LA Forensics: Mysterious Confession



In the spring of 2002, Andrew Lancaster parked his dilapidated camper next to his ex-daughter-in-law Rebecca's house in the Santa Clarita Valley, 35 miles northwest of downtown Los Angeles. The two had kept in touch over the years through Christmas cards and occasional gifts. Rebecca, 42, had recently divorced Lancaster's son Gerald and was having trouble juggling a new job and three school-aged children. She had been a stay-at-home mom for the 22 years she had been married to Gerald.

When Lancaster suggested he come up and stay for a couple of months to help her out, Rebecca agreed.

Lancaster's camper was an eyesore. A rust bucket with furniture and other odds and ends lashed to the outside, it looked more like a 19th-century whaling ship ready for a two-year voyage than a modern recreational vehicle. Rebecca insisted that Lancaster park the camper on the side of the house and take down all the stuff — the junk — tied to it.

For the first few weeks everything was nice. Lancaster, whom Rebecca and the kids called Grandpa, took care of the yard, walked the dogs, and picked up the kids after school, often taking them for milkshakes. He and Rebecca took long walks in the evenings and talked.

After a while, though, there were hints of a darker side to Andrew Lancaster.