Duct Tape Killer: The True Inside Story of Sexual Sadist & Murderer Robert Leroy Anderson

Prologue

FEAR, ANXIETY, AND REVULSION gripped the region as word spread regarding women being abducted, one brazenly taken from her home in broad daylight. The near kidnapping of another who had to fight for her life on a dark, secluded highway escalated the fear. In the tranquil area of southeast South Dakota where family and religious values flourished, the news was perceived as unreal. When an elite team of investigators cracked the case and details were released to the public, the lives of these women took on a personal feel to the residents of their communities.

The deranged mind of Robert Leroy Anderson, a sexual sadist, rapist, and murderer, came to light. We had the privilege of meeting former attorney general, judge, and prosecutor Larry Long. Despite the intense heat of late summer, he wore a long-sleeved white button-up shirt, a whimsical purple paisley tie, and polished black wingtips. He emanated sophistication, and when he spoke, it was with refined wisdom. We sat with objective fascination as Mr. Long shared information about the case with the use of over one hundred photos. We discussed the possibilities of writing a book and explained with honesty that we had been contacted by more than a dozen people wanting us to write a book about their life. In the end, we chose to work with Larry Long and write Duct Tape Killer. This tragic account also contains the glimmers of eternal hope and the stories of people who fought to overcome evil rather than succumb to it. Duct Tape Killer is the dark story of a demented man who stalked and planned appalling acts upon his victims. It also depicts the continued struggles good people face in a world filled with unspeakable evil.

—Phil & Sandy Hamman

Duct Tape Killer alternates in chronological order.

Below is a basic timeline laid out

in the sequence in which events occurred.

Anderson plots. He begins to invent devices to help abduct women. Early 1990s.

Glen Walker agrees to assist Anderson with the crimes. Spring 1994.

Larisa Dumansky vanishes from the Morrell’s parking lot. August 27, 1994.

Amy Anderson (no relation) fights for her life on a secluded highway. November 10, 1994.

Anderson exhumes Larisa’s grave. July 25 and 26, 1996.

Anderson is foiled in his attempt to abduct Piper Streyle. Friday, July 26, 1996.

Anderson successfully kidnaps Piper. Monday, July 29, 1996.

Investigators first interview Anderson. July 30, 1996.

The first trial for kidnapping Piper begins. April 8, 1997.

The shrewd inmate, Jeremy Brunner, cons Anderson. Late summer 1997.

The murder trial begins. March 1999.

Serial killers make up only

0.00039% of the population.

The odds of being a victim

of this type of killer

are astronomically

low.

Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.

—1 Peter 5:8 (NIV)

The Phone Call

July 29, 1996

SOMETHING WAS WRONG. Twenty-seven-year-old Piper Streyle, dependable and responsible, had not shown up for work. As an employee of Southeastern Mental Health Outreach (SMHO), she provided home assistance to a mother and son, who were both disabled. She was punctual and efficient, so when 3:00 PM rolled around and Piper had not shown up, the mother called SMHO and talked to Piper’s coworker, Patty Sinclair. Piper was an hour late. While Patty dialed Piper’s number, she tried to push away a nagging concern; likely there was a miscommunication that would soon be cleared up. The phone rang repeatedly at the home Piper shared with her husband, Vance, and two young children. Shaina was three and a half and Nathan had turned two yesterday. Finally, Patty heard the distinct clatter of the receiver being lifted.

Hello, Shaina said quietly.

Is your mommy or daddy home? Patty asked.

No.

Is there a babysitter?

No. They are killed. A mean man carried Mommy away.

Click.

Patty called back immediately, her pulse rising with each successive ring of the phone until finally a small voice answered. It was the little girl again, and now she was sobbing hysterically. Patty’s gut instinct was to keep the little girl talking to calm her down.

When did Mommy leave?

A while ago.

Where did she go?

She went with a man in a black car.

Do you know the man?

No. I don’t want my mommy to die. I don’t want Daddy hurt. I don’t want Daddy to die.

Patty was able to get the attention of a coworker and directed her to call 911.

Have Patty keep talking to the little girl, and we’ll try to get more information, the 911 operator directed.

So, Patty asked the girl her name.

Shaina, she sobbed. My mommy is going to die. She hung up again.

Early 1990s (Ukraine) –

August 1994 (USA)

A NEW LIFE. A better life. That was the dream of Bill and Larisa Dumansky. The Ukraine had become unstable as the country sought independence from Russia. Political strife created a terrible economic crisis, and a steady job was difficult to find. Adding to the pressure was the fact that the Dumansky family was Christian. Bill’s father was a Pentecostal minister, a denomination banned by the government. To avoid the watchful eye of government officials, Christians held worship services at night in the forest or in secluded basements. Schoolteachers encouraged children to denounce God, and those who preached His word lived in constant fear of being arrested and sentenced to prison, tortured, or executed. Through the efforts of Lutheran Social Services, the Dumanskys qualified for asylum due to religious persecution and settled in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where they joined his parents, brother, and five sisters.

This city nestled in the southeast corner of the state was the largest city in South Dakota, though it boasted a population of less than 100,000. The winding Big Sioux River with its cascading waterfalls along with pristine parks and pre-war Japanese gardens immediately felt like home to Bill and Larisa. The city would in fact become nationally ranked as the best city to live in the United States based on numerous factors, including health care, employment, home prices, and low crime rates. The citizens of the Midwestern town did not readily tolerate crime, and many neighborhoods worked with the police department to form watch groups.

When both Bill and Larisa landed good-paying jobs at the local John Morrell meatpacking plant, the couple knew they could provide a stable life for their two daughters, Kristina and Regina. The factory loomed over the north side of Sioux Falls like a brick and steel giant with towering smokestacks stretching into the sky. The plant skirted the lower-income housing areas that crept into the extreme northeast part known for its aging homes with front porches, family dogs roaming freely, and backyards dotted with yellow dandelions beneath clotheslines. The packing house ran shifts around the clock and processed beef, pork, and lamb to sell across the nation. It was a welcome job for many immigrants like Bill and Larisa who wanted to get a solid start. Gradually the couple began to get ahead financially. Bill left Morrell’s and took a day shift laying carpet and flooring while Larisa continued working the night shift at the packing house from 4:00 PM to 1:00 AM. She would go home, shower, then slip into bed so as not to wake Bill. She would snuggle next to her husband, even more so as their love had deepened. Larisa was six weeks pregnant.

A Husband’s Distress

July 29, 1996, late afternoon

MCCOOK COUNTY SHERIFF Gene Taylor was dispatched to the Streyle residence, a trailer house located west of Sioux Falls near Canistota. He was not informed about the conversation between the employees of SMHO and the 911 operator but was only told to check on the welfare of a child. The locals made frequent comparisons between their own Sheriff Taylor and television Sheriff Andy Taylor from The Andy Griffith Show due to his easygoing yet alert nature. In 1966 he was drafted for the Vietnam War. When his commander asked for volunteers to become military police, Taylor said, I must have gotten my hand up faster than some of the others. He was one of the few chosen to be trained as an MP. He returned home and became sheriff a decade later, a title he would hold for 28 years.

Upon approaching the Streyle trailer, Taylor felt immediately unsettled. Three steps led to a large deck off the entrance to the trailer. He noted that the bottom board was knocked off, and the second step was broken, tilted at an awkward angle; for some reason it looked as though it had recently occurred. The front door hung open and a gaping hole stood where there should have been glass in the screen door. Taylor knocked and called out, This is Sheriff Taylor. Is anyone home? He called out several more times to no avail, although he heard young voices inside the home. Since he came to check on the welfare of children, he decided to enter the residence. He opened the door and immediately knew something was amiss.

The crowded living room, a testament to the many household items required when raising children, was clean but cluttered with a mass of toys and stuffed animals strewn liberally about the sofa, floor, and upright piano. A chair and ironing board, among other items, were tipped over or in disarray. A steak knife protruded from a wastebasket near the front door. It looks like there was a struggle and that someone left in a hurry. A woman’s purse lay surrounded by a checkbook, calculator, and bills. He called out again, but there was still no answer.

Taylor entered the hallway and spotted a small girl, who burst into tears. He bent down to look her in the eyes.

Do you know where your mom is?

My mommy is going to die!

Is your mom in the hospital?

No. The girl hugged herself and cried uncontrollably. Taylor heard a small noise in one of the bedrooms, and a boy, hardly more than a toddler, came running to his sister’s side. Taylor asked a few more questions which only caused her to cry harder.

He immediately called for backup, and a horde of authorities converged on the scene including Division of Criminal Investigation agent Jim Severson. He knelt on one knee and had Shaina sit on the other knee. He gently began asking her what happened.

She continued crying and squeezed her hands together nervously. A bad man in a black truck came. There was a loud noise, and Mommy said to get Nathan and hide.

Shaina’s answers were interrupted by the ringing of the phone in another room. Taylor picked up the receiver.

Hello.

Who is this? the voice on the other end demanded.

This is McCook County Sheriff Gene Taylor. Who is this?

Vance Streyle. I’m looking for my kids. Is something wrong? Unable to make contact with his wife around noon, Vance assumed the children would be at the babysitter’s house and went there.

Your kids are safe, but I need you to come home as soon as possible.

Vanished

August 27, 1994

THE CONTINUED BUZZING of the alarm clock brought Bill Dumansky out of a deep sleep. His wife, Larisa, always turned it off, but today the piercing noise continued. Morning sunrays shimmered through the curtains, causing him to stir and open his eyes. He rolled onto his side, but something wasn’t right. Larisa was not in bed. Thinking she got up for some reason, he walked through the house, but his wife was nowhere, and her minivan was not in the driveway. Bill threw on some clothes and made a few phone calls to friends and coworkers, who also had not seen Larisa. His concern turned to anxiety, and he phoned two hospital emergency rooms to see if something might have happened. Then he decided to drive around in hopes of locating his wife. She had definitely arrived at work by 4:00 PM the previous day, since she called Bill during her break. She was happy and in a playful mood. They were having guests the next day and discussed the menu. By 7:30 AM he was driving through the employee parking lot scanning the stretching rows of vehicles until finally he spotted her minivan just ahead and let out a small sigh of relief. He parked behind the van, but his stomach clenched at the first thing he noticed. The front driver’s side tire was completely flat, and even more disturbing were the van keys dangling from the driver’s side door lock. Bill rushed to a telephone and called the police.

Although the detectives were concerned, they also operated from the standpoint of realizing that she could be with a friend or relative. In 99% of cases nationwide, the missing person is located within 24 hours. Lieutenant Gary Folkerts explained this fact to Bill. But because of the unusual circumstances, including the flat tire and key left in the door, the detectives soon opened a missing person’s case. They dusted the minivan for fingerprints and checked other forensic details, but it showed nothing of