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There had been three murders and most likely more by the time I realized that death was again stalking the Pacific Northwest. In that summer of 1984, fear was already flooding the cities, towns, highways and forests of Washington State. We residents were well familiar with serial killers. Ted Bundy and Gary Ridgway had been able to fulfill their terrible agendas because they were able to hide in plain sight. They had families, girlfriends and jobs. They stood behind us in the grocery line, they sat next to us in the movie theaters. They acted like us. They looked like us. They were just like us. Unknown to everyone, though, there was another killer hunting for victims in those years. One who remained unnamed by the press, unrecognized by the authorities. An unknown, free to pursue and eliminate whomever the mystery killer wished. So skillful were the murders, they were not believed to be murders at all. The press never did name the perpetrator nor did the authorities ever recognize the fact that a third killer roamed the area. I knew, though, that in the colorful world of the local art scene, someone was watching, making plans and waiting for the moment to strike. I knew about the killer I came to call the Raven.