Chapter 37
Instead of heading into the city to my crowded, frantic squad room, I skirted Manhattan altogether and took the Triborough Bridge north to the New York State Thruway. An hour and a half later, I was upstate in Sullivan County near Monticello, sipping a rest-stop Dunkin' Donuts java as I rolled past misty pine forests, lakes, and dairy farms.
The bucolic area was close to where Woodstock had taken place. It had also been home to the 'Borscht Belt' vacation resorts, where Jewish comedians like Milton Berle and Don Rickles and Woody Allen had gotten their start.
Unfortunately, my visit had nothing to do with music and even less to do with laughter. This morning I was heading to Fallsburg, home of the Sullivan Correctional Facility.
My boss and I had decided it was time to have a chat with its most infamous resident, David Berkowitz, the.44 Caliber Killer. The Son of Sam himself.
There were several reasons why. One of the most compelling was that the Monday night double murder in Queens wasn't the only recent Son of Sam copycat crime.
An hour after we put the Son of Sam lead over the inner department wire, a sharp Bronx detective had called the squad. He told us that on Sunday a teenage Hispanic girl in the Bronx had barely survived an odd stabbing in Co-op City. Her attacker had worn a crazy David Berkowitz-style wig and said some real out-there stuff to her as he slowly cut her up. It mimicked almost perfectly Berkowitz's first crime, the random stabbing of a girl in Co-op City in 1975.
There was a long list of people with whom I'd rather spend my morning, but since Berkowitz seemed to have some connection to the recent string of murders, I thought it might be fruitful to have a sit-down. It was probably a long shot, but with seven people dead and no lead in sight, it was high time to get creative.
Sullivan Correctional was hidden discreetly behind a tall stand of pines, a few miles northeast of Fallsburg's small-town main street. As soon as I spotted the sudden vista of steel wire and pale concrete buildings built terrace-like up a rolling hill, the coffee in my stomach began to percolate for a second time. Sullivan was a maximum-security prison that housed many of New York City's most violent offenders. I knew because I had put a few of them there.
Under the stony eye of a tower guard, I was buzzed into the south complex administrative building, where I reluctantly relinquished my service weapon and signed in. I was escorted to the ground-floor office of Doug Gaffney, the prison manager, whom I'd spoken to the day before to set up the meeting.
Bald and stocky in a polo shirt and khakis, Gaffney reminded me of a middle-aged football coach more than a warden. Books about anger management and drug abuse lined the shelf behind his desk, along with a thick binder with the words 'Life Skills' on the spine.
'Thanks for setting this up for me, Doug,' I said after we shook hands and sat down.
'This case you're working on? We're talking about the bombing thing?' Gaffney asked as his secretary closed the door.
'Yes, but that's confidential, as is my visit,' I explained, sitting up in my folding chair. 'The press is already dogging us on this. I'd hate to sell more papers for them than I have to. What should I expect from Berkowitz?'
'Don't worry. We don't have to put him in a hockey mask or anything,' Gaffney said with a small grin. 'In the six years I've been here, he's been nothing but a model prisoner. Runs a prayer group now. He even helps blind inmates back to their cells.'
'I heard about his religious conversion. Do you believe it?' I said.
'I limit my belief to things outside these walls, Mike, but who knows?' he said, lifting a radio out of the charger behind him. 'If you're ready, I'll walk you over.'
Chapter 38
I met Berkowitz in a bright and airy secure visitors' room in a cell block across the concrete yard behind Gaffney's office.
What struck me first was how surprisingly unthreatening he was. Short, paunchy, and middle-aged, with white hair, he reminded me of the singer Paul Simon. He was clean-shaven and his hair was freshly cut. Even his green prison clothes seemed excessively neat, as if he had had them dry-cleaned. He bore little resemblance to the wild-eyed sloppy young man on the front cover of all the newspapers when he had been apprehended in 1977.
He actually smiled and made eye contact as he sat on the opposite side of the room's worn linoleum table.
'Hi, David. My name's Detective Bennett from the NYPD,' I said, smiling back. 'Thank you for agreeing to speak with me this morning.'
'Nice to meet you,' he said, taking a small Bible from his pocket. He placed it directly on the table before him. 'How can I help you, sir?'
'Well, I was wondering if you might be able to give me a little insight into a case I'm investigating right now,' I said.
Berkowitz's eyes narrowed as he cocked his head.
'It must be some case for you to come all the way up here from the city.'
'It is, David. It seems a person is committing crimes similar to the ones you were involved with back in the seventies.'
I reluctantly used the term 'involved with' instead of 'viciously and cowardly committed' because I needed his cooperation.
'A girl in Co-op City was stabbed, and two people were shot in a lover's lane in Queens with a forty-four- caliber weapon,' I continued. 'We even received a letter from someone claiming to be you.'
Berkowitz stared at me wide-eyed. He looked genuinely shaken.
'That's terrible,' he said.
'Do you know anyone who might want to do these things?'
'Not a soul,' he said immediately.
'C'mon, David. I know in the past you've made reference to other people who might have been involved in your case. Other satanic cult members, wasn't it? Have you had any contact with any of those people lately?'
'Well, to tell you the truth, Detective, I don't know how helpful I can be in that area,' he said, staring at the Bible. 'You see, what I remember of that tragic time is really all a blur now.'
How convenient for you, I thought.
He began to fan the Bible pages with his thumb as he continued.
'I was deep into the occult back then and not really in my right mind. In fact, ever since giving myself over to Jesus Christ, more and more of those memories seem to fade every day, thankfully. That's the incredible power of Jesus. His forgiveness can cleanse even a man like me.'
I looked across the table for a beat. Berkowitz had his eyes closed and hands clasped in silent prayer. He seemed pretty convinced that Jesus Christ was now his personal savior.
I wasn't so sure. I knew that one of the things serial killers tended to crave was manipulation. They exulted in their superiority over people and liked to lie for the sheer pleasure of it.
'You said you weren't in your right mind,' I continued in order to keep the conversation flowing. 'Do you think I should look for a person with mental instability? Talk to some psychiatrists maybe?'
Berkowitz nodded, opening his eyes.
'Sure, sure,' he said. 'Though, like myself, there are a lot of lost individuals out there who never receive any formal psychiatric help.'
That's when I dropped my payload, the thing I was truly interested in.
