Tragedy in the Palouse: The scars run deep
The four-car collision on Highway 270, between Pullman and the Idaho college town of Moscow, killed three of Ranade's friends from Washington State University and profoundly injured Ranade and two other students.
They were returning to Pullman from Moscow on June 4, 2001, after seeing the movie "Shrek." A speeding Chevy Blazer driven by another WSU student, Fred Russell, who had been drinking at a Pullman tavern, slammed into their old Cadillac, creating a scene police and medics likened to Armageddon.
An honors student whose father was director of WSU's criminal-justice department at the time, Russell was treated at the scene for bruises and a cut lip and was released on bail the following day. Toward the end of October — nobody knows when, exactly — Russell vanished.
An arrest warrant was issued for him two years ago today, on Oct. 26, 2001, when he failed to show for a pretrial hearing. He has remained missing ever since.
It's a case that reaches far beyond the Palouse to towns across the state, where families mourn their dead and wonder when, or whether, Russell will be found and brought to trial. The case remains the top priority of the U.S. Marshal's Office in Spokane and is talked about today by rescuers, townspeople and students who were here the night it happened.
"I'm proud of those scars," said Ranade, 23, a WSU senior who will graduate in December with a degree in business. "It means I survived."
Just two days ago, Russell's father, Gregory Russell, met again in Pullman with county prosecutors and federal authorities, disclosing for the first time that he had received a phone call from his son "well after Fred's departure," that he later learned who had helped him flee and that he had also received a second call from his son.
But — as he had told authorities immediately after his son vanished — he said again that he did not know his son was going to jump bail, he did not help him and he doesn't know where he is.
Before he ran, Russell, who was 22 at the time, was said to be distraught, telling friends he feared his life was in danger and that he would not get a fair trial in Whitman County, so vitriolic were feelings toward him in Pullman.
"We are very good at fugitive investigations," said Deputy Chief Eric Marks of the U.S. Marshal's Office in Spokane, whose agents are looking for Russell in several states. "We will find him."
Before meeting with authorities Friday afternoon, Greg Russell issued a written statement, again urging his son to turn himself in and apologizing for not telling authorities everything he knew until now.
"If my delay in informing the authorities has contributed to the suffering of those involved in this tragic accident, I sincerely apologize," the father said.
Memorial crosses
Near the site of the accident on the heavily traveled Highway 270, two white crosses have been erected for the three who were killed. One bears the names of Stacy Morrow, 21, an education major, and her boyfriend, Ryan Sorensen, 21, who had just graduated with a degree in criminal justice. The other is in memory of Brandon Clements, 22, a chemical-engineering major a year away from graduation.
In Wapato, Clements' mother, Karen Overacker, 49, has battled depression since the death of Brandon, who could ace tests without studying, liked to snowboard, box and shoot pool, and was generous, promising to replace her double-wide with a nice, new house as soon as he was out in the world working.
In his West Seattle condo, Rich Morrow, 53, Stacy's father, displays photos of his only daughter, an outgoing daddy's girl who loved animals and kids and delighted in being a camp counselor. Morrow finds salvation from grief by speaking out publicly to drunken drivers.
In Westport, Sorensen's father, Greg Sorensen, 51, lives alone in a mobile home. The last time he saw Ryan alive, Ryan was wearing a cap and gown. A good student, the outdoorsy Ryan made friends easily and would try anything once — be it skydiving or bungee jumping.
And in California, Russell's mother, Linda Russell, who is divorced from Greg Russell, cries at the mention of her son's name, saying she, too, has lost a child. Mother's Day, Christmas and birthdays have come and gone. "I don't believe my son is on this earth and didn't contact me," she said.
"It's always on my mind ... I would do anything to hear from him."
Lights coming right at them
Ranade remembers getting into Clements' 1978 Cadillac after the movie that Monday night. About a mile outside of Moscow, the Cadillac rounded a bend near the crest of a hill. Eric Haynes, the only passenger in the Cadillac who escaped serious injury, saw bright lights coming right at them.
Russell, according to court documents, was headed to a party in Moscow. The State Patrol said he sideswiped one car, missed another, and then slammed into the side of the Cadillac, careening out of control before striking another car. The Patrol said Russell's blood-alcohol level was .12 and that a witness said he appeared to be driving about 90 mph.
The next day, Whitman County Superior Court Judge David Frazier released Russell on just $5,000 bail — an amount that stunned the community.
At an arraignment Aug. 20 of that year, Russell pleaded not guilty to three counts each of vehicular homicide and vehicular assault. The next month, his lawyer lost two key motions — one to suppress Russell's blood-alcohol reading, the other to move the trial, which was scheduled to begin Nov. 5 at the Whitman County Courthouse.
After Russell fled, local newspapers and his parents received letters from him mailed from Reno, in which he said he would trade places with his victims if he could, that he wanted to protect his family from "any further harm" and that he would not get a fair trial in Pullman.
And he had, indeed, been the target of hateful remarks and phone calls — even a death note, according to Russell's attorney, Mark Moorer of Idaho, and to Whitman County sheriff's Detective Pat Kelley.
Students said things to Russell like, "Why were you allowed to live? The drunk survives and the good person dies," Moorer said. Moorer said the death note, left on Russell's doorstep, stated: "If the justice system doesn't get you, we will ... "
One phone message also threatened the life of Russell's mother for having given birth to him, Moorer said. "I believe it was the last taped message that pushed him over the edge."
While the vehicular-homicide case remains under the jurisdiction of the Whitman County Prosecutor's Office, finding Russell is now the responsibility of the U.S. Marshal's Office in Spokane.
In the red-brick Thomas S. Foley Federal Building, Deputy U.S. Marshal Kevin Kilgore types reports into computers, checks warrants, interviews potential witnesses over the phone and confers with deputy marshals in other states who have worked on the case.
The Marshal's Office has the notes from Kelley's investigation. Russell, who grew up in Modesto, Calif., had circled the names of fellow students and jotted their current addresses in his Modesto High School yearbook. "We figured he might be trying to come up with a new identity," said Kelley.
Past problems
Moorer describes Russell as an overachiever from a divorced family who tried hard to please both parents. He's "an attractive young man who has a good mind, intelligent," the attorney said. "A lot of people say he's considerate."
Russell's parents divorced when he was about 12, with his father, an attorney, eventually moving to Pullman to take the job at WSU. After high school, the younger Russell joined his father in Pullman, enrolling at WSU in 1997 and later entering the criminal-justice program, expecting to go on to law school.
Records show Fred Russell has had other legal problems, including two charges of under-age drunken driving when he was 18 — one in Chico, Calif., to which he pleaded no contest, and another in Pullman, to which he pleaded guilty. No one was injured in either case.
In the days and weeks after the accident on Highway 270, Russell was depressed, his father told investigators. The two were living together in a Pullman apartment, and after the father returned from an out-of-town trip Oct. 25, he discovered his son had left, taking with him a check on the father's account for $1,300.
The older Russell told police his son had forged his name on the check. Along with bail jumping, the younger Russell was charged with forgery and theft.
According to Kelley and court documents, in the days between the accident and his Oct. 26 court date, Fred Russell bought warm, waterproof clothes, spoke of going to Costa Rica or Mexico, got immunizations for foreign travel — putting his destination down as Spain — sold some of his assets and told people that he did not intend to go to trial.
His comments were disregarded and his passport was not confiscated by the court. "Everyone in town knew who he was, but no one checked into it," Kelley said.
A grim lesson
While the case remains unresolved, Rich Morrow, a pricing clerk for a shipping company, speaks to drunken drivers who've been ordered by judges to learn about the harm they cause innocent people. Morrow displays photos of Stacy, telling them about the last time he saw her alive.
It was right after Ryan Sorensen's graduation from WSU. Stacy and Ryan were at Morrow's house, and the two were in love.
"Isn't he cute?" she had whispered to her father, indicating Ryan, who was waiting in the car.
"Yes, honey. He's cute," Morrow told her.
"The next time I saw my daughter it was like this," Morrow tells the drunken drivers, placing a black box of her ashes on the table.
Just a few blocks from the beaches of Westport, Greg Sorensen, Ryan's father, lives alone at the end of a narrow street. Since the accident, he has also lost his wife of 25 years, Marilyn, to cancer.
In a raspy voice, he talks about how excited Ryan was about graduating and either joining the Coast Guard or beginning a career in law enforcement. Once four strong, the Sorensens are now down to two — Greg and his younger son, Eric, a junior at the University of Washington.
Sorensen said he and Eric still do the activities the four of them did together — hunting, boating and fishing, taking trips to Hope Lodge near Stevens Pass — but it's not the same.
"All your sports and family activities are gone as you knew them," Greg Sorensen said. "Your Christmas, your birthdays. Everything's gone."
Living alone in the rural plains of Wapato, Clements' mother, Karen Overacker, is now divorced. After Brandon's death, her job as a Wapato funeral director, comforting grieving families, became impossible. "It was just too hard for me to try and help."
A family she once comforted introduced her to a support group for grieving relatives. It's helped her realize her anguish is normal and that "you are going to be happy again at some point."
While she wants Russell brought to trial, she dreads it, too, knowing she'll be exposed anew to the awful details of her son's death. "I've been warned by other parents that have been through similar things. It's like losing them all over again."
A chance of survival
Ranade's pelvis was crushed in the accident and his thoracic aorta was ruptured, causing massive internal bleeding. He missed a semester of college while recovering from his injuries. Kara Eichelsdoerfer and Matt Wagner, the other two who were badly hurt, recovered more quickly and were able to resume classes when school started that fall.
Ranade said he owes his life to Dr. Bruce Ham, who was working in the emergency room at Pullman Memorial Hospital.
Along with Ranade's obvious injuries, Ham suspected massive chest injuries. The doctor knew that if Ranade had any chance of survival, he had to operate immediately.
It was a risky surgery — there was no cardiovascular surgeon available, no heart-lung machine and though Ham had experience in vascular surgery, he had never done a procedure like it before.
Six hours later, Ranade was flown to Harborview Medical Center, where he spent a month before his transfer to a nursing home, learning to walk and even to stand again.
Ranade wants his life to have purpose. After graduation, he hopes to enter politics and campaign against drunken driving — much as he does now, telling friends who drink not to drive and, sometimes, pulling up his shirt.
"I show them my scars, and tell them to think about what they are doing."
Nancy Bartley: 206-464-8522 or nbartley@seattletimes.com
Cal Blethen, now working in the Editorial Department: 206-464-8223 or cblethen@seattletimes.com