This is the first in a five-part series about the oldest cold case homicide ever solved in Riverside County, Calif. The following story is based on a review of more than 1,000 pages of county court transcripts, court exhibits, police records, archived news articles and interviews. To explore the whole series, check out The Coldest Case, a Desert Sun true crime story.

February, 1972 – Diana Walker, 23, was five months pregnant, drifting off to sleep, when her boyfriend burst into their home, sweaty and frantic, with the legs of his pants covered in sand. His cheeks were flushed but the rest of his face was drained and colorless. Something was very wrong.

“What’s going on?” Walker asked, alarmed, sitting up in her bed.

“Get up,” he snapped. “Come on. I have to show you something.”

Her boyfriend, Michael, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of bed, yanking hard. She dressed quickly and he rushed her to the car, a yellow Volkswagen they had borrowed from a neighbor. They sped away from the Elm’s Trailer Park in Indio, California. It was about 3 a.m.

"What's going on?" Walker asked again, more insistent this time.

“I can’t tell you,” Michael responded. “I’ve got to take you and show you.”

"I hurt someone."

Michael drove into the night for about 30 minutes, first down Highway 111 and then curving onto Interstate 10 toward Palm Springs, a glamorous city where he and Walker had met in a bar one year prior. Michael, 23, was slender, with blue eyes and shaggy dark brown hair that covered his ears. He had a knack for wooing women, invading their lives and taking what he wanted.

With Walker, he did the same. Michael had moved into her apartment within three weeks of meeting her, then pressured her to help him with a life of shoplifting and petty crime. Together, they stole wigs from a beauty shop in Palm Springs and broke into the home of a night club owner that Walker used to work for. Sometimes, Michael made her be his getaway driver.

He also started beating her, brutally and without warning, always punching her in the body to hide the bruises. Once she was too battered to resist, Michael ordered her to quit her job and become a prostitute. He kept her terrified, but she was never more frightened of him than she was on this night, as they sped through the dark without explanation.

"I did more than hurt somebody," Michael announced as he drove.

Walker felt her stomach churn. Each time Michael spoke, his story was a little worse, as if every word pushed the car towards a cliff's edge. She was almost too afraid to ask.

"There is only one thing you can do that is more than 'just hurt' somebody," she said. "Did you kill somebody?"

"I killed a girl," Michael responded.

Walker prayed that there had been a car accident. Maybe Michael had finished his night shift at the hotel where he worked, then had a few beers and drove when he shouldn't have. She concentrated on the trailer park, as Michael rushed her into the yellow Volkswagen. Had the hood been dented? Was the paint scraped? She didn't remember. From inside the car, at least, it didn't look like there had been any crash.

"Don't ask me any questions," Michael said. "Wait until we get out there."

He stomped on the gas and the glitzy lights of Palm Springs disappeared in the rear view mirror. Minutes later, the Volkswagen turned onto an empty desert road north of the city.

Michael parked between some wiry bushes, parallel to a line of tamarisk trees that swayed in a chilly evening breeze.

He pulled Walker out of the car. She peered into the darkness.

The glow of the headlights traced something in the dirt on the roadside.

It was a body. A woman in a colorful dress. She was face down with her arms flopped above her head.

A large rock with a ruddy splotch sat on the sand near the corpse.

Walker recoiled, but Michael ordered her to stay close, saying he needed help dragging the woman into the desert, where no one would find her. She pulled free of Michael’s grip, marched back toward the car and vomited on the asphalt, then sat in the passenger seat with the door open, trying not to pass out. She had never seen a dead body outside of a funeral casket before.

Minutes passed as Walker sat there, trying to make sense of what she had seen.

Who was this woman? What had Michael done? Was she next?

Walker thought about running, but knew she wouldn't make it far. She was pregnant, and the streets were dark and empty. He could catch her easily. And even if he didn't, she would have nowhere to go.

As Walker’s mind raced, Michael and the body disappeared into the darkness. Walker could hear the rustling of bushes. Then Michael came back, climbed inside the car, turned the key and headed home.

Walker was shaking.

“Why did you do this?” she asked.

“We needed the money,” Michael said.

“You killed her for money?” Walker repeated, dumbstruck.

“Yeah,” he said. “And I only got $7 out of it.”

Michael didn’t sugarcoat it. He had finished a night shift at The Biltmore, a swanky Palm Springs hotel where he worked as a waiter, then headed downtown, looking for someone to rob. He picked up a prostitute, assuming she would have cash, but when he tried to mug her, she fought back.

Michael said he choked her, then smashed her skull with the rock.

If Walker told anyone, he said he'd do the same to her. Michael might have been the father of her unborn child, but Walker didn't think the baby would stop him.

She had just seen firsthand what he was capable of. His confession was so brazen it was as if he was daring her to call the cops. He was not afraid.

They drove home in silence.

Michael climbed into bed and slept.

Walker laid awake, next to a killer, unsure what to do.

Published on July 18, 2017

PART TWO – In the dusty desert, a dead woman, a bloody rock, new shoes and a devil tattoo

Investigative reporter Brett Kelman can be reached at 760 778 4642 or by email at brett.kelman@desertsun.com. You can follow him on Twitter @tdsBrettKelman.