Cruel Death

by M. William Phelps

  PO BOX 3215

  Vernon, CT 06066

  Update 2014

  It’s been over ten years now since Erika and BJ Sifrit were convicted of the horribly brutal crimes I covered in this book. Since that time, BJ has stayed true to his SEAL code of silence and has not said a word—at least not to anyone willing to talk about it. Erika, on the other hand, has been mouthing off in prison, saying some rather bizarre, although unsurprising, things about her life and crimes (more about that in a moment).

  Reader response to this book after it was first published has ranged from outrage to disbelief to just about every emotion in between. The fact that human beings could do what Erika and BJ did to other human beings seems unfathomable to many. More than that, readers are angry that BJ was given a slap on the wrist for his unspeakable crimes.

  Many have asked why a door was never brought into the courtroom and BJ asked to try and kick it in. That’s a bit dramatic, and over-the-top, even for a courtroom. But the point is well taken. Obviously, a guy with BJ’s rage and strength could have easily kicked that bathroom door in, while a petite, frail woman like Erika would not have the strength to do it—thus making BJ the aggressor and mastermind of the murders.

  I don’t know why BJ escaped justice with only a second-degree murder charge. His jury and that court have to live with those decisions and results. Sometimes justice has a strange way of working—or, in this case, not working. We can second-guess Joel Todd’s prosecution of BJ, as many have; but in the end, the charges and verdict stand.

  I’m told BJ is a model prisoner. Of course, he knows that if he is a good boy, he will be out with arguably still plenty of life left to live.

  If and when he is released, society should watch out.

  After exhausting just about all of her state appeals, in 2012, Erika Sifrit asked a federal court through her lawyer for a new trial. Again, beating the same drum she has for years now, Erika claimed that her trial attorney failed to seek or present evidence of “long-standing severe mental illness.”

  In his Maryland U.S. District Court filing, Erika’s new attorney, Robert Biddle, made the claim that Erika’s trial lawyer, Arcangelo Tuminelli, “inexplicably conducted next-to-no pretrial investigation” into what Mr. Biddle termed as—get this—“long-standing and severe” borderline and dependent personality disorders.

  Biddle said in his brief that Mr. Tuminelli (a man who, in my opinion, did a stand-up job for Erika, working with the best he could) did not call mental-health witnesses at Erika’s trial. According to Biddle, this was a major blunder on Tuminelli’s part—and one of the reasons Erika deserved a new trial.

  In that Petition for Writ of Habeas Corpus, Biddle made an additional claim, in part, accusing Tuminelli of not showing how BJ “manipulated and controlled” Ms. Sifrit, “abusing her psychologically to the point that she lacked the capacity of a rational adult.” Over time, Erika became “extremely dependent” on BJ, so much so that “she would do anything he requested, regardless of the harm it caused.”

  I guess that included dismembering people, but not eating them!

  The problem with this, of course, is there’s a good chance Erika came up with the idea of the purse snatch game and subsequent murders all by herself. Erika and BJ, predictably, are thrill killers who thrived on that adrenaline rush of committing revolting acts of horror, and even smaller acts of crime that escalated over the years.

  It is a ridiculous waste of the court’s time, in my opinion, to ask for a new trial based on more of Erika’s lies and manipulations.

  In his response to my book, Erika’s former attorney, Arcangelo “Arcky” Tuminelli, wrote this: You made only one . . . factual mistake of significance. You stated I protected Erika from the state using the results of the polygraph, but she was not protected from her statements during the pretest interview.

  Tuminelli went on to say I was “wrong.” Erika did not need “to be protected” from those polygraph results. It was “the law” that actually protected her.

  Polygraph results, anyone knows, are not admissible in court.

  The agreement I insisted upon with Joel Todd was that no matter what she said during the pretest interview, Tuminelli wrote to me, that information could not be disclosed—period—without my consent.

  Furthermore, Erika’s statements to Carrie Campbell, the FBI agent who conducted the polygraph, were not admitted at her trial. Joel Todd had even asked the judge, Tuminelli explained, “to admit her statements” and was told that Todd’s agreement with Tuminelli “would not allow” it to happen.

  Tuminelli also claimed Joel Todd was greatly upset by this decision. And as he and Todd left the judge’s chambers, Tuminelli barked at Todd, saying the other attorney “had trouble honoring his agreements.”

  To that, according to Tuminelli, Joel Told barked back, saying he was not pleased with Arcky’s comment.

  Concluding his thoughts, Arcky Tuminelli said “overall” I treated him “fairly” and he had zero “complaints” with regard to the book as a whole.

  Now let’s look at the real Erika Sifrit and what she’s been up to while incarcerated—none of which, I might say, should surprise anyone who has read this book.

  I’ve gotten several letters from current and former cellmates of Erika’s. I’m told there’s a long line of over a dozen more of her cellies waiting to tell these same stories.

  That’s pretty significant evidence of someone’s character.

  One woman called Erika the “roommate from hell,” giving no direct reason why. This same woman said that after living with Erika for quite some time and then reading Cruel Death, the book “hit it on the nose” in its portrayal of her character: I was amazed at the accuracy of it all!

  Documentation exists proving that Erika still feels “it was fun to wear the jewelry” from her victims. Ten years after taking part in butchering two people, she is still bragging about these crimes while sauntering around the prison. Can you imagine? The hubris, ego, and chronic narcissism this woman displays are endless.

  Furthermore, there are several inmates claiming Erika has “opened up” to them about her crimes, revealing certain details that would “appall any normal person.”

  Many of her cellies believe Erika is, as one put it, a “sick, sick, sick sadist.” I think that is an understatement, at best.

  One woman told me in a letter that Erika confided in her, admitting that she had “absolutely no remorse whatsoever” about what happened to Joshua Ford and Geney Crutchley.

  What’s more, Erika still doesn’t feel she did anything wrong—along with all of the other character defects her cellies claim, it provides us with more evidence that Erika is a classic sociopath/psychopath.

  Interestingly, Erika still feels the need to look down on the people around her, acting as if she is back home, spoiled and living that high life of having whatever she wants, whenever she wants it.

  A common saying of Erika’s in prison these days: “These people aren’t my caliber.”

  Erika has had many lesbian relationships while in prison and continues to manipulate and control her romantic interests, much as she did with BJ.

  In her twisted mind, Erika believes she is “going back to court” and “going home,” as one of the letters she wrote to a lover clearly stated. One woman wrote to me that Erika has no trouble bragging, [Her] family has ties to certain politicians and that is supposed to play a role in her going home.

  That’s Erika—the consummate proclaimer of “I’m better than everyone else and going to get special treatment.” It is an attitude that outrages her fellow inmates.

  More interesting, though, is a pastime that might explain what many in law enforcement have considered over the years: Erika and BJ have murdered other people.

  One roommate told me Erika is “addicted to watching” Cold Case on television. This particular roommate thought the reason behind Erika’s interest in the series was: [She’s] just waiting for the day when she and Beej co
uld be back in the spotlight.

  Makes one wonder if Erika watches the series with the thrill of knowing she and BJ are responsible for some of the murders profiled on the show. Or she likes to compare her crimes to the other criminals profiled, as if she is competing.

  I have been told Erika “turns red and smiles” when she talks about the crimes she and BJ committed—Like it’s her proudest moment.

  Erika also said she had to contain herself during her trial from busting out into “laughter” while watching the prosecutor and the victims’ family members in the courtroom. Incredible that she thought the murder, dismemberment, and graphic exploitation of those remains were mere jokes. Yet, this exemplifies how Erika is a manipulating sociopath who cares about nobody else but her own selfish needs.

  This same cellie prays to God that Erika is never released. “She is a racist” who uses everyone around her in prison for her “personal gain in some way.”

  Still clinging to that privileged lifestyle that she believed she deserved, Erika “has to have more than anyone here.” Despite disbelief from her cellies, she is still generally able to obtain extra things while behind bars.

  Erika is still scrapbooking in prison. I have received some of it. It is still the same childish mishmash of construction paper and saccharine sayings cut out from magazines that she used to make back when she was out in the free world. She signs most of her work with that signature she so much adored, Lainey loves you.

  I told Detective Brett Case about all of this.

  “She has always loved the limelight and the attention,” Case responded. “This new information certainly sounds consistent with her history, so I’m not surprised.”

  Indeed, Erika Sifrit is no different today than she was when she went to prison over a decade ago. The only addition we might add is that, if she is ever released, Erika poses more of a threat to society today than she ever did.

  It’s a good thing she’s never getting out.

  Keep reading to enjoy an exclusive preview of

  M. William Phelps’s next true crime book!

  Obsessed

  Coming from Pinnacle Books in March 2014

  1

  Susan Raymundo was used to her daughter calling her Florida winter home at least twice a day. Anna Lisa was good that way. She liked to stay in close touch with her parents, even just to say hello, things are fine.

  “She was a very thoughtful daughter,” Anna’s father, Renato, later said. “She was a perfect daughter . . . an excellent human being.”

  Smart too: Anna Lisa held a bachelor’s degree from Harvard and a master’s from Columbia University.

  On November 8, 2002, retired pediatrician Susan Raymundo was at a local hospital near her Florida home with her mother, who was undergoing a routine procedure. When she returned to the house, Susan noticed the light on the answering machine blinking. During that ride home, Susan later recalled, she’d had an uneasy feeling. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was nagging at her.

  Something was wrong.

  Tossing her keys on the counter, putting her handbag down, Susan hit the play button and listened, knowing who it was.

  Anna . . .

  “Hi, Mom and Dad. I just want you to know what’s going on. I know you’re busy with Grandma, but I’ll talk to you sometime.”

  It was 10:34 a.m., Susan noticed, when the message came in.

  After getting herself situated, Susan called Anna Lisa back. The line rang several times, but there was no answer.

  Odd.

  Anna worked from home on Fridays. She was always there, especially during the day. Susan and her husband had purchased the Connecticut condo for Anna Lisa, closing the deal back on March 15, 2000.

  I’ll try again later, Susan told herself, perhaps subtly sensing, if only with a motherly intuition, that something was amiss. During the car ride home from the hospital, was that feeling she had related to Anna?

  2

  The woman sounded frantic. She was in a terrible hurry. Inhaling and exhaling heavily, as if out of breath. Yet, strangely enough, she cleared her throat before speaking for the first time.

  “Yes, hello . . . ,” the woman said after the Stamford Police Department (SPD) 911 dispatcher beckoned her to speak up. “Yes . . . the guy . . . the . . . he attacked my neighbor.”

  “You mean someone attacked your neighbor?” dispatch asked as the caller blew two gasping, dramatic breaths into the receiver.

  Whoosh . . . whoosh.

  “Yes, yes . . . ,” the caller said, but she sounded sheepish, as if uncomfortable for some reason.

  “When did this happen?” dispatch queried.

  It sounded as if the caller said: “I saw a guy go into the apartment at 1-2-3 Harbor View . . .”

  Dispatch noted the address. Then, not quite understanding, the police operator asked: “One twenty-six Harbor View—”

  But the caller interrupted, correcting the dispatcher in an angry tone, yelling over the dispatcher’s voice: “One twenty-three Harbor View!”

  “Okay,” dispatch said. “Don’t yell, because I cannot understand you.”

  Almost in tears now, the seemingly frantic 911 caller spoke once again over dispatch: “One twenty-three Harbor View.”

  “Listen to me . . . 123 Harbor View . . . what is your friend’s name?”

  “I don’t know her name, but she’s my neighbor and she lives in apartment 1-0-5.”

  “She lives in apartment 1-0-5?”

  “Right! And the guy was in there, and he . . .”

  “He what?”

  “He attacked her.”

  “Okay. Can you tell me what the guy looks like?”

  “I just don’t know. I heard yelling. I heard yelling.”

  There was a clicking sound next.

  “Hello?” dispatch said. “Hello? Hello?”

  The line was dead.

  This strange call, in its entirety, lasted one minute, thirty seconds.

  3

  He had just finished eating lunch. It was near 12:30 p.m., November 8, 2002—that same Friday. The weather was rather mild for this time of the year near the Connecticut shoreline, the temperature ranging from 46 to 57 degrees Fahrenheit. The air was dry and sharp, a slight breeze, with winds of approximately six miles per hour rolling in off the Atlantic Ocean. The sun was bright and blinding. There was a waxing crescent moon (7/8 full), nearly visible in the illuminating blue skies. By all accounts, a resident could call it a picture-perfect late fall day in one of Connecticut’s more prominent, upscale, seaside communities.

  The cop drove a marked police cruiser. He was dressed in full uniform. The area that twenty-two-year veteran police officer David Sileo patrolled was indeed exclusive. Officers called it “District Three.” Stamford had seen a sharp economic resurgence in recent years; its downtown was revitalized and injected with a bit of vitality—shops and businesses thriving. The bubble all around them might have burst, but Stamford seemed to be still floating. This particular region just outside downtown, where Officer Sileo headed, was known to locals as “Cove/Shippan,” located south of Interstate 95, in between Cummings Park and Cove Island Park.

  Yachts and fishing rigs and houseboats.

  Money and status.

  The dwelling at 123 Harbor Drive sat in an inlet, a cove, southwest of West Beach, just across the waterway from Dyke Park. It was not Harbor View, as the caller had suggested. People walked their dogs here. Docked their massive sailboats and Bayliners and Sea Rays, cruise liners and immense pleasure boats. Men and women jogged in expensive sweat suits, earbuds pushed in deeply for privacy, minding their own business. Families had picnics and tossed Frisbees, lay out in the sun when weather permitted. Stamford, Connecticut, by and large, is a wealthy region within a small state of 3 million-plus residents. Stamford is the sister to the more select, more elite, and perhaps even snootier Greenwich. By big-city standards, Stamford boasts a small population of about 120,000. Median income holds steady at $75,
000. Taxes are high. The streets are mostly clean. Crime rates in certain areas are low. Housing prices fluctuate, depending on where a person wants to live within the city limits.

  Officer Sileo was dispatched to 123 Harbor Drive, unit 105, specifically, after that strangely cryptic 911 call had been called in moments before, wherein an anonymous woman had maintained that a neighbor—someone she apparently knew—was being attacked by a man.

  Those three facts were clear: neighbor, attack, man.

  When Sileo arrived, another officer pulled up behind him. They agreed to knock on the door. See what the hell was going on—if anything—inside the condo.

  The unit at 105 Harbor Drive (not Harbor View) sat atop a three-car garage. Visitors walked up a few steps to the front door.

  Officer Lawrence Densky, who had arrived as Sileo did, knocked on the screen door. Sileo looked into the condo through the side-window panels on the left side of the door.

  Neither officer heard or saw anything.

  So Sileo rang the doorbell.

  They waited.

  Nothing.

  With no answer, Sileo attempted to open the door. He turned the knob.

  It was unlocked.

  Sileo watched as his colleague, Officer Densky, pushed the door open “a few inches,” took a quick peek inside, and then yelled, “Stamford Police . . . is anyone home?”

  No response.

  It was eerily quiet—especially for a domestic incident, the type of which had been called into 911. If two people were arguing, where were they?

  Pushing the door fully open, Densky spied a ghastly sight, which prompted him to immediately draw his weapon.

  Officer Sileo stood directly behind his colleague, hand on his sidearm.

  Both cops made eye contact with each other and agreed silently with head nods to enter the condo slowly, barrels of their weapons leading the way.