History Overturned
Twenty-five years after one of the UW’s most brutal crimes, changing science is turning a settled history into an open question: will we ever know who killed Charise Kamps?
By John Allen
On July 12, 2005, Madison lost a sense of certainty. On that date, the Wisconsin Supreme Court overturned the conviction of Ralph Armstrong MSx’79, stripping the ending from the understood narrative of one of the most brutal crimes in the university’s history.
Twenty-five years earlier, on June 24, 1980, the body of Charise Kamps x’83 had been discovered, bloody and naked, in her West Gorham Street apartment. She had been beaten, raped, and strangled. Justice moved swiftly, however: Armstrong was in custody that very day.
For those attending the UW then, and for Madison in general, the murder dominated the summer. Reports on the investigation ran on the front pages of city and university newspapers until the arrest was made public in July. At the time, the CapitalTimes wrote that the crime “shocked women across the city.” But their shock must have been assuaged in March 1981, when Armstrong was tried, convicted, and sentenced to a term of life plus sixteen years. During the trial, the prosecution used two important pieces of physical evidence — semen and hair samples — to link him to the crime scene. The state used the best science available at the time, but forensic labs had no way of identifying evidence based on DNA then. Today they do, and analysis shows that neither the semen nor the hair came from Armstrong.
By John Allen
On July 12, 2005, Madison lost a sense of certainty. On that date, the Wisconsin Supreme Court overturned the conviction of Ralph Armstrong MSx’79, stripping the ending from the understood narrative of one of the most brutal crimes in the university’s history.
Twenty-five years earlier, on June 24, 1980, the body of Charise Kamps x’83 had been discovered, bloody and naked, in her West Gorham Street apartment. She had been beaten, raped, and strangled. Justice moved swiftly, however: Armstrong was in custody that very day.
For those attending the UW then, and for Madison in general, the murder dominated the summer. Reports on the investigation ran on the front pages of city and university newspapers until the arrest was made public in July. At the time, the CapitalTimes wrote that the crime “shocked women across the city.” But their shock must have been assuaged in March 1981, when Armstrong was tried, convicted, and sentenced to a term of life plus sixteen years. During the trial, the prosecution used two important pieces of physical evidence — semen and hair samples — to link him to the crime scene. The state used the best science available at the time, but forensic labs had no way of identifying evidence based on DNA then. Today they do, and analysis shows that neither the semen nor the hair came from Armstrong.
The new evidence “doesn’t prove that Ralph Armstrong couldn’t have done this,” admits law professor John Pray of the Wisconsin Innocence Project, a UW organization that, like the national Innocence Project, aids prisoners it feels were wrongly convicted. The Wisconsin Innocence Project didn’t represent Armstrong, but it did submit a brief in support of his appeal, and national Innocence Project founder Barry Scheck argued on his behalf. “We don’t have proof of innocence,” Pray says of Armstrong’s appeal. “What we have is DNA evidence that changes the facts of the case.” In other words, the prosecution’s original theory no longer fits. If the murderer did leave the semen and the hair, he can’t be Armstrong. And if Armstrong is the killer, then those pieces of physical evidence must be irrelevant.
Prosecutors, however, remain convinced they have the right man in custody. “Our belief is that [Armstrong] did commit the crime,” says Dane County district attorney Brian Blanchard, who has assigned assistant D.A. John Norsetter ’68, JD’71 to look into retrying the case.
Norsetter declined to speak about the trial, feeling that it would be ethically “tricky ground” to talk about a matter that is currently in litigation. “Right now,” he says, “I have nothing to add to what’s already in the record.”
Prosecutors, however, remain convinced they have the right man in custody. “Our belief is that [Armstrong] did commit the crime,” says Dane County district attorney Brian Blanchard, who has assigned assistant D.A. John Norsetter ’68, JD’71 to look into retrying the case.
Norsetter declined to speak about the trial, feeling that it would be ethically “tricky ground” to talk about a matter that is currently in litigation. “Right now,” he says, “I have nothing to add to what’s already in the record.”
That record offers a seamy picture of Madison. It’s a story full of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, as well as science lessons, hypnosis, and, as a key witness, a transvestite prostitute. Most important, it has a satisfying conclusion: punishment for the guilty. But a quarter century later, the case offers something else: a sobering lesson about the transience of science — about how evidence that seems to prove one thing may, in the fullness of time, prove something else, or nothing at all.
If the pages of the Daily Cardinal are an accurate record of life at UW-Madison, then June 1980 was a jittery time. This may have been the summer of The Empire Strikes Back, the summer of The Blues Brothers, and a time before the Equal Rights Amendment had failed. But it was also a month when inflation topped 14 percent with rising unemployment. And at the UW, as at campuses across the country, students were obsessed with one looming threat: the draft.
That summer, President Jimmy Carter signed into law the Military Selective Service Act, requiring college-aged males to register for a potential draft, the first since the Vietnam War. Registration was set to begin in July 1980, so in June, the campus was filled with outrage and despair. “Registration leads inevitably to a draft,” one Cardinal editorialist warned. “And a draft leads inevitably to war.”
If the pages of the Daily Cardinal are an accurate record of life at UW-Madison, then June 1980 was a jittery time. This may have been the summer of The Empire Strikes Back, the summer of The Blues Brothers, and a time before the Equal Rights Amendment had failed. But it was also a month when inflation topped 14 percent with rising unemployment. And at the UW, as at campuses across the country, students were obsessed with one looming threat: the draft.
That summer, President Jimmy Carter signed into law the Military Selective Service Act, requiring college-aged males to register for a potential draft, the first since the Vietnam War. Registration was set to begin in July 1980, so in June, the campus was filled with outrage and despair. “Registration leads inevitably to a draft,” one Cardinal editorialist warned. “And a draft leads inevitably to war.”
That sounded far more prescient in 1980 than it does today. That summer, America seemed besieged with military crises. In Iran, revolutionaries had been holding the U.S. embassy staff hostage for more than half a year. The Soviet army was mopping up what then appeared to be a successful invasion of Afghanistan, and in Southeast Asia, the Vietnamese army was making incursions into Thailand, where it killed several U.S. marines in small firefights. Had students known then that Carter would lose the 1980 presidential election, they would likely have found little comfort. His opponent, Ronald Reagan, used rhetoric that was, if anything, even more bellicose. To them, war seemed a very real possibility.
Still, buried among the alarmist editorials and political updates, the Cardinal offered a recurring bit of city news: the number of sexual assaults reported in town each week. Madison was then experiencing an upsurge in violence. In 1979, the city had suffered a record number of rapes, and safety was becoming such a concern that the city passed an ordinance requiring all apartment buildings to have security locks on exterior doors by June 1, 1980. Still, in the first half of that year, assault figures were rising again — 10 percent above the same period in 1979. Seventy-seven sexual assaults were reported to the police between January 1 and June 30. One of them was Charise Kamps.
Still, buried among the alarmist editorials and political updates, the Cardinal offered a recurring bit of city news: the number of sexual assaults reported in town each week. Madison was then experiencing an upsurge in violence. In 1979, the city had suffered a record number of rapes, and safety was becoming such a concern that the city passed an ordinance requiring all apartment buildings to have security locks on exterior doors by June 1, 1980. Still, in the first half of that year, assault figures were rising again — 10 percent above the same period in 1979. Seventy-seven sexual assaults were reported to the police between January 1 and June 30. One of them was Charise Kamps.
Kamps had come to UW-Madison in the fall of 1979 to study elementary education. Her mother was a school-teacher in Potosi, Wisconsin, and her father chaired the teacher education program at UW-Platteville. According to theWisconsin State Journal, she had survived a bout with cancer, and the experience had made her eager to pursue all life had to offer. The summer after her freshman year, Kamps decided to stay in Madison, subletting an apartment on the third floor of 134 West Gorham, and paying for it with money she earned working at the Pipefitter, a State Street head shop.
The Gorham Street house did have a security lock, but Kamps, like many students, was careless with her keys. She had, on at least one occasion, locked herself out and been forced to break into her own apartment. This, she discovered, was not difficult — simply climb the back fire escape, then pop a screen out of an open window. Afterward, she didn’t replace the screen.
Three weeks after she rented that apartment, on the evening of Monday, June 23, she attended a party at the home of her coworker and friend Jane May, who lived above the Pipefitter. It was a good night to be on State Street. It was very warm outside — the temperature had topped 90 degrees all week. Musician Jackson Browne was filming a video nearby, and many people were gathering to watch. The small group at the party included two more Pipefitter coworkers, as well as May’s boyfriend, Ralph Armstrong; his brother Steve; and a friend, Greg Kohlhardt. Kamps’s fiancé, Brian Dillman, wasn’t there. He was at home in McGregor, Iowa.
The Gorham Street house did have a security lock, but Kamps, like many students, was careless with her keys. She had, on at least one occasion, locked herself out and been forced to break into her own apartment. This, she discovered, was not difficult — simply climb the back fire escape, then pop a screen out of an open window. Afterward, she didn’t replace the screen.
Three weeks after she rented that apartment, on the evening of Monday, June 23, she attended a party at the home of her coworker and friend Jane May, who lived above the Pipefitter. It was a good night to be on State Street. It was very warm outside — the temperature had topped 90 degrees all week. Musician Jackson Browne was filming a video nearby, and many people were gathering to watch. The small group at the party included two more Pipefitter coworkers, as well as May’s boyfriend, Ralph Armstrong; his brother Steve; and a friend, Greg Kohlhardt. Kamps’s fiancé, Brian Dillman, wasn’t there. He was at home in McGregor, Iowa.
Both alcohol and cocaine were available at the party, which broke up around 6:30 p.m., when several of the group, including Kamps, went to dinner at Namio’s, a supper club. They then went to Kohlhardt’s home to drink beer and watch M*A*S*H, and then on to Armstrong’s apartment in Fitchburg, where Armstrong set up a deal to buy more cocaine. By 10:00, they were back at May’s apartment on State to watch the evening news. Kamps left at around 10:45 to go home. Armstrong departed about fifteen minutes later.
Kamps walked the five blocks to her building. Next door, Riccie Orebia had just come out to sit on the big, brick porch of 120 West Gorham. Orebia had little else to do. He occasionally worked the streets as a prostitute, sometimes dressed as a man, sometimes as a woman. Madison was cracking down on prostitution, especially in the State Street area, where the newly designated pedestrian mall was becoming a magnet for vice, and the city had recently passed an anti-loitering ordinance. Sometime after 11:00 p.m., May called Kamps to talk about plans to go water-skiing the next day. After that, no one — except the murderer — saw or spoke with Kamps again.
It was May who discovered Kamps’s body the next day. Dillman had been trying to reach his fiancée throughout the previous night, but her phone line was continually busy. Worried, he asked May to check up on her. Around noon, she went to Kamps’s apartment, let herself in, and found the phone off the hook — and Kamps lying in a pool of blood. She’d been dead for ten to twelve hours.
Kamps walked the five blocks to her building. Next door, Riccie Orebia had just come out to sit on the big, brick porch of 120 West Gorham. Orebia had little else to do. He occasionally worked the streets as a prostitute, sometimes dressed as a man, sometimes as a woman. Madison was cracking down on prostitution, especially in the State Street area, where the newly designated pedestrian mall was becoming a magnet for vice, and the city had recently passed an anti-loitering ordinance. Sometime after 11:00 p.m., May called Kamps to talk about plans to go water-skiing the next day. After that, no one — except the murderer — saw or spoke with Kamps again.
It was May who discovered Kamps’s body the next day. Dillman had been trying to reach his fiancée throughout the previous night, but her phone line was continually busy. Worried, he asked May to check up on her. Around noon, she went to Kamps’s apartment, let herself in, and found the phone off the hook — and Kamps lying in a pool of blood. She’d been dead for ten to twelve hours.
The police came quickly, along with the Dane County coroner. Not far behind them were the district attorney, Jim Doyle ’67, and assistant D.A. John Norsetter.
Authorities were shocked by the scene. “This is a horrible, animal type of thing,” coroner Clyde Chamberlain told the CapitalTimes. “The sexual assault was severe,” he said to the Daily Cardinal. “She was sexually assaulted by a maniac.”
Kamps had been strangled, evidently with the belt of her bathrobe. Her body showed signs of penetration with a “blunt, non-yielding object” in her throat, vagina, and anus, according to pathologist Robert Huntingdon. Police found little sign of struggle in Kamps’s apartment. There had been no forced entry, and though the house had a watchdog, no one had heard it bark.
The Daily Cardinal questioned whether the city’s new security-lock law was having any effect, noting that, at one time, the lock in Kamps’s building had been removed, following complaints from residents who were accidentally locking themselves out. The landlord, Michael Langer, defended his building’s security, implying that determined rapists were impossible to stop. “You can put all the locks in the world on these apartments,” he said. “It isn’t going to help.”
Madison alderwoman Sheila Chaffee MA’87, whose daughter, Laura x’83, lived in Kamps’s building, told the Capital-Times that “everyone is relating to [the murder] in some way.” She described conditions in the downtown neighborhood as living in a state of siege. “I’ve talked to women of all ages,” she said, “and every single one of them is scared.”
Authorities were shocked by the scene. “This is a horrible, animal type of thing,” coroner Clyde Chamberlain told the CapitalTimes. “The sexual assault was severe,” he said to the Daily Cardinal. “She was sexually assaulted by a maniac.”
Kamps had been strangled, evidently with the belt of her bathrobe. Her body showed signs of penetration with a “blunt, non-yielding object” in her throat, vagina, and anus, according to pathologist Robert Huntingdon. Police found little sign of struggle in Kamps’s apartment. There had been no forced entry, and though the house had a watchdog, no one had heard it bark.
The Daily Cardinal questioned whether the city’s new security-lock law was having any effect, noting that, at one time, the lock in Kamps’s building had been removed, following complaints from residents who were accidentally locking themselves out. The landlord, Michael Langer, defended his building’s security, implying that determined rapists were impossible to stop. “You can put all the locks in the world on these apartments,” he said. “It isn’t going to help.”
Madison alderwoman Sheila Chaffee MA’87, whose daughter, Laura x’83, lived in Kamps’s building, told the Capital-Times that “everyone is relating to [the murder] in some way.” She described conditions in the downtown neighborhood as living in a state of siege. “I’ve talked to women of all ages,” she said, “and every single one of them is scared.”
Madison police assigned some thirty officers to the case, and during the next two days, they interviewed as many as eighty people. However, they focused on Ralph Armstrong almost immediately.
According to Armstrong and his supporters, he was just a convenient fall guy. “I think the police just want to hold someone to look good,” an anonymous friend of his told the Capital-Times after Armstrong’s arrest. “If he had really killed Charise, he wouldn’t have gone back to [Kamps’s] apartment Tuesday and told police where he was.”
But the police had good reason to take a hard look at Armstrong. First, there was his personal history. Armstrong had been convicted of rape and sodomy in New Mexico, and he was in Madison on parole, having served seven years out of a 30- to 150-year sentence. He’d earned his undergraduate degree from Santa Fe College while in prison, and had even attempted an escape during his graduation. His cocaine purchases were a parole violation, and that was all the reason police needed to hold him.
Further, his alibi was poor. He said he’d gone back to his Fitchburg apartment after Kamps left May’s place, aiming to set up another cocaine deal. When it fell through, he returned to May’s apartment by around 1:00 a.m. and spent the remainder of the night with her.
According to Armstrong and his supporters, he was just a convenient fall guy. “I think the police just want to hold someone to look good,” an anonymous friend of his told the Capital-Times after Armstrong’s arrest. “If he had really killed Charise, he wouldn’t have gone back to [Kamps’s] apartment Tuesday and told police where he was.”
But the police had good reason to take a hard look at Armstrong. First, there was his personal history. Armstrong had been convicted of rape and sodomy in New Mexico, and he was in Madison on parole, having served seven years out of a 30- to 150-year sentence. He’d earned his undergraduate degree from Santa Fe College while in prison, and had even attempted an escape during his graduation. His cocaine purchases were a parole violation, and that was all the reason police needed to hold him.
Further, his alibi was poor. He said he’d gone back to his Fitchburg apartment after Kamps left May’s place, aiming to set up another cocaine deal. When it fell through, he returned to May’s apartment by around 1:00 a.m. and spent the remainder of the night with her.
Though May supported Armstrong’s claim, she couldn’t be sure exactly when he returned, admitting under cross-examination that it could have been as late as 3:30. Her building manager, who was up until 1:15, hadn’t seen or heard Armstrong come back.
Still, much of the evidence in the case was more suggestive than conclusive. Police found witnesses who said they’d seen Armstrong and Kamps flirting during the party at May’s apartment, and that Armstrong had given her $400 that day as partial repayment of a loan from Dillman. No money was found in Kamps’s apartment after her murder, and on June 24, Armstrong deposited more than $300 into his bank account. The implication, police felt, was that Armstrong had stolen the money back.
Laura Chaffee, Kamps’s neighbor, claimed she’d heard music coming from Kamps’s apartment after midnight — music that sounded like Grand Funk’s Survival. This, a witness reported, was Armstrong’s favorite album.
And then there was Riccie Orebia. He told police that, at around 12:30, he’d seen a man matching Armstrong’s description enter and leave Kamps’s building three times in less than an hour. To help enhance his recall, a detective took him to be hypnotized. Afterward, Orebia produced a more detailed description, and on July 1, he identified Armstrong in a lineup.
Still, much of the evidence in the case was more suggestive than conclusive. Police found witnesses who said they’d seen Armstrong and Kamps flirting during the party at May’s apartment, and that Armstrong had given her $400 that day as partial repayment of a loan from Dillman. No money was found in Kamps’s apartment after her murder, and on June 24, Armstrong deposited more than $300 into his bank account. The implication, police felt, was that Armstrong had stolen the money back.
Laura Chaffee, Kamps’s neighbor, claimed she’d heard music coming from Kamps’s apartment after midnight — music that sounded like Grand Funk’s Survival. This, a witness reported, was Armstrong’s favorite album.
And then there was Riccie Orebia. He told police that, at around 12:30, he’d seen a man matching Armstrong’s description enter and leave Kamps’s building three times in less than an hour. To help enhance his recall, a detective took him to be hypnotized. Afterward, Orebia produced a more detailed description, and on July 1, he identified Armstrong in a lineup.
However, Orebia made a problematic witness for several reasons. Not only did he have a criminal record, but between the identification and the trial, he recanted his report. He told Armstrong’s attorney that he had lied to police — that Armstrong could not have been the man he’d seen entering Kamps’s building — and he signed a statement to this effect. By the time of the trial, he was again saying that he was positive Armstrong was the man, claiming that he’d lied to the defense team in an attempt to get himself removed from the witness list.
With the exception of Orebia, the case was circumstantial, but it was supported by physical evidence that put Armstrong in Kamps’s apartment: his thumbprint was on a bong there. He also had small amounts of blood under his fingernails and toenails. And there were the semen stains and hairs found at the scene, which while not definitive, certainly were suggestive.
To make sense of what they suggested, the state had to rely on its scientists. Before DNA, the tools used to match evidence to suspects were much less exact, depending on a little chemistry and a lot of examination of outward characteristics. Such analysis gave the prosecution little confidence about the semen. It had come from a type A secretor, meaning a person who secretes blood type A antigens into body fluids. Some 80 percent of the world’s population are secretors, and 40 percent have blood type A. Armstrong fit in this category, but so did nearly a third of the world’s male population.
With the exception of Orebia, the case was circumstantial, but it was supported by physical evidence that put Armstrong in Kamps’s apartment: his thumbprint was on a bong there. He also had small amounts of blood under his fingernails and toenails. And there were the semen stains and hairs found at the scene, which while not definitive, certainly were suggestive.
To make sense of what they suggested, the state had to rely on its scientists. Before DNA, the tools used to match evidence to suspects were much less exact, depending on a little chemistry and a lot of examination of outward characteristics. Such analysis gave the prosecution little confidence about the semen. It had come from a type A secretor, meaning a person who secretes blood type A antigens into body fluids. Some 80 percent of the world’s population are secretors, and 40 percent have blood type A. Armstrong fit in this category, but so did nearly a third of the world’s male population.
The hairs, on the other hand, seemed to show something more. The state crime lab collected some forty-eight hairs from Kamps’s apartment, including three from her bathrobe belt, the apparent murder weapon. It examined the samples using more than sixty characteristics, including the scales on each hair’s surface, their form, their color, and the distribution of pigmentation. From this, analysts concluded that ten of the samples, including two recovered from the belt, were either “similar” or “consistent” with Armstrong’s hair.
During the trial, Norsetter told the jury that Armstrong’s hair was “in every place in that apartment ... consistent with his killing Charise Kamps. ... There is no explanation for why that hair was found in every place that the defendant was except that he murdered Charise Kamps.”
After a seven-day trial, the jury returned a guilty verdict on both counts — first-degree murder and first-degree sexual assault. The maximum sentence was life for the murder charge, twenty years for rape. Judge Michael Torphy gave Armstrong life plus sixteen. The stiff sentence, Norsetter believed, would send a message. “I can’t imagine the parole board would even consider him in less than twenty years,” he said.
During the trial, Norsetter told the jury that Armstrong’s hair was “in every place in that apartment ... consistent with his killing Charise Kamps. ... There is no explanation for why that hair was found in every place that the defendant was except that he murdered Charise Kamps.”
After a seven-day trial, the jury returned a guilty verdict on both counts — first-degree murder and first-degree sexual assault. The maximum sentence was life for the murder charge, twenty years for rape. Judge Michael Torphy gave Armstrong life plus sixteen. The stiff sentence, Norsetter believed, would send a message. “I can’t imagine the parole board would even consider him in less than twenty years,” he said.
It would, in fact, be nearly twenty-five years before Armstrong would have achance at freedom. That quarter century saw a revolution in forensic science that has chipped away at the evidence in his case.
Today, both scientific and legal authorities have much less confidence in hypnosis than they did in 1980, though the practice had its critics even then. One of them, UW psychology professor John Kihlstrum, testified on Armstrong’s behalf, noting that hypnotizing a witness is just as likely to result in confabulation as in improved memory. (Currently, twenty-eight states ban hypnotically enhanced testimony. But Wisconsin isn’t among them.) Armstrong and his attorneys challenged Orebia’s admissibility while he was on the stand and in appeals for years afterward. Today the case is considered one of the leading precedents establishing the state’s rules for allowing witnesses to be hypnotized.
Meanwhile, in other cases, a now ubiquitous tool for forensic science was growing into maturity: DNA. In 1988, accused serial rapist Tommy Lee Anderson became the first American convicted using DNA evidence. But a tool for the prosecution can be equally useful for the defense; the following year, Gary Dotson became the first person to have his conviction overturned through DNA profiling. Dotson had been convicted of abduction and rape in 1979, but genetic analysis proved that the key piece of evidence — semen found on the victim — had not come from him. The Dotson case helped inspire the creation of the Innocence Project, which has been drawing heavily on DNA evidence in its efforts to overturn potentially wrongful convictions.
Today, both scientific and legal authorities have much less confidence in hypnosis than they did in 1980, though the practice had its critics even then. One of them, UW psychology professor John Kihlstrum, testified on Armstrong’s behalf, noting that hypnotizing a witness is just as likely to result in confabulation as in improved memory. (Currently, twenty-eight states ban hypnotically enhanced testimony. But Wisconsin isn’t among them.) Armstrong and his attorneys challenged Orebia’s admissibility while he was on the stand and in appeals for years afterward. Today the case is considered one of the leading precedents establishing the state’s rules for allowing witnesses to be hypnotized.
Meanwhile, in other cases, a now ubiquitous tool for forensic science was growing into maturity: DNA. In 1988, accused serial rapist Tommy Lee Anderson became the first American convicted using DNA evidence. But a tool for the prosecution can be equally useful for the defense; the following year, Gary Dotson became the first person to have his conviction overturned through DNA profiling. Dotson had been convicted of abduction and rape in 1979, but genetic analysis proved that the key piece of evidence — semen found on the victim — had not come from him. The Dotson case helped inspire the creation of the Innocence Project, which has been drawing heavily on DNA evidence in its efforts to overturn potentially wrongful convictions.
For Ralph Armstrong, DNA evidence has been a late boon. In 1991, his defense team had the semen stains from the Kamps murder analyzed, and the results showed that he hadn’t been the source — rather, Brian Dillman had been. Armstrong argued that his conviction should be thrown out, but prosecutors countered that the semen evidence wasn’t important enough to overturn their case.
“This is actually something that comes up quite frequently,” says John Pray. “One of the things that’s confusing in cases like these, where there’s new evidence, is that Wisconsin has a weird standard. The defendant has to show by clear and convincing evidence that there is a reasonable probability that the jury would reach a different conclusion. We feel that this puts a double burden of proof on the defendants.”
The prosecution reasoned that as Dillman had been in Iowa that night, he couldn’t have been the murderer. Further, as he was Kamps’s fiancé, it should be no surprise that his semen was found in her apartment, and therefore this DNA evidence was merely irrelevant. Since prosecutors had been open with the jury that the semen could have come from any of a third of Madison’s men, and since they had mentioned at trial that Dillman could have been the source, it was reasonable to think the jury hadn’t based its verdict on that one piece of evidence. The prosecution argued that the jury would not likely have reached a different conclusion. The appeals courts agreed, and Armstrong remained behind bars.
“This is actually something that comes up quite frequently,” says John Pray. “One of the things that’s confusing in cases like these, where there’s new evidence, is that Wisconsin has a weird standard. The defendant has to show by clear and convincing evidence that there is a reasonable probability that the jury would reach a different conclusion. We feel that this puts a double burden of proof on the defendants.”
The prosecution reasoned that as Dillman had been in Iowa that night, he couldn’t have been the murderer. Further, as he was Kamps’s fiancé, it should be no surprise that his semen was found in her apartment, and therefore this DNA evidence was merely irrelevant. Since prosecutors had been open with the jury that the semen could have come from any of a third of Madison’s men, and since they had mentioned at trial that Dillman could have been the source, it was reasonable to think the jury hadn’t based its verdict on that one piece of evidence. The prosecution argued that the jury would not likely have reached a different conclusion. The appeals courts agreed, and Armstrong remained behind bars.
In 2001, though, Armstrong received another boost. Thanks to advances in DNA technology, labs could identify smaller and smaller samples — even ones as small as a single hair. His team had the hair evidence tested, and they found, again, that he hadn’t been the source of the evidence.
Prosecutors countered that the hair, too, was overstated in its importance. After all, their witness, Coila Wegner of the state crime lab, had admitted that she couldn’t make a positive identification from hair samples. A jury, they argued again, would not likely have reached a different conclusion.
The case rose through the state’s appellate courts for four years, as various judges considered the merits of the challenge. This time, the Wisconsin Supreme Court agreed with Armstrong’s attorneys, though only by a four-to-three vote. Although it didn’t consider what the likely jury outcome would be with the new evidence aired, it did conclude that the original trial hadn’t adequatelyconsidered the case. The new DNA evidence, it decided, created different possibilities altogether. “The State used the physical evidence assertively and repetitively as affirmative proof of Armstrong’s guilt,” wrote Judge Louis Butler in the majority opinion, and so “we conclude that the real controversy was not fully tried.”
The conviction was removed, and who killed Charise Kamps once again became an open question.
Prosecutors countered that the hair, too, was overstated in its importance. After all, their witness, Coila Wegner of the state crime lab, had admitted that she couldn’t make a positive identification from hair samples. A jury, they argued again, would not likely have reached a different conclusion.
The case rose through the state’s appellate courts for four years, as various judges considered the merits of the challenge. This time, the Wisconsin Supreme Court agreed with Armstrong’s attorneys, though only by a four-to-three vote. Although it didn’t consider what the likely jury outcome would be with the new evidence aired, it did conclude that the original trial hadn’t adequatelyconsidered the case. The new DNA evidence, it decided, created different possibilities altogether. “The State used the physical evidence assertively and repetitively as affirmative proof of Armstrong’s guilt,” wrote Judge Louis Butler in the majority opinion, and so “we conclude that the real controversy was not fully tried.”
The conviction was removed, and who killed Charise Kamps once again became an open question.
In fact, many cases like Armstrong’s may be waiting for a small discovery in physical evidence, or for an advance in science to open up new possibilities. According to Jerome Geurts, director of the state crime lab in Madison, scientists there spend time between current work combing through the cold case files, looking at old evidence with new techniques. “The worst enemies of physical evidence are moisture, UV radiation, and heat,” he says. “But we tend to store evidence in cardboard boxes in cool, dry, dark storage rooms. We don’t really know what the life span of DNA is under these conditions. It could be thirty or forty years.”
But twenty-five years after the Kamps murder, little remains in the way of evidence — only the two hairs found on the belt, which Armstrong and his attorneys argue belong to the true killer. But the state now contends that they came from the victim and thus do not exonerate Armstrong. Still, this means that the hair, like the semen, is merely irrelevant. Original witness Riccie Orebia is easy to locate, but he is no less problematic now than in 1981. He has spent much of the past two decades in and out of jail for offenses ranging from forgery to arson, his most recent arrest coming in July.
In 2005, witnesses have departed, and memories are fading. Former D.A. Jim Doyle has gone off to the governor’s mansion, and even the Pipefitter is preparing to leave its longtime State Street address. Today, only two police officers are assigned to investigate the Kamps murder.
But twenty-five years after the Kamps murder, little remains in the way of evidence — only the two hairs found on the belt, which Armstrong and his attorneys argue belong to the true killer. But the state now contends that they came from the victim and thus do not exonerate Armstrong. Still, this means that the hair, like the semen, is merely irrelevant. Original witness Riccie Orebia is easy to locate, but he is no less problematic now than in 1981. He has spent much of the past two decades in and out of jail for offenses ranging from forgery to arson, his most recent arrest coming in July.
In 2005, witnesses have departed, and memories are fading. Former D.A. Jim Doyle has gone off to the governor’s mansion, and even the Pipefitter is preparing to leave its longtime State Street address. Today, only two police officers are assigned to investigate the Kamps murder.
Still, Brian Blanchard hopes that the case was so prominent in 1980 that people’s memories will be strong. “This was a big deal then,” he says, “and I think those who were involved will be more likely to remember these events. Plus, we’ve still got John [Norsetter] working on the case. As he’s been here since the beginning, his experience will be invaluable.”
If Dane County decides not to prosecute Armstrong again, they have several choices to make. They could set him free, of course. But they could also send him back to New Mexico, where he’s still under sentence, and ask authorities there to revoke his parole. According to Pray, this may offer prosecutors the easiest route if they want to keep Armstrong in jail.
“New Mexico has a different standard and a different burden of proof than Wisconsin does,” Pray says. “They may be able to get his parole revoked, either for the drug violations or even for murder.”
Still, an air of uncertainty would hang over the case. And as time passes, Madison must decide whether it is capable of proving who killed Charise Kamps.
If Dane County decides not to prosecute Armstrong again, they have several choices to make. They could set him free, of course. But they could also send him back to New Mexico, where he’s still under sentence, and ask authorities there to revoke his parole. According to Pray, this may offer prosecutors the easiest route if they want to keep Armstrong in jail.
“New Mexico has a different standard and a different burden of proof than Wisconsin does,” Pray says. “They may be able to get his parole revoked, either for the drug violations or even for murder.”
Still, an air of uncertainty would hang over the case. And as time passes, Madison must decide whether it is capable of proving who killed Charise Kamps.
