jewels spelled out the name RON.

CHAPTER 2

RRR-1

Read the history of Las Vegas, and it's a common theme: A man with a vision looks at what others would consider a vast wasteland and sees only promise. Ronald J. Rudin would join their ranks in his own modest way with everybody from turn-of-the-century real estate speculator William Clark (the Clark in Clark County, Nevada) to mobster and casino builder Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel.

In the early 1960s, Ron was primed for change. He was a 30-year-old Korean War vet, and his home state of Illinois held no future for him. His plans to expand a Chicago manufacturing plant were stymied by his business partner. Out here in the West, he could do it alone.

The Las Vegas of four decades ago bore little resemblance to the corporate-run Disneyland for adults of today. It was a smaller, more intimate, perhaps more dangerous town, where the doormen addressed the high rollers by name and where it wouldn't be unusual to see a member of the Rat Pack, including Frank himself, at the tables, blowing off some steam after wowing them with a boozy show at the Desert Inn.

But the more carnal aspects of Las Vegas held no appeal for Ron. He would place his bets far away from the casinos, in the thriving real estate market. "After the Korean War, he was looking for ways to make money but not just with a job," explained his cousin Robert Riley, who grew up with Ron. "He wasn't going to just work for somebody. He was going to do something that had great potential, he felt. I think he looked at Las Vegas as that kind of place. He looked at Las Vegas as having potential for tremendous growth."


* * *

Born on November 14, 1930, Ron Rudin grew up in Joliet, Illinois, a middle-class suburban steel town on the Des Plaines River, 40 miles southwest of Chicago. Although it was the depths of the Depression, the Rudin family did not struggle. Ron's father, the tough, bigger-than-life Roy Rudin, earned a good salary working for a chemical company. His job took him to far-off exotic places where the company looked for raw materials. A snapshot from 1943 showed Roy Rudin in British Guyana, a cigarette in one hand and a pith helmet in the other. An avid hunter, his prey once included a huge snake in the jungles of South America.

By all indications Ron both loved and feared his father. When Roy Rudin spoke, people tended to snap to attention. Ron was an only child, and his mother Stella doted on him. He in turn worshipped his mother. Stella was also described by several of Ron's cousins as their favorite aunt, a generous, warm-hearted woman who, if she had any flaw, it was that she was a terrible driver.

Though his father was often away, Ron appeared to have had a rich and happy childhood. He spent summers on the southern Illinois farm owned by his maternal grandparents, playing with his cousins, and hunting birds and squirrels with a single-shot .22 rifle, which he was allowed to use when he was as young as six. Ron had inherited not only his father's love of hunting, but some of his strong personality as well. He would be the leader of whatever little pack of cousins was there at the time — often to his financial benefit. "Let's just say Ron was good at marbles and things like that," recalled his cousin Riley, who said the two were as close as brothers when they were kids. "He would be tighter than a bark on a tree. He knew every penny that he had — and tried to figure out how to get yours if you let him."

But it wasn't all Norman Rockwell for the Rudin family. During a visit to the farm, tragedy struck. His father was found slumped over in a chair. He had died of a heart attack. Ron was young; family members couldn't remember exactly how old, though they thought he was about ten. Ron never talked about it much, one of many things he would internalize over his life, but relatives could tell he took it hard. It drew Ron even closer to his mother.

When not on the farm, Ron lived up north in Joliet, attending schools in the public system: Moran Elementary, (later renamed Cunningham Elementary) junior high at Farragut School, and then Joliet High School where he was a member of the ROTC. A snapshot from his 1948 graduation is pure Americana: a handsome young man, standing in cap and gown in front of a brick house with a white picket fence. As he got older, in the 1950s, he grew sideburns and kept his wavy hair long on top.

After graduating from high school, Ron enlisted in the Illinois Army National Guard. He would later tell a friend that he did this to avoid service in the Korean War, but it didn't work. He graduated from Joliet Junior College in 1950, then was shipped overseas, writing frequently to family members and enclosing black-and-white photos of the Army camps where he was stationed. In the pictures he cut a dashing figure — tall, slender, his hair cut only a little shorter for Army regulations, a rifle slung over his shoulder. His letters focused on the headaches of camp life; people knew he saw action in Korea, but he would never talk about it, in his letters or in conversations when he returned. Like his father's death, it was something he refused to discuss.

After the war, Ron worked in a small soldering-supplies manufacturing company in Chicago that his mother had purchased with a partner, and he developed an interest in flying, taking lessons that he paid for under the GI Bill. A fellow student, John Reuther, who owned a radiator repair business in Chicago — and who had co-incidentally bought soldering supplies from Ron's business — found Ron friendly enough, but very tight-lipped, difficult to draw out. Talk of the war was off-limits.

One day, in about 1958, Reuther and some friends invited Ron to go skeet-shooting on property that Reuther owned. Ron agreed, and Reuther, not knowing about Ron's experiences shooting on his grandparents' farm, said, "He put us all to shame." Reuther noticed something else about Ron: While the other men were shooting, Ron would be picking up the spent shotgun shells. He would bring them home and reload them rather than waste money buying new ones.

Ron excelled in his flying classes, quickly got his license and either purchased or leased a plane, a Howard, that was left over from the war. An eager Ron wanted to fly it to California, even though he was still inexperienced on the notoriously tricky aircraft. One day he set off for the West.

"He decided to take off at 4 in the afternoon," recalled Reuther. "I said, 'You've been waiting months to leave, what's the rush now? Wait 'til morning.' Well, he didn't want to wait. They took off from Lockport and they got down to Champaign, at the University of Illinois airfield. He was landing in the sun. He had flown our airplane, but no two airplanes are the same. The Howard's one of the hardest planes ever to land."

As Ron approached the runway, "It got away from him," Reuther said. "It come down hard. The gear went up, ruptured the belly tank. And they had 100-octane fuel. They went sideways down the concrete runway. Fortunately, there wasn't a spark. The three of them walked away, and, to my knowledge, Ron didn't get back into another airplane, except on the airline."

With flying behind him and work at the soldering materials plant unsatisfying, Ron went on a hunting trip to Wyoming. He had taken a detour through Las Vegas on his way home, where he fell in love with the wide-open spaces. He started earning money doing light construction work, saved up enough to run his own company, then began investing in real estate, mainly houses that had been foreclosed. He fixed them up and sold them for a profit. Business was great. The population of Las Vegas was soaring. He called his friends and relatives and tried to get them to join him.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from "If I Die ..." by Michael Fleeman. Copyright © 2002 Michael Fleeman. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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