THE MAN WITH TWO NAMES: BOLIVIA’S FORGOTTEN SERIAL KILLER
Bolivia’s First Encounter with a Serial Killer
In the late 1930s, Bolivia was not a country prepared to confront the idea of serial murder. Violent crime was understood as sporadic, personal, and rooted in poverty or political unrest—not as the calculated work of a single individual who killed repeatedly, ritualistically, and with intent. Yet between 1939 and 1940, a series of murders in La Paz quietly shattered that assumption.
The victims were young women, most of them indigenous migrants newly arrived from rural communities. Their disappearances attracted little attention at first. When bodies were discovered, police explanations were dismissive, attributing the deaths to misadventure or moral failure. It was only when a letter arrived at a newspaper—describing a murder in precise detail before the body was even found—that authorities were forced to confront an unsettling possibility.
The letter was signed with a name no one recognized: Alberto González.
This was not the first or last shocking serial crime in South America.
Other notorious cases from the region on this site include Luis Alfredo Garavito – Colombia’s “La Bestia” The Monster Behind The Mask, as well as a broader examination of violent offenders explored in Serial Killers of Argentina.
What followed in Bolivia would become the nation’s first documented serial murder case—one later buried by revolution, lost records, and social indifference. The killer, a medically trained man living a respectable double life, taunted police with letters, drawings, and philosophical justifications for his crimes. His case introduced Bolivia to forensic handwriting analysis, pattern-based investigations, and the disturbing psychology of a man who believed murder was art.
This is the story of Ramiro Artieda, the man behind the name Alberto González—and how Bolivia almost forgot him.
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“I Cannot Control My Impulses”
On March 14, 1939, a letter arrived at El Diario newspaper in La Paz. Written in careful, deliberate handwriting, it described the murder of a young woman named Gregoria Cárdenas. The location of her body was included, along with a chilling final line:
“And now I know there will be more. I cannot control my impulses.”
Police dismissed the letter as a macabre hoax—until Gregoria’s body was found exactly where the writer had said it would be. She had been strangled and carefully arranged after death. Pinned to her dress was a crude pencil sketch: a man in a medical coat, signed Alberto González.
Bolivia had no framework for understanding what it was dealing with. The idea that a killer would announce himself, leave symbolic artifacts, and promise future victims was almost inconceivable.
It would not be the last letter.
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Early Life and Deception
Ramiro Artieda was born in 1908 in Cochabamba to a middle-class family. Intelligent and methodical, he showed early fascination with anatomy and death. Former classmates later recalled his habit of dissecting small animals and sketching internal organs with unsettling precision.
By his twenties, Artieda had secured work as a medical assistant in La Paz—a position that granted him status, access, and trust. He was quiet, well dressed, deeply organized, and known for his neat handwriting and artistic skill. He attended church regularly and lived alone in a spotless apartment.
To the city, he was unremarkable.
But Artieda had created another identity.
As Alberto González, he moved through the city’s poorer districts, particularly near the central station where young indigenous women arrived seeking work. Presenting himself as a labor intermediary, he offered boarding house owners and migrants connections to domestic jobs in wealthy households.
The dual identity allowed him to hunt while remaining invisible.
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The First Victims
Artieda’s victims followed a grim pattern. Gregoria Cárdenas, his first known victim, had been in La Paz for only three weeks when she disappeared. Her body was found in a shallow ravine, strangled and deliberately posed. The drawing pinned to her clothing would become his signature.
Within months, María Mamani was found under similar circumstances. A letter to El Diario arrived beforehand, this time including philosophical justification:
“I give them dignity in death they never had in life.”
By the end of 1939, two more women—Juana Quispe and Teresa Condori—had been murdered. All were young, indigenous, newly arrived in the city, and socially isolated. All were strangled. All were arranged after death. And all were accompanied by increasingly elaborate artwork.
Cultural Context
In 1930s Bolivia, indigenous migrant women existed in a dangerous social limbo. Detached from rural community protection and excluded from urban power structures, their disappearances were often ignored or dismissed. Similar patterns of social invisibility and institutional neglect have appeared in other South American cases, including those documented in Five True Crimes That Shook Argentina.
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A City in Fear — and an Investigation That Failed
By early 1940, La Paz newspapers were openly discussing a killer dubbed “The Artist of Death.” Women avoided traveling alone. Domestic workers refused night placements. Fear spread—but police action lagged.
Colonel Hugo Rivero, head of the police force, initially assigned only two officers to the case. When questioned about the lack of urgency, he publicly minimized the victims’ lives, suggesting many had simply returned to their villages or fallen into immoral behavior.
That changed abruptly with the murder of Lucía Méndez.
Unlike the previous victims, Lucía was the daughter of a government official and a nursing student. Political pressure followed immediately, and the investigation expanded overnight.
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The Breakthrough: Medicine and Ink
The critical insight did not come from detectives, but from doctors.
Pathologist Dr. Gabriel Osorio, who had examined several victims, noted highly specific bruising patterns on the necks. The placement of pressure suggested anatomical knowledge—particularly of the carotid artery.
“These are not the crude strangulations of a common criminal,” Osorio wrote. “They reflect precision and training.”
At the same time, a handwriting expert from Argentina analyzed the killer’s letters and drawings. The precision of line work and proportion suggested experience in medical or architectural illustration.
For the first time, Bolivian police narrowed their suspect pool based on forensic reasoning rather than confession or rumor.
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The Unmasking of Alberto González
In July 1940, Artieda made a fatal mistake. After murdering Carmen López, he kept a silver medallion she wore—using it as a bookmark at work. A colleague recognized it and alerted authorities.
A search of Artieda’s apartment revealed a hidden room concealed behind a wardrobe. Inside was a meticulously organized archive: drawings of dead women, anatomical sketches, self-portraits signed “Alberto González,” and personal tokens from victims.
A journal written in the same handwriting as the letters detailed not only the known murders, but hinted at others never discovered.
When confronted, Artieda showed no shock.
“Alberto González has much more to say,” he reportedly told police. “This is only his opening statement to society.”
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Trial, Execution, and Erasure
Artieda’s trial in late 1940 became a national spectacle. He defended himself, calmly admitting the killings while arguing that Alberto González was a separate personality. His philosophical detachment stunned the courtroom.
He was found guilty and sentenced to death by firing squad—the last such execution carried out in Bolivia before the death penalty was abolished for ordinary crimes.
Then, remarkably, the case vanished.
Political upheaval, lost records, and the marginalization of the victims ensured that within a decade, Artieda’s crimes were rarely mentioned. It was not until 2003 that historian Elena Mendoza rediscovered the case while researching gender violence in Bolivia.
Today, the victims are remembered not through the killer’s art, but through their names—displayed quietly in La Paz’s judicial museum.
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Why This Case Still Matters
Ramiro Artieda’s crimes exposed more than a single predator. They revealed how social invisibility enables violence, how institutions fail the vulnerable, and how forensic insight can succeed where prejudice does not.
His case also challenges the belief that serial murder is a modern or Western phenomenon. Long before profiling and behavioral analysis, Artieda displayed patterns now recognized worldwide.
Readers interested in broader South American true crime cases may also wish to explore Serial Killers of Argentina and the case of Luis Alfredo Garavito in Colombia.
That Bolivia nearly forgot him says as much about memory and power as it does about crime.
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Sources
Primary source: Bolivian National Police judicial archives (1939–1941)
News article: El Diario, “El monstruo de Miraflores confiesa,” July 23, 1940
Secondary source: Mendoza, Elena. El Asesino Olvidado (Universidad Mayor de San Andrés, 2003)
This case is explored in greater depth in Macabre True Crimes & Mysteries – Volume #2 (2025) by Guy Hadleigh, part of a four-volume series documenting nearly forgotten and obscure crimes from around the world.
Blog written by Guy Hadleigh, author of Crimes That Time Forgot, the Macabre True Crimes & Mysteries Series, the Murder and Mayhem Series, the British Killers Series, the Infamous True Crimes and Trials Series - and many more!