In the quiet suburbs of postwar Southern California, a boy was born on March 19, 1945, in Long Beach, into a modest, working-class family seeking stability and opportunity. Randy Steven Kraft, the only son of Harold and Opal Kraft, appeared outwardly ordinary. His family embodied the ideals of the American dream, moving west from Wyoming with aspirations for a better life. Yet, beneath the unremarkable exterior of their pale-blue house, an unsettling stillness lingered, a quiet that would foreshadow the dark future of their son. Neighbors remembered him as polite, meticulous, and unusually observant, qualities that initially earned admiration. He excelled in academics, loved puzzles and mathematics, and maintained an almost ritualistic order in his daily life. Teachers praised his intelligence and obedience, while his mother doted on him and his father instilled a sense of discipline. Even in childhood, Kraft sought control over his surroundings, a trait that, while seemingly innocuous at first, would later manifest in terrifying ways.

As he transitioned into adolescence, Kraft adapted seamlessly to the conservative social climate of 1950s Orange County. At high school in Westminster, he was regarded as bright, clean-cut, and quiet. His political leanings initially reflected traditional values, and he eagerly participated in student government and debate, suggesting a trajectory toward an exemplary, conventional life. After graduating in 1963, he enrolled at Claremont Men’s College, majoring in economics and immersing himself in campus politics. Initially a supporter of Barry Goldwater and the Vietnam War, Kraft’s persona began to shift during his college years. By his junior year, he abandoned the clean-cut image, growing a beard and softening his political stance. He attended anti-war rallies and began exploring parts of his identity long suppressed. In 1969, he publicly came out as gay, shocking his family and ending his military trajectory in the Air Force Reserve under the guise of “medical reasons.” This revelation marked the beginning of a life increasingly complicated by internal conflict, societal pressures, and personal experimentation with substances.

Following his discharge, Kraft remained in Southern California, holding a variety of jobs—from bartender to computer programmer to waiter—while quietly cultivating a persona that was charming, articulate, and socially adept. Friends noted his intelligence and politeness, yet beneath this veneer, darker tendencies began to emerge. He experimented with amphetamines, barbiturates, and alcohol, leading to erratic behavior, isolation, and anger outbursts. The nightlife of Long Beach and nearby Sunset Beach provided both social refuge and opportunity; gay bars offered him a sense of belonging and anonymity. However, these environments also became hunting grounds for his predatory impulses. In March 1970, a 13-year-old runaway, Joseph Fancher, became one of his first known victims. Fancher had been drugged and assaulted after seeking shelter, and though authorities discovered incriminating evidence in Kraft’s apartment, it was dismissed due to procedural errors. This incident, largely forgotten at the time, would become the grim beginning of a spree that would terrorize California for over a decade.

Throughout the 1970s, Kraft’s activities escalated in both frequency and brutality. Young men—often teens, early twenties, Marines, or hitchhikers—began disappearing across Southern California. Bodies were later found along highways, in ravines, or secluded fields. Each killing followed a chillingly methodical pattern: sedatives, restraints, torture, and often murder. Investigators spanning Orange, Los Angeles, and San Bernardino Counties eventually recognized the work of a single, mobile predator. Despite mounting evidence, Kraft evaded capture, maintaining a seemingly ordinary life as a computer programmer while hunting his victims. He documented his crimes meticulously, creating a “scorecard” with cryptic phrases—“Stable,” “Marine Drum,” “Airplane Hill”—each representing a victim and serving as a chilling testament to his need for control. His photographic collection further immortalized his crimes, capturing his victims in lifeless poses, revealing the cold precision and detachment with which he executed his atrocities.

Fate finally intervened on a spring night in May 1983. At around 1:00 a.m., California Highway Patrol officers pulled over a Toyota Celica near Mission Viejo. The driver, appearing intoxicated, had a half-empty beer bottle beside him. On the passenger seat lay the body of Terry Gambrel, a young Marine, with a belt around his neck. The identification revealed the driver as Randy Kraft. Investigation of the vehicle uncovered drugs, alcohol, and a notebook—the infamous “scorecard.” At his Long Beach home, law enforcement discovered personal items belonging to multiple victims, Polaroid photographs, and a detailed record linking him to murders spanning over a decade. The revelation sent shockwaves across the state. Friends and coworkers were stunned; Kraft had seemed, by all outward appearances, a loyal, intelligent, and unremarkable man. The arrest brought relief to grieving families while exposing the terrifying reality that evil often hides behind ordinary facades.

Kraft’s trial in 1989 was one of Orange County’s most extensive and expensive legal proceedings. Convicted of sixteen murders, alongside multiple counts of sodomy and torture, Kraft remained emotionless as the death sentence was pronounced. Families expressed relief, grief, and rage, some shouting their condemnation as he was led away. Despite overwhelming evidence, he never admitted guilt, maintaining a calm, stoic demeanor that many found chilling. In the decades since, detectives and researchers have revisited the unresolved cases tied to his “scorecard,” employing modern DNA techniques to identify additional victims. Kraft, confined to San Quentin, remains unrepentant, embodying what a retired detective described as “quiet evil.” His life and crimes exemplify the terrifying banality of evil: someone who could live seemingly normally while committing incomprehensible acts, a reminder that the most dangerous individuals often appear, at first glance, indistinguishable from those around them. Even after decades, his crimes leave an indelible mark on the families affected and the communities that once lived in fear of the “Scorecard Killer.”