The stage lights went out as if someone had snapped a finger. In Costa Mesa, Orange County, California—a sunny, windy part of the United States, where the streets were as clean as postcards and the lawns were roughly mowed to code—the air conditioners were still humming tonight, the swimming pools reflecting the sun. And in the middle of that seemingly benign suburb, a tall, gallery-like man stepped backstage, his kiss as wide as a Broadway poster, his flute crouched on the metal, his hands on his temples. He spoke softly, word for word, memorized: “I want to say it all. Everything.” There was no more role to perform, no more soundtrack to draw gasps.

There was only a cold, steely reality: two lives had been inserted into a script no one had asked to be used for. His name was Daniel Patrick Wozniak—a face the small theater community in Orange County fondly remembers: tall, handsome, with a stage kiss, a way of talking that made people believe everything would be okay. In America, such boys are often called “natural performers”—born to act. And so it was, Daniel grew up surrounded by school laughter, teacher-baiting performances, and small roles in community theater. He knew how to create the illusion of security: a warm voice, direct eyes, just the right amount of words.

But beneath the halo of finished goods, his life story had a deep hole—and one day, the hole was filled with two innocent people: Samuel “Sam” Herr, a veteran of the US Army who had served in Afghanistan, and Julie Kibuishi, a young dancer with a gentle smile. To tell the true backbone of this story—and for readers anywhere on the map of the United States to feel the human pulse of an American “true crime”—we must begin where the US light shines brightest: Costa Mesa, Orange County, California, May 2010. Amid a sea of ​​workers, students, veterans, and community actors, one theatrical couple stands out: Daniel and Rachel Buffett. They are the quintessential American couple: she is blonde and blue-eyed, a former opera singer; he is quick-witted and broad-minded, pursuing roles that are both his and her own. They are engaged, dreaming of a wedding in late May, a honeymoon at sea, a life framed in a photo album. Everything is perfect—except for reality.

The rent is overdue, employment is uncertain, credit cards are stacked like playing cards. Daniel smiles, reassuring everyone that “everything is within reach.” But in Orange County, debt does not listen to the wind. In the same Camden Martinique complex in Costa Mesa, there was another neighbor: Sam Herr—a young, disciplined, quiet American who was studying at Orange Coast College to rebuild his life after the military. Sam lived a spartan, proper life, the typical Midwest boy who had just arrived in California: gentle, disciplined, grateful for the little things. He had some savings—his salary and a critical care allowance, and his father, Steve Herr, was always watching over him, helping him manage. And there was something Daniel saw in Sam: grassroots. The grassroots who got out of deep financial trouble. The grassroots who rebuilt the wedding stage with other people’s money.

For Daniel, every interaction could be scripted. He began “writing” in his head: how to get to Sam’s bank account, how to build a warning guide, how to make the questions disappear. In those days, Daniel was rehearsing at the Hunger Artists Theater Company in Fullerton for his role in “Nine”—a story about art and terrorism—while formulating a plan that would cost real life blood. He called it a “solution,” called the debt a “conflict,” called the loan a “temporary,” called the upcoming text messages a “trick.” It was a language that sugarcoated evil.

On May 21, 2010, in the middle of Southern California, the Pacific breeze still salty on the streets. Daniel invited Sam to a theater at the Los Alamitos Joint Forces training base—he said he needed help with some heavy stuff. The stage was empty. The lights were off. Footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor. It was a moment of destruction. In the crowded space, Daniel pulled out a gun—something that didn’t belong on stage—and relaxed. A short bang, the sound of gunfire. We won’t use the macabre language here; just know that, soon after, the world will have another family who will never hear their son laugh again. No dialogue is warm enough to make up for it.
If it stopped there, the crime would not have been a third. But Daniel still had a “second act.” He used Sam’s phone, texting lines that made Sam’s friends and even his father imagine that the young man was on the run, needing time. “Don’t tell Dad,” one message read. The tone was unusual, but in this busy world, awkwardness is easy to overlook. Daniel knew it, and it was beneficial. He needed to extend Blur for his next project.
Julie Kibuishi enters the story here—a 23-year-old Californian of Asian descent, a dancer, a good listener, Sam’s best friend. Julie has her own light—the kind of light others find stability on the edge. Daniel knew it. On the evening of May 22, using Sam’s phone, he texted Julie

Under the hot California sun, the stage lights went dark. The applause had barely faded when Daniel Patrick Wozniak—tall, handsome, and born for the spotlight—sat trembling behind the curtain at a small theater in Costa Mesa, Orange County, USA. Sweat trickled down his neck, but not from the performance. His smile—so perfect, so trained—was gone. He looked up, eyes wide and hollow, and whispered to the officers waiting nearby:
“I want to talk. I need to tell you everything.”

No one in that quiet coastal city could have imagined what “everything” meant.
Behind the manicured lawns and postcard-perfect streets of suburban Southern California, where life felt like an endless rehearsal for happiness, a horrifying truth was about to surface. A community theater darling—the man everyone knew as charming, reliable, the guy who made cast parties sparkle—had turned his life into a script of greed, deceit, and murder.

Daniel Patrick Wozniak, 26, was a name well known in Orange County’s tight-knit community theater circuit. He was tall, magnetic, and dangerously convincing. To directors, he was dependable; to audiences, irresistible. He could sing, dance, and improvise emotion on cue. His laugh filled every room, his confidence smoothed every edge.
People said Daniel was “the kind of guy who could talk his way out of anything.” They were right—until the day he couldn’t.

He grew up in Long Beach, California, a middle-class boy with ordinary roots. His parents worked hard; birthdays were celebrated with grocery-store cake and laughter. What Daniel learned early wasn’t just how to perform—it was how to make people believe. Teachers said he had a gift for mimicry. Classmates said he could turn any situation into a scene. And he loved it—the feeling of control, the rush of being whoever the audience needed him to be.

By his late twenties, Daniel’s name was printed on every local playbill in Orange County.
He was the golden boy of the community stage, the one who stayed late after rehearsal to help build sets, who knew everyone’s lines, who made every show feel like Broadway—at least in his mind. It was in this world of amateur musicals and small-town dreams that he met Rachel Buffett, a petite blonde with sky-blue eyes and a background in musical theater. She was younger, bubbly, and every bit as hungry for the stage as he was. Together, they became the “it couple” of their scene—their smiles lighting up every cast photo, their chemistry the envy of every romantic subplot.

They planned a wedding for late May 2010—a beach ceremony, a honeymoon cruise, a lifetime of applause. Friends joked that their love story was a real-life musical: two dreamers chasing their moment under the lights.
But offstage, the curtain was slipping. Both were unemployed. Their rent was overdue. Daniel had been fired from his job, his credit cards were maxed out, and their wedding bills were piling higher than their dreams. He told Rachel everything was fine. He told everyone everything was fine. It wasn’t.

Behind the rehearsed smiles, Daniel’s world was collapsing. He owed back rent. His phone was about to be cut off. And with the wedding date approaching, desperation pressed against his chest like a final cue. Still, he played the part. He smiled through rehearsals at the Hunger Artists Theatre Company in Fullerton, where he’d been cast in Nine, a musical about a filmmaker on the verge of moral and creative collapse.
It was irony at its sharpest: a man pretending to unravel on stage, while in real life, he was writing his own script of destruction.

And then came Sam Herr—a man who should have been Daniel’s friend, not his victim.

Sam was 26, a U.S. Army veteran who had served in Afghanistan, disciplined, humble, and determined to rebuild his life. After leaving the military, he enrolled at Orange Coast College, studying to build a new career. He lived in the same apartment complex as Daniel and Rachel—the Camden Martinique Apartments in Costa Mesa. Neighbors called him polite, trustworthy, the kind of man who held doors open and said “sir” and “ma’am.”
Sam had also managed to save money—over $60,000 in military pay and savings. He was careful with it, responsible. And when Daniel found out, something inside him twisted. He saw not a friend—but a solution.

By early May, Daniel’s financial crisis had reached a breaking point. The wedding loomed like a deadline. He promised Rachel that everything was handled, that soon they’d have the funds they needed. He told friends he was working on “a big project.” In truth, that project was murder.

Daniel’s mind was a maze of performance and delusion. He saw life as a stage where he could write, direct, and star in every scene.
Sam Herr was just another character. The money was the motive. The rest—lies, manipulation, violence—were just “plot devices.”
He began rehearsing it the way he rehearsed a show: the timing, the dialogue, the aftermath. Every step, calculated. Every lie, scripted.

On May 21, 2010, just days before his wedding, Daniel set his plan in motion.
He invited Sam to help move boxes at a local theater on the Los Alamitos Joint Forces Training Base—a place Sam would trust, given his military background.
The theater was dark, empty, silent. The perfect stage.
Daniel had borrowed a .38-caliber revolver.
As Sam climbed the stairs to the attic area, Daniel followed, making small talk. And then—without hesitation—he raised the gun and fired a single shot behind Sam’s left ear.

The sound echoed through the empty building. The smell of gunpowder mixed with dust. Daniel stood still, eyes blank. He didn’t panic. He didn’t scream. He simply stared, as if watching himself from the audience.
Then he went to work.

He took Sam’s wallet, phone, and keys. He dragged the body aside. He wiped what he could, left what he couldn’t, and began crafting the next scene. Later that night, under the cover of the Orange County sky, Daniel returned to dispose of the evidence—methodical, emotionless, and utterly confident that no one would ever know.
But one body wasn’t enough for the story he wanted to tell.

Because now, Daniel had to make Sam Herr look guilty.

He started texting from Sam’s phone—messages to friends, to family, even to Sam’s father. “I need to get away for a while,” one said. “Don’t tell my dad.”
The tone was wrong, stilted. But in a world where everyone reads too quickly, no one questioned it—yet. Daniel smiled to himself. The illusion worked. The actor had pulled off his scene.
Now, he needed a finale.

That finale would be Julie Kibuishi—a 23-year-old dancer, kind-hearted and radiant, who had once tutored Sam at Orange Coast College. She was the kind of person everyone described as “light.” Gentle, compassionate, impossible to dislike. She trusted Sam completely—and by extension, she trusted Daniel. That trust would cost her everything.

As the Orange County sun set again, Daniel sat in his apartment, phone in hand, composing messages as if writing dialogue for a play. He pretended to be Sam, texting Julie about emotional pain, confusion, a need to talk. She agreed to come over. She thought she was helping a friend.
Daniel smiled. The second act was ready to begin.

Outside, the night hummed like any other Southern California weekend—quiet streets, distant laughter, the scent of ocean salt in the air.
Inside, Daniel rehearsed his next role—not as a performer this time, but as a predator cloaked in charm.
And when Julie Kibuishi knocked on that door, the final curtain of his carefully written tragedy began to fall.

The night Julie Kibuishi arrived at Sam Herr’s apartment in Costa Mesa was warm, the kind of Southern California evening when the air smells faintly of salt and blooming jasmine. She wore casual clothes—a hoodie and jeans—thinking she was going to comfort a friend. The texts from “Sam” had sounded off, but she’d brushed it aside. He was a soldier, after all, someone who’d seen things others couldn’t imagine. If he said he was struggling, she would show up. That was who Julie was—the kind of person who ran toward pain, not away from it.

She parked her car under the soft orange glow of the apartment lights and climbed the stairs. The door was slightly ajar. She called out softly, “Sam?” No response. The apartment was quiet, the way only empty spaces are. Somewhere behind her, a shadow moved. Then came the sound that would end her life and begin the unraveling of Daniel Wozniak’s masterpiece of deceit.

When police found Julie the next morning, she was lying face down on Sam Herr’s bed, a gunshot wound to the back of her head. Her clothing was pulled just enough to suggest something dark, something emotional, something violent. On her shirt were the words: “All your fault.” The message was grotesque—crafted to tell a story that wasn’t true.
To detectives, it looked like a crime of passion. To Daniel, it was the perfect illusion—a narrative of jealousy and rage that would make Sam Herr look like a killer who had snapped and fled.

But real stories have a way of fighting back.

The morning sun in Costa Mesa rose on a scene of quiet horror. Yellow tape fluttered in the breeze. Neighbors watched from balconies, whispering. Reporters began to gather.
Inside the apartment, investigators studied every detail: the position of the body, the messages, the phone records. None of it sat quite right. There were no signs of struggle elsewhere. Sam’s things were neat. Nothing about the scene matched the personality of a man like him.

And then came the call to Steve Herr, Sam’s father.

He had been trying to reach his son for two days. The texts he’d received had already made him uneasy—too formal, too cold. That morning, he decided to drive down to Costa Mesa. When he opened the door to his son’s apartment, he stepped into a nightmare. His voice on the 911 call was fractured and desperate:
“There’s a body in my son’s apartment… please, please send someone.”
The dispatcher’s voice tried to stay calm, but Steve’s world had already split open. The girl lying there was Julie—the kind, bright friend his son had often mentioned with warmth.

Within hours, the Costa Mesa Police Department began to build their timeline. Sam Herr was missing. Julie Kibuishi was dead. The messages on Sam’s phone painted a story of guilt. The simplest theory was the ugliest: Sam had killed Julie and disappeared.
But detectives are trained to distrust the simplest story.

Meanwhile, just a few blocks away, Daniel Wozniak was hosting his bachelor and bachelorette pool party with Rachel Buffett.
The irony was cinematic. Guests sipped margaritas, laughed, splashed in the water. Daniel—his face glowing with confidence—joked and entertained like he always did. He was the host everyone adored, the groom-to-be with the perfect smile. And all the while, police sirens wailed a few streets away, carrying the news of a murder he had staged only hours earlier.

When the first headlines broke that a woman had been found dead in Sam Herr’s apartment, Daniel acted his part with conviction. “What? Julie? Oh my God,” he said, widening his eyes for effect.
He texted friends, sent messages of disbelief. He hugged Rachel and whispered comfort. But behind that mask, his mind was racing. The plan was holding.
Sam looked like a suspect. Julie’s death had thrown investigators off the scent. And now, Daniel could finally access Sam’s money.

He’d already begun withdrawing it.

Earlier that morning, he had sent a 16-year-old neighbor named Wesley to perform a strange errand. Daniel told the boy it was a “surprise for Rachel,” and that he needed someone else to withdraw cash for him. He handed over Sam Herr’s ATM card and the PIN.
Wesley, young and eager to help, did as he was told. Surveillance cameras captured him moving from one ATM to another, taking out hundreds at a time. Daniel waited nearby, directing him where to go. Each withdrawal, each stack of bills, was another drop of blood money.

For a few hours, it worked. But the truth, like a loose thread, was already beginning to pull free.

By May 23rd, detectives were tracing Sam Herr’s phone and banking activity. Something didn’t fit. The withdrawals were too frequent, the amounts too neat. They traced the ATM security footage and saw the teenager—confused, glancing over his shoulder. When they found Wesley and asked him who had sent him, he didn’t last long under questioning.
“It wasn’t my money,” he said. “It was Daniel’s. He told me it was his friend’s card.”
That single confession shattered Daniel’s illusion.

By evening, Costa Mesa detectives were at Daniel and Rachel’s apartment. Daniel answered the door as if nothing were wrong—polite, calm, even helpful.
“Yes, I know Sam,” he said, his voice steady. “But I haven’t seen him in days. I just hope he’s okay.”
He talked about their friendship, about the theater, about the wedding he was planning. When asked about the ATM withdrawals, he admitted to asking Wesley for help, insisting it was just a favor for Sam.
“He wanted to stay off the grid,” Daniel explained. “He didn’t want people to know where he was.”
The story was flimsy, but Daniel told it like an actor reading lines he’d memorized.
The detectives left unconvinced—but not empty-handed.

Because that same night, twenty miles away in Long Beach, a homeless man walking through El Dorado Park stumbled upon something that didn’t belong. A patch of dirt disturbed. A shape beneath it. He called the police.
Within hours, the site was surrounded by flashing lights. Forensic teams arrived. The discovery was grim—a human torso, partially buried near a jogging trail. Tattoos matched descriptions of Sam Herr. Dental records confirmed it.
The missing soldier was no longer missing. He was the victim of a double homicide.

The investigation flipped overnight. Sam was not the murderer—he was the murdered. Julie had not been collateral damage; she had been a decoy, a distraction. And Daniel Wozniak, the charismatic actor, was the one man whose lies connected both.

When detectives returned to Daniel’s door on May 24th, this time they didn’t knock for questions—they knocked with a warrant. Rachel stood frozen as officers entered. Daniel didn’t resist. He smiled faintly, as if it were all part of a misunderstanding.
As they searched the apartment, the façade crumbled. Inside Daniel’s closet, they found Sam Herr’s ATM card, bloody clothing, and personal belongings. It was over.

At the police station, Daniel tried to keep up the act. He joked with detectives. He complimented their shoes. He deflected questions with charm. But the evidence piled higher and higher, and then came the moment that broke him.
He was told about El Dorado Park—told that Sam’s remains had been found.
He stopped smiling. His shoulders dropped. He sighed, long and heavy, and said quietly, “This is going to be a long story.”

For the next several hours, Daniel Wozniak confessed in chilling detail. He described how he lured Sam to the theater, how he shot him, how he returned later to dismember the body, how he used Sam’s phone to lure Julie to her death.
He said it plainly, without remorse, without pause—like someone recounting the scenes of a movie he’d written.
When detectives asked him why, his answer was simple.
“I needed money. I was getting married. I didn’t have it. And he did.”

To the officers listening, it was one of the most cold-blooded confessions they had ever heard. Daniel even laughed at moments, shaking his head as if critiquing his own performance.
“This is where the arm was,” he said while leading them through El Dorado Park later that night. “It was hard to dig.”
He said it casually, almost conversationally, as if discussing a set design.

Back in Costa Mesa, word of his arrest spread fast. The theater community was in shock. The man they had just seen singing and dancing in Nine had been living a double life darker than any script.
“He seemed tired,” one cast member later recalled. “But he was laughing with everyone backstage. We had no idea. He killed two people and then came to perform like nothing happened.”

Rachel Buffett was questioned repeatedly. Police suspected she knew more than she admitted. She insisted Daniel had lied to her, that she had no idea what he’d done. In the years that followed, she would face her own trial, accused of being an accessory after the fact. But that was later. For now, all eyes were on Daniel.

In jail, he remained eerily calm. He joked with guards, sang show tunes, and even gave interviews, smiling for the camera as if still on stage.
“I’m not a monster,” he told one reporter. “I just made really bad choices.”
But no amount of smooth talk could rewrite what he had done.

When police delivered the news to the families of Sam Herr and Julie Kibuishi, it was like tearing open a wound that would never close. Steve Herr, a military man himself, wept openly. “He used my son’s life like currency,” he said later.
Julie’s mother, June Kibuishi, spoke through tears: “She went there because she cared. Because she trusted him. He used her kindness as a weapon.”

The truth was out, and it was unbearable. The smiling actor, the beloved fiancé, the life-of-the-party performer had turned two innocent people into pawns in a script written for money and ego.
The curtain had fallen—but Daniel Wozniak was not done performing.