Search for the Strangler (16 page)

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 ’
60
S-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.

The phone rang, and I jumped. When I picked it up, I heard my assignment editor, Tom Luft, on the other end. “What the fuck
is going on with the strangler?” he asked excitedly. “Honestly, I have no idea. I just found out myself,” I told him. Luft
put me onto a conference call. My producer colleagues were shocked to hear I had no more information on the story than they
did. If the Boston Strangler case was being reopened, it was a major story, and the
Boston Globe
had gotten if before we did. We had ground to make up.

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.”

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.

It was several weeks before Michael felt comfortable enough to do the interview. He had discovered sobriety, and he was very
proud of the fact that he had not had a drink in several months. Still, I was hesitant about putting him in front of the camera.
I was not sure he was up to it emotionally. But he felt it was his duty to dispel the myths about his father. Michael voiced
his own reservations, however. “I’m coming out in the public, but what if no one listens to what I have to say? The people
will just see my face and say, ‘There’s the son of the strangler.’ What do I do then? You gotta promise me that won’t happen,”
he said, grabbing my leather jacket. “Michael, you’ve done nothing wrong here,” I replied. “People will sympathize with your
cause. You’ve got to trust me on this.”

“Can I trust you? Can I really trust you?” he asked.

“I know the pain you’re going through. I know it better than any other journalist you’ll ever meet. You lost your father,
and I lost my aunt. My mother lost her sister. Yes, Michael, you can trust me,” I assured him.

I had given it my best shot. If he said no to the interview now, I was ready to walk away. I was not going to encourage him
to do something he did not want to do.

My colleague Ted Wayman, a WBZ reporter, conducted the interview in October 1999, and I produced it. Michael was biting his
fingernails and fidgeting before the cameras rolled. However, when the lights went on and the photographer signaled that the
videotape was rolling. Michael pleaded his case to the camera exceptionally well. “I will go to any length to clear my dad’s
name,” Michael said emphatically. Michael said he would be willing to give his own blood for DNA testing in hopes of exonerating
his father. “My dad did some bad things, but he was no serial killer.” Wayman and I both agreed that the interview was a smashing
success. Michael DeSalvo pointed the finger of guilt at his father’s former attorney, F. Lee Bailey.

Our next step was to take Michael back to his father’s grave site, where he had gone in a drunken rage many years before.
We drove to the Puritan Lawn Cemetery in Peabody. It was a beautiful autumn day, with multicolored leaves falling from the
trees. A big problem for us was that Albert DeSalvo’s grave did not have a headstone but it was instead marked by a small
plaque that was tucked away along a row of other markers. We spent the better part of an afternoon kicking up the leaves,
searching for Albert DeSalvo’s grave. When at last we found the marker, Michael stood silently for several moments before
he spoke. “I want to walk around with my head held high. I want to help the families of the victims,” he said, choking back
tears.