The West Mesa Bone Collector: Albuquerque's Buried Secrets

The desert does not give up its dead easily. Wind slides over the West Mesa like a blade, carving silence into the dunes, erasing footprints, carrying the heat upward into a sky too bright to look at. But on one winter afternoon in February of 2009, the silence broke.

The woman walking her dog felt the leash tighten. The dog was digging—frantic, insistent—at something pale emerging from the ground. She stepped closer, then froze. It wasn’t stone. It wasn’t wood. It wasn’t even an animal.

It was a human femur, long sun-bleached, pushing its way out of the desert as though the earth itself was tired of holding its secret.

Her breath caught, because bones don’t rise alone. Behind her, the wind shifted, carrying the faint rattle of loose sand sliding down a buried slope—the kind of sound that means the ground beneath your feet has been disturbed more than once.

And in that moment, she understood: this wasn’t a discovery. This was an unveiling. The desert had finally begun to speak.

Welcome to Tales of the Twisted, the strange, the weird, the bizarre. Today, we descend into a crime scene the size of a neighborhood. A burial ground uncovered by chance, and a mystery that spans sex trafficking rings, vanished women, satellite images, and a killer who seemed to watch from the shadows as investigators dug.

This is the story of the West Mesa Bone Collector.

Between 2001 and 2005, something evil stalked the women of Albuquerque. Eleven women and one unborn child vanished from city streets, primarily from the East Central Corridor. They faced addiction, unstable housing, sex work, and the dangerous men who prowled the edges of their world.

And someone was watching them—someone who knew where they walked, where they slept, and when no one would come looking quickly enough.

Throughout these years, women disappeared one after another. Sometimes months apart, sometimes only weeks. But no one connected the vanishings. Not yet.

On the West Mesa—a stretch of scrubland within Albuquerque city limits—the earth was disturbed again and again. Tire tracks. Shallow pits. Patches of loose soil.

Satellite imagery from 2003 to 2005 would later reveal visible signs of digging and vehicle patterns precisely where the bodies were eventually found.

The burial pattern was orderly. Similar depths. Similar spacing. A consistent M.O., as if one person—or one group—returned repeatedly, confident this land would stay hidden forever.

But nothing in Albuquerque stays buried forever. Not even in the desert.

By 2006, construction companies began developing the West Mesa area for new housing. Gravel, machinery, retaining walls—the killer’s burial ground, once isolated, was suddenly being swallowed by the city.

So, the killer stopped. The final burial took place in late 2005, right before development encroached.

If construction had begun one year earlier, the bodies might have been discovered long before the killer intended. If it had begun one year later, they might never have been found at all.

But fate has its own schedule.

When the housing market collapsed in 2008, development on the west side abruptly stopped. Roads were laid, but homes were never built. The land was left open—half prepared, half wild.

Neighbors began complaining about flooding. Water collected where natural arroyos had been buried beneath construction soil. Contractors built a stormwater retention pond to resolve the issue.

And that pond—by pure accident—was dug directly over the burial ground. Erosion from the changes exposed bones to the surface.

And on February 2nd, 2009, the desert finally gave up its first victim.

The remains belonged to eleven women and one unborn child—all buried between May 2003 and September 2004. Their ages ranged from 15 to 32.

They were:

Monica Diana Candelaria, 22 Victoria Anne Chavez, 26 Selaynia Edwards, 15 (the only victim from out of state) Doreen Marquez, 24 Veronica Romero, 28 Jamie Barela, 15 Evelyn Salazar, 27 Virginia Cloven, 24 Julie Nieto, 24 Cinnamon Elks, 32 Michelle Gina Valdez, 22—who was four months pregnant Michelle’s unborn baby, making the total count twelve.

All but Selaynia were local Albuquerque women. All vanished from the same vulnerable communities. All disappeared within a tight 17-month window.

Years before the bodies were found, Albuquerque PD detective Ida Lopez had been quietly compiling a troubling list: women involved in sex work, women using Central Avenue, women with addiction—women disappearing without a trace.

Many on her list turned up on the Mesa. But nine did not. They remain missing to this day.

Which leaves investigators with an unnerving possibility: the West Mesa has more victims still buried. The desert may not be done speaking.

With the investigation, excavation began. As police cordoned off the area, they faced one of the largest crime scenes in New Mexico’s history: over 100 acres of potential burial space.

Thousands of bone fragments. Multiple burial clusters. The desert had churned everything together. Bones had been scattered by erosion, storms, and backfill from failed development.

The forensic challenge was enormous. Anthropologists, medical examiners, and archaeologists worked for months identifying victims piece by piece.

This was not sloppy work by the killer. It was deliberate, repeated, and calculated.

In December 2010, Albuquerque police revealed seven photographs of unidentified women—images they believed were connected to the case. Several women appeared unconscious, drugged, or posed.

The photos came from an undisclosed source. Police refused to say how they got them.

Two women were later identified as alive, but neither has been located for questioning. Another had died of natural causes years earlier. The remaining identities have never been confirmed.

Were these women targets? Victims? Survivors? Connected to the killer? The police never said.

In 2018, bones were found again near the site, but these turned out to be ancient, unrelated. Still, the discovery shook the community. Everyone wondered: would the next bones belong to another woman from Ida Lopez’s list?

Theories and suspects emerged, though no one was formally charged. Several men have been linked quietly—and controversially.

Lorenzo Montoya was the leading suspect. He lived less than three miles from the burial site. He was a violent offender with a known history of attacking sex workers, threatening to kill women, and telling acquaintances he would bury them in lime.

Trails from his trailer park led toward the West Mesa. Co-workers said he had bragged about killing women and burying them on the mesa.

In December 2006, Montoya murdered 19-year-old Shericka Hill in his trailer. As he attempted to load her body into his truck, her boyfriend shot Montoya dead.

Police said the killing was too brutal to be his first. And notably: after his death, the West Mesa burials stopped.

Inside Montoya’s home, detectives found a disturbing recording: Montoya having sex with a woman who was possibly dead, followed by the sounds of duct tape, garbage bags, and preparation consistent with body disposal. Screenshots were released publicly.

The woman was never identified.

So—is this the Bone Collector? Maybe. But APD maintains the evidence is circumstantial.

Another theory involves human trafficking rings. An anonymous APD and FBI tip linked the murders to a suspect from El Salvador, part of an international trafficking organization operating across Texas, New Mexico, Nevada, and Colorado.

The ring allegedly targeted sex workers during the New Mexico State Fair, regional events, and high-traffic seasons. Women were recruited, drugged, transported, or removed from circuits. Some never returned.

Were the West Mesa victims discarded by traffickers? Investigators won’t say publicly. But the theory remains very much alive.

Another figure: Fred Reynolds, a pimp known for photographing sex workers. He had images of missing women, including some from Ida Lopez’s list. He died in January 2009—weeks before the bones were discovered.

Police never considered him a full suspect, but his proximity to the victims lingers.

Another name: Ron Irwin—a photographer from Joplin, Missouri. He visited the New Mexico State Fair annually, taking tens of thousands of photographs of women.

In 2010, police seized his entire archive. He was later cleared, but investigators never explained why his images raised concern—or how many women in them remain unidentified.

Another suspect: Joseph Blea—a serial rapist and deeply disturbing offender. His DNA reconnected him to old rape kits in 2010. In his home, investigators found women’s underwear not belonging to his family, jewelry that wasn’t theirs, and a tree tag from a nursery near the burial site.

His DNA was also found on a sex worker who was later found dead on Central Avenue. A cellmate claimed Blea confessed to hiring girls and referring to them as “trashy.”

He was convicted of rape, but never charged in the Mesa murders. Still, his name stays high on APD’s list.

There is also the unnamed El Salvador suspect—tied to trafficking networks. The FBI investigated, but whatever they found has never been disclosed. The theory is chilling because it implies a network, not a lone killer.

On June 27th, 2020, officials opened Women’s Memorial Park on the burial site. It stands where the eleven women—and Michelle Valdez’s unborn baby—were found.

The park acknowledges what was ignored too long: these women were more than their struggles. More than their addiction. More than their circumstances. They were human. Loved. Missed. Deserving of justice.

But the West Mesa Bone Collector remains unidentified.

Theories abound: a serial killer, a trafficking organization, a partnership between violent offenders, a lone predator who died before being caught, a killer who moved on—or someone still alive, silent, careful, and comfortable.

The truth remains beneath the sand.

Albuquerque PD continues to receive tips. Families still hold vigils. And the desert still shifts, exposing new clues—or covering old ones.

Nine women from Ida Lopez’s list remain missing. The Mesa may hide more victims. And the killer, or killers, may never be known.

Thank you for listening to Tales of the Twisted—the Strange, the Weird, the Bizarre. If this story unsettled you, follow the show, leave a review, and share it with someone who loves true crime that refuses to let go.

Join us next time, when we open another door the world tried to close. Until then—keep your lights low, and stay twisted.