“So near, yet so far away”
People Magazine Investigates: Surviving the Butcher, Baker: ID, June 2, 2026
Do this for just one minute: imagine yourself in Anchorage, Alaska, in the Fall of 1983. Police have a growing list of missing persons. Many of them — most of them — are women. Almost all of them “entertainers.” It’s a crazy time in the city.
The oil boom is bringing in lots of action. Pipeline workers and oil riggers — flush with money — are crawling the streets in search of a good time. These men — and they’re all men — have few if any ties to the city. Most of them don’t even have bank accounts. No problem. The city’s Fourth Avenue strip clubs and bars gladly cash their oil company checks. In a long Alaska tradition, they act as informal banks. And with that cash, these footloose men can let the good times roll.
(courtesy Steve Cysewski)
The good times are naturally about the booze and, even more, the women. Specifically, the dancers. Topless. Bottomless. Many of them more than willing to go “on dates” to earn extra money. There’s others, even more accessible, working the streets or the massage parlors. And their pimps, lurking in the shadows.
They Have Names
You should know this… The missing women have names. Roxanne Easland, “an avenue girl,” missing since June 1980. Lisa Futrell, a dancer at the Great Alaska Bush Company, missing since September 1980. Cherrie Graves — a dancer at the Wild Cherry, also known as “Georgia” — missing since November 1981. Lisa Altiery, a Bush Company dancer known as “Enchantment” — missing since December 12, 1981.
(courtesy Alaska State Troopers)
By the fall of 1982, hunters had found Cherrie Graves — now with a real name: Sherry Morrow. She was buried in a sandbar along the Knik River. Not long afterwards, the list grew to six and then… Eight. Sgt. Maxine Farrell of the Anchorage Police Department was keeping tab of the missing. It was list that now worried Farrell more than ever.
(courtesy Arrow Media and Anchorage Police Department)
Into the Mix, Then Gone
The break in this growing disaster came, of course, from Cindy Paulson. She’d met the killer. Kidnapped, taken to his home — and fearing for her life — she’d managed to escape.
You finally have your witness. You finally have your killer.
But the pressure of Cindy’s now sacred knowledge was… too much. She had retreated to a relatively “safe place,” in a massage parlor. But the cops kept checking in on her. It made the massage parlor owner (himself a pimp) uncomfortable, to say the least. And the cops were just as freaked. Here was their best witness, in what amounted to a house of prostitution. And then, out of the blue, Cindy disappears. Leaves the massage parlor and leaves no word as to where she is or where she went. The pressure had finally gotten to her. She had to get out.
Leland: Flothe thought that you might have felt that [the subpoena] was a betrayal of your trust.
Cindy: OK, I don't remember much of that because I went hog wild... I hid from everybody. I didn't even have clothes... And I was just tired of it, because I was so high and loaded. I needed to get out of the position that I was in.
Cops On the Lookout
It just would not do to lose Cindy Paulson. Sgt. Glenn Flothe knew he had to find her. He put out the word. It was one of the APD vice cops who found her. Sgt. Glenn Flothe made a beeline. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for. Cindy had gone even deeper, into the bowels of the seediest club in Anchorage.
Leland: They find you at that crappy little club. And they go in there.
Cindy: Yeah, that was... I was just trying to be by myself. That was... That was the diciest bar in town. And I was so high. I couldn't even dance... I didn't have clothes to dance and my hair was greasy. I looked totally blocked off. I didn't have makeup... And I was drinking so much, I was totally alcoholic and like it… [was] terrible.
Leland: And you wouldn't tell Flothe where you were staying.
(Trying her best to look older)
So there she was, in all her crusty glory. Cindy even had a “minder,” a chaperone keeping the cops at bay. It was on Cindy to make the next move. Maintaining her trust was everything. All Flothe could do was wait. Wait and hope. He let Cindy know she could call him at any time, day or night. Gave her his work and home telephone numbers. And bided his time. It was the shittiest, longest wait in the world. All Flothe wanted to hear was Cindy saying, “you gotta come get me.”
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You can also order “What Happened In Craig,” HERE and HERE. True crime on Epicenter Press about Alaska’s Worst Unsolved Mass Murder.
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