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“Claire, you need to see this,” she said. “You need to understand what he was.”
The journal contained detailed entries about each case.
April 10, 2022. Saw her at the coffee shop. Melissa. Perfect. Dark hair, blue eyes, exactly right. Followed her home. Watched her routine for two weeks. She’s alone, vulnerable. I can do this.
April 14, 2022. Tonight. Knocked on her door at 10 p.m. Said I was looking for a lost dog. She let me in. So trusting. So unaware. It was easier than I imagined. The ligature around her neck. Watching the life leave her eyes. The power. The control. I understand now why this calls to some people. Need to be careful. Can’t leave evidence. Can’t rush. Have to be patient.
Entry after entry. Eight victims. Detailed descriptions of how he selected them, watched them, and took them from the world. All of them looked like me.
The final entry was dated March 10, 2024.
Victim nine. Claire. My wife. My perfect victim. I’ve been living with her for five years, sleeping next to exactly my type every night. The irony is exquisite, but I can’t do it like the others. Too obvious. The insurance policy is perfect. Twelve million. Hired Russo. Professional. Clean. I’ll be at the Marriott with cameras and witnesses. The grieving husband. Collect the insurance. Maybe wait a year, then resume. Maybe move to a different city. Fresh hunting ground. Never suspected. She’s too trusting, too naive. She believes I love her. She has no idea she was always meant to be victim nine. I just found a more profitable way to do it.
I read that entry and felt something break inside me. Our entire marriage had been a lie. He had married me because I was his type, because I looked exactly like the women he had targeted.
He had renovated our house, cooked dinners with me, been intimate with me, talked about having children with me, all while planning my end.
While Vincent Russo was confessing and FBI agents were searching my house, other agents were at the Marriott downtown. Marcus had checked into a room at 11:30 p.m. on March 15, used his credit card, chatted with the front desk clerk, and made sure multiple people saw him, creating his alibi.
At 2:27 a.m., while I was still hiding in the attic and Vincent was being arrested, FBI tactical agents knocked on Marcus’s hotel room door.
“FBI. Open the door.”
Marcus opened it looking confused, playing the innocent husband.
“What’s going on? Is something wrong?”
“Marcus David Chen, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, solicitation of murder for hire, and suspicion of eight counts of first-degree murder in connection with the Westside Strangler cases.”
They turned him around, handcuffed him, and read him his rights while he protested.
“This is insane. I haven’t done anything. I’m here sleeping. Check the hotel cameras.”
“We know you’re here,” an agent said. “That’s the point. You established an alibi while Vincent Russo attempted to murder your wife.”
Marcus’s face went white.
“Claire is—Claire—”
“Your wife is alive. She’s safe. Your hired attacker is in custody. And you’re going to prison for the rest of your life.”
They led him out of the Marriott in handcuffs at 3 a.m., past hotel security cameras, past other guests, past everyone who had seen him establish his alibi.
Over the following weeks, the FBI built an overwhelming case against Marcus. DNA evidence. Marcus’s DNA was found under the fingernails of three Westside Strangler victims, victims who had fought back and scratched their attacker, collecting his skin cells.
Victim trophies. Eight items in his desk drawer, each traced back to a specific victim. The journal detailed confessions to all eight cases. Financial records showed the twelve-million-dollar insurance policy and payments to Vincent Russo.
Cell phone data showed Marcus’s phone pinging towers near multiple scenes during estimated time windows. Surveillance footage captured Marcus meeting with Vincent Russo three weeks before the attempted attack. Witness testimony included Vincent Russo’s complete confession and cooperation.
Digital evidence showed encrypted messages between Marcus and Vincent arranging the murder-for-hire plot.
The case was airtight. Unbeatable. Marcus’s lawyers knew it. They tried to negotiate a plea deal, life in prison instead of the harshest penalty. The prosecutor refused.
“Eight women gone. Eight families destroyed. Attempted murder of his own wife. He deserves the maximum penalty under law.”
The trial was set for August 2024. Marcus’s trial began on August 5, 2024, at the Multnomah County Courthouse in downtown Portland. I attended every day and sat in the front row with Rachel beside me.
I had to watch my husband, the man I had loved, trusted, and married, face justice for being the Westside Strangler.
The prosecution’s case was methodical and devastating. They called forensic experts who testified about the DNA evidence and explained how Marcus’s skin cells were found under victims’ fingernails. They called the medical examiner, who described each victim’s injuries and the matching patterns across all eight cases.
They presented the victim trophies, eight items displayed on a table in front of the jury, while eight families cried as they recognized their daughters’ belongings.
They called Vincent Russo, who testified about the murder-for-hire plot in exchange for his plea deal.
“Marcus Chen contacted me on March 1, 2024,” Vincent said. “He offered me $200,000 to kill his wife, Claire, and make it look like a home invasion. He provided her photo, her address, her routine. He said he’d be at a hotel when it happened. Said she was insured for twelve million and he wanted her dead.”
They presented the journal. The prosecutor read entries aloud while the jury listened in horrified silence.
April 14, 2022. Melissa died tonight. Watching the life leave her eyes was intoxicating.
Eight entries. Eight confessions. Eight families sobbing in the courtroom.
Then they called me. I walked to the witness stand on shaking legs, was sworn in, and sat down. The prosecutor was gentle but thorough.
“Mrs. Chen, when did you meet the defendant?”
“September 2019. At a networking event.”
“When did you marry him?”
“June 2020.”
“Did you love him?”
“Yes. Very much. I thought he loved me, too.”
“Did you have any indication he was the Westside Strangler?”
“None. He seemed normal, loving, successful. I never suspected anything was wrong.”
“Did you know about the twelve-million-dollar life insurance policy?”
“I knew he had taken out a policy. He said it was a benefit from his firm. I signed the papers without reading them carefully. I trusted him completely.”
“Did you know he had hired Vincent Russo to murder you?”
“No. Not until my sister called me at midnight and told me to hide. Even then, I didn’t understand why until I saw Marcus let Mr. Russo into our house and heard them discuss killing me.”
“How did that make you feel?”
I looked directly at Marcus. He was staring at the table, not meeting my eyes.
“Betrayed. Terrified. Devastated. The man I loved, the man I had built a life with, was a serial predator who had married me because I looked like his victims. He was planning to kill me and collect insurance money. Everything we had was a lie.”
The prosecutor nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Chen. No further questions.”
The defense tried to cross-examine me. They tried to suggest I had misunderstood what I saw in the attic.
“Isn’t it possible you misheard the conversation? That Mr. Russo broke into your house and your husband was trying to protect you?”
“No. I heard Marcus say, ‘She should be in the bedroom. Make it look like a home invasion. I’ll be at the hotel with my alibi.’ Those were his exact words.”
The defense had no response.
After two weeks of testimony, the jury deliberated for seven hours. They returned with their verdict on August 22, 2024.
“On the charge of first-degree murder of Melissa Rodriguez, guilty.”
“On the charge of first-degree murder of Amanda Foster, guilty.”
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
Eight counts of first-degree murder. On the charge of conspiracy to commit murder of Claire Mitchell Chen, guilty. On the charge of solicitation of murder for hire, guilty.
Marcus showed no emotion. He just stared straight ahead as the verdicts were read.
At sentencing two weeks later, the judge looked at him with unconcealed disgust.
“Marcus David Chen, you are a predator and a monster. You systematically murdered eight innocent women for your own gratification. You married another woman who fit your victim profile, not out of love, but because she represented your perfect target. When you decided to kill her, you did it for money. Twelve million dollars. You hired a professional killer and created an alibi while he attempted to murder your wife in her sleep. You have shown no remorse, no empathy, no humanity.”
The courtroom was silent.
“This court sentences you to eight consecutive life sentences without possibility of parole for the eight murders. An additional life sentence for conspiracy to commit murder. You will spend every remaining day of your life in prison. You will die in prison, and the world will be safer for it. Take him away.”
U.S. marshals led Marcus out of the courtroom in handcuffs and shackles. He looked at me once as they led him past where I sat. I looked back at him with no expression, no tears, no emotion.
He was dead to me.
It is March 2026 now, two years since Rachel’s midnight phone call saved my life. I am thirty-six years old, living in a new apartment in Northwest Portland. I sold the Alberta Street house immediately after the trial. I could not stand to live in a space where Marcus had planned violence and hidden his secrets.
I still work as a graphic designer. I still create. I still find beauty in the world despite everything I have seen. I am in therapy three times a week for PTSD, trust issues, and nightmares where I am hiding in the attic and Vincent finds me.
But I am healing slowly, day by day.
Rachel left the FBI six months ago. The Westside Strangler case, discovering her brother-in-law was the offender and nearly losing her sister, broke something in her.
“I can’t profile killers anymore,” she told me. “Every time I look at a suspect, I see Marcus’s face. I see how I missed him. How I almost let you die.”