Quiet nights in sex trade

It was here, near a cluster of cheap motels -- the Ben Carol, the Spruce and the Moonrise -- that Gary Ridgway would cruise the strip, looking for hookers.

And it was here, near these motels, where some of the 49 wayward women killed in the Green River killings were last seen alive.

Before the murders began in 1982, the area between South 144th Street and 24th Avenue South used to be a prime spot for prostitution.

But now, you're not likely to see any women walking by themselves on this lonely stretch of highway.

In the cramped lobby of the Ben Carol Motel, the night manager, a small, blond woman, plays nervously with her pearls when asked about Ridgway.

She does not give her name, but mentions she has four adult daughters.

She has never seen Ridgway, but remembers the women who used to walk by in droves during the 1980s.

"There would be at least 50 of them," she says, tugging on her beige sweater and peering over her glasses. "They'd be walking up and down all night. I remember thinking I could do something to help them."

Then, the familiar faces started to disappear.

"The opportunity to turn their lives around was taken from them," she says, shaking her head. "It's such a shame. Most people forgot about this case until Friday."

The hotel's owner, Edward Lin, echoes the night manager.

In a breezy motel room that reeks of stale cigarettes, dingy blue curtains frame the window, and a tangerine-colored comforter is draped over the bed. The room is silent, except for the loud whir of the air conditioner.

"Prostitution is not completely gone, but it is better than it was at that time," says Lin, who took over the motel in 1984. "I would be very surprised to see one walking down the street now."

A familiar face

Two doors down behind the Spruce Motel, two women, Tree and Pat, are cooking turkey and Rice-a-Roni in a small room. Folded navy blue bandanas hang like ornaments from the ceiling fan.


	>"I remember thinking I could do something to help them," says the Ben Carol Motel's night manager of the women who used to walk by in droves, before the city incorporated. Jeff Larsen / Seattle Post-Intelligencer Click for larger photo

When told about Ridgway's arrest, Tree grabs her cell phone.

"God, I have to call my mother," she says. "She used to be a prostitute back when that happened. The Green River Killer got one of her friends."

Tree was only a girl back then.

"We used to go to the Green River, and people used to tell us about that guy who was dumping girls in the river."

She stands up, then sits down.

She smokes a Newport, then dials her mother's number.

She pulls out pictures of her mother that she keeps in an old cell-phone box. The frail woman in the photo wears a long white T-shirt. She has haunting brown eyes, and there is not even a hint of a smile on her face.

Today, Tree's mother lives in Eastern Washington.

But this strip used to be her stomping grounds, before she quit "the business" in the late 1980s.

"It had nothing to do with the killings; she just wanted to stop," says Tree, 22.

When the food is almost done, a man wanders in. There is an awkward silence. Then Tree starts talking again.

At night, on the strip, six or seven prostitutes usually walk the streets, rain or not, she says.

"These girls out here don't care. How can you have a (prostitute) stroll near a police station?" she asks, referring to the bright white sign of the Tukwila Police Department substation nearby.

"There are no pimps anymore, that's how," answers Tree's aunt, Pat, who is braiding her own hair and drinking a beer.

As Pat stares blankly at the movie, "Sister Act 2," on the television, Tree quietly scans newspaper pictures of the Green River Killer's 49 victims.

She is looking for familiar faces.

Suddenly, her jaw drops.

"I think she used to prostitute for my uncle," she says when she reaches the picture of one woman.

"Damn."

Then, her thoughts turn to Ridgway and to Friday's arrest.

"My generation is just like my mom's people," Tree says. "Friends of mine are going to have to sell their bodies for money. People die all the time, but it doesn't draw attention until it's too late.

"I guess it all depends on who you kill."

She shrugs and warns her guests that her boyfriend will be home soon.

Everyone has to leave, except her Aunt Pat.

'A creepy feeling'

About a mile down the strip, the number of motels begins to dwindle.

Outside a bar, a fiery orange neon sign reads "Trudy's Tavern."

Inside, the clack of billiards competes with country music playing on the jukebox.

Beneath the two televisions over the bar, men hunched over tall glasses of beer watch CNN or a show about snow leopards on Animal Planet. Over a span of three hours, several women wander in and out.

Any of them could be looking for a "John," says Kristie, the bartender.

"They come in plain clothes," she says. "They'll bum a cigarette or try to get a beer from a guy."

Her feathery blond hair covers her face as she scans the newspaper. She fills a pitcher and talks without getting a bit of beer on her red shirt.

She talks about the women who frequent this bar; the women who come in minutes before closing; the women with street names like "Hootie."

Many, she says, are addicted to crack cocaine.

Sitting at the bar, a small man with glassy blue eyes will tell you that he's been addicted to the drug for about a decade. He recognizes some of the Green River Killer's victims.

"It made me break down and cry to hear about those murders," he says in a near whisper.

"It's a creepy feeling. I knew a lot of them by face."

It's now approaching 1 a.m. yesterday.

Back outside, on the strip, a few men in clusters stand under the bus shelters along the highway. But not a single woman is walking the strip.

P-I reporter Joshunda Sanders can be reached at 206-448-8179 or joshundasanders@seattlepi.com

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