Search for the Strangler (22 page)

For the first time, reporters heard DeSalvo’s description of Mary Sullivan’s murder. And for the first time, they were given
undeniable proof that Albert DeSalvo was fabricating his story. They heard DeSalvo say he had choked Mary by pressing his
thumbs against her Adam’s apple. The reporters leafed through the autopsy report and saw that Mary had not been manually strangled.
They also heard DeSalvo say he ejaculated inside my aunt’s body. Elaine and I pointed out the paragraph in the autopsy report
that stated that no trace of semen had been found in Mary’s vagina. Reporters began to smile and nod. They knew there was
more to this story than they had first believed.

Later that day, I received a telephone call from a producer at the
CBS Early Show
featuring Bryant Gumbel. She asked if I would appear on the program live, opposite F. Lee Bailey. It was a moment I had dreamed
about, but I was nervous. Before I agreed to appear on the show, I called Elaine and Dan. I pointed out that they were more
qualified to discuss the legal issues of the case. “Yes, but it will be more effective coming from you,” Elaine advised. “Don’t
worry, you’ll be fine.”

The interview was done via satellite from the WBZ newsroom. I arrived early that morning to prepare. I knew I would be facing
one of the most celebrated and reviled lawyers of the twentieth century. There was a good chance I would be eaten alive. “Just
stick to the facts,” I told myself over and over. “Despite what Bailey says, the facts of the case will speak for themselves.”
Members of the WBZ production crew sat me down in the studio and handed me an earpiece. I could hear the
Early Show
producers giving Gumbel his cues in New York. Then I was asked to stare straight into the camera. I could not see Gumbel
or, more important, F. Lee Bailey, who was talking via satellite from Palm Beach, Florida.

The first question was to me. “What’s the point of all this? Why now?” Gumbel asked, a trace of annoyance in his voice.

“Well, Bryant, my family doesn’t believe Albert DeSalvo was the Boston Strangler, and we’re here to find her killer,” I replied.

Gumbel, who clearly had not done his homework, countered that all the investigators agreed they had gotten the right man.

“Some of the investigators are saying that, and that’s because these people don’t care about truth, they don’t care about
justice. What they care about is how they’ll be remembered when they’re gone, and they all want to be remembered as the men
who caught the Boston Strangler, and that’s simply not true,” I replied, my jitters now gone.

Gumbel then went to Bailey, who, when I was able to view the tape later on, looked as if he had just rolled out of bed for
the interview. His face was bloated, his suit was rumpled, and he sat hunched over in his chair. “I think this is a lot of
hogwash. The young man wasn’t even alive when this happened,” Bailey said. “Albert said he had intercourse with her, and that’s
all he said.” I tried to correct him, but the legendary lawyer cut me off. Bailey might still have been shaking off the cobwebs,
but he knew that this television segment could last only a short time. He was doing his best to filibuster his way through
it. “There was no room for questioning when people like Andy Tuney and Ed Brooke were done. Albert was the Boston Strangler,”
Bailey insisted.

This time, Bailey was cut off, by Bryant Gumbel. “Mr. Sherman, what do you have to say to this?”

“Albert DeSalvo said he had sex with my aunt; he said he ejaculated inside my aunt. This was disproved by the official autopsy
report. Albert DeSalvo was completely wrong, and, Mr. Bailey, so are you!”

For a few awkward moments, F. Lee Bailey was speechless. Gumbel called for a commercial, and I walked out into the newsroom
to a standing ovation from my colleagues. I felt like David slaying Goliath, but I also knew we had a long way to go.

While the media were focused on our lawsuits, final plans were secretly being made for Mary’s exhumation. My mother did not
want this to become a media event, and Jim Starrs assured us that it would be done quickly and quietly. Mom went to the Barnstable
town hall and picked up the proper permits. Starrs had lengthy conversations with the caretaker of St. Francis Xavier Cemetery,
who was intrigued by the idea. The owners of the nearby John Lawrence Funeral Home offered to donate their facilities for
Mary’s new autopsy. Everyone involved in the project was sworn to secrecy. After denying several requests, we finally relented
and allowed a camera crew from the CBS news program
48
Hours
to film at the cemetery. The network news program, which was working on an hour-long special on the case, had pressed us
hard about attending the exhumation. Having weighed the pros and cons, we decided that the media were vital to our success.
Even my mother went along, though she wasn’t especially happy about it. Mom realized that the program was not going to air
for several months, and she hoped the pain involved in approving the exhumation would not be as fresh then.

Jim Starrs and his team arrived on Cape Cod on Friday, October 13, 2000. Starrs wanted to open Mary’s grave the day before
the exhumation to determine what condition her remains were in. Members of the group delicately dug up the area around the
tombstone, making a conscious effort not to disturb the other caskets in the family plot, which contained the remains of my
Grandmother Florry, my Grandfather Jack, and my Uncle David, who had died suddenly of a heart attack in 1995. When the team
reached Mary’s casket, Starrs was disappointed to discover that the cover had caved in and the casket was filled with water.
Starrs gave this information to Elaine Sharp, who broke the news to my mother later that evening back at Sharp’s hotel. Trembling,
Mom told her a story that she had told me a few years before. “I remember sitting at my kitchen table and I heard a voice
coming from the hall,” she said. “At first, I thought it was the television set, but then I remembered that the TV wasn’t
on. The voice was very familiar to me. I went into the hall to see what the noise was, and I saw my sister. Mary was standing
right in front of me. She was saying, ‘Find my killer, find my killer.’ Mary was wearing a white nightgown, and she was soaking
wet. Her hair was wet, and her clothes were wet. I didn’t know why she was wet. It has bothered me for years. But now I know
why.”

I drove to Cape Cod the next morning. The fog of early dawn had lifted, replaced by brilliant sun and balmy temperatures.
I got to the cemetery just before nine. Starrs and his team were already gathered. Starrs’s spirits were high, thanks to the
arrival of his friend and colleague Dr. Michael Baden, the former chief medical examiner in New York City. Baden had testified
in the O. J. Simpson trial and had his own television program on forensic science on HBO. He was a mountain of a man with
wild, curly hair and a thick mustache, but his physical appearance belied a caring nature. He told me in a soft voice that
he sincerely hoped the work done on this day would lead to closure for my family. “Your mother is a very brave woman. She
cares deeply for her sister and we will not let her down,” he said.

Mom didn’t come to the cemetery for the exhumation. Instead, she wanted to spend the beautiful Indian summer day walking Sea
Street Beach, thinking about her sister. Mary was not at the graveyard, Mom told herself, but alive at her favorite spot in
the world, the beach. I attended the exhumation in Mom’s place. Since I had never known Mary, I thought I could observe the
exhumation and keep my emotions in check. I was wrong. When I saw the scientists lifting the casket out of the ground, my
eyes welled up with tears, and I could barely breathe. Once again I wondered about the wisdom of exhuming Mary’s body. Then
Starrs walked up to me with a quizzical look. “We found another set of remains at the foot of your aunt’s grave. They are
the remains of an infant,” he said. I had to look away. The casket Starrs had found, I knew, held the remains of my sister,
Susan, born two years after me. She had been stillborn, and my mother had her laid to rest next to Mary, so that Mary could
watch over her. I thanked God that Mom wasn’t there.

Out of respect for my aunt’s memory and for their surroundings, Starrs’s team of scientists spoke in hushed tones throughout
the unearthing of Mary’s body. Elaine Sharp took copious notes and pictures that she hoped would one day be presented to a
jury. “She’ll lead us to her killer, I really believe that,” Elaine said, giving me a hug as we watched the scientists carefully
place Mary’s remains into a waiting hearse.

I followed the caravan of vehicles from the cemetery to the funeral parlor. It was like a funeral procession, but in reverse.

I declined an invitation to observe the autopsy. Instead, I sat upstairs in the funeral parlor, awaiting word from Baden and
Starrs. I wanted to remember Mary as she was in her high school yearbook picture, young and smiling.

Now it was time for Michael Baden to go to work. The first thing the scientists noticed when they placed the remains on the
table was that Mary was still holding rosary beads. They spent the next several hours examining Mary’s remains for possible
trace evidence of her killer. First, they ran an ultraviolet light over her body, hoping to find signs of seminal fluid. Baden
and the crew also took swabs of Mary’s mouth and vaginal area. The work would continue into early evening. In all, the scientists
extracted over sixty biological samples for later testing.

The team members got together later that evening for dinner at Barbyann’s, a Hyannis steak house. Starrs, who was putting
the team up in hotel rooms with money from his own pocket, said he’d also pay for dinner. My mother and I protested, but the
professor wouldn’t hear of our paying. Starrs was once again wearing his tweed coat, but this time he was also carrying a
wool sock that contained a can of Guinness—mother’s milk, according to Starrs. “What is the sock for?” I asked. He looked
at me as if my question was absurd. “To keep it warm, of course,” he said.

As the night progressed the drinks flowed, and Starrs and Michael Baden began discussing the idea of holding a news conference
the next day. This was exactly what my mother and I didn’t want. Mom was already uncomfortable over the fact that television
cameras had filmed the exhumation. Although the
48
Hours
special would not air for months, our emotions were still raw at this time and we didn’t want to be forced to share that
with an audience. Knowing we were upset, Sharp said, “The story will get out; it always does. Let Jim hold the news conference
and get ahead of the story before the story gets ahead of us.”

The next day, Starrs announced that we had exhumed Mary’s body, and reporters from Boston rushed to the Cape for the news
conference. There Starrs and Baden discussed the purpose of the exhumation, and Sharp once again emphasized the need for cooperation
from the government. I reminded reporters that this was by no means a fruitless exercise. “We are not chasing ghosts here.
The real killers of these women are still out there,” I said.

Later that afternoon, Mary was laid to rest once again. My mother’s new husband, Ken Dodd, had built Mary a new casket that
my mother-in-law, Ann, lined with Irish linen. Instead of jetting out of town with their forensic evidence, Jim Starrs and
his team attended the reburial, serving as pallbearers. Again, the sun shone brilliantly. A Catholic priest offered a prayer
as Mary’s remains were returned to the ground. “It was beautiful. It was the way Mary’s first funeral should have been, quiet
and dignified,” my mother said afterward. I had feared the weekend would be traumatic for her, but it had turned out quite
the opposite. “It was like I had my sister back,” she said, “if only for a couple of days.”

The exhumation made news around the world. The
Times
of London reported it, as did the
Daily Scotsman,
and I got interview requests from as far away as South Korea. I explained to the foreign journalists that my mother had been
forced into the exhumation because authorities in Massachusetts said there was no physical evidence left in my aunt’s murder
case. The exhumation was our best hope of finding out who the killer was.

One morning soon after the exhumation, I groggily walked out to my driveway to fetch the newspapers. The weather had gotten
cold again, and my golden retriever refused to go outside to do the chore herself. Back inside, I took my first sip of coffee.
The first section of the
Boston Globe
did not hold my interest, so I turned to the Metro section, where a column by Brian McGrory caught my eye. According to McGrory,
Attorney General Tom Reilly had recently turned up evidence of semen from Mary’s murder. I nearly spit out my coffee. McGrory,
who had once called Reilly a “French poodle” for his less than vigilant approach to this case, was now praising him for digging
through dusty basements in search of evidence. “What a load of bullshit!” I screamed. I knew that Reilly had been lying to
us when he claimed such evidence did not exist. He had had it all along but hoped that the families would go away. And what
timing! If the attorney general’s office had told us about the seminal evidence, we would never have gone through with the
exhumation. To top it all off, Reilly had told McGrory that he was reopening the Mary Sullivan case, yet he had never even
bothered to tell her family. My mother was being victimized once again.

I forced myself to sit back and think about what was best for the case. Maybe his comments to McGrory were Reilly’s subtle
way of extending the olive branch. Swallowing my pride, I phoned his office and was granted another meeting.

This time, we were well represented by Elaine and Dan Sharp. “Leone thinks he’s still in the marines,” Dan said as we rode
the elevator to the eighteenth floor. “He has a procedure for everything. Getting him to think creatively on this could be
impossible.”