Search for the Strangler
Copyright © 2003 by Casey Sherman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published in arrangement with Northeastern Press.
Originally published as as A Rose For Mary.
Warner Books
Hachette Book Group
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ISBN: 978-0-446-56164-8
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First eBook Edition: April 2005
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Illustrations
Foreword
Prologue : Cape Cod, 1950
1 : JANUARY 4, 1964
2 : The Killing Season
3 : The Making of Albert DeSalvo
4 : Snow Job
5 : The Home Front
6 : Lights, Camera, Action!
7 : All the King’s Men
8 : The Portrait on the Mantel
9 : Laying the Groundwork
10 : The Living Victims
11 : A Vision in the Night
12 : Here Comes the Son
13 : The Ghost from Christmas Past
14 : An Alliance Is Born
15 : On Our Own
16 : The Confession
17 : Turning Up the Heat
18 : Twists and Turns
19 : The Exhumation
20 : A Call from New Hampshire
21 : Truth or Consequences
22 : The Final Showdown
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Bibliography
At nineteen, Mary Sullivan was the youngest and final target of the infamous Boston Strangler. The suspect who confessed to that murder and twelve others was a handyman and sexual predator named Albert DeSalvo. Now, forty years later, Casey Sherman, veteran journalist—and Mary Sullivan’s nephew—challenges DeSalvo’s confession, defies the power of Massachusetts law enforcement, and tells the world how DeSalvo may have been betrayed by his own lawyer, the celebrated F. Lee Bailey. Drawing on a decade’s worth of interviews and presenting startling new DNA evidence, Sherman describes his audacious alliance with DeSalvo’s family, tells how he strove to bring justice to the aunt he never knew—and reveals who her real killer may be . . . a man very much still at large.
PRAISE FOR SEARCH FOR THE STRANGLER
“Casey Sherman has written a book, part investigation, part personal memoir, that will shake the long-held conclusions about who was the real Boston Strangler. His ten-year hunt for the murderer of his aunt, the Strangler’s last victim, is a moving tribute to her memory.”
—Gerald Posner, author of Case Closed: Lee Harvey Oswald and the Assassination of JFK
“Rich in detail . . . compelling . . . chillingly realistic. Exhaustively researched, this is a must-read for true-crime aficionados.”
—Booklist
“Casey Sherman has written a penetrating, incisive book that manages to avoid the mawkish sentimentality one would expect from such a personal perspective of so mammoth a tragedy. It is also a model of investigative reporting, raising some deeply unsettling questions about the true identity of the Boston Strangler, questions, ultimately, that turned my blood to ice.”
— Dennis Lehane, author of Mystic River and Shutter Island
This book is for
Mom, who gave me strength
Laura, who gave me love
Isabella, who gave me hope
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my agent, Doe Coover, and her assistant, Frances Kennedy, for their determination to get this book published. I would also like to thank Joe Bergantino for his help on this project. I am grateful to Bob Stone for his suggestions and encouragement. A special thanks also to my editors, Gil Geis and Bill Frohlich, who both helped turn an amateur into an author. Ann Twombly also deserves much of the credit for this book. I would like to thank Sergeant Conrad Prosnewski of the Salem, Massachusetts, Police Department for giving me access to the case files when no other law enforcement agency would. Thanks to retired Boston Strangler Task Force member Jim Mellon; you are my hero. The following people deserve my eternal gratitude for their tireless work in this case: Elaine Whitfield Sharp and Dan Sharp; Professor Jim Starrs of George Washington University; Dr. Michael Baden; Dr. Henry Lee; Major Tim Palmbach of the Connecticut State Police; Dr. George Stephens, Dr. David Foran, and Walter Rowe of George Washington University; Dr. Todd Fenton of Michigan State University; Dr. Bruce Goldberger of the University of Florida; Traci Starrs; and the kind folks at the John Lawrence Funeral Home in Marstons Mills, Massachusetts.
My thanks also go out to Dr. Ames Robey and the late Tom Troy for helping me to understand Albert DeSalvo and to Patricia Delmore and Pam Parker for sharing their painful stories for the first time. I am grateful to Rick Davis of Van Ness Films for his wealth of knowledge about the film The Boston Strangler. Thanks to Jim Collins of East Coast Investigative Services for helping me when the trail ran cold. Dan Rea and Victor Garo offered their keen insight into the Boston underworld and Walpole State Prison. My deep thanks to my colleagues at WBZ-4 News for their kindness and support. A special thanks to Ron Wilhelmson and Cory Silva of the WBZ Graphics Department. To my brother, Todd, I strive to be the writer and—more important—the father that you are. To Jim Sherman, thanks for everything. A special thanks to my legion of supporters, all of whom it would be impossible to name here; however, some deserve special attention: Ken Dodd, Ann and John Russell, Frank and Denise Judge, Cindy Langlois, Corly Cunningham-Quirk, Joanne Griffith, Toby Duane, John and Colleen Somers, Nancy Avia, Alan Otis, Ben Derouchie, Trish Murphy, and Marc Lidsky.
Illustrations
Following page 94
Mary and Diane Sullivan
Mary Sullivan and Nathan Ward
The portrait on the mantel
The crowd in front of Mary’s apartment building
Mary’s body is carried out of 44A Charles Street
Charles Street today
Albert DeSalvo
George Nassar
F. Lee Bailey
Edward Brooke briefs reporter
John Bottomly
James Mellon
Michael DeSalvo
Elaine Whitfield Sharp at the first news conference
James Starrs at Mary Sullivan’s exhumation
Casey Sherman and Jim Starrs
Diane Sullivan Dodd and Jim Starrs
Attorney General Tom Reilly
Richard DeSalvo gives blood for DNA testing
Foreword
The story of the Boston Strangler is one of those larger-than-life cases in a city’s history—in this instance a city’s macabre side. The murders of eleven single women in and around Boston during a nearly eighteen-month period between the summer of 1962 and early 1964 frightened and obsessed the people of Boston. Most victims had been sexually molested or beaten. Nearly all were strangled by a piece of clothing or a nylon stocking. Boston police, the FBI, and other police agencies hunted for the killer, but all were baffled for months. Prominent figures in state legal and political circles became embroiled in the manhunt, including Edward Brooke, the state attorney general who would go on to be elected the state’s first black U.S. senator, and F. Lee Bailey, the defense attorney who would become one of the country’s most celebrated and controversial attorneys.
Eventually, a sexual predator, Alb
ert DeSalvo, claimed he was the strangler. Though he was never tried for any of the murders, he was incarcerated for a number of sexual assaults. First with Bailey’s help, and then with the help of a special task force Brooke had appointed—which was eager to solve the crimes—DeSalvo was officially sanctioned as the killer. The Boston Strangler was off the street, the case was solved, and the public could rest peacefully once again.
But like so many big events, it turns out that the Boston Strangler case was not as it seemed. Movies, television specials, and a number of books have been produced either advancing or debunking the idea that the Chelsea-born DeSalvo was the one responsible for the brutal killings.
Now comes Casey Sherman with his compelling contribution, Search for the Strangler: My Hunt for Boston’s Most Notorious Killer.Sherman has applied his training as a journalist to review the original murder investigation, tracking down some of the key investigators along the way. Then he turned his sights on advancing the view, increasingly accepted as time goes by, that DeSalvo was a phony.
Sherman has put in years pursuing his mission; he is persistent, indefatigable, and unsparing in his conclusions. In the best tradition of journalism, he challenges power (which, in this context, means the criminal justice system) to build his case that back then the system chose—and today continues to choose—expediency rather than the truth in concluding that DeSalvo was the serial murderer who terrified a city’s people and threatened their sense of safety.
But this is also a work from the heart, because Sherman’s aunt, his mother’s sister Mary Sullivan, was considered the eleventh and final victim of the strangler when she was savagely murdered in her apartment on Charles Street on January 4, 1964. For over four decades the family has never accepted the common assumption that DeSalvo was the killer. Casey Sherman did something about it, even when it took him and his relatives into painful territory. His book is a chronicle of this family effort, a mix of his research and reporting on the case and the impact it had on his family.
Finally, Sherman’s work fits right into another important journalistic tradition—that of looking back at a long-accepted version of an event and digging for the deeper truth. He debunks the myths surrounding DeSalvo and the popular version of the Boston Strangler and, in so doing, has made a valuable contribution in correcting a city’s understanding of its past. This is no small feat.
DICK LEHR
Jan. 2, 1964
Dear Diane & Family
I have just gotten settled at 44A Charles Street. The two girls I live with are Pat Delmore and Pam Parker from Lowell & Malden respectively. They both work at Filenes. Pat is a salesgirl and Pam works in the office. They both are great kids. I got a foolish parking ticket today and I’m very upset by it. I’ve parked in the tow area about six times and never got a ticket. Therefore, I’m in debt to the city of Boston for $5! I am, as of today Jan. 2, employed at the Boston Safe Deposit and Trust Co. 100 Franklin Street, just a 15-minute walk. Beautiful building and great people but figures are not my specialty. It’s a very complicated procedure I’ll have to tell you about some time. You may come up to see me any time, the only thing is that there is only room for one extra overnight guest so don’t bring your friends, Ha Ha. Say hello to everyone for me. Reply within five days.
Love, Mary
Diane Sullivan received this letter from her sister Mary on January 4, 1964, two days after it was written and the same day Mary Sullivan would become the final victim in the Boston Strangler case. Most people who read this book have been led to believe that the Boston Strangler was eventually caught, bringing a close to one of history’s most notorious murder sprees. But Diane has always believed the real killer escaped justice.
My name is Casey Sherman. I am a trained journalist, and I have spent more than a decade investigating the Boston Strangler case. During this time I have seen the true heart of darkness. It beats inside the killer but also inside those whose job it was to find him. What began as a murder investigation has evolved into a battle between a victim’s family and powerful law enforcement officials in the state of Massachusetts. For not only was Mary Sullivan brutally murdered, she was also used for political and financial gain. With this book, I hope I can finally set the record straight. This book is an offering to a nineteen-year-old girl discarded by the system. It is a rose for Mary, the aunt I never knew.
Prologue : Cape Cod, 1950
The voice came to her again. At night, the way it always did. Mary awoke and wiped her eyes with her small hands, pulled off her wool blanket, and searched in the darkness for her slippers. The voice told her to be very quiet. She must not wake her two sisters sleeping in the same room. The six-year-old parted her auburn curls and tiptoed past her sisters out the bedroom door. The voice was getting louder now. Mary crept slowly by her parents’ bedroom door, which they always left open in case the children needed them in the night. “Come outside,” the voice beckoned. Mary stepped out into the brisk autumn night. It had begun to rain, and there was a strong wind coming off the Atlantic. Yet Mary did not feel cold as she stood in the backyard in her white cotton pajamas. “Follow me into the woods,” the comforting voice urged. The young girl walked forward along the clothesline and toward the row of towering pine trees.
Mary’s mother, Florry, was startled awake by a voice outside her window. The clock read 2:00 A.M. “Jack, do you hear anything?” she asked her slumbering husband. Then, not waiting for his response, she got out of bed, put on her housecoat, and walked toward the boys’ bedroom. There John and his younger brother, David, were both sleeping soundly. She then opened the door to the girls’ room. Peeking inside, she found both Helen and Diane fast asleep, but Mary was gone. Florry ran into the kitchen, where she saw the screen door swinging slightly with the wind. A deep anxiety growing over her, she hugged herself against the cold and ran outside. “Mary . . . Mary!” she called out into the darkness. There was no answer. Suddenly, a flash of Mary’s white pajama top appeared along the tree line and then disappeared again. Florry chased after her, screaming Mary’s name as loud as she could, but again her daughter did not respond. Finally, entering the woods, she found Mary standing still, the large trees looming over her. “I saw her again, Mommy!” Mary declared, pointing with her finger into the darkness. Florry reached down, scooped up her little girl, and hugged her tightly. Both were soaking wet from the rain. “Who did you see, darling?” Florry asked, alarmed, her eyes darting in every direction, looking for signs of a stranger. “The Blessed Mother,” Mary replied.
“She told me to come with her.” Florry asked her daughter where the Blessed Mother wanted her to go. “To Heaven,” said Mary, not with fear but with a sense of awe in her voice. Florry squeezed the six-year-old as if she were trying to keep an invisible force from taking Mary away. Then she looked the child in the eyes and said, “You mustn’t come out here at night, honey.” Little Mary was confused but nodded her assent.
This wasn’t the first time Florry had gone after her daughter in the darkness. What was pulling Mary outside night after night? Was it her imagination? Or was it something unexplainable? These questions raced through Florry’s mind as she led her daughter back inside, tucked the girl into bed, and walked into the small, darkened living room, where she knelt before a large portrait of Jesus hanging over the mantel and began praying for her child. “O heart of Jesus, I trust in Thee, although each joy of life may flee. Though darkness comes, no light is found, and bonds of fear my soul have bound. So when throbs pain or sorrow deep, when heart aweary knows not sleep, my Lord, my Love, I cling to thee. O heart of Jesus, I trust in Thee.”
1 : JANUARY 4, 1964
Mary Sullivan could not wait to get a jump on this new day. Even though it was Saturday and she did not have to work, she was up by 7:30 A.M. After a cup of coffee, she’d retrieve her record player and prized Johnny Mathis record collection from her car, which was parked on the street. She had been living in her new apartment for four days now and was getting along wonderfu
lly with the two roommates she once had worked with at Filene’s department store. Mary would begin her new job at the bank on Monday, but today she would finish moving her belongings into her new home. Granted, accommodations were cramped. There was only one bedroom, which could fit two beds, and since Mary had been the last one to move in, she had to sleep on the living room couch. But Mary was used to cramped quarters, having grown up with three sisters and two brothers.
Mary’s high spirits were not dampened that Saturday by the fact that she was spending it alone. Her roommates, Pat Delmore and Pam Parker, had been called into work at Filene’s to help handle the mad rush of holiday returns, but she had promised to have dinner with them that evening. Forecasters predicted the temperature would be in the upper forties: it would be a good day for Mary to explore her new neighborhood. Her apartment was on the top floor of the three-story building at 44A Charles Street in Boston, just down the street from her favorite pub, The Sevens, a small, lively joint with a long bar that seated about twenty-five people comfortably but on a good night often packed close to fifty.
Charles Street was and remains a bustling area. With its antiques shops and small tucked-away cafés, it is one of the few places in the city where Boston Brahmins connect with the lower-income and college crowds. Cutting through the heart of the Beacon Hill neighborhood, Charles Street is just one block from the Boston Common and three blocks from the golden dome of the statehouse. The neighborhood of roughly ten thousand residents is steeped in history. Before the American Revolution, Beacon Hill was a pastureland for cattle. Then builders constructed elegant row houses along the south slope of the hill, which attracted Boston’s finest families. The Cabots and the Lodges made their homes here. Then, in the late nineteenth century, European immigrants, sailors, poets, and former slaves flooded the north slope of Beacon Hill, adding a touch of bohemia to the blue-blooded neighborhood.