There was something about the rubble of the old West End that Joe liked. He could not begin to articulate this pleasure, but he enjoyed it just the same, as some dogs will thump their tails on the floor while listening to music. It made him happy. The demolition kicked up clouds of dust which the wind blew across town. Your eyes burned from it, and at the end of the day your shirt collar and the snot in your handkerchief were black from it. A church, St. Joseph’s, stood alone in the dust bowl. Joe knew the West End mattered somehow, it signified, but signified what? His best guess: it was a reminder that under all this city was dirt, and maybe every once in a while, every century or so, a city needed a good knocking-down. A fresh start. A New Boston, and fuck the old one. Full of rot, the old one was. And wouldn’t it be nice if you could tear yourself down and rebuild from scratch? A new Joe, new and improved. Didn’t work that way. A city you could bulldoze; your past you were stuck with. Your debts, your mistakes, you were stuck with.
He made it a habit to swing by Wasserman’s grocery every few days. The old Jew wasn’t around much now. Joe worried that something might have happened to him. There were stories about old West Enders who had gone out for a cup of coffee and come home to find a padlock on the door. That was how the Renewal worked. Maybe they had figured out how to roust old Wasserman after all. But Joe doubted it. If the old man was not scared off by Sonnenshein’s gorillas, he was not going to scare easy. Joe slipped notes into the mail slot asking Wasserman to call him at the station. Every time he delivered one of these notes, Joe heard the little mail door clack and knew the old man would never call. There was nothing a cop could do for him. It was too late for that.
During a mid-morning visit to Wasserman’s, Joe recognized a punk on the sidewalk nearby, the same kid Joe had introduced himself to a few weeks before by sticking his gun in the kid’s face. Joe stayed in his car a moment, watching the kid slouch past. His movements were listless, tired. When Joe jumped out, the kid made no attempt to run.
“You remember me?”
“Yeah.”
“You got something for me?”
“No.”
Joe shoved him across the sidewalk. “What are you, fuckin’ stupid? Are you stupid?” Joe saw the disdain on the kid’s face. He’d heard the tough-cop bullshit before and mostly he was just bored with it. Joe was bored with it, too, but it was the only flavor he had. “You said you’d find out who broke up the old man’s shop. You gave me your word.”
“I said I’d try.”
“So?”
“I tried. Nobody knows anything.”
“Well, somebody must know.”
“No.”
“Keep trying, kid-”
“No.”
“Whattaya shaking your head? Keep asking around.”
“No.”
“What is that, ‘no, no, no’? Why not?”
“Cuz it’s stupid, alright? I already asked everyone who’s left around here. Don’t you get it? It’s got nothing to do with us. There’s none of us left here. Whoever did it, they came from somewhere else. Why would any West Ender want to help the Renewal? What do we get out of it? What do you give a shit, anyways? You think they’re gonna hold this whole thing up because some old fart won’t leave his place? Look around you, man.”
24
February 13, 1964.
Early Thursday morning they met at the Strangler Bureau to discuss DeSalvo. The Homicide commander along with Brendan Conroy and Tom Hart from Boston Homicide. A few detectives from surrounding towns that had had Strangler murders. From the Bureau, George Wamsley and Michael Daley.
Wamsley was jubilant. It was evident from the first interviews at Bridgewater-from his manner and from the way he conducted the questioning-that he considered Albert DeSalvo the one true Strangler. In hour after hour of testimony, DeSalvo had provided many accurate details about the crime scenes. He knew at least something about all thirteen stranglings.
Wamsley reviewed all this in some detail before concluding, “It seems to me we’ve found our man.”
The cops exchanged looks.
“Albert DeSalvo didn’t kill anybody,” Conroy announced. “He’s full of shit.”
“Excuse me?” Wamsley inquired.
“DeSalvo didn’t kill those women.”
“Lieutenant, who would claim to be the Boston Strangler who was not?”
“Someone who wants to be famous, who wants to be remembered. A con artist who thinks there’s money in it. A movie deal for ‘the true confessions of the mad strangler.’”
“You think he’d risk the electric chair for that?”
“Wamsley, he’s in Bridgewater. It’s a loony bin.”
“He’s in Bridgewater because he’s sexually dangerous, not loony. They picked him up on a warrant out of Cambridge, for rape. Doesn’t make him a liar.”
“Doesn’t help.” Conroy snorted. “He conned you, boyo. Everything he told you, he got out of the newspapers.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“The Feeney murder DeSalvo was going on about?” From a file folder, Conroy brought out an old copy of the Observer with a story under Amy Ryan’s co-byline, “Two Girl Reporters Review Strangle Murders.” “It’s all here. The buzzer, the fact the apartment was on the top floor, the symphony music, the pillow. Even the bit about not being able to turn off the hi-fi: the victim’s son had rigged up the record player to play through the radio somehow, so it didn’t turn off the usual way. All DeSalvo did was study the newspaper. And I can prove it, ’cause there are mistakes in this article that DeSalvo went and repeated. Joanne Feeney’s robe was not red. DeSalvo was confused by the description here. It says the robe was ‘rose-colored.’ DeSalvo pictured a red rose. But the robe was pink. I saw it. And the rape: he claims he penetrated her vaginally and he may have ejaculated in her. But Joanne Feeney wasn’t raped. Look at the autopsy report: no sperm in her vagina or her rectum, no injury to the external genitalia. DeSalvo was running a con. That’s all it was.”
“Well, I found him convincing.”
“Wamsley, even he couldn’t understand raping old ladies. You heard him. He’s into sex with young girls. You could tell he did not do the old ladies. DeSalvo might rob an old woman, but rape her, kill her? Doesn’t fit.”
“Alright, okay, that’s Boston Homicide’s position.”
“And Cambridge’s,” another detective interjected. “We’ve had Albert. He’s been around here for years. He’s not a killer. He’s no saint, but he’s not a killer.”
Wamsley said, “We’re going to have a hell of a time convicting anyone else if DeSalvo’s already confessed. Anyway, I thought he was pretty convincing. Yes, he might have got some of it from the newspapers, but not all. There was just too much detail. No, I’m convinced. I’m convinced. So we’re going to focus on DeSalvo for now. We’ve got a guy who’s confessed to thirteen murders. We can’t ignore that.”
“He’s the wrong guy,” Conroy insisted.
“I don’t think so,” Wamsley said.
“Ask him.” Conroy pointed at Michael. “What d’you think, college boy?”
Michael waited.
“What do you think, Michael?” Wamsley said.
Michael shook his head. “I think Brendan might be right. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Well,” Wamsley said, “someone has to decide. And that someone is me.” His eyes swept around the table to see how the statement went over. “We go with DeSalvo.”
