After striking out with Frank, I found another of Albert’s brothers, Richard, living in the town of Chelmsford. “Good afternoon, Richard, my name is Casey Sherman and I’m a producer at Channel 4 News in Boston,” I said when I got him on the phone. There was a momentary silence at the other end of the line. As I later found out, this wasn’t the first time a journalist had called Richard at home. “What can I do for you?” he finally asked. I said, “Well, sir, you and I have something in common. Your brother claimed to be the Boston Strangler, and my aunt was reportedly his last victim. But I don’t believe it, and I’d like your help in proving it.” “I never believed he was the strangler either,” Richard said. I could tell by his voice that he was somewhat more at ease now. I went on to describe the story I was working on. “This is a story about the living victims of the Boston Strangler case. My mother is one . . . you, Richard, are another.” In the end, Richard DeSalvo invited me to his home, though without committing to an on-camera interview.
I told my mother about the call to Richard. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?” she asked. “I hate Albert DeSalvo. Every time I hear his name, I feel sick. If it wasn’t for him, Mary’s killer would have been found,” Mom said. I reminded her that we should not hold DeSalvo’s relatives responsible for his behavior. “They’ve felt years of pain, too,” I pointed out.
On a blustery New England day in early March 1997, I drove to Chelmsford to talk to Richard DeSalvo. I believed that Albert DeSalvo was not a killer, but he was clearly a sexual predator. What would his family be like? Like him?
Despite my poor navigational skills, I managed to find Richard DeSalvo’s home, a small house in the middle of what appeared to be a massive renovation project. I climbed the front steps and knocked. Richard’s wife, Rosalie, a small woman about the size of my mother, opened the door and showed me in. Richard was seated at the kitchen table. He did not get up to greet me; in fact, when I came in, he was looking away. But he held out his hand, and I took it. He had the strong grip of a man who worked with his hands. “Sorry, Casey, I don’t see too good,” he said. “He’s actually legally blind,” Rosalie added. Still shaking his hand, I gazed directly into his eyes. I had seen the look he wore many times before. My mother had the same look. It was the look of exhaustion, betrayal, and utter hopelessness. Also seated at the table was Richard’s son, Tim, who eyed me a bit suspiciously.
“Listen, I’m sorry about your aunt,” Richard began. “This has been hell for us, too. Police have been harassing me for years because of my brother. And now it’s happening with my kids.” Richard pointed across the table to his son. “He owns a construction company. The state police pulled him over a little while ago just because the name DeSalvo Construction was printed on the side of his truck,” Richard said. Tim DeSalvo nodded in agreement.
I asked Richard why his brother had confessed to the murders. “The first time he was arrested and thrown in jail, he hated it,” said Richard. “They wouldn’t give him any clothes, barely nothin’ to eat. My brother did not want to go to prison. F. Lee Bailey told him that if he confessed, he’d be put in a nice comfy hospital. Bailey also told Al he’d make so much money from books and movies that he’d own the hospital,” Richard added, his voice growing louder as the anger welled up inside him. “But Al got nothing, and Bailey got everything. If it hadn’t been for Bailey, my brother would be alive right now. I loved him. He may have done some stupid things, but he was still my brother.”
I asked Richard whether Albert had ever told him he was not the Boston Strangler. Richard nodded. “Yes, he did. But I don’t know how telling my story on TV could change things. I’ve told reporters for years that Al wasn’t the guy, but they don’t listen. They just write what they want to write,” Richard said, pounding the table with his fist. Rosalie walked up behind him and began rubbing his back for comfort.
“I feel the same frustration you do, Richard,” I said. “The reporters who covered this case never did their homework; if they did, we wouldn’t be in this position right now. The public should know the pain you’ve gone through because it just isn’t fair. In a way, you’ve been given a life sentence of your own.”
Richard shook his head and said, “It’s just too late for that, so I’m gonna have to say no.” But I kept trying. “It’s never too late for the truth,” I said. “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“How many more people out there are still feeling pain over this?” I wondered as I got in my car and drove away.
Even without Richard’s cooperation, WBZ aired a story anyway, focusing on my mother’s interview and her long search for justice. Now it was time to find out if the Boston Police Department (BPD) was interested in taking another look at the case. I worked the newsroom telephones, focusing on the cold case squad at the BPD. I left numerous voice messages, but no one called back. Finally, after several days, I got through to one of the detectives. Introducing myself, I reminded him that since no one had ever been charged with my aunt’s murder, her case remained open. The detective acknowledged that there were stories floating around that DeSalvo had not been the Boston Strangler. “But there’s no new evidence to follow up on,” he told me. I said, “You don’t need new evidence. If you conduct DNA testing on the old evidence, it will prove that Albert DeSalvo wasn’t the killer and that the real killers are still out there.” The detective promised to get back to me, but he never did.
For a time then I focused on my upcoming wedding and my day-to-day work as a news producer. Laura and I were married in August 1997, around the time that we realized our other dream, which was to buy a house outside the city. I now had a loving wife and a three-bedroom colonial in the suburbs, but I still felt a certain emptiness. My aunt’s murder was gnawing at me. I had raised questions about Albert DeSalvo’s guilt on television and tried to get the Boston Police Department involved. What more could I do? I was having a difficult time tracking down relatives of any of the ten other strangler victims. I was growing moody and distant at home. Laura was spending all her free time studying for her M.B.A. exams, but she knew I was troubled. “Grab your coat,” she ordered one night. “We’re going out, and I’m buying you a beer.” We discussed my problem over a couple of ice-cold Dos Equis and some nachos at a local tavern. “Listen, honey, you’re just at an impasse right now. But things can change quickly,” Laura reassured me. “What about DNA? More and more of these old cases are getting solved that way,” Laura pointed out. “I know,” I said. “They are. Every time I’ve left a message at the Boston Police Department, I’ve stressed the possibility of DNA testing. But no one will talk to me. It’s weird; it’s like everyone at police headquarters ducks for cover when you mention the Boston Strangler.”
11 : A Vision in the Night
The morning of July 9, 1999, began for me like most others. I let our new puppy, a golden retriever we called Bailey (after Bailey’s Irish Cream not F. Lee Bailey), out for her morning duty. Wearing my bathrobe, sleepy-eyed, and in need of a cup of strong coffee, I walked to the end of our driveway to pick up the morning papers, which I would scour to prepare for my morning conference call with my colleagues at WBZ. That day’s Boston Globe headline jumped off the page. It read, “POLICE HOPE DNA SCIENCE WILL TELL IF DESALVO WAS ’60S-ERA KILLER.”
I walked back into the house barely able to breathe. The Globe reporter Brian McGrory had written that the Boston Police Department’s cold case squad had launched a reinvestigation into the Boston Strangler case. According to the article, the review had been going on for eighteen months. The squad leader, Captain Tim Murray, said he hoped DNA testing would put an end to a decades-old mystery. “The Strangler case is one of the most notorious in the country,” Murray told the Globe. “If we can solve this, it might spark other cities to use DNA to solve old crimes. There is no statute of limitation on murder.”
I had called Murray countless times and never gotten further than his voice mail. “What is going on?” I asked myself.
Tom Luft immediately placed a call to the Boston Police Department spokeswoman, Margot Hill. Surprisingly, she would not comment on the story. Apparently, there was a mad scramble going on at police headquarters. Officials there had not wanted this story leaked.
“Commissioner Evans is attending a news conference on racial profiling. We’ll get him to talk about the strangler there,” Luft shouted across the newsroom. Charlie Austin, a veteran reporter, was covering the racial profiling event. In his three decades at the station, Austin had formed strong bonds with the power players inside the BPD. If he couldn’t get Paul Evans to talk, no one else would.
At the news conference, Evans strongly denied there was a new investigation of the Boston Strangler case. He claimed that what looked like a reinvestigation was actually nothing more than a training exercise for members of the police crime lab. He went on to criticize the Globe for overzealous reporting and misstating facts. When asked if he had any doubt that Albert DeSalvo was the Boston Strangler, Evans said, “Absolutely not.”
The next day, July 10, 1999, I called Margot Hill myself. She told me the department was very sympathetic to my interest in the case but that there was no physical evidence left from the crime scenes to test for DNA. “We’re talking about evidence from eleven unsolved murders. Where did it all go?” I asked. “I don’t know,” Hill replied.
My next call was to the crime lab. I was sure I would get the party line that no reinvestigation of the Boston Strangler murders was in progress or planned for the future. But I got lucky. A technician answered my call and not one of his supervisors. “Hey, man, I’m just looking for a little info on this strangler business,” I said casually. “Is it true that you guys have no physical evidence left from any of the crime scenes?” The technician replied, “Who told you that? We have boxes of the stuff.” “Yes!” I thought to myself. But I needed clarification. “You mean you have boxes labeled Boston Strangler?” I asked. “That’s right, I’m staring at about a dozen of them right now,” the technician assured me. Then he said, “Wait, you’re not gonna report any of this, right?” He was realizing that he was probably not supposed to be telling me any of this. “No,” I said, “your secret is safe with me.” I thanked him and hung up. Sitting back at my desk, I digested what I had just heard. Police officials were telling me one thing, but those on the inside knew better.
That evening, I drove to Mom’s house in Hyannis to give her an update. It didn’t surprise her that law enforcement officials were still playing a shell game when it came to the Boston Strangler. But I sensed there was something else bothering her. “What’s the matter, Mom?” I asked. “I . . . I can’t say. It sounds ridiculous,” she replied. With a little more coaxing, she finally let go. “Mary . . . I saw Mary last night,” she said. “Oh, boy,” I thought to myself. “Did she come to you in a dream?” I asked, not certain where this conversation was going. “It wasn’t a dream. I was in the living room, and she was calling to me from the hallway. I saw her standing right where you’re standing, now,” Mom replied. “She said, ‘Find my murderer . . . find my murderer.’” Mom’s voice was breaking. “She was soaking wet, Casey. I don’t know why, but she was soaking wet.” Mom was crying now. “We have to do it, Case, we have to do whatever we can to find her killer. She won’t rest until we do.”
I reached out and hugged my mother, searching my mind for the right words. No doubt, the Boston Globe story had stirred up intense feelings. But what she had seen was real to her. I told her I loved her and assured her that I would try to find Mary’s killer, but I actually had no idea what to do next. As I drove back to Boston the following day, I made a private plea to my dead aunt: All right, Mary, help me out here. What do I do now?”
At work that day I sat at my desk staring blankly at the computer screen. I realized that I had made a promise to my mother that I might not be able to keep. Tom Luft’s booming voice shook me from my trance. “Casey—you have a call on the nutline. He’s asking for you by name,” Luft hollered. The nutline is a general phone number for the newsroom. Usually, nutline callers are either cranks or crazies who phone in to report that a UFO is landing on their front lawn or that Elvis is relaxing in their bathtub.
“Mary, this isn’t exactly the kind of help I need right now,” I thought as I picked up the phone. I said, “This is Casey Sherman, WBZ-4 news. What can I do for you?” I could barely understand the man on the other end. “You the guy who’s investigating the Boston Strangler?” he asked. I confirmed that I was. “My name is Michael DeSalvo. I’m Albert DeSalvo’s son,” he said. At first, I thought the caller was lying, but he knew many details of the case and said he had gotten my name from his Uncle Richard. I told Michael to call me back in a few minutes, after I’d confirmed his story with his uncle. Then I phoned Richard, who told me he had given my name to his nephew. “You should watch him, though; he’s got problems,” warned Richard.
I knew Albert DeSalvo had two children, but no one had ever interviewed either of them. Michael called back. He said, “I wanna clear my Dad’s name, and I want you to help.” I offered to meet him that night at a bar in Quincy, just a couple of miles south of Boston. After he agreed to the meeting, I almost hung up the phone, but then I stopped myself. “Oh, by the way, I don’t know what you look like. How will I find you at the bar?” I asked. “That’s easy,” Michael replied. “I look just like my dad.”
12 : Here Comes the Son
I called my wife and told her I’d be a little late coming home because of my meeting with Michael DeSalvo. “Be careful; this guy could be a real nut, honey,” Laura advised. Her concern quickly turned into panic. “Make sure you park under a streetlight with some other cars around. Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “This guy’s legit. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” I reassured her.
Inside, however, I did have concerns about my safety. After work, I drove ten minutes south to Quincy and pulled into the large parking lot outside The Fours, a sports pub known for its steak tips and wide selection of brews. DeSalvo had told me he had a white van and I pulled up next to it.
He gave me a quick nod through the window, and we both stepped slowly out of our vehicles. “Don’t talk to me. They could be watching us,” he said softly. I glanced casually over my shoulder but saw no one there. Inside, Michael picked a quiet spot at the end of the bar. The Red Sox had the night off, and the sports bar was virtually empty. “Well, Mike,” I said, “I’ve had a hell of a day and could sure use a beer right now. What do you want? I’m buying.” Michael began fidgeting with his cigarette lighter. He said, “Just water, thank you.” I ordered a Bud Light for myself and a spring water for him. After that we sat there in awkward silence, Michael’s eyes moving around the bar. Finally, he said, “It’s my girlfriend; I think she’s having me followed. She didn’t want me to meet you here tonight.” I nodded my head. Should I excuse myself, go the men’s room, and get the hell out of here? No, I owe it to my mother to hear him out.
This man had his demons, that was obvious. I studied his face under the bright lights of the bar. Michael DeSalvo had been cursed with his father’s infamous profile. Though he had long hair and a mustache, he clearly was Albert DeSalvo’s son, with his father’s brown eyes and his long, hooked nose. We had been sitting now for fifteen minutes, and I decided that I’d had enough of the silence. “All right, Michael, I’m here,” I said. “Now tell me exactly what you want me to do for you.”
For the next two hours, the thirty-seven-year-old
man told me his story. “I never knew who my dad was,” he began. “I grew up on a U.S. Army base in Germany thinking my name was Mike Nichols. My mom remarried and never once talked about my real father. It wasn’t until I was eighteen years old and trying to get into the army that I found out the truth. They [army officials] wouldn’t accept my identification papers, so my mom had to produce my real birth certificate. A staff sergeant asked me if I knew who my real dad was. I said I did not. The sergeant told me that my father was the Boston Strangler.” Michael lit a cigarette, and I noticed his hand begin to shake. Here was another living victim of the Boston Strangler case. “Damn Albert DeSalvo,” I thought to myself. “Just look at what you and your lies did to your own son.”
“What did you do after the army, Michael?” I asked.
“Well, I had some rough times. I thought my dad was this serial killer, and I thought he could have passed it along to me. I thought I might inherit the desire to kill someone.” Michael told me he had spent most of his adult life drifting from state to state, abusing drugs and alcohol. “When I finally came here to Massachusetts, I found out where my old man was buried and went up to visit him with a bottle of vodka in my hand,” he continued, a tear beginning to form at the corner of his eye. “I was drunk and got down on my knees and started clawing at the dirt around his grave. I wanted to dig my dad up and strangle him myself. I really hated the bastard.”
Michael credited the television program Unsolved Mysteries with changing his point of view. He said, “I watched it and, for the first time, I heard people say he didn’t do it. I started to read up on it, and I now believe that he was sick and that F. Lee Bailey manipulated him to confess to these awful crimes.”
“I think you have a strong story to tell, and I’d be glad to help you tell it . . . if you’re up to it,” I promised. I gave Michael my card and a firm handshake and told him to call me when he was ready.
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