by Henry Cordes
*
When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation,
And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart.
Then I shall bow, in humble adoration,
And then proclaim: “My God, how great Thou art!”
Nilsa “Coco” Arizmendi, Jan. 29, 1970–July 25, 2003
Rest In Peace
2.
It’s a strange thing, writing letters to an alleged serial killer. Stranger still is reading the letters that he writes back.
When I first contacted William Devin Howell in July 2015, he was serving a 15-year sentence for the murder of Nilsa Arizmendi. Howell had yet to be charged with the murders of six other victims whose bones were found in the same wooded area behind the strip mall in New Britain. Nonetheless, the tone of his first letter to me indicated that he knew that the remaining charges were about to slam down upon him with the force of a sledgehammer.
Two months earlier, Howell’s image had been smeared across local and national news channels when Chief State’s Attorney Kevin Kane named him as the main suspect in the New Britain serial killings. Kane’s announcement was a long time coming. Howell told me that two years earlier, he refused to speak with police officers about the accusations without a lawyer present. His refusal to speak resulted in Howell being stripped of his industry job in prison as a kind of punishment by the Department of Corrections (D.O.C.).
While not a big deal to a prison outsider, for an inmate who lives for a few extra dollars a week to purchase better quality soap or tinned spicy tuna at the prison commissary, it was a grave loss for Howell. He took pride in having an industry job. It paid a whopping $1 an hour compared to typical prison jobs that pay 75 cents a day. Howell explained to me that he had worked all his life, whether in lawn care or a pizza parlor or a 7-Eleven in Florida. No job was beneath him and it discouraged him to be sitting in isolation doing nothing.
In April 2015, after speaking with one of Howell’s former cellmates, Jonathan Mills, who told investigators that Howell confessed many details of the crimes to him, police obtained a search warrant for Howell’s cell at Garner Correctional Institution in Newtown, Conn., where he was being held at the time. The search warrant detailed items taken from the inmate’s cell: a newspaper article about the death penalty in Florida; a notebook with handwritten entries that referenced darkvomit.com, a website that sold memorabilia associated with serial killers and other notorious murderers; and a cell phone bill from July 2003 with words written by Howell, “This just shows the day after I killed.”
The newspaper article about the death penalty in Florida prompted authorities to look into whether Howell was behind the unsolved murder of April Marie Stone, 21, who went missing on Jan. 14, 1991, after she was seen walking along a state highway in South Apopka, Fla. Her body was found two days later beside a dirt road in nearby Sanford. She had been stabbed to death and wrapped in a blanket. At the time of the killing, Howell was living about 15 miles away in a trailer in Casselberry with his girlfriend, Mandy, and their infant son. A few months after police found Stone, Howell was charged with soliciting prostitution in Altamonte Springs, the next town over from Casselberry. He had approached the undercover officer in a blue Ford pickup truck and offered her $15 for oral sex, according to the arrest report. He entered a plea of guilty and avoided jail time by paying a fine. It was not until 2015, after Howell was charged with murdering six more victims found behind the strip mall in New Britain, that law enforcement looked into the possibility that he may have been behind Stone’s murder in Florida, years before. Investigators in Florida looked into the matter, but did not find any evidence linking Howell to Stone’s murder.
I never thought that Howell was behind the slaying of April Stone. She was not part of what appeared to be his target group—prostitutes, many with substance abuse issues—and her body, though wrapped in a blanket, was not buried. Additionally, although Howell had been accused of grisly atrocities—including slicing the fingertips of one of his victims and dismantling her jaw, death by stabbing did not conform to his apparent modus operandi.
I took a deep breath before writing my first letter to Howell, fully aware that I was about to step aboard Ozzy’s proverbial Crazy Train with no hope of escape in the years ahead. Here is my letter of introduction:
July 19, 2015
RE: Correspondence and Visitation
Dear Mr. Howell:
I am doing some research and writing about the unsolved murders in New Britain. Since you are the main suspect, I would very much like to correspond with you and meet with you to discuss the allegations. Juliana Holcomb, the daughter of your ex-girlfriend Dorothy, describes you as a “kind-hearted giant.” In personal photos, you appear to be a friendly individual who would not harm a fly. I would like to hear your side of the story in this matter.
Please write to me and let me know if I can get on your visitation list. I am a practicing attorney. However, I have no desire to become involved in any of the legal aspects of your incarceration. In my capacity as a journalist, I simply want to hear your side of the story.
Sincerely:
Anne K. Howard
Attorney at Law
And so began my relationship with a man that I believed would one day take the title of Connecticut’s most prolific serial killer.
As a means of connecting with Howell’s loneliness and need for human contact, I mentioned his ex-girlfriend, Dori, and the warm sentiments that her daughter conveyed to a local reporter. I tossed in a little flattery and gave the impression that I was open to the idea of his innocence. My feigned concern was intended as something of a ruse, and it worked. A few weeks passed and Howell wrote back. In his first letter, dated Aug. 9, 2015, he admitted that he had struggled about whether he should meet with me or even write back.
For reasons I do not understand, perhaps sheer friendlessness and a yearning for human connection, or possibly just to get me to send him money (likely, a combination of both), Howell decided that he did want a face-to-face meeting with me, but it would have to be in my professional status as an attorney. He explained that the D.O.C. had made it very clear that they were granting no visits to reporters and the like. He suggested that I answer a few of his legal questions regarding a civil matter that had nothing to do with the current murder charges. Doing so would permit us to have a private, unrecorded visit.
It would not be that easy. I had been practicing law long enough to know that putting myself on the attorney visitation list at Howell’s current residential facility, MacDougal–Walker Correctional Institute (Walker C.I.), for the actual purpose of obtaining information for an upcoming true-crime book would be a misrepresentation that could result in sanctions from the Connecticut and Ohio bars and possibly the permanent loss of my law license. Also, providing him with legal advice, even in a small claims court case, without a written attorney/client contract would be equally reckless.
I told Howell as much in my next letter. Still, he continued to write. Interestingly, he always signed his letters with the name Bill, derived from the first name on his birth certificate, William, even though most of his friends and acquaintances knew him by his middle name, Devin. I would gradually come to realize that Bill was a man with many aliases reflecting his many sides. Fellow inmates in prisons across Connecticut called him Hillbilly because of his Southern accent. Others called him Wild Bill. The crew he worked with at the Big Y grocery store in Torrington prior to his current incarceration called him Billy. Now, in chiseling his name down to Bill, it seemed that he wanted to build some distance between his present and former self.
From the start, Howell’s letters revealed an unbelievably lonesome and depressed man. I spoke at length on the phone with a former acquaintance of Howell’s from Virginia and she described an adolescent Howell as being “starved for love.” I could not have said it better. Howell was not just looking for love from me in his letters—he was begging f
or it. Being isolated from the opposite sex for several years gave that craving a somewhat sexual component. For all he knew, I was a blue-haired elderly woman. Nevertheless, he wrote these words in his first letter:
8/9/2015
… this may sound creepy, but I’d like a hug. Nothing creepy and not trying to cop a feel, but I haven’t had a hug in almost 10 years and I’d just like simple hug if you don’t mind A hug from you may be the only hug I get for the rest of my life. Like I said, nothing creepy, just a simple hug. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.
Howell’s request for a hug gave me only modest pause. My main reaction was pity, coupled with the awareness that this was a very vulnerable man. The 1985 song by Aretha Franklin, “Who’s Zoomin’ Who,” came to mind. Was he playing me? He must have been. Otherwise, how could a man accused of killing seven human beings illicit any feelings beyond my sheer contempt? It would not be the last time that I felt genuine sadness for Howell, nor would it be the last time that I rebuked myself for having that reaction while questioning his true motives.
Howell’s subsequent written comments regarding his request for a hug helped me to understand why his alleged victims trusted him enough to get into his van.
8/29/2015
But I would like to meet with you. And there is a legal basis for your visit. And if you truly do want to get a feel for who I am that is the best way to do it. And the hug can be optional :). I see where that may have come across a little creepy in my first letter, but it wasn’t meant to be. But it’s just that its been so long (years) since I’ve had something as innocent as a friendly hug. And I felt like I had nothing to lose by asking. In fact, it could be my last chance to ever have a hug again for the rest of my life so I had to ask and I apologize if I creeped you out in any way.
I can also see why certain types of women become involved with men carrying life sentences for terrible crimes. Such individuals can possess the charm of a wounded little boy crying out for mommy’s love. Stumble onto the scene a highly gullible, emotionally damaged woman with nurturing tendencies, and the monster-turned-little-boy becomes the object of sympathy and even romantic desire.
Needless to say, I felt zero romantic desire for Howell. His most recent mug shot brought to mind the name that he reportedly called himself to another prisoner: Sick Ripper. In that photo, he had all of the markings of a man requiring high-maximum supervision. His hulking figure was dressed in orange prison garb intended to alert the authorities in the event that he escaped. His mouth pressed grimly downward as his eyes stared straight into the camera lens with an unsettling mixture of sorrow and rage. And so entered another emotion that would occasionally invade my mental space in the earliest days of our written correspondence: terror.
Howell made no secret of asking me for money right away. He asked if I could deposit $30 or $40 to his inmate trust account. He was helpful enough to include a money order form in his first letter. Giving the suspect money felt wrong on every level, but I was open to the idea if it would result in him providing information for my future book. I even entertained the idea that he would someday confess his crimes to me—either before or after legal resolution occurred. I contacted a reporter friend from a local news channel and asked what he thought about it. His answer surprised me: “Sure, you’re allowed to give him a little cash to go towards postage and writing materials.”
Thirty dollars would cover a lot of paper and stamps. I knew that giving Howell the money would make his prison sentence the smallest bit easier and when readers found out that I had given him money, I would look like a crummy human being. Arguably, I would be a crummy human being. Was I willing to do it in order to get the inside scoop?
I sent him $30.
In his next letter, Howell included a sales receipt from the D.O.C. that documented his purchases. It seems that he felt a fiduciary responsibility in the face of my recent gift. With the money, he had purchased five pre-stamped envelopes, two bagels, a tube of Velveeta squeeze cheese and buffalo wing blue-cheese chips.
One week later, Bill phoned my law office to personally thank me for the gift. My paralegal, Heather, retrieved the voice mail. “He has a soft, Southern voice,” she remarked. “He actually sounded kind of nice.”
3.
The chatter of bush crickets sounded in waves: Katy did, Katy didn’t, they called back and forth, Katy did, Katy didn’t.
The rhythmic dialogue was accompanied by the low, throaty mating calls of male bullfrogs skipping about with peepers in the swampy soil. The 15 acres of state-owned, unadulterated forest was full of deer, with legions of fireflies lighting up through the trees at night. Remarkably, this tranquil place was located just more than 100 feet from a strip mall on a busy roadway cluttered with fast-food franchises and automotive shops offering low-rate oil changes. Diagonally across the way sat Westfarms Mall, a high-end indoor shopping center where privileged brides-to-be registered for china and crystal at Tiffany’s and their mothers purchased monogrammed bags at the Louis Vuitton boutique.
The monster knew to move slowly; heedful, it crept into Howell’s veins and shifted his nervous system into a state of high alert. He could see better, hear better and definitely think better. Earlier, he stripped the lifeless woman of her clothing and personal effects in the back of his van. He would dispose of those later, in random garbage cans located at gas stations or public parks. He duct taped the body into fetal position, wrapped it in three large plastic trash bags—two at the top and one at the bottom—and covered the grisly parcel with tarp in the back of the van. He mowed a few lawns later that afternoon, then drove to the edge of the strip mall’s back parking lot at about 5 p.m., opened the side door of the van and threw the bagged body over the side of a sloping embankment. He watched it tumble down to the ravine. Perfect. It landed in a pile of hedge trimmings and barrels. Safely concealed, until he could get to it the following day.
He had trouble falling to sleep that night. Nilsa was the only victim he actually knew before committing the crime in question and he worried about the resultant implications. Since he had not planned to rape and strangle her, as he had with the other female victims, he had not taken the usual precaution of changing the license tag on his van. Usually, he changed the tags beforehand to prevent a boyfriend, pimp or otherwise observant witness from writing the number down. Now, not only could Ace potentially give that information to authorities, he could also identify him by name as the last person to be seen with Nilsa.
Early the next morning, he returned to the strip mall. He drove around back, making sure that the door of the Subway sandwich shop was closed. Sometimes, employees went outside to dump trash in the garbage bins, but today, the coast was clear. He went to the guardrail that lined the steep, wooded embankment and tucked a small shovel into the brush; then he circled the van into the parking lot of the McDonald’s located just a stone’s throw from the woods and parked in a remote location of the large lot. He quickly left the vehicle, walked across a narrow cut-through that was inaccessible to cars and returned to the ravine.
Everything depended on this moment. Would he be seen by someone unexpectedly entering the parking lot? The foot of the ravine, where the body lay, was visible to the observer. He rushed up the hill at record speed, retrieved the spade and nervously carried it back into the ravine. Tool in hand, he dragged the body about 100 yards into the woods. The location was a little more concealed than the bottom of the ravine, but there was still the risk of being discovered by a hunter wandering in the woods, although hunting was illegal there, or a single engine, Piper cub plane flying just above the tree line. Dropping the spade, he placed his victim’s remains beside the others.
Though the forest was deadly silent, a sense of panic threatened his ability to focus. “Calm down,” he told himself. “No one’s here.” But the fear of being caught would not subside. He sat on a moss-covered rock the size of a small beanbag chair. “Breathe,” he told himself, fighting
off a dull ache swelling in his chest. The light rain that fell in the night had heightened the forest’s pungent scent. He could almost taste the aromas of evergreen and birch in his midst. It helped to relax him.
He glanced over at the figure of Nilsa Arizmendi, enshrouded in trash bags. Man, she put up a fight. She was obviously stronger than she looked—skinny from the drugs, but big-boned and muscular at her core. When she had refused to submit to the first rape, he threatened her with a large, rusty wrench. In the past, the women he raped did what he said—just seeing the size and weight of that wrench had a way of smartening them up. But Nilsa was different. She did not submit. She fought back with the will of a warrior. He could not understand why. It was not like her life was worth a shit—a crack-whore on drugs. She mentioned once that she had children, three or four, at least. What kind of mother leaves her babies for the needle?
She had entered his van at the Stop & Shop parking lot two nights ago and asked if he could drive her to Hartford so she could purchase drugs. He said no. She offered to give him a blowjob for $30. He talked her down to $20. When she refused to finish the job, he grew angry and tried to rape her. “Do what I say or I’m gonna hit you with this wrench!” he warned, quite fairly, he thought. When she kept on fighting and screaming, he raised the wrench. “Shut up!” he shouted. He whacked her on the side of the head, just above the ear. It didn’t knock her out, but it sure as hell got her to stop fighting so he could tie her up to the backbench of his van. Semiconscious from the blow, she slowly came to her senses as he drove to the back of the parking lot behind the Stop & Shop, where he quickly raped her for the first time.