Search for the Strangler (15 page)

The day after the funeral, I began work at WHDH Channel 7, which was then the CBS affiliate station in Boston. My first job
was organizing scripts for the news anchors and running the teleprompter, for six dollars per hour. It did not matter to me
that my friends were making $20,000 and more in their first year out of college. Television news was where I wanted to be.
I was drawn to its frantic atmosphere. There were deadlines for each of the daily newscasts, and they had to be met: your
job depended on it. Assignment editors barked orders over the two-way radio to news crews out in the field. Producers pounded
on their typewriters, quickly absorbing news stories as they came in, then sending them out as coherent scripts. As a production
assistant, I ran script to the studio, most times just before the previous story was read. I would have considered myself
lucky if anybody at the station even knew my first name.

Soon I was growing more concerned with my work at the station and less concerned with the Boston Strangler case. Then, in
the fall of 1994, the name of Albert DeSalvo was suddenly in the news again. That’s when Sean M. DeSalvo, his twenty-seven-year-old
nephew, was arrested for the kidnapping and attempted rape of a forty-three-year-old Lynn woman. Of course, the newsroom had
a field day. The file tapes of Albert DeSalvo and the Boston Strangler crime scenes were taken out of storage. “Imagine if
we had another Boston Strangler. Now, that would be good for ratings,” one veteran reporter said. I just bit my lip, hoping
this story would go away and the references to the Boston Strangler case with it. However, the case of Sean DeSalvo would
drag on for months and get even more bizarre. “He has tried to strangle me in my sleep,” his wife, Claudia, claimed when she
filed for divorce. “He has slept with a butcher knife under the pillow and told me he would not strangle me. If he killed
me, he would stab me to death. I live in fear that my son could grow up to be the next Boston Strangler.” How much of what
she claimed was accurate and how much was rhetoric is unknown. However, kidnapping and attempted rape charges against Sean
DeSalvo were eventually thrown out because of lack of evidence.

I was promoted to a newswriting position just as the Trial of the Century was getting under way in Los Angeles. The legendary
football player O. J. Simpson faced a double murder charge for butchering his ex-wife, Nichole Brown Simpson, and her friend
Ron Goldman. Representing Simpson was the so-called Dream Team of lawyers. The biggest name on the team was F. Lee Bailey.
When the trial began, I was surprised to see the flamboyant and camera-conscious Bailey take a backseat to two legal eagles
of a new generation, Johnnie Cochran and Barry Scheck. The trial was to rely heavily on scientific evidence and this was not
Bailey’s strong suit. The prosecution team of Marcia Clark and Christopher Darden had a mountain of evidence incriminating
Simpson, but evidence was no match for emotion. African Americans in Los Angeles were still seething from the Rodney King
beating, and Simpson’s lawyers recognized that many blacks distrusted the Los Angeles Police Department. There was a change
in strategy and the Dream Team elected to play the race card and place F. Lee Bailey on center stage. It was Bailey who painted
LAPD detective Mark Fuhrman as a racist because of the investigator’s use of the word
nigger
in a taped interview.

Allowing Bailey to conduct Fuhrman’s cross-examination was a bold move by the defense, considering that Bailey himself had
been chastised for using the same word to describe Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall during a speech in the 1970s. Bailey
claimed he had only spoken in fun that time. Anyway, Bailey was back on top with his solid performance in the O. J. Simpson
case. But his triumph in that case was his last great victory before his downfall a few years later.

The O. J. Simpson trial was still the hottest news story when I left WHDH for an associate producer job at WTNH in New Haven,
Connecticut. I needed to learn the details of news producing at a small station before I could jump to a producer job in Boston,
the country’s sixth largest media market. In New Haven I was quickly promoted to morning producer but had second thoughts
when I realized the extent of my responsibilities. Producers not only choose which stories will be covered in a newscast;
they also do the bulk of the writing and design the overall format of the show. But the biggest challenge facing most producers
is dealing with the fragile egos of the on-air talent. Many anchor teams are not as chummy as they appear on-screen, and because
news is so competitive, some coanchors will do just about anything to put down their on-air partners and get more time on-screen.
It’s the producer’s job to divide the news fairly. I thought seriously about leaving television news, but where else would
I find the forum to expose the inept investigation of the Boston Strangler case and identify Mary’s killer? Television has
long been our most powerful medium of communication. Newspaper stories lack the raw emotion conveyed by a good TV news story.
But it takes a strong photographer, reporter, and producer to bring a television news story to life. I wanted to get back
to Boston so I could work on the case, and I wanted to get back to spending time with Laura. Our relationship had grown stronger,
but the three-hour commute from Boston to New Haven was exhausting for both of us. After asking her to marry me, I began calling
television stations in Boston in hopes of finding work. I soon learned of a producer opening at WBZ-4, Boston’s oldest TV
news station. During my interview, I told the news director I was a student of the city’s rich history and that to understand
Boston’s future, you had to understand its past. The news director, Peter Brown, apparently appreciated my approach and hired
me. It was December 1996.

Brown was a very demanding boss. With live TV, anything can go wrong, and much does. If a reporter does not make deadline
or a live shot suddenly disappears because of a technical difficulty, the producer must find a way to get the show back on
track.

And not only did Peter Brown insist that his producers keep a clear head in the control booth, he also counted on us to generate
good story ideas. Story ideas usually are discussed around a large conference table, with every producer in attendance. At
first, I did not tell anyone about my connection to the biggest murder case in Boston history. Instead, I waited for the right
moment. During a story meeting in the winter of 1997, Brown went around the room asking each producer to come up with three
story ideas. Some suggestions were interesting, others had been done previously in other television markets. Finally, all
eyes rested on me. I was the new guy, and I had better have something good. I took a deep breath and told my story. My aunt
had been the last victim in the Boston Strangler case, and I wanted to prove that Albert DeSalvo was not the killer. The room
fell quiet. “Will your family talk on camera?” Peter Brown asked finally. He knew a great story idea when he heard it. “Absolutely,”
I told him.

When I got home that evening, I called my mother and explained my story idea. “You know, it’s funny,” she said. “I drove by
Mary’s grave today. I never go there because I hate to think of her in that cold ground. But there I was, talking to her headstone.
I had this strong feeling come over me. It was Mary urging me to find her killer. It’s time for everyone to know the truth.”
My mother would be the first relative of a Boston Strangler victim ever to go public with doubts about the guilt of Albert
DeSalvo.

I wondered whether DeSalvo’s family also had questions about his guilt. I scoured the telephone directory, hoping to find
a DeSalvo relative still living in New England. I came across the name Frank DeSalvo in Revere. When I called, Frank DeSalvo
confirmed that he was Albert’s brother, but he also made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with a reinvestigation
of the Boston Strangler case. “Why dig all that up again?” he asked. I explained there was a good chance we could prove that
Albert was not the Boston Strangler, but he just replied, “Ah, who cares anymore?” At that point I realized there was no way
to convince him to be interviewed for television.

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.”