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Fatal Web

The mugshot of Sandra Bridewell, now going by Camille Powers, taken after her arrest on March 2 in North Carolina

When he spotted the pretty woman standing on the front lawn of a stately home in Highland Park, Alan Rehrig whipped his Bronco into the driveway and climbed out. The former college basketball star shook her hand and asked if she knew anyone who had a garage apartment for rent.

The dark-haired beauty fixed Rehrig with a dazzling smile. "No, but if you come back in 30 minutes, I'll see if I can help you," Sandra Bridewell said.

Rehrig drove down Lorraine Street, saw another woman in her yard and asked her the same question. She had seen Rehrig stop in front of Bridewell's house and warned him not to have anything to do with "that woman." Later he would laugh about the comment and tell his office friends "they're just jealous because she's good-looking."

He returned, and Bridewell climbed into his Bronco. They drove through Highland Park, chatting about which neighbors might have servants' quarters to rent.

It was June 2, 1984, and Rehrig had just moved to Dallas. After the drive, Rehrig rushed to Phil and Judy Askew's house, his temporary home, to shower and shave.

"He said he'd met this gorgeous woman," Judy Askew recalls.

Bridewell picked up Rehrig in her Mercedes convertible and took him to a party at the Dallas Country Club. They made a handsome if somewhat odd couple: the tall red-haired Rehrig with his all-American good looks and aw-shucks smile, and Bridewell, a delicate Southern beauty perfectly groomed and dressed by Neiman Marcus.

He was 29 and single. Bridewell was 36, with three children and alone after her husband's death from cancer. At least that's what she told Rehrig. She was really 41.

Within a few months, they were seeing each other every day. Bridewell adored his youth and handsome looks. Rehrig was impressed by the moneyed circles in which she moved, centered on The Mansion on Turtle Creek, the hotel created by her dead husband, Bobby Bridewell, where she received star treatment.

Rehrig didn't know that when he saw Bridewell on her Highland Park lawn, she was perched on a financial and social precipice. The house was mortgaged to the hilt. Credit cards, loans and gifts from men fueled the lifestyle, and an undercurrent of rumor had cost Bridewell friends and defenders.

Her neighbors whispered about the suicide of her first husband, David Stegall, who had shot himself in the head and slashed his wrists, and the even more mysterious suicide of Betsy Bagwell. The mother of two had been found shot in the head in her Mercedes Benz parked at Love Field after a day of ferrying Bridewell around. They speculated that Bridewell, whose second husband had died of cancer, was after Dr. John Bagwell, his oncologist and Betsy's husband. Death seemed to follow Sandra Bridewell.

Mesmerized by the lovely widow, Rehrig knew next to nothing about her past, and no one volunteered to clue him in. Six months after the start of their courtship, Rehrig and Bridewell wed at The Mansion.

A tumultuous year later they had separated, Rehrig again moving in with the Askews. Some people in Highland Park breathed a private sigh of relief. "At least he's alive," they told each other.

But on December 7, 1985, Rehrig left the Askew home around 4:50 p.m. He told them he was meeting his estranged wife at a mini-storage warehouse; she had requested his help moving some of her belongings stored there. Rehrig told Judy he was nervous because he hadn't seen her in a month.

The Askews were the last to see Rehrig alive. Four days later their friend was found dead in his Bronco, parked in a secluded area near the Oklahoma City airport. He'd been shot in the side and in the head. Freezing weather made it difficult to determine how long he had been dead.

Thanks to several Highland Park women who called the Oklahoma City police and provided detectives with information about the deaths of Stegall and Bagwell, the not-so-grieving widow would be caught in a tangle of lies.

Bridewell, who now goes by the name Camille Powers, remains the only suspect in Rehrig's murder. His death cemented Bridewell's reputation as the "Black Widow."


Twenty-one years later, Rehrig's murder is still unsolved. Bridewell, who received more than $220,000 in life insurance proceeds and Rehrig's estate, remains the only suspect. She left Dallas and embarked on a life hopscotching around the world, allegedly scamming men for money before remaking herself as a "missionary" and targeting gullible believers.

Today, Bridewell's March 2 arrest in North Carolina—her first—has given new life to the Rehrig investigation. While Bridewell remains in jail on $1.5 million bail on forgery and fraud charges after allegedly conning an elderly widow, the FBI is investigating her for possible Social Security fraud, a law enforcement source says.

 

A tradition among homicide detectives—whoever finds the body gets the case—plagued the Rehrig investigation from the beginning. It put Oklahoma City homicide detectives in charge even though evidence indicated Rehrig was murdered in Dallas and driven 200 miles north.

Even before Rehrig's funeral, Bridewell had hired a criminal defense attorney. After an initial interview, Bridewell blocked police from talking to her three children: Britt, 17; Kathryn, 14; and Emily, 12. She used all three as alibis.

Though hampered by distance and expense, the Oklahoma detectives declined to ask Dallas police for help. If they had, they might have discovered that Bridewell had a car phone, a fact they didn't know until told by the Dallas Observer this year. Thus they never obtained records of whom she called when, crucial details that might have undermined her alibi.

Detectives at first speculated that Bridewell had shot Rehrig at the mini-warehouse, hiding the Bronco inside a unit for a few hours, then returning to drive to Oklahoma City in the wee hours of the morning, but they dismissed that idea because the unit was too small and full to hide a Bronco. Unfortunately, they didn't get records of who rented the larger units nearby to see if Bridewell might have had access, and all those records would be destroyed within a few years.

The FBI investigated the murder but told no one else what they found. And in a bizarre twist, a flamboyant private investigator hired by Bridewell took a professional risk by volunteering to give Oklahoma police access to his files on his client.

"I don't represent murderers," Bill Dear says he told them. Suspicious detectives who regarded Dear as a publicity hound rebuffed him. If they hadn't, they would have discovered rental car receipts and other details that could have meshed with their evidence.

In the weeks after Bridewell's arrest this year, after a cursory examination of the old file, Oklahoma City police declined to reopen the case, saying there was nothing new. They had either lost or ignored a report made by Carrie Huskinson, another private investigator, who in the mid-'90s had questioned Kathryn Bridewell about one of her mother's scams. Huskinson notified homicide detectives to tell them Kathryn had vital information about her mother's alibi. They had never contacted any of Bridewell's children.

Gloria Rehrig, Alan's mother, was devastated by the decision not to reopen the case. A retired police officer at her church created a petition, got 100 signatures and went with Gloria to meet with the new Oklahoma County District Attorney David Prater and his first officer, Scott Rowland. They reminded Prater that one of his campaign issues had been resurrecting dormant homicide investigations. Rowland says their timing was right.

"You have our general interest in solving cold case homicides," Rowland says. "And frankly, it was brought to our attention by the press. A local reporter brought to our attention things written [about Bridewell] in the Dallas Observer."

The District Attorney's Office asked for the Rehrig file, but before they could do much with it, the Oklahoma City police took it back. Reacting to public pressure from Rehrig's family and friends, around the first of May the case was assigned to Inspector Kyle Eastridge, 43 and a giant of a country boy who wasted no time in handing out "actions"—such as cataloging evidence and locating witnesses—to other detectives.

"I've been given carte blanche," Eastridge says. "I've been told, follow up on this case and do what you can with it. However much time it takes, whatever it costs."

Eastridge says he and Mike Burke, a homicide investigator with the District Attorney's Office, are looking at the case as if no detectives have ever worked it before.

"We have to take it from ground level and re-examine everything," Eastridge says. He hopes new forensic techniques can be used on what little physical evidence was found, such as fibers and hairs in the car. One set of fingerprints in the Bronco has never been identified. He is waiting for reports from serologists and other experts.

"This will be a circumstantial case, if we make a case," Eastridge says. "It will come down to her history, the timeline and what the children have to say. There's a lot of information in those three things."

The quality of some evidence has suffered, including an audiotaped interview with Bridewell. "Mike Burke is looking into if the OSBI [Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation] can clean up the tapes. We had to do that with Phil Askew's interview."

For the first time, the police have access to Bridewell's DNA. "We've got her fingerprints, and I believe there is DNA on file for her in another jurisdiction," Eastridge says. "If need be, we may have to go down there [North Carolina] and swab her."

 

After 20 years of police inertia on the case, Eastridge is moving fast. He has interviewed Emily Bridewell and plans to talk to Kathryn as soon as possible. Eastridge may begin to present evidence to a multi-county grand jury this week.

"We have to set a date for witnesses to come," Eastridge says. "One of the things that will make an impression is Emily. She's a really neat person and has grown up with the most ridiculous circumstances for a kid."

But he's racing the clock. After three months in jail, Bridewell recently retained a lawyer, Griff Anderson. A hearing is scheduled for July 11; Anderson plans to ask for a bail reduction and expects to get it. "[The alleged fraud] is not a significant amount of money," Anderson says. "She's a 63-year-old woman with no prior convictions."

Leland Brooke, an assistant district attorney in North Carolina, says Bridewell's bail was set so high because she is a flight risk. But if no other charges are filed against her, Bridewell will probably be released from jail this summer.

Gloria Rehrig's worst fear is that, once out, the nomadic Bridewell will disappear forever.


When Phil Askew learned that his friend and co-worker Alan Rehrig had separated from his wife Sandra and was living in a hotel, he put an end to that immediately.

"You come stay with us," he told Rehrig, with whom Askew had played basketball at Oklahoma State University in the early '70s.

After college, Rehrig moved to Phoenix with another buddy, Bill Dodd, to try to make it on the pro golf circuit. Dodd says Rehrig didn't give it much of a shot, instead waiting tables at a resort.

Rehrig moved back to Oklahoma to work in the oil business, but when that market crashed in the early 1980s, he was out of a job. Phil Askew offered him a spot at Nowlin Mortgage Co. in Dallas. The Askews were amused when Rehrig found a beautiful woman his second day in town.

When Rehrig started bringing Bridewell to business functions, they were surprised that Bridewell looked so much older than Rehrig, that she was so demure and clingy, so helpless. He had always dated athletic girl-next-door types.

"The day Alan met Sandra she invited him that evening to the Dallas County Club," Judy says. "In my mind, he was a trophy date."

For Thanksgiving 1984, Rehrig took Bridewell and her children to Edmond, Oklahoma. She was charismatic, warm and friendly. Though her son Britt seemed aloof, her daughters fit right in, often hanging on Rehrig.

About a week later, Rehrig called his closest friends and family and told them he was getting married. Not even his mother knew the secret: Bridewell had told Rehrig she was pregnant.

"He wasn't excited about being a dad," says friend Karl McKinney. "But growing up where we did, we take care of our stuff."

On December 8, 1984, a radiant Bridewell and Rehrig exchanged vows at The Mansion.


Phil and Judy Askew's telephone awoke them at 3 a.m., and they knew it must be bad news. Bridewell was on the phone, saying that the police were going to call.

"What's going on?" Phil asked, but she said she didn't know.

Bridewell had asked Rehrig to move out around the first of November. Their chief conflict was money. American Express repeatedly called Rehrig about the large balance on his card. Other creditors were hounding him.

Money had been an issue from the beginning. Though Bridewell never showed him any financial records, Rehrig assumed his new wife was wealthy; he was making only $35,000 or so a year and felt uncomfortable not being able to support the family on that.

They had agreed she would pay the mortgage, and he would pay for everything else. Phil Askew says Rehrig handed his paycheck to her every two weeks, but Bridewell had expensive tastes and habits.

On December 6, 1985, Rehrig attended a Mavericks game with his friend Kirk Whitman and told him he was getting a divorce. "I don't understand this lady," Rehrig told Whitman. "I just want out of this marriage. She keeps insisting I want her property. All I want is my camping gear. I've told her time and time again I want nothing of hers."

The next day, Rehrig told Judy Askew that his estranged wife had asked him to meet her at a storage warehouse on Garland Road at 5 p.m. She wanted him to help her move some barrels. He hadn't seen Bridewell in a month and was anxious.

 

The Askews had watched the relationship deteriorate from afar. In February after the wedding, Rehrig was with Phil when Bridewell called to say she had miscarried. She told her new husband the fetuses were twin boys with red hair like Rehrig's.

"Sandra said she had started feeling bad and had driven herself to the ER," Phil says. "She lost the babies and didn't want to spend the night in the hospital. She said she was calling from the pay phone at the 7-Eleven." Rehrig was devastated but shared little about problems in the marriage with anyone, keeping even his mother in the dark. On a visit to Edmond in late October, Gloria detected nothing amiss. But on the way to spend the night at the Edmond home of his friends Ron and Debbie Barnes, Rehrig rode with Ron and Bridewell rode with Debbie. Both poured out their unhappiness.

"Alan starts telling me they are having a lot of problems, and he didn't know what to believe," Ron says. "He was questioning her honesty about lots of things." She had shaved five years off her age, for example. The floor-level season tickets to the Mavericks, supposedly inherited from her last husband? She had bought them from a scalper.

"He said she was spending $20,000 a month on clothes, food, travel, whatever," Ron says.

In Debbie's car, Bridewell was accusing Rehrig of drug use, gambling and homosexuality. By the time they arrived at their destination, Debbie was confused by all the lurid allegations; they didn't fit the Alan Rehrig she knew. The Barneses weren't surprised to hear of their separation.

When the police called Bridewell in the early hours of December 11, Rehrig had been missing four days, but she wouldn't listen to what the officer had to say, instructing him to call Ron Barnes.

Barnes then called the Askews and told them their friend had been found shot to death. Phil went to Bridewell's house to break the grim news.

"She didn't have much of a reaction," he says. Barnes, who talked to Bridewell later, was puzzled: "She never asked one question of me about where he was found or what happened."

Phil Askew accompanied Bridewell to pick up Britt and Kathryn, who had spent the night with friends. Britt seemed matter-of-fact, but 15-year-old Kathryn started screaming, "Oh no, not again!"


On Friday, December 13, the day before her husband's funeral, Bridewell arrived in Oklahoma City accompanied by her children and a friend, Susan Rousch. At the funeral home with Phil Askew and Gloria, Bridewell had dismissed the $2,000 casket with a wave. "What is the cheapest?" Bridewell asked.

The funeral director pointed out the bottom-dollar casket. "Alan would want it that way, to save money for the family," Bridewell said.

Bridewell had to be reminded that detectives wanted to talk to her. The Askews went with her to the police department. She swept into the interrogation room in a knee-length fur coat.

Though Bridewell shed a few tears, she didn't look too distressed. She explained that her first husband died of an aneurysm and the second of cancer. Rehrig, her third husband, had been dealing drugs and gambling, she claimed, and he must have been homosexual, because he only liked sex from behind and he had lost interest in her before the separation.

"Don't you think I'm desirable?" Bridewell asked the cops.

When they pointed out to her that her first husband had shot himself in the head, she didn't skip a beat. When they pointed out that she had undergone a hysterectomy in 1977 and had lied about the pregnancy, she brushed it off. It wasn't until they asked one question that Bridewell seemed shaken: "Who was Betsy Bagwell?"

When they interviewed Bridewell, the detectives knew only the bare bones about the crime: At about 10 p.m., on Wednesday, December 11, two officers had found Rehrig dead in his Bronco, parked near an electrical substation about three and a half miles from the Oklahoma City airport. Someone in the passenger seat had shot him in the side. The bullet pierced his heart and led to almost instant death. For good measure, the killer squeezed off another shot in his head.

Rehrig's body then had been rolled on its side between the bucket seats, his head in the back floorboard. The driver's seat had been pulled forward indicating someone much shorter than Rehrig had driven it last.

When found, Rehrig had been dead several days. Though it was near freezing, he wore the clothes the Askews had last seen him in—shorts, T-shirt and sweater.

 

An autopsy found no drugs in his body. His last meal was still in his stomach, probably the cake and ice cream served at a birthday party on Saturday, the day the Askews last saw him. Officers found no wallet, no keys and no murder weapon.

It almost looked like an execution, but early conversations with friends and family indicated Rehrig hadn't been involved in drugs or gambling, despite Bridewell's allegations. The only person who described Rehrig's unsavory behavior had benefited from his death—the pale Southern beauty who had sat before detectives, acting bizarrely seductive.

By the time of Rehrig's funeral on Saturday morning, an undercurrent of anger had built up toward Bridewell: the cheap coffin, the crocodile tears, the financial irresponsibility. The funeral cortege was stopped at the cemetery gate because Bridewell had not paid for opening and closing of the grave. "I forgot my checkbook," Bridewell said. Barnes wrote the check.


"Look, down the street," Bridewell whispered to private investigator Bill Dear as she pulled back a drape. Two detectives from Oklahoma City had moved into an office made available by Phil Askew and were watching her house. "They think they're going to pressure me."

Dear was working for Bridewell after receiving a call from Dr. Harvey Davidson in the weeks before Rehrig's disappearance. The psychologist wanted him to come immediately to his Park Cities office; he had a distraught woman who needed protection.

At 6-foot-5, Dear was renowned in the world of Texas private investigators and not just because of his size, booming voice, gold jewelry and press clippings from newspapers like The Wall Street Journal. Dear had written books about several of his high-profile cases. Rivals might grumble that his reputation outpaced his skills, but Dear would grab onto a case and shake it until something popped loose.

In Davidson's office, Bridewell wrapped her arms around Dear. "I'm really in fear of my life," Bridewell said. She'd recently separated from her husband, who was using cocaine and running up gambling debts. Bridewell described Rehrig as a "moody person with definite personality changes" who had married her for her money. Rehrig had already tried to kill her once, Bridewell said, by stranding her in a lake while they were waterskiing.

Dear accompanied Bridewell to her duplex in University Park where she and Rehrig had moved after selling her house. Dear checked the locks and points of entry. The house seemed safe. The kids seemed indifferent to the proceedings. Dear told her to remain inside, but something about the encounter didn't sit well with him.

"She was dressed too perfect, very confident of herself," not like a woman in fear of her life, Dear says.

Oklahoma City detectives Ron Mitchell and Steve Pacheco had made arrangements to talk to Bridewell and her children on December 18, but when they knocked on her door, Bridewell explained it wasn't a good time. Could they come back the next day?

Early the next day, the detectives received a letter from criminal defense attorney Vincent Perini, telling them there would be no interviews of Bridewell or her children.

Dear says he had made some unsettling discoveries about his client. Bridewell had spent the money from her second husband's estate like "saltwater through her fingers," he says, and was essentially broke. She wasted no time in filing a claim on Rehrig's $220,000 life insurance policy.

When Bridewell insisted someone had stolen her house key, Dear arranged for all the locks to be changed. A security system was installed. If she had been in fear of her life from Rehrig, why had Bridewell waited until after his death to put one in? Why hadn't she called Dallas police about her husband's activities, as Dear had advised before the murder?

When Dear visited the storage shed with Bridewell he noticed she needed no cheat sheet to open the combination lock. Not many of her possessions were in the unit, and she took nothing out. And why had she needed Rehrig's help when she had a 17-year-old son taller than Rehrig? Kathryn and Emily remembered their mother rushing into the house on Saturday night, changing clothes and then rushing out again. Barbara and Alan Frank, friends from Austin, told police that Bridewell had agreed to meet them around 7 p.m. for a movie the day of Rehrig's disappearance but ran late.

Bridewell appeared after 8 p.m., says Barbara Frank, in time to make it to the last showing of the film White Nights. The Franks confirmed her alibi from the time she picked them up for the movie until 1 a.m., but Alan Frank refused to cooperate with police beyond that. (Frank refused to comment for this story.)

 

On Sunday morning, Susan Rousch called Bridewell around 11 a.m. Emily answered and said her mother wasn't home and had probably gone to church. (Detectives were later unable to locate anyone who had seen her at services that day.) Bridewell returned Rousch's call about 12:30 p.m.

That meant Bridewell had no alibi witnesses for at least 10 hours—enough time to drive to Oklahoma City and either drive or fly back.

Dear says he began to think that Bridewell—who wanted him to find "the real killer" but wouldn't talk to police—was playing him for a chump. He found nothing to support Bridewell's allegations about Rehrig using drugs and gambling. What else was she lying about?

Dear arranged for Bridewell to take a polygraph. On December 23, her former next-door neighbor Rousch went with Bridewell for moral support to take the test. Rousch says Bridewell came out in tears saying she had flunked two key questions.

Rousch was there when Bridewell took another polygraph a week later. Again she left in tears. Dear says the questions his client failed were: Did you kill Alan Rehrig? Do you know who was responsible for the murder of Alan Rehrig?

Dear says he went to Perini and said, "I think she's nothing but a cold-blooded killer. I don't represent criminals." He says he feared that Bridewell's son might turn up a "suicide" and a convenient scapegoat.

Dear says he told Perini he was going to the Oklahoma City police with the results of his investigation. Under Texas law, Dear says, he was required to hand over information to the police about an impending crime.

"He said if I went to the police he'd see to it that I would lose my license," Dear says.

Perini doesn't recall a confrontation with Dear over Bridewell. "I don't remember that he wanted to go to police with his files," Perini says. "If it's true, that poses some very serious problems. That's completely a breach of the confidence of the rules required by a lawyer. I can see no justification for that whatsoever. Bill Dear and I worked for her. He shouldn't be sharing them with you or the police."

Detectives Pacheco and Mitchell were working the case out of Askew's office in spurts, driving down to Dallas for a week at a time. Like many policemen, Pacheco and Mitchell didn't think too much of private investigators, especially tall arrogant Texans like Dear. They declined to look at a copy of his file.

Dear, who severed his business relationship with Bridewell without revealing his suspicions, had become friends with Rousch. "He asked to meet for lunch," Rousch says. "Bill felt she was guilty and said I needed to get away from her as far as possible."

When Bridewell answered the door and saw her mother-in-law on her stoop, her face contorted with anger. Gloria Rehrig and her son Phil had come to Dallas the last weekend in May 1986 to post fliers showing the Bronco and a picture of Sandra and Alan.

The Oklahoma detectives had been reassuring Gloria that Bridewell's arrest was imminent; they just had to prove she had been in Oklahoma, but their canvassing of the area and search of Southwest Airlines records had yielded no such evidence.

After the funeral, Gloria began getting phone calls from people in Highland Park with information about Bridewell that took her grief in a new direction. She learned about Bridewell's hysterectomy, her first husband's suicide and the mysterious death of Betsy Bagwell.

In late spring, Bridewell moved to Marin County in California. Gloria got word that unless something happened in the criminal case, the insurance company would be forced to pay Bridewell $220,000. She filed legal papers against her former daughter-in-law to prevent it.

Pacheco and Mitchell were prepared to testify in court that Bridewell was their only suspect in Rehrig's murder. Days before an important hearing, Bridewell abruptly resigned as executor of Rehrig's estate in Texas and moved to California to continue the legal battle there. She countersued Gloria and Phil for slander and libel. Unable to afford the long-distance legal fees, Gloria was forced to give up her fight. Bridewell received the $220,000 in life insurance benefits.


Carrie Huskinson arrived in Dallas in 1994 to search for information about Bridewell—who by now was going by the first name Camille—but Huskinson never dreamed she would step into a murder investigation. A military veteran, Huskinson had turned private investigator to help a friend, the wife of a wealthy man who was having an affair with Bridewell. Bridewell claimed she had borne the man's baby and had given it to a priest for adoption.

 

Huskinson dug into public records about Bridewell and interviewed Bobby Bridewell's father, the parents of her first husband Stegall, the parents of Betsy Bagwell, and Dear, who gave her access to his files. Huskinson got autopsy reports and crime scene photos from Bagwell's car, showing the mother of three slumped over on her right side, still gripping the gun.

Then Huskinson discovered Bridewell's hysterectomy, which made the baby claim impossible. Huskinson tracked down Kathryn Bridewell, who was attending college in the Pacific Northwest. Kathryn explained they had called their mother a "pot-bellied pig" because any weight gain went straight to her stomach.

Kathryn had never been approached by Oklahoma City police, nor had Britt or Emily. She told Huskinson that contrary to her mother's claim, Kathryn did not remember seeing her mother after midnight on Saturday, not until sometime late Sunday morning. If confirmed by her siblings, that meant Bridewell had no alibi for either the estimated time of the murder or the early morning hours of December 8, when police believed the Bronco had been transported to Oklahoma.

Huskinson called Oklahoma City police and talked to someone in homicide, who assured her that they planned to interview Bridewell's son and daughters. After Bridewell's recent arrest, Huskinson called Oklahoma to remind them of her report only to discover there was no mention of it in the file.

"I think Sandra put together the perfect crime," Dear says. "I think she planned it from the beginning, when she met Alan."

Was it the perfect crime, or did Rehrig's killer get lucky? The split jurisdiction that put Oklahoma City in charge of the investigation ensured that things would fall through the cracks no matter how hard Pacheco and Mitchell worked. The lack of cooperation between agencies magnified the problem. If they had pooled their information, hadn't turned up their nose at Dear and paid attention to Huskinson's report, the case might have been solved years ago.

Eastridge says he has already talked to Emily, Bridewell's youngest child, who lives in the Northeast with her husband and three young children. She has declined to talk to the Observer on the record about her mother.

Though Kathryn and Britt are estranged from their mother, they have kept silent about Rehrig's murder for the last two decades. "They need to come forward," Eastridge says. "If Britt confirms what Emily told me, [Bridewell] will be indicted."

Britt Bridewell now lives in Marin County. He did not respond to a request for an interview.

Kathryn is married and living in Alabama, in a small red brick house with her husband, Patrick, who told Eastridge on Friday that his wife did not want to talk to police.

Kathryn spoke briefly with the Observer. "I think what you are doing is noble," Kathryn said, but added she was trying to put the first 20 years of her life behind her.

That is going to be hard no matter what happens.


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