Skip to content 
Weekends meant exploring Portland, farmers markets, art galleries, hiking in the Gorge, weekend trips to the coast. We had couple friends, hosted dinner parties, and celebrated holidays. From the outside, we were the perfect young professional couple, successful, in love, building toward a future.
“When should we start trying for kids?” Marcus asked one night in early 2022. “We’ve been married almost two years.”
“Maybe next year. I want to build my client base a bit more first, get more established.”
“That makes sense. No rush. We have time.”
I thought we had all the time in the world. I did not know that in April 2022, my husband would take his first life.
On April 14, 2022, a woman named Melissa Rodriguez was found deceased in her apartment in Portland’s Sellwood neighborhood. Melissa was thirty-two years old, worked as a dental hygienist, had dark hair, blue eyes, and a slender build, and lived alone in a small one-bedroom apartment.
Her body was discovered by her sister, who had come to check on her after Melissa missed their weekly lunch date. The sister found her in the bedroom, with signs that someone had used a soft ligature around her neck. There were no signs of forced entry, no evidence of a personal violation, and nothing stolen from the apartment.
Portland police investigated, interviewed neighbors, checked Melissa’s phone and computer, and found nothing suspicious. No enemies. No recent conflicts. No threatening messages. The case went cold within two months.
I read about it in the Portland Tribune. I felt sad for a moment, a young woman gone, no answers for her family, and then I moved on with my life. I had no idea my husband had done it.
Victim two was Amanda Foster. On August 22, 2022, another woman was found deceased. Amanda Foster, thirty-four, an accountant, was found in her Beaverton apartment.
Dark hair, blue eyes, similar build to Melissa Rodriguez. Again, no forced entry, no personal violation, no evidence, nothing stolen. Portland PD started to notice a pattern.
Two women with similar physical characteristics, both overpowered in the same way, both in the Portland metro area. Detective Sarah Park was assigned to investigate potential connections.
She compared the cases and found similarities. Both victims lived alone. Both were professional women. Both were in their early to mid-thirties. Both had dark hair and blue eyes. Both had been overcome with what appeared to be a soft ligature, probably fabric.
Both scenes were clean. No physical evidence left behind. No signs of forced entry suggested the victims may have let the offender in, but there was not enough to definitively link the cases yet.
I saw the news coverage and felt a chill.
“Two women in similar cases,” I told Marcus over dinner. “Both the same way. What if there’s a serial predator in Portland?”
“Probably a coincidence,” Marcus said calmly, cutting his chicken. “Portland’s a big city. Random violence happens.”
“But they were found the same way.”
“The news always tries to create panic. Sells papers. Don’t worry about it. We’re safe.”
I believed him. Victim three was Sarah Kim. December 10, 2022. Sarah Kim, thirty-one, a nurse, was found deceased in her northeast Portland apartment. Dark hair, blue eyes, slender build, same pattern, same lack of evidence.
Now Portland police were certain this was a serial offender. They called in the FBI. In January 2023, the FBI officially joined the investigation into what the media had started calling the Westside Strangler.
My sister Rachel was part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit team assigned to the case. She called me in early January from Quantico.
“How are you doing, Claire?”
“Good. Busy with work. How’s everything with you?”
“Intense. We’ve got a new case. A big one. Can’t talk about details, but it’s going to consume me for a while. I might not be able to call as much.”
“A serial predator?”
“Can’t confirm or deny, but yes, it’s bad.”
“Are you coming to Portland for it?”
There was a pause. “Why would I come to Portland?”
“I don’t know. I just thought, isn’t the Westside Strangler case FBI now?”
Another pause, longer this time. “How do you know about that?”
“It’s all over the news here. Three women gone. Same pattern. Everyone’s calling him the Westside Strangler, right?”
“Yes. That case.” Her voice was carefully neutral. “I can’t discuss active investigations.”
“Of course. Sorry. Be safe, okay?”
“Always. Love you.”
What I did not know was that Rachel was working the Westside Strangler case. She just could not tell me because it was active, and she had no idea the person they were hunting was living in my house.
Victims four, five, six, and seven followed. Over the next year, four more women were found deceased. March 2023, Jennifer Woo, thirty-three, marketing executive, dark hair, blue eyes, same pattern, no evidence.
July 2023, Rebecca Mason, thirty-four, teacher, same profile, same method. October 2023, Diana Patterson, thirty-two, software engineer, same victimology. January 2024, Lisa Anderson, thirty-five, restaurant manager, eighth victim.
With each case, the FBI’s profile became more detailed. Organized offender. Highly intelligent. Meticulous planner. Left no physical evidence. Specific victim type: white or Asian women, ages thirty to thirty-five, dark hair, blue eyes, slender build, professional careers.
Method: ligature asphyxiation using soft material, likely a scarf or cloth. No evidence of a personal motive. These acts appeared to be about power and control. Cooling-off periods of three to four months between incidents suggested someone with self-control who could function normally in society.
Access to victims was another key point. No forced entry suggested victims opened their doors willingly. The offender likely appeared nonthreatening, well dressed, and professional.
By February 2024, Rachel’s team had narrowed their suspect pool to forty-seven men in the Portland area who fit the profile: male, ages thirty to forty-five, professional occupation, no violent criminal record, married or in a relationship for the appearance of normalcy, with access to Portland neighborhoods where the victims lived.
One of those suspects was my husband, Marcus Chen. But Rachel did not know that yet.
In October 2023, while the FBI was hunting the Westside Strangler and I was completely oblivious to the danger I was living with, Marcus came home with news.
“Claire, guess what? I got promoted. Senior partner at the firm.”
“That’s amazing. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. And it comes with some great benefits, including a substantial life insurance policy. Twelve million dollars.”
I nearly dropped the coffee cup I was holding. “Twelve million? That seems excessive.”
“It’s standard for senior partners at major architectural firms. In case something happens, it protects the family. There’s some paperwork we need to sign. Beneficiary forms. Pretty straightforward.”
He handed me a thick stack of papers from a leather portfolio. I should have read them carefully. I should have taken them to a lawyer. I should have asked more questions. But I trusted my husband completely.
I skimmed the documents. They looked official. Logos from Metropolitan Life Insurance. Legal language about coverage and beneficiaries.
“So if something happens to you, I get twelve million, right?”
“And if something happens to you, I get it. It’s mutual coverage. Protects whoever survives.”
“Seems morbid to think about.”
“It’s just being responsible. Planning for the worst while hoping for the best. Sign here, here, and here.”
He pointed to signature lines marked with sticky tabs. I signed all of them without reading the full documents. It was the biggest mistake of my life, because that insurance policy was not from Marcus’s firm. He had taken it out himself, paid the premiums himself, and structured it so he was the sole beneficiary if I died.
He was planning to have me removed and collect twelve million dollars.
On March 15, 2024, Rachel’s FBI team made a breakthrough in the Westside Strangler case. They had been analyzing cell phone location data for their forty-seven suspects, cross-referencing it with the dates and times of the eight cases.
One suspect’s phone pinged cell towers near four different scenes within the estimated time windows. The probability of that being coincidental was infinitesimal. That suspect was Marcus David Chen.
Rachel was at her desk at the FBI’s Portland field office. She had been temporarily assigned there two months earlier to work the Westside Strangler case full time. Her partner, Agent David Park, called her over to his computer.
“Rachel, come look at this. Suspect number twenty-three, Marcus Chen. His phone data is flagging.”
She walked over, looked at the screen, and her heart stopped.
Marcus David Chen, age thirty-seven, architect, married to Claire Mitchell Chen.
“No,” she whispered.
David looked at her. “What’s wrong?”
“That’s my brother-in-law. That’s Claire’s husband.”
David pulled up Marcus’s photo from his driver’s license. Rachel stared at the face she had seen at Sunday dinners, at holiday gatherings, at her sister’s wedding.
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Positive. I know him. He’s married to my sister.”
David immediately called their supervisor, Special Agent in Charge Jennifer Martinez.
“We have a situation,” he said. “One of our top suspects is married to Agent Mitchell’s sister.”
Jennifer came to their desk within two minutes, reviewed the evidence, and looked at Rachel.
“You’re recused from this investigation immediately.”
“Ma’am, I understand, but if he’s the Westside Strangler, then my sister is in extreme danger. All eight victims fit a specific physical profile. Pull up photos of the victims.”
David displayed them on his screen. Eight women, all with dark hair and blue eyes, all slender, all in their early to mid-thirties.
Jennifer pulled up a photo of Claire from Rachel’s desk and placed it next to the victim photos. They were virtually identical.
“Your sister is his type,” Jennifer said quietly. “Exactly his type.”
“If Marcus Chen is the Westside Strangler, Claire fits his victim profile perfectly.”
Rachel felt like she could not breathe.
“We need to move on him now.”
“Tonight, we don’t have enough for an arrest warrant yet,” Jennifer said. “Cell phone data is circumstantial. We need physical evidence.”
“Then we get it fast, because I’m not letting my sister become victim number nine.”
The team worked frantically. They pulled Marcus’s financial records and found the twelve-million-dollar life insurance policy taken out six months earlier. Beneficiary: Marcus David Chen. Insured party: Claire Mitchell Chen.
“He’s not planning to make her part of the pattern like the others,” Rachel said. “He’s planning to do it for money.”
They put Marcus under immediate surveillance and assigned a team to watch his house. At 8:47 p.m. on March 15, surveillance captured Marcus meeting with a man at a coffee shop in downtown Portland.
They photographed the meeting and ran facial recognition on the man. Vincent Michael Russo, age forty-two, known contract attacker, suspected in seventeen cases for hire across six states, never convicted due to lack of evidence.
“He’s hired someone,” David said.
They followed Russo back to a Motel 6 and obtained an emergency warrant to search his room. Inside, they found a handgun with a suppressor, latex gloves, lockpicking tools, a photograph of Claire, and handwritten notes.
Target: Claire Chen. Address: 4721 NE Alberta Street, Portland. Window: 12 to 2 a.m., March 16. Stage as home invasion. Client wants it to look random. Payment on completion: $200,000.
Rachel read those notes and felt her blood turn to ice.
“They’re moving tonight,” she said. “The hit is scheduled for tonight.”
Jennifer immediately authorized a tactical response. “We’re assembling a team now. SWAT, tactical agents, the works. We’ll hit the house at 2 a.m. Arrest both Marcus and Russo.”
“That’s too late.” Rachel’s voice rose. “The window starts at midnight. Claire could be gone by two a.m.”
“Rachel, we need time to coordinate.”
“I’m calling her right now. I’m telling her to hide.”
“You can’t compromise an active investigation.”
“I’m not letting my sister die for a case.”
Rachel grabbed her phone and dialed Claire’s number. It was 11:58 p.m.
I sat in the dark attic, watching through the gap in the floorboards as my husband and the stranger searched for me. After they discovered I was not in the bedroom, they moved through the house systematically. I could hear their voices drifting up from below.
“Check the basement,” Marcus said, his voice tense with frustration.
Footsteps descended the stairs to my office. I heard drawers opening and closets being checked.
“Not down here.”
“Bathroom.”
More footsteps. The sound of the shower curtain being ripped back.
“Empty.”
“Where the hell is she?” Marcus’s voice was rising, getting agitated. “Her car is in the driveway. Her phone is on the nightstand. She has to be here somewhere.”
The man, Vincent, though I did not know his name yet, checked his watch.
“We’re wasting time. It’s already 12:40. I’ve got until two to complete this and clear out. Where else could she be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she went for a walk. She does that sometimes when she can’t sleep.”
“In the middle of the night without her phone?”
“I don’t know.” Marcus was almost shouting now. “This was supposed to be simple. She was supposed to be asleep.”
They kept searching. I watched through the crack as they moved back through the living room. Vincent pulled out his weapon and checked it.
“If she comes back while I’m here, I’ll handle it. Make it look like she walked in on a burglary in progress.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just make it look right.”
Marcus paced the living room, pulled out his phone, and made a call.
“Yeah, it’s me. We have a problem. She’s not here. I know. I’ve looked everywhere. Her car’s here. Her phone’s here, but she’s gone. I don’t know where.”
He paused.