335: Kirsten Costas

dotted with summer cabins and country estates. It was Theodore Roosevelt's daughter, Alice Roosevelt Longworth, who inspired the town's name. Her childhood nickname was Orinda, and the Cameron family honored her by naming their estate Orinda Park in the eighteen nineties. In the nineteen twenties, the town was developed into an exclusive residential community that attracted wealthy San Francisco families seeking

respite from city life. The town grew slowly and deliberately, maintaining its rural character even as suburban development spread across the Bay Area following World War II. By the nineteen eighties, Orinda remained an unincorporated area of Contra Costa County, A collection of winding roads mature trees and carefully maintained homes that felt worlds away from urban concerns. Only about eight percent of the homes were rented, and more than seventy

seven percent occupied by married couples. It was indeed considered suburban bliss. Among Arnda's quiet residential straits, Orchard Roads stood as a particularly serene enclave. This tree lined thoroughfare worn through one of the area's most desirable neighborhoods, where mid century modern homes and traditional California ranch houses sat on generous lots. Many built in the nineteen forties through the

nineteen sixties. The families who lived on Orchard Road epitomized the American suburban dream, well educated professionals who commuted to San Francisco via Highway twenty four, returning each evening to their peaceful hillside community. The street itself embodied the careful planning that characterized Ornda's development. Houses here were set back from the road, separated by mature landscaping that provided both

privacy and a sense of spaciousness. In nineteen eighty four, Orinda was still an unincorporated community, its residents debating whether to seek cityhood, while enjoying the benefits of their affluent, close knit enclave. For the families on Orchard Road, life moved at an unhurried pace of suburbia until one night in June, when that peace was shattered. Forever, the suburban quiet was disturbed when a teenage girl's terrified screams echoed

up and down the neighborhood. At just fifteen years old, Kirsten Costas embodied everything that made Mirramont High School sparkle. She was the kind of teenager people naturally gravitated towards her infectious smile, her kind hearted nature, her eager enthusiasm. She moved through the halls of the prestigious school with the quiet confidence of somebody you seemed to know exactly who she was and where she was going. Mirramont High wasn't just any school. Nestled in the small suburban town

of Orinda in California. It had a reputation that stretched far beyond the neat tree lined streets around it. Built in nineteen fifty five at the height of the baby boom, the school quickly became known for its excellence. By the nineteen eighties, Mirramont was a pressure cooker for achievement. A place where ambition ran high and failure felt unthinkable. Students weren't just expected to succeed, they were expected to excel.

Principal Branislavyek, who also happened to be Kirsten's neighbor, once summed it up plainly. The atmosphere for success is certainly a good one. It wasn't an exaggeration. Mirramont ranked in the ninety ninth percentile of statewide test scores. Its students weren't only scholars, but athletes, artists, and leaders. The school demanded much, but it also seemed to produce the best, and Kirston was no exception. Kirston had grown up in Ornda with her parents, Arthur and Barrett, and her older

brother Peter. The Costas home sat on Orchard Road, a quiet, leafy strait that looked like the blueprint of small taunts suburban life. Arthur and Barrett doated on their daughter, describing her with the kind of endearing phrases that only parents can conjure. Cured as a bug's ear and an all American girl. Kirston herself was a bundle of contradictions, and

that made her all the more magnetic. She had the messiest bedroom in the house, clothes scattered across the floor, make up clustered on her bedside table, yet she always stepped out in the latest styles, effortlessly put together. She complained endlessly about her curly hair, but her friends envied it. She seemed, in many ways to embody the charm and complexity of being a teenager at Merremont, Kirston seemed to

excel at everything that she touched. She was a strong shite iudent, respected by her teachers and admired by her peers. She was equally at home in the pool as a member of the varsity swimming team, or on the sidelines with her palm poms during her classmates. On that fall, she was set to join the varsity cheerleading squad, and she'd just come back from spirit camp, buzzing with new routine she couldn't wait to perform. But Kirsten's talents didn't

stop at school activities. She threw herself into every passion with her whole heart. Swimming, skiing, ballet, modern dance. She seemed to thrive on movement and energy, always pushing herself towards something new. Despite her popularity. Kirsten's friend said that she wasn't swept up in the teenage drama that often defines high school life. She wasn't chasing boyfriends or obsessed with dating. As one close friend later said, she wasn't

boy crazy. She was more friend crazy. Her time and her heart were for the people she cared about, her circle of friends, her team mates, her family. She had a compassionate strike that randy if somebody was late mating her. She worried if a friend seemed dawn. She noticed. The principal, who knew her both as a student and a neighbor, remembered a good, solid student, very popular, a well liked kid.

It was Thursday, the twenty first of June nineteen eighty four when the phone at the Costs home rank there. It picked it up, expecting it to be a neighbor or perhaps one of Kirsten's friends, but instead on the other end of the line was a girl she didn't immediately recognize. Her voice was hushed but brimming with excitement. She explained that Kirston had been chosen for something special, an initiation dinner for the Bobbies, where as they were

more formally known the bobble Lynx. The Bobbies weren't just any group. They were an off camp as sorority type club made up of ourun thirty girls known throughout Mirramont High. They weren't recognized by the school, but they didn't need to be. They had their own rules, their own rituals, and their own reputation. They held charity events for the Mount Diablo Rehabilitation Center and they raised money with elaborate themed parties on Saturday nights. On paper, they were a

volunteer organization. In reality, they were something much more, a status symbol. At Mirramont. The Bobbies weren't just admired, they were envied. They were the girls with the best looks, the newest clothes, the wealthiest families. Some pulled into the school parking lot in porches, others jetted off to Europe in the summer, while the rest of the student body lingered around Rinda. They were the definition of popular and entry into their circle wasn't something that you asked for,

it was something they granted you. Marcy Geyer, as secretary at the school, once put its simply, Bobbies are a clean group, something to be proud of. So when the caller told Barrett that Kirsten had been invited to an initiation dinner. It felt like an honor. Not only that, the caller insisted it had to remain a secret. Kirston should be ready by nine pm Saturday night, when she would be picked up and taken to the dinner. To Barrett, there was nothing unusual about this. For years, mirror Monk

girls had gone through silly, sometimes messy initiation rites. They would smear their hair with mayonnaise or raw egg, slip into their mother's worst old clothing, and attempt to sell kisses along the rig away. They might wrap a house in toilet paper or be subject to mild pranks, but nothing beyond harmless teenage ritual. If anything, it was considered a rite of passage. Saturday night arrived and at nine pm sharp a car pulled up outside the Costas home

on Orchard Route. It wasn't the sleek Porsche or shiny Mercedes one might expect from the Bobby's. Instead, it was a beat up, old orange Ford pintoo. Behind the wheel saw a teenage girl in a faded yellow T shirt and baggy gracewatpants tied at the waist. Barrett peered out of the window. She smiled to herself. The Bobbies, she thought, must be playing one of their little tricks. Kirsten, who was dressed and ready, kissed her mother goodbye and then

headed out the front door. She and the girl climbed into the pinto the door, closing with a hollow thud, before the car rattled its way down Orchard Road and into the night. Barrett didn't worry. This was a rinda. Her daughter was off to join the ranks of the Bobby's, a secret initiation, a silly tradition, a step into the circle of girls who seemed to have it all. But the truth was far darker, and that night the costUS had unknowingly sent their daughter into the hands of somebody

who wasn't work she seemed. Around forty minutes after Kirsten had left home, a knock sounded on the front door of Alex Arnold. Alex lived across the town, far from the quiet straight of Orchard Route. It was late and unexpected visitors were rare. When he opened the door, he was startled to see a teenage girl standing there, pale and frightened. It was Kirsten. Her eyes darted nervously and her voice trembled as she asked if she could use

his phone. Alex stepped aside and let her in. She quickly dialed a number, but then froze, hanging up before the call connected. Something was clearly wrong. Alex asked gently if she was all right. Kirsten forced a faint smile and said, I'm all right, but my parents aren't home. The words didn't match the fear that was etched on her face. Alex offered to drive her home, and she accepted. They climbed into his car, but as he backed out of the driveway, he noticed something. A car was idling

on the street, a beaten up orange Ford Pinto. Behind the wheel sat another teenage girl watching them. Kirsten stiffened, she told Alex that she'd been with that girl, that things had taken a turn. She said that the girl was acting weird and she didn't want to get back in the car with her. Alex reassured her she didn't have to, he would take her home, but as they pulled away, the Ford Pinto followed, its headlights, trailing them

through the darkened straits of Orinda. Kirsten's anxiety mounted. She asked Alex not to take her directly home, but to drop her off at a neighbor's house instead. Perhaps she thought it would be safe for that way, she knew that her parents weren't home. Alex agreed and pulled up outside the house she pointed to. He waited as Kirsten climbed out of the car and made her way to the front door. Then out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw movement. The driver of the Pinto had parked

nearby and was now approaching on foot. She walked briskly past Alex's car, her steps quick, her posture rigid. He watched in stun silence as the girl closed the distance to where Kirsten was standing. Suddenly, the stranger's arm shot up, her right hand came crashing down on to Kirsten. Screams pierced the night. At first, Alex thought he was witnessing a fight, two teenagers throwing fists in a burst of high school drama. Then he saw the glint of metal.

The flash of red in the girl's hand wasn't a fist, it was a knife. Kirsten crumpled to the ground, but with astonishing strength, she pushed herself back up, blood spreading across her clothing. She stumbled towards Alex's car, desperate to escape. The other girl didn't chase her. Instead, she sprinted back to the Pinto, jumped inside, and roared away, the screech of the tires echoing down the street. Alex slammed his foot on the accelerator, giving chase, but the Pindo disappeared

into the night, its tail lights swallowed by darkness. Back in the neighborhood, the sound of Kirsten's screams had drawn the attention of Tom Hillman. He looked out of the window of his home and froze at the sight. A girl was staggering towards his front door, clutching herself, blood staining her shirt. He rushed outside. Tom later recalled, it was obvious something horrible was happening. I opened the screen door and saw Kirsten running in a sort of staggering

way towards the house. She said, help me, help me, I've been stabbed, and then she collapsed in my arms. Tom shouted for his wife to call nine one one. He held Kirsten lightly, rocking her slightly, telling her that help was coming. Other neighbors poured out of their homes, drawn by the commotion. Gary Schultz, who lived nearby, remembered the horrifying sight. She was bleeding so bad it coated her shirt. Minutes later, the wall of sirens split the night.

An ambulance arrived and rushed Kirston to Kaise her hospital in Walnut Creek, but it was already too late. At just fifteen years old, Kirsten cost As was pronounced dead on arrival. She had been stabbed five times in the back. A murder investigator was immediately launched. Detectives already had crucial eyewitness statements from both Kirsten's mother, Barrett, and Alex Arnold. Both of them described a teenage girl driving an orange Ford Pinto. She was said to be chunky, with stringy hair,

and clearly around Kirsten's age. But as investigators quickly learned, Alex and Barrett weren't the only ones who had crossed paths with that girl that night. Alex's neighbor Patrick Flaherty, had also noticed the Pinto idling outside his house while Kirsten was trying to make her phone call. Suspicious, he had approached the driver and asked if she was all right. The girl seemed nervous, but she explained she was having trouble starting her car. When Patrick later spotted Kirsten, he

asked if she was okay too. She looked shaken. She had just abandoned her call, unable to reach her parents, and she admitted that something wasn't right. She said that the girl in the car, her so called friend, was starting to get weird. She didn't explain further, but it was a chilling hint that something had already gone wrong in the short window of time between leaving the Costs

home that night and arriving at Alex's doorstep. As word of Kirsten's murder spread across Rinda, other pieces of information began filtering in. Another local girl came forward with a disturbing account. She too had received the phone call from somebody claiming to be the President of the Bobbies, inviting her to an initiation dinner, but unlike Kirsten, she didn't take the bait. She knew that the real president was

on vacation in Hawaii. It was becoming clear that the phone calls were a ruse, a ploy, that so called initiation dinner didn't exist in fact, detectives confirmed there had been no Bobby's event planned for that night at all. Whoever had called, whoever had pulled up in the Pinto was the same person, and she was also Kirsten's killer. One mother of a girl and the Bobby speculated grimly, I think the killer was somebody aunty Bobby, someone who used the initiation as an excuse to get to her.

Investigators were determined to find out who that was. They released a description of both the suspect and her car. A teenage girl about five foot five inches tall with shoulder length blonde or light brown hair, described by witnesses as chunky. She was driving a noisy, possibly yellow, hatchback model Pinto. If she saw the familiar, detectives urged somebody needed to come forward. But in the community as tight knit as Arinda, the description didn't immediately match anybody. Nobody

seemed to know her. While police searched desperately for the girl in the Pinto, the cost As family prepared to bury their daughter at the Lafayette wherein the Presbyterian Church, friends and family gathered to say their goodbyes to fifteen year old Kirsten. The sanctuary overflowed with grief, every pew filled with classmates, neighbors, and community members still in shock over the census tragedy. The program handed to the mourners contained words that Kirston had written not long before she

was killed. I like to be free, to go where I want to go, and be what I want to be. Reverend James Little presided over the service. He spoke warmly of Kirsten's personality, her drive, and her kindness. She had a will of her own, he said, but she was kind and loving and always reaching out. The longer the case went unsolved, the more terrified the residents of Orinda became.

This was a quiet bedroom community, a place where neighbors waved across manicured lawns and children bagged freely through the streets. Burglaries were rare. The most common crime was speeding. A Now in the middle of summer, a teenage girl had been murdered, and another teenage girl was the main suspect. Lieutenant James Robinson summed it up bluntly, this is the

kind of case that nobody likes. The motive remained. The mystery detectives found themselves circling over the same question again and again why everybody who knew Kirsten described her the same way, popular, friendly, well liked. She didn't have enemies. If somebody had wanted to harm her, nobody could explain why. But fear and speculation took hole quickly. The Bobbies, who had once worn their group's T shirts proudly quietly put them away. Whispers circulated that the killer must have been

someone with a grudge against the exclusive club. After all, the call that lured Kirsten out of her home had revolved around the Bobbies. Others succeeded on the car, A noisy bade up Ford Pinto stood out in Rinda, as one of Kirsten's classmates remarked, most of them drive BMW's and Mercedes. Surely someone somewhere must have recognized it. And then there was the darker possibility, the suspicion that the killer wasn't an outsider at all. Many believed it had

to have been somebody that Kirsten knew. It couldn't have been an outsider, one friend insisted. The uncertainty changed everything. Teenagers stopped going out alone. They clung to their groups, scanning unfamiliar faces with wary suspicious eyes, and sometimes those suspicious eyes turned towards people they knew, neighbors, even classmates. In early July, a reward fund was established by Arthur Hillman, the neighbor who had cradled Kirsten as she bled out

in his arms. Within days, it reached fifteen thousand dollars thanks to contributions from the community. By the end of the month, an anonymous downer had increased it to fifty thousand dollars. Tips poured in. Some claimed to recognize the girl, others thought they had spotted the pinto. Each lad was chased on, each car investigated one by one. They were ruled out by August with no arrest. Kirsten's parents stepped forward publicly. They appealed directly to their daughter's killer to

come forth. At the same time, they laid out their own theory of what had happened. Arthur and Barrett believed that the murderer hadn't been random at all. They suggested a group of girls resentful of the Bobbies had lured Kirsten into some kind of ambush, a prank or confrontation that had spiraled fatally out of control. They even speculated that the killer might be another student, someone who was

being shielded by their peers. Arthur explained the planning, the way they set us up Kirsten out of the house. They had to know the area, they had to know Kirsten. He believed that the motive was rooted in jealousy, or perhaps in resentment of what Kirsten represented, her popularity, her opportunities, her belonging to Renda's social establishment. The press conference coincided with the first day of school after summer break. Standing before the cameras, Arthur said grimly, there may be some

kids who don't show today. The tectives weren't convinced. Captain Stan Garvin pushed back against the theory, saying investigators didn't believe that Kirsten's murder had been planned. Still, as weeks turned to months, the fear that had gripped Rinda began to fade. Life crept back towards normal. Students returned to their classes, cheerleaders practiced new routines. The buzz of teenage life filled the halls of school once again, but Kirston's

absence was deeply felt. In front of the school, her classmates plannedd a twelve foot magnolia tree, a living memorial to the girl they had lost. For detectives, the work continued, though resources thinned. By October, only four detectives were working the case full time, with two more part time. They chased on nearly eight hundred separate leads, checked out seven hundred cars, and interviewed countless witnesses, and still they were

no closer to naming Kirsten's killer. Captain Garvin admitted, while everyone on the task force was failing, all it has led to his frustration. Miramont High School stood as a symbol of educational excellence in Orinda, with its college preparatory curriculum and impress array of advanced placement courses. It was founded in nineteen fifty five in an old orchard off Maraga Way. The school had since built a reputation for academic achievement that matched the aspirations of its well healed

student body. But beneath the polished veneer of success, a complex social hierarchy had taken root, one that would prove both defining and divisive for the teenagers who walked its halls. To outsiders looking in, Miremont's students seemed to live in

a world of privilege that bred arrogance. Students from neighboring schools whispered that the kids from Miramont were snobby, that they thought they were better than everyone else simply because of where they lived and what their parents could afford. These weren't entirely unfair judgments. The evidence was there for anybody who cared to look. The school's nineteen eighty three year book told the story in black and white. Page after page revealed the student body whose dreams were measured

in luxury brands and exotic destinations. When seniors listed their favorite cars, the responses read like a German automotive catalog. Porsches BMW's VW Rabbit convertibles dominated the lists. Their ideal vacation spots weren't local camping trips or visits to grandparents. They dreamed of European adventures and tropical escapes to Hawaii. And these weren't just seenage fantasies. For many Mirramont students, these were realistic expectations, the natural extension of lives already

cushioned by wealth. But the glossy yearbook pages didn't tell the whole story. While the school's reputation was built on the achievements and affluents of its most visible students. Not everyone at Mirrimont came from money. Scattered throughout the student body were kids who lived in more modesty homes, whose parents worked regular jobs and budgeted carefully for school supplies

and basic necessities. These students drove hammi drawn cars, held together with prayers and ductape if they were lucky enough to have a car at all. Some took the bus or cot rides with friends, acutely aware of how their transportation compared to the shiny vehicles in the student parking lot. For these students, the social pressure was suffocating. Every day brought reminders of what they lacked from the designer closed their classmates wore effortlessly to the casual mentions of weekend

trips and expensive hobbies that others took for granted. The divide wasn't just economic, it was social, cultural, and deeply personal. Some students found ways to bridge the gap, working part time jobs to afford the right clothes, or finding their niche and activities where talent mattered more than bank accounts. Others struggled in silence, feeling like outsiders in their own school.

The pressure to fit in could be overwhelming. It created an environment where some students would go to extraordinary lengths to gain approval to find their place in the carefully constructed social order that governed teenage life. At Mirrimont, the stakes felt impossibly high. Acceptance meant everything, Rejection could feel like social death. Even for those who had successfully navigated the treacherous waters of high school popularity, the pressure never

fully disappeared. Kirsten Costas had seemingly mastered the delicate balance of being well liked without being threatening, popular without being exclusive. She moved through Miramont halls with the confidence of somebody who belonged, But popularity came with its own burdens. Not everybody appreciated Kirsten's success. The first sign that not everybody body he was a fan came in an unsettling incident

that shirk Kirsten more than she let on. Somebody had broken into her locker and left behind a bottle of beer and a note that cut to the core of teenage insecurity. The message was clear and cruel. Kirsten didn't deserve to be on the cheerleading squad because she drank beer in an effort to track down Kirsten's killer, Detectives turned to a new tactic. They reached out to the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit, the same division that had pioneered

criminal profiling. Working alongside specially trained agents, investigators compiled every detail they had the crime, seeing the choice of victim, the quiet suburb where the attack unfolded, the socioeconomic landscape, and the patterns seeing similar crimes. Bob Gassed, a special agent with the unit, explained, you study those things, and when you do, you will quite often get a picture

of an individual who may have committed the crime. The profile that emerged pointed detectives back towards Mirrimont High School. The suspect wasn't an outsider. She was almost certainly someone local, someone who knew Kirston, someone who blended into the crowd of students walking the halls every day. When investigators compared the description with the girls at the school, one name stood out, Bernadette Protte. She was sixteen years old and

a junior at Mirrimont. She lived just blocks from the Erwinda Country club in a secluded wood framed home with her parents, her brother, and her three sisters. The Protys were active in their Roman Catholic parish, and Bernadette herself had attended a parochial school before transferring to anyone who knew her casually, Bernadette was the image of a good girl. She was polite, bright, camp Her teachers praised her thoughtfulness, recalling a speech she once wrote about a blind friend

who had taught her to truly see the world. In her neighborhood, parents trusted her to babysit their children. She's full of grace, sympathy and love, said neighbor Suzanne Barr. But beneath that wholesome exterior, something was brewing. High school hadn't been kind to Bernadette's ambitions. She'd tried out for the cheerleading squad and the varsity swim team, but she hadn't made the cut. She ran track, but there too, she faded into the background. One woman recalled to me,

She's just like a nice, average high school girl. She didn't stand out, and that was the problem at Miremont. Being average could feel like social invisibility. Bernadette and Kirsten knew each other, but they weren't friends, and while most people had described Kirsten as well liked, she wasn't without her sharp edges. On a skill ski trip, Kirston had mocked Bernadette's inexpensive skis. It was a small remark, but one that cut deep in a place where wealth defined status,

and for Bernadette, those moments didn't fade. They lingered fast. Drink and resentment, once planted, was beginning to take root. Detectives eventually brought Bernadette prode to police headquarters to be questioned. She was seated across from FBI's special agent Ronald Hilly, who had been brought in to assist with the delicate interview. Bernadette seemed uneasy, shifting in her chair as the conversation

turned towards Kirston. Then, almost out of nowhere, she looked up at the investigators and asked, do you think I did it? The words hung in the air. Slowly, Bernadette began to open up. She told the detectives that she had always struggled to fit in at high school. No matter how hard she tried, she felt rejected and invisible. Over time, Kirsten Costas came to embody everything that Bernadette

wanted but couldn't have. Looks, money, effortless, popularity. She recounted the sting of small humiliations, like the time Kirsten had mocked her cheap scaze during a skool trip. She said, she'd never liked me, but I thought she was okay. The thing that got me mad was it hurt and I couldn't change like looks, money, popularity or things. Bernadette then told detectives exactly what had happened the night that Kirsten was killed. She hadn't set out to murder her,

she said. Instead, she wanted to spend time with Kirsten, talk to her, maybe even become friends. That night, she borrowed her family's car and went to collect Kirsten, pretending that there was a Bobby's dinner. Kirsten got in the car, but she quickly realized that there was no dinner. Bernadette told her that they were going to a party. Instead. They drove to the parking lot of Mariga Valley Presbyterian Church. Once there, Bernadette said that Kirsten mentioned one thing to

smoke some weight, but the conversation quickly sawed. It became clear there was no party, Bernadette said, and then we argued, well, not really argued. She put me down. Kirsten called her weird and got out of the car. At that moment, Bernadette panicked her plan to connect with Kirsten had collapsed, and instead of gaining a friend, she now faced the unbearable prospect of being ridiculed. She explained, I was afraid she was going to tell everybody. I was really weird.

I thought, oh my god, everything's going wrong, and she's going to tell everybody. She's so outspoken, and I think she would just say, oh my god, you wouldn't believe what happened with Bernadette. She's just so weird, and that would stay in her mind. For Bernadette, that kind of public humiliation was a fate worse than death. She admitted to following Kirsten after she accepted a ride back to her neighborhood. As she drove, Bernadette noticed a knife in

the car. When Kirsten got out near a neighbor's house, Bernadette pulled up, ran after her and struck. She said, I guess I was just angry. I really don't know she was telling me to go away. I just got angry and I did it. She stabbed Kirsten five times in the back. Afterwards, she drove home, flushed the marijuana down the toilet, and then washed the knife. She said. She waited anxiously for police to show up at her door, convinced that Kirsten must have survived, but no one came.

It wasn't until the next morning that Bernadette learned that Kirston was dead. She said, at the end of my sophomore year, I had a lot of inferior feelings and really bad feelings about myself. To her, Kirston was a painful reminder of all the things that she lacked. She admitted, she just brought it all back, like losing it things or looks, or money or popularity or things that are stupid.

Bernadette Prattie was arrested on the eleventh of December. At first, she wasn't identified because she was fifteen years old at the time of the murder, but that changed just days later when sources close to the investigation leaked her identity. She was charged with first degree murder. Since she was fifteen when the murder was committed, she couldn't be charged

as an adult. That meant that if she were convicted, she could be imprisoned by the California Youth Authority and util she turned twenty five, Bernadette held her mother's hand in court as she was ordered to stay at juvenile hall. She returned to court on the nineteenth completed not guilty to the murder charges. Juvenile referee Michael Cooper then set a trial dead for the fourth of February. When he accidentally referred to her as Kristen, her mother shouted out,

it's Kirsten. Early the next year, the murder trial was postponed as the defense said they needed more time to prepare. They subsequently requested a jury trial, but Judge Edward Merrill turned on the request. Jury trials for juveniles were very rare in California, but her defense attorney had argued the case had drawn such widespread attention it should be treated as an exception. Defense attorney Charles James had said a jury trial would in jack community values into the decision

making process. It was decided that the judge would serve as both the judge and the jury. Bernadette would be in his hands alone. Over the next month, the defense became clearer Bernadette wasn't going to contest committing the murder, but she would be trying to lessen the degree of guilt. The purpose of such a defense is to reduce the charge to second degree murder or involuntary manslaughter. The public opinion on the case was very much divided. It became

a lightning rod for debate. Arendo society was going to be facing scrutiny along with Bernadette Protte Marimont High School principal Bran Jack said, people are just grasping in the dark. Everyone wanted whatever caused the murder to be related to jealousy or quote a rind of society. Did anyone ever just consider that maybe it's just a sick kid. On the eleventh of March nineteen eighty five, Bernadette Prattye was escorted into the courtroom. She sat alongside her defense attorney

as the courtroom slowly filled up. There were countless teenagers there, some Kirsten's friends, others there for Bernadette. During opening statements, Prosecutor John Oda suggested that Bernadette had lashed out at Kirston because she was a symbol of everything she couldn't have. Bernadette's defense attorney did very little to dispute that. In fact, he agreed with it, but he pointed out mitigating circumstances.

He said, this is a naive, unsophisticated young girl who later expressed horror what she did and later opened her soul to the police department while on the verge of her own self destruction. He said that the murder was an impulsive act, nothing that had been planned in advance. He revealed that Bernadette later wrote a letter to her mother after her confession, which read, don't ask me why or how could you? I need so much help and love.

I don't know what to do. Various people testified about the night of the murder and the phone call that presaded it. Alex Arnold, the man who drove Kirston to her neighbor's home, testified, I heard Kirsten scream and saw her go down, but when the other girl's arm went up, there was a flash. There was an object she was using, and I later realized she was stabbing Kirsten. She never dropped.

The courtroom then heard Bernadette's confession. Detective Ronald Hilly told the judge that Bernadette had begun to feel rejected as a sophomore. He said that Kirsten had been somewhat symbolic of that rejection. The testimony then turned the murder weapon, believed to be a wooden handled kitchen knife with a twelve inch blade. Bernadette had claimed that she just noticed it in the car. Her sister Mary Ann testified, it's possible that I left it there. She said she had

a habit of preparing vegetarian meal in the car. After that, the trial came to a close. During closing arguments, prosecutor James Oda argued that Bernadette had planned the murder. He said, what scares me the most about this case is that after she was asked if she was truly sorry about the killing, she told detectives I only remember the mean things about her. Bernadette's defense attorney, Charles James, argued that his client had succumbed to the pressures a status conscious

community had placed on its children. He said, in this case, there was too much hope in Arnda. Kids in Arnda expected to be more than they can be beautiful, successful and popular. They have to be perfect. He said that Bernadette was suffering that she made a plan to approach someone but was awkward and it went horrifically wrong. He characterized the murder as an impulsive act by an unsophisticated young person. Judge Edward Merrill wasted no time in delivering

his verdict. He found Bernadette Protty guilty of the second degree murder of Kirsten costUS. In his ruling, he explained that the prosecution had failed to prove first degree murder beyond a reasonable doubt. The next month, Bernadette returned to court to be formally sentenced. Barrett Costas addressed the judge and said, my heart is empty. I ache I'm half a person. She acknowledged that great care had been taken to protect Bernadette's constitutional rights, then asked the question that

weighed on every heart in the room. What happened to Kirsten's right of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. There's no doubt in my mind that the victim has been forgotten. Turning to the reality of Bernadette's likely release, she added, quietly but firmly, she will probably be released in five years. Is this justice? The judge then spoke to Bernadette's parents, Raymond, and the Limb. He told them that they had failed or neglected to provide guidance for

their daughter. Bernadette was then ordered to the Youth Authority's venturist school. The facility would hold her until she reached twenty five, but it would be up to them to decide if she could be released sooner. Bernadette applied for parole in ninety ninety and again in ninety ninety one, but both requests were denied. During her time in Costady, she was afforded certain freedoms, she completed her high school education,

and she even had a boyfriend, Arthur. Kirsten's father voiced his frustration and said, these were opportunities that were denied to my daughter. In her third parole application, Bernadette was successful. Just twenty three years old, she walked out of custody, having served less than eight years of her sentence. The State Youthful Offender Parole Board made the decision despite warnings from a parole examiner. He had described Bernadette as dangerous,

possessing a hidden trigger that anybody can pull. His concerns stemmed for an incident during her incarceration in which Bernadette displayed anger and a lack of impulse control in a confrontation with her boyfriend, he warned, I hate to think how she would have handled the incident had she been on parole and able to arm herself and stalk another victim. And yet the parole board released her. But the small town of Rinde and may Ormont High School would always

remember what had happened that summer. Kirsten Costas had paid the ultimate price for a world where popularity, appearances, and social standing could make or break a teenager. Well that is it for this episode of Morbidology. As always, thank you so much for listening, and I'd like to say a massive thank you to my new supporters up on Patreon, NB Media, Jennifer and Lisa. The link to Patreon is

in the show notes. If you'd like to join, I upload Adfrey and early release episodes behind the scenes, and I also send out merch along with a thank you card. I also upload bonus episodes of Morbidology Plus that aren't on the regular podcast platforms. You can also find those bonus episodes up on Apple subscriptions. Remember to check us out at morebidology dot com for more information about this

episode and to read some true crime articles. Until next time, take care of yourselfs Stacey and have an amazing week,