Stanford’s Memorial Church is a masterpiece of stained glass and quiet reverence, nestled in the heart of campus. On most nights, it closes without incident. But in the early hours of October 13, 1974, something unimaginable happened behind those heavy wooden doors.
Nineteen-year-old Arlis Perry walked in to pray. By morning, she had passed away in what would become one of California’s most haunting and bizarre unsolved cases—until DNA gave the story a name.
Who Was Arlis Perry?
Arlis grew up in Bismarck, North Dakota, a place where Sunday service and small-town safety went hand in hand. She married Bruce Perry, her high school sweetheart, and moved with him to Palo Alto, California. Bruce had just started as a pre-med student at Stanford. Arlis had taken a clerical job nearby. They were newlyweds—barely two months in.
Everyone described Arlis as devout, soft-spoken, and gentle. She didn’t drink. She didn’t smoke. Her idea of a night out was a quiet walk or a trip to church. She was the kind of person who believed in doing the right thing, even if no one was watching.
And that’s exactly what she was doing the night she walked alone into Memorial Church—talking to God.
The Last Walk
On the night of October 12, Arlis and Bruce had a small disagreement. She wanted to pray. He didn’t think it was necessary. They parted ways around midnight. Arlis headed to the church. Bruce stayed behind.
When she didn’t return, he waited. Hours passed. At around 3 a.m., he phoned campus security to report her missing.
The church, he was told, had been locked. No one had seen her.
That wasn’t true.
Discovery at the Altar
At 5:45 a.m., campus security guard Stephen Crawford called in a report. He said he’d found the front doors of the church ajar. That was odd—he claimed to have locked them just a few hours earlier.
Inside, near the altar, he discovered Arlis’s body.
She had passed away in a position investigators would later describe as “staged.” She was lying on her back, arms outstretched as if in the shape of a cross. Her jeans had been removed and carefully placed over her legs. Her blouse was open.
Two church candles were positioned in ways that made detectives’ stomachs turn—one laid across her chest, the other inserted into her body. Her skull had been punctured by an ice pick still embedded above her ear.
A Bible lay open nearby.
The scene didn’t look spontaneous. It looked intentional.
Was This a Ritual Killing?
Detectives didn’t know what to make of it.
On one hand, there were obvious signs of a violent, personal crime. But the symbolism—religious overtones, candle placement, crucifix-like pose—made them wonder whether something more sinister was at play.
They quietly explored theories of a ritualistic killing. Was Arlis targeted for her faith? Was there a cult operating near campus?
The media got wind of the weirdness, and within weeks, wild speculation took over. Journalists hinted at Satanic connections. Some even tried to tie the case to other unsolved murders across the country.
But the investigation had no real leads. Forensic technology in 1974 was limited. No usable fingerprints. No way to analyze DNA. The best they could do was collect the evidence and wait for science to catch up.
The Wrong Suspects
Naturally, Bruce Perry—her husband—was questioned. He had reported her missing. He’d been the last person to see her. He took and passed a polygraph test.
Still, suspicion lingered. The young widower moved on with his life but never escaped the shadow of what happened that night.
Then there was Stephen Crawford—the security guard who found her.
His story had gaps. He said he locked the church. But somehow, it was open again in the morning. He’d told police no one was inside when he closed up, yet Arlis was clearly there. He’d walked in and discovered the scene, but didn’t call it in right away. Investigators wondered: was Crawford buying time?
But with no hard evidence tying him to the crime, he was never arrested.
Crawford kept his job for a while. Eventually, he left Stanford and faded from public view. No one asked too many questions.
And the case went cold.
The Obsession of Maury Terry
In the 1980s, an investigative journalist named Maury Terry became obsessed with Arlis’s murder.
He believed her killing wasn’t random—and wasn’t isolated. In his book The Ultimate Evil, Terry argued that Arlis had unknowingly become the target of a Satanic cult. He linked her death to the “Son of Sam” killings in New York, arguing that both were orchestrated by a network of ritualistic murderers.
Terry’s theories were compelling—and controversial.
He pointed out eerie similarities: religious staging, candle placement, the use of unusual weapons. He even found supposed links between Arlis and cult literature circulating at the time.
But police never found evidence supporting his claims. Many dismissed his work as conspiratorial. Still, the theory stuck in public memory. People didn’t forget about Arlis.
They just couldn’t figure out what had really happened.
DNA Changes Everything
Decades passed. The case remained open but inactive.
Then in 2018, cold case detectives reexamined the evidence.
They had preserved hair samples, biological material, and items collected at the scene. New DNA analysis tools allowed them to run comparisons that had never been possible before.
A match came back.
Stephen Crawford.
The security guard. The man who said he found her. The one who locked the doors and then somehow found them unlocked. The one who never quite explained his timeline.
On June 28, 2018, police prepared to arrest him.
When they knocked on his door with a warrant, he was waiting.
Before they could enter, Crawford ended his life with a firearm.
He was 72.
What Did He Hide for 44 Years?
The answer may never be fully known. What drove him? Was it anger? Sadism? Did he plan it, or was it a crime of opportunity?
Crawford had worked at Stanford for years. He had access. He knew the church. He knew the schedules. And he knew that a young woman alone at midnight might be vulnerable.
Investigators believe he assaulted her, staged the scene to confuse the narrative, and returned hours later to “find” the body. He inserted himself into the investigation, a move not uncommon among perpetrators seeking to control the story.
In the end, science gave the answer. But it came far too late for justice.
Did the Satanic Panic Distract Everyone?
The late 1970s and early ’80s were full of paranoia about Satanic cults. Allegations popped up in schools, churches, even daycare centers. Much of it was later debunked.
In Arlis’s case, the symbolic nature of the crime scene—candles, staging, the Bible—invited people to interpret it as religious or occult.
But what if that symbolism was meant to throw everyone off?
What if it was all part of the performance—one meant to confuse, mislead, and distract?
It worked. For 44 years, people chased shadows while the man who committed the murder lived freely.
The Tragic Legacy of Arlis Perry
Arlis wasn’t just a victim. She was a young woman who believed in faith, love, and starting fresh. She followed her husband across the country to support his dream, took a humble job to help them get by, and made time for prayer even when she was upset.
She didn’t deserve what happened.
And for decades, her story was buried under speculation and silence. It took modern forensics to cut through the theories and deliver an answer. It also exposed the failure of the original investigation—not because police didn’t care, but because they lacked tools, and perhaps, imagination.
Sometimes the truth isn’t far-fetched. It’s horrifyingly close.
Why This Case Still Haunts California
Few cases have such a disturbing blend of innocence and malice.
A peaceful church. A young bride. A trusted guard. And a body posed like a twisted message.
It’s not just that Arlis passed away—it’s how she was left.
The tragedy didn’t just destroy a life. It warped the perception of a place meant for comfort. Even now, students who pass by Memorial Church don’t realize what happened inside. But for those who know, it’s impossible to forget.
Sources
- Stanford Report (2018). “Authorities solve 1974 campus murder.”
- Wikipedia. “Murder of Arlis Perry.”
- Scott Herhold (2023). Murder Under God’s Eye.
- Oxygen True Crime. “How Arlis Perry’s murder was connected to the Son of Sam.”
- Pleasanton Weekly. “A deep dive into an infamous Peninsula murder.”
She wore a blue work shirt with rolled sleeves and a red polka-dot bandana that kept her hair back from her face. Her lips were painted, her gaze steady, and her right arm bent to show the curve of her bicep. In the corner of the poster, the words were printed in white over a navy speech bubble: We Can Do It!
The year was 1943. The poster was meant to boost morale among Westinghouse Electric employees, not the general public. It was displayed for just two weeks before being taken down and forgotten.
Decades later, it resurfaced and took on a second life. Feminist groups, labor organizers, and cultural critics turned it into a symbol of strength and resistance. The woman in the poster became known as Rosie the Riveter. But the face behind the image remained unnamed, or worse, misidentified.
The Woman in the Photograph
In 1942, a photographer from the Acme news agency arrived at the Naval Air Station in Alameda, California. He had been assigned to capture images of women who had stepped into jobs that were once reserved for men. One of those women was Naomi Parker. She stood at a lathe, wearing a light-colored coverall with the sleeves rolled just above her wrists. Her hair was tucked under a polka-dot bandana, and her shoes had thick soles. She leaned forward slightly, both hands steady on the machine.
The photo was published that same year in newspapers across the country. It ran with no name, just a simple caption describing the scene. Naomi saw it and saved a copy. She had been proud of the work and liked how she looked in the picture. There was no reason to believe it would ever become important.
Naomi had taken the job alongside her sister Ada. They lived together in a rented room and shared a daily routine that began before sunrise. Naomi operated machines. Ada worked in the office. Each day, they packed metal tins with simple lunches and walked through the gates as civilian defense workers. Their pay was modest, and the hours were long, but they understood the weight of what they were doing.
Mistaken Identity and the Search for the Truth
For most of her life, Naomi Parker Fraley remained unknown outside her family. The photograph taken at the Alameda Naval Air Station had been archived by the government, like many wartime images. Decades later, when it resurfaced in articles and museum exhibits, it was displayed with someone else’s name beneath it.
That name belonged to Geraldine Hoff Doyle, a Michigan woman who had briefly worked in a factory during the war. She had seen the same photograph in a 1980s magazine and thought it showed her. The media picked up her story and, without verifying the source, began referring to her as the original Rosie the Riveter. Museums followed. Textbooks and newspapers repeated the claim. By the 1990s, Doyle’s name had become attached to the poster in popular memory, even though she had never worked at the Naval Air Station in Alameda.
Naomi saw the image in a 2011 exhibit at the Rosie the Riveter museum in Richmond, California. The label credited Geraldine Doyle. She quietly told a staff member that the photograph showed her, not someone else. She brought documentation. Her sister, Ada, confirmed the same. Still, the correction was not made.
It took several more years before the story reached James Kimble, a communications professor at Seton Hall University. He had been researching wartime propaganda and became curious about the image’s origin. His investigation led him to government archives, newspaper clippings, and finally to Naomi herself. He compared the timelines, employment records, and facial features in other photographs. His conclusion was published in 2016. Naomi Parker Fraley had been the woman in the photograph all along.
When asked how she felt about the discovery, Naomi gave a brief quote: “The women of this country these days need icons. If they think I’m one, I’m happy about that.”
The Woman in the Photo, and Everyone She Stood For
Naomi Parker Fraley passed away in 2018 at the age of 96. By then, the photo of her standing at the lathe in 1942 had become widely circulated, finally credited, and quietly honored.
She spent most of her life out of the spotlight. She worked, married, lived in small towns, and kept the original newspaper clipping of her photograph tucked away. When asked about it late in life, she said she was glad people had come to care. “I was just doing my job,” she told a reporter.
The poster had become a symbol of female empowerment. But for her, it had always just been a photograph of a day at work.
Naomi Parker Fraley in her later years. She was finally recognized as the real woman behind the wartime poster.
Her story is often told alongside the image, but it also belongs beside many others. The war had opened factory gates to women across the country. They drilled, riveted, sorted, and welded. They stepped into jobs that had previously been denied to them, and they carried production lines that kept the war effort moving.
By the end of the war, most of these women were laid off or asked to return to domestic roles. Some stayed on, quietly. Others never stepped into a factory again. But the photographs remained.
Naomi’s image, once misfiled and mislabeled, now lives on in articles, books, and classroom walls. It stands as a symbol of wartime labor, but also as a reminder that symbols begin with people.
She never called herself Rosie. She never asked to be remembered. But she was part of something much larger than herself, and that part, finally, has her name on it.