Imagine this: A charming theater actor lures his war-hero neighbor to an attic for “help with furniture.” Minutes later, a gunshot echoes. What happens next will chill you to the bone – a beh*ading, a staged r*pe scene, and a wedding dream funded by bl*od money.

This isn’t a plot from a twisted play. It’s the real-life horror of Daniel Wozniak’s double m*rder rampage that left a family shattered and a community reeling. Why did a seemingly normal guy snap into pure evil? And what’s the shocking twist with his fiancée that cops still whisper about?

Dive into the full, gruesome story that Hollywood couldn’t script. Read now:

In the sun-soaked suburbs of Orange County, where community theaters buzz with amateur dreams and young veterans rebuild their lives, a nightmare unfolded in May 2010 that still haunts investigators, prosecutors, and the families left behind. Daniel Patrick Wozniak, a 26-year-old aspiring actor with a boyish grin and a flair for the dramatic, orchestrated a double homicide so calculated and gruesome it rivaled the darkest scripts on stage. He shot his neighbor, Army veteran Samuel “Sam” Herr, in the head twice, dismembered his body with a hacksaw and scissors, then killed Herr’s friend Juri “Julie” Kibuishi to cover his tracks – all to steal $62,000 for his wedding and honeymoon.

Today, 15 years later, Wozniak sits in Salinas Valley State Prison, a far cry from California’s infamous San Quentin death row after a 2023 transfer amid the state’s ongoing de facto moratorium on executions. His death sentence, handed down in 2016, remains a symbolic gavel for the victims’ families, even as California’s legal machinery grinds to a halt on capital punishment. The case, once a tabloid sensation with its macabre details of beheaded remains dumped in a nature preserve, continues to ripple through true crime podcasts, documentaries, and courtroom appeals. But for Steve and Raquel Herr, Sam’s parents, and the Kibuishi family, it’s no entertainment – it’s an open wound, a betrayal by a man they once trusted as a friend.

The story begins not with violence, but with the quiet desperation of a dreamer hitting rock bottom. Wozniak, born in 1984 in San Diego, grew up in a middle-class family and pursued acting through community theater in Costa Mesa. By his mid-20s, he was starring in local productions at the Gem Theater, charming audiences with roles that masked his mounting financial woes. Unemployed and drowning in debt, Wozniak faced eviction from his Pinecreek Drive apartment complex. His fiancée, Rachel Buffett, a fellow theater enthusiast, was planning a fairy-tale wedding. But the couple’s dreams were crumbling under $10,000 in back rent and credit card bills. Enter Sam Herr: a 26-year-old Iraq War veteran, recent Orange Coast College student, and Wozniak’s next-door neighbor. Herr had returned from deployment with $62,000 in savings from his Army service – a nest egg for his future in graphic design.

Prosecutors later painted Wozniak as a man consumed by greed, not madness. On May 21, 2010, he texted Herr, asking for help moving furniture at the nearby Liberty Theater on the Los Alamitos Joint Forces Training Base – a spot Wozniak knew from his acting gigs. Herr, ever the helpful type, agreed without hesitation. The two men climbed the theater’s creaky stairs to the attic. As Herr turned his back, Wozniak pulled a .45-caliber handgun – stolen from his own father – and fired two shots into the back of Herr’s head. The veteran collapsed, lifeless, in a pool of blood. Wozniak didn’t stop there. He rifled through Herr’s pockets, grabbing his ATM card, checkbook, and phone, then began the grisly task of concealment. Using an ax and saw borrowed from Buffett’s parents’ garage, along with barber shears from the base, he spent hours dismembering Herr’s body. The head, hands, and torso were bagged and driven to the El Dorado Nature Center in Long Beach, where Wozniak scattered them along hiking trails, hoping wildlife would finish the job.

Over the next 24 hours, Wozniak impersonated Herr, forging checks at bank branches and withdrawing cash using Herr’s PIN – a code he’d overheard months earlier. He netted about $8,000 before paranoia set in. Fearing Herr’s friends and family would raise alarms, Wozniak hatched a cover-up: He texted Julie Kibuishi, a 23-year-old fashion student and Herr’s platonic friend, claiming Herr wanted to see her urgently. Kibuishi, trusting and bubbly, arrived at Herr’s apartment on May 22. Wozniak, hiding in the shadows, shot her twice in the head as she entered the bedroom. To deflect suspicion, he staged the scene horrifically: pulling down her pants and arranging her body to suggest a sexual assault by Herr, turning the war hero into the prime suspect.

Kibuishi’s body was discovered that afternoon by Herr’s father, Steve, who had a key to his son’s apartment. Steve Herr, a retired Orange County firefighter, called 911 in disbelief. “My son’s missing, and now this?” he later recounted in court, his voice breaking. Police launched a manhunt for Herr, broadcasting his photo as a possible killer. Tips poured in, but nothing pointed to Wozniak – at first. The breakthrough came days later when hikers at El Dorado Nature Center stumbled on a human head wrapped in a plastic bag. DNA matched Herr. By May 27, as Wozniak celebrated his bachelor party, oblivious cops pulled him aside for questioning. What followed was a masterclass in crumbling facades.

In the interrogation room, Wozniak initially played the innocent friend, tearfully decrying the “tragedy.” But detectives, armed with ATM surveillance footage showing a man resembling him using Herr’s card, pressed harder. When informed they’d recovered the murder weapon from a river – tipped off by Buffett’s frantic call about incriminating items in Wozniak’s possession – the actor’s performance cracked. “I’m crazy and I did it,” he blurted, before unleashing a confession that stunned even hardened officers. He detailed the attic shooting, the dismemberment (“It was like butchering a deer,” he callously remarked), the bank heists, and Kibuishi’s execution. “Sam came first,” he said flatly, admitting he’d targeted the veteran for his easy cash access.

Wozniak’s arrest exposed layers of betrayal. Buffett, 26 at the time, was initially painted as a grieving victim. But whispers from the theater crowd suggested otherwise. Acquaintances testified she knew more – she’d helped cash forged checks and stored bloody clothes. In 2012, prosecutors charged her as an accessory after the fact, alleging she’d lied to police multiple times to shield her fiancé. Her 2018 trial became a sideshow to Wozniak’s saga: Buffett claimed she’d been “duped,” tearfully insisting she believed Wozniak’s tales of Herr’s “disappearance.” Jurors didn’t buy it. She was convicted on two counts, sentenced to three years in prison, and released in 2020 after time served. Costa Mesa Police Lt. Ed Everett, who led the investigation, testified bluntly: “She should be sitting next to Mr. Wozniak right now.” Buffett has maintained her silence since, but the case fueled speculation of a deeper conspiracy – one explored in podcasts like iHeartRadio’s Sleuth and Oxygen’s Dateline episodes.

Wozniak’s path to the courtroom was anything but swift. Arrested in 2010, his trial didn’t begin until December 2015 – a five-year delay blamed on defense motions, psychiatric evaluations, and California’s overburdened courts. When it finally started in Santa Ana Superior Court, the proceedings gripped Orange County like a real-life thriller. Prosecutor Matt Murphy, now a Fox News contributor, delivered closing arguments laced with theatrical flair: “Wozniak hoped to use his magical acting powers to trick the dumb police.” Evidence piled up relentlessly: bloody saws from the theater attic, Wozniak’s computer searches for “quick ways to kill people,” and his own jailhouse letters boasting about the “perfect crime.” The jury deliberated just four hours before convicting him of two counts of first-degree murder with special circumstances – robbery, lying in wait, and multiple killings.

The penalty phase in September 2016 was even more wrenching. Herr’s parents, Steve and Raquel, took the stand, their grief raw. Steve described Sam’s service in Iraq, where he’d lost comrades but returned determined to build a life. “He was my hero,” Steve said, clutching photos of his son in uniform. The Kibuishi family, devout Buddhists, spoke of Julie’s dreams as a designer and dancer, her kindness that lit up rooms. Wozniak, shackled and stoic, offered no apology – just a rambling statement about his “regret.” The jury recommended death unanimously. Judge John Conley sealed it: “The defendant chose to murder two innocent people for his own financial gain… a standing ovation for evil.” Wozniak was led away to San Quentin, joining 700 others on death row.

Fast-forward to 2025, and the case’s echoes persist. California’s death penalty, moribund since Gov. Gavin Newsom’s 2019 moratorium, has commuted dozens of sentences to life. Wozniak’s 2023 transfer to Salinas Valley – a medium-security facility – sparked outrage from victims’ advocates. Steve Herr, now 70, told reporters last year: “It sends a message that monsters like him get air-conditioned cells and rec time while our kids rot in graves.” Raquel Herr has channeled her pain into activism, lobbying for veteran mental health funding and speaking at true crime conventions. The Kibuishis, more private, hold annual memorials for Julie, focusing on her unfinished sketches and joyful spirit.

Media fascination hasn’t waned. The case inspired episodes of Dr. Phil (2013), My Favorite Murder (2017), and ABC’s 20/20 (2019), dissecting Wozniak’s charisma as a “Jekyll-and-Hyde” red flag. A 2023 Oxygen special revisited interrogation tapes, where Wozniak’s confession shifts from denial to detached recitation, like rehearsing lines. Blogs like Daniel Wozniak Is My Friend – penned by a former pen pal – humanize him, detailing his prison theater troupe and claims of remorse. Critics call it Stockholm syndrome; supporters see redemption. Yet, appeals grind on: Wozniak’s team argues ineffective counsel and jury bias, with oral arguments slated for 2026.

What drives a man to such depravity? Psychologists who’ve studied the case point to narcissism masked by charm – Wozniak’s theater world rewarded performance over authenticity. Friends described him as “larger-than-life,” quick with jokes but evasive about debts. One former castmate told People magazine: “He was the guy who’d steal your spotlight – and apparently, your life savings.” Experts like forensic psychiatrist Dr. Michael Stone, who profiled similar killers, classify Wozniak as a “successful psychopath”: organized, remorseless, blending seamlessly into society until the mask slips.

For law enforcement, the case exposed gaps in financial crime detection. Herr’s bank withdrawals went unnoticed for days, a lapse that might’ve saved Kibuishi. Costa Mesa PD’s Lt. Everett, retired now, pushes for better veteran support: “Sam survived war, only to die at home from a leech in khakis.” Broader reforms followed – California’s 2014 ATM fraud alerts and theater security audits – but critics say it’s too little, too late.

As October’s chill sets in, the El Dorado Nature Center trails are peaceful again, joggers oblivious to the horror etched there. Families like the Herrs mark anniversaries quietly, planting trees in Sam’s name. Julie’s mother, Fumiko Kibuishi, once said: “She danced through life; don’t let evil dim that.” Wozniak, 41 now, pens plays from his cell, perhaps scripting his own redemption arc. But for those scarred, justice isn’t a curtain call – it’s a lifetime sentence of what-ifs.

The double murder case of Daniel Wozniak endures as a stark reminder: Evil doesn’t always lurk in shadows. Sometimes, it takes the stage, bows deeply, and demands applause.