The Boston Stranglers (18 page)

On August 16, 1970, in the very early hours of the morning, Albert and seventeen of his fellow inmates were rousted out of bed and shepherded into Walpole's Block Ten, the prison segregation unit. There they were kept “locket up,” to use Albert's phrase, and denied any visitors other than their attorneys for thirty days. Walpole authorities had ordered this move as part of the investigation of a drug ring that was suspected of flourishing within the prison. Albert heatedly repudiated any involvement and prevailed on Newton to extricate him from the “hellhole.” The lawyer went to work on it.

Over the summer, Newton and one of his assistants had been checking the matter of Albert's finances. Having conferred with Bailey, Newton was able to inform his client that “a reasonably substantial” sum of money appeared to be due him. Albert was pleased by that news, but very shortly another event occurred that took some of the edge off his satisfaction. He learned that Donald Conn, who was now running for attorney general of the Commonwealth, was using the fact that he had won a conviction against the “Boston Strangler” as the biggest plank in his campaign platform. Albert was furious at being thus identified, and wrote so in no uncertain terms to the incumbent Massachusetts attorney general, Robert H. Quinn: “What gives Donald D. Conn the right! To further prejudice any cases pending against Albert H. DeSalvo? ... Mr. Conn here shows his true self, his stability, when he had to stoop so low as to use the name of a mentally-ill person who has never been ‘indicted,' much less ‘convicted,' of being the Boston Strangler.' To gain votes! ... I plead to you, not only for myself, but for my family who much suffer every time my name is used by a person such as Mr. Conn.” On a lighter note, Albert added that Conn ought to be sued for polluting the air of Massachusetts: “running his mouth throughout the commonwealth, ‘unregistered and creating illegal exhaust!' P.S. When one loses their sense of humor. He loses his sense of being.”

It is clear that Albert composed this letter without any assistance from George Nassar.

Then Albert complained to Newton that he hadn't yet heard from the Bar Association about the grievance he'd filed against Bailey. It is fortunate that Newton, who was currently engaged in trying to get money out of Bailey as well as getting Albert out of Block Ten, where he was still confined, was a patient man.

In November, Albert had a visitor other than his attorney or his brother and sister-in-law, Richard and Rosalie, the only relatives other than his mother who still maintained a connection with him. That visitor was Stephen Delaney, late of the Strangler Bureau. Delaney had left his investigative post with Bailey. He too had gotten in trouble in New Jersey during the Matzner case; he'd been accused of trying to tamper with the grand jury. Bailey says this was because Delaney had made the mistake of consulting a chiropractor who happened to be related to one of the grand jurors.
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Delaney was now in the employ of a Boston lawyer representing Roy Smith, the handyman convicted of raping and strangling Bessie Goldberg in Belmont in March of 1963. Smith had always maintained his innocence. Delaney had come to Walpole to question Albert about any possible involvement
he
might have in the crime. “In short, from what I gathered listening to him,” Albert noted dryly to Newton, “he had high hopes it was I who did the Bessie Goldberg murder.”

The following February Albert erupted in a fresh rage against Bailey. His reason? Bailey, along with defense attorneys Melvin Belli and Percy Foreman, had appeared on
The Merv Griffin Show
to discuss their most famous cases. During the broadcast Bailey, according to Albert, had stated that he had evidence to prove his former client was the Boston Strangler and that, furthermore, Albert shouldn't be confined to a mental institution because he would only escape from it. Albert demanded that Newton immediately launch a civil suit (to the tune of five million dollars) against Bailey, and a further suit against the television network that had carried the show. He also wanted to get an injunction preventing Bailey from making any further public pronouncements on his case. He added that he would really prefer it if Bailey were disbarred, but this wasn't necessary.

He wrote a letter (with Nassar's apparent help) to Paul Reardon, a justice of the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts, detailing this fresh complaint against Bailey. Then he shot off another irate missive to Frederick Norton, the Bar Association secretary, accusing the Association of doing “a wonderful job of covering up for [Bailey] so far as my case is concerned.” And he wrote to the Massachusetts chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union asking for its help.

Newton took all this drama in stride—and kept on methodically pressing Bailey to disburse the funds due Albert.

 

 

That spring Albert became the victim of a practical joke. Representative Tom Moore sponsored before the Texas legislature a resolution commending Albert as one “officially recognized by the state of Massachusetts for his noted activities and unconventional techniques involving population control and applied psychology.” The resolution further stated that “this compassionate gentleman's dedication to his work has enabled the weak and lonely, throughout the nation, to achieve and maintain a new degree of concern for their future.”

The Texas House, to whose members the name Albert DeSalvo apparently meant nothing, passed the resolution without comment.

They did so on April Fool's Day.

 

While Newton was disentangling the financial skeins that still bound Albert to Bailey, Albert was by 1972 consulting another attorney, PJ. Piscitelli of Brockton, on different matters. He had decided—or perhaps someone had persuaded him—to go public with his story, or some version of it. To this end, he had made an agreement with reporter Steve Dunleavy to sit for a series of tape-recorded interviews that would form the basis of a book Dunleavy would write. Piscitelli drew up the requisite release forms for the various parties to sign. This time, at least, Albert seems to have been slightly more aware of what he was getting himself into. And he clearly believed that this project would yield him a considerable monetary return, which is probably the major reason he embarked on it.

The prospect of making some money on his terms may have lent some brightness to a life that was otherwise unremittingly bleak. Albert had had no contact whatsoever with his children since 1965. Irmgard, long since remarried, was lost to him forever. Richard and Rosalie continued their weekly visits, and he still heard from his mother. Otherwise he had been abandoned by the outside world, or by that part of it he most wanted to see.
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And Walpole, which has been described as “the world's largest private nightclub” because of the relative ease with which its inhabitants can obtain drugs, liquor, and sex in one form or another, was to Albert the blackest of holes. In a letter to Piscitelli, he offered an evocative description of what happened in the prison after two inmates were discovered missing:

Nassar, whom Albert had identified to Tom Troy as his adviser, now became, for all practical purposes, Albert's literary agent. On June 24, 1973, he wrote a letter to Piscitelli informing the lawyer that he would be handling any book offers that came Albert's way (as well as the arrangement with Steve Dunleavy) and would shortly be retaining a New York lawyer who specialized in publication contracts. Any inquiries along these lines that might be made to Piscitelli should be directed to Nassar himself.

Just how thorough Nassar's domination of Albert had become is made clear by the fact that Nassar was now even instructing Piscitelli on how Albert's criminal business should be conducted. “I think the time is approaching when you should begin preparing for the special trial,” Nassar wrote. “In particular you should, as we see it, give us a general idea, and even point-by-point run-down, on the major factors of bringing the case to trial and the trial itself.”

Piscitelli (who died in 1990) was apparently exploring the possibility of having Albert indicted for at least one of the strangling murders. Francis Newton, who was operating under the assumption that he was Albert's principal counsel, knew nothing of this plan and was astonished to learn of it twenty years later. It is impossible today to say whose idea this originally was.

Nassar wrote also to Richard and Rosalie DeSalvo to inform them that he had dismissed Piscitelli as Albert's attorney for publishing affairs. “If Pat is going to take offense at being pushed out of the literary business he'll insist on talking to you and Al personally about his status,” he told them. “I know I don't have to caution you to be polite but firm with him. Pat can be very useful to us.”

Nassar thought
Penthouse
as well as six or seven publishing houses was interested in buying Dunleavy's book. “I feel very good about the way things are going,” he wrote to Richard and Rosalie. “We've got it more and more together, laying a good foundation for taking on publishers and New York attorneys and concluding a good deal. Between all of us we'll come out on top yet.”

Nassar had more in mind than simply making money. “Maybe,” he concluded in his letter to Richard and Rosalie, “[we'll] even buy Bailey's jet, since he won't be able to use it in jail.”

That was in July of 1973.

By the autumn, the deal with Dunleavy had collapsed.

And Nassar and Albert were no longer best friends.

 

 

Richard DeSalvo, a muscular man of medium height with blue eyes and chestnut hair, bears a strong resemblance to Albert. Rosalie is shorter than her husband by several inches; she has dark curly hair threaded with gray and a round, youthful face. They have five children and several grandchildren and live quietly on a small farm northwest of Boston. Richard, who is legally blind—a vision problem he inherited from his mother—works the farm with the occasional help of one of his sons. Rosalie is employed at a local chain retail store.

Neither Richard nor Rosalie will ever forget the fall of 1973.

“Things were happening in the prison,” Richard says today. “We had the feeling something was wrong. Al mentioned several times that he was fed up and sick and tired.” Richard pauses. “We were in fear for him. He was acknowledging this.”

Rosalie and Richard's weekly visits to Walpole had always been one of the great high spots in Albert's life, and they were certainly no chore for Richard and Rosalie. “We brought him cakes and pepperonis,” Rosalie says. Albert, who worked in the prison shop as well as in the prison hospital as an orderly, made in return gifts for them—jewelry and handcrafted wooden items, for which he had a particular talent.
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What too some of the pleasure out of these hours with Albert for Rosalie and Richard was the constant presence of George Nassar. “A freezer” is how Richard describes the latter. The intrusion made Richard suspicious as well as ill at ease. “It was like Nassar was there to make sure Al didn't say or do anything he wasn't supposed to.” Rosalie was similarly edgy in Nassar's company.

Then, in the fall of 1973, Albert and Nassar had some sort of falling-out. Albert indicated to Richard that they'd disagreed over Albert's plans for his future.

The beginning of November was the last time Rosalie and Richard ever saw Albert. On that occasion, Albert did something he'd never done before. “He put his arms around me and gave me a big hug,” says Richard. Then Albert said to his brother and sister-in-law, whose company he cherished, “I want you not to come visit me for a while.” He couldn‘t—or wouldn't—explain why in any kind of concrete terms.

Richard and Rosalie left Walpole, confused and more than a little alarmed.

On Sunday evening, November 25, Albert telephoned Richard and Rosalie. He seemed in fairly good humor to them, laughing and joking about the Thanksgiving gifts he'd received.

He made another telephone call to someone else that same night. This time his tone was frightened; his message was urgent. There were no jokes about Turkey Day.

The next morning, Albert Henry DeSalvo, forty-two years old, was found dead in his bed. He had been stabbed multiple times in the heart and left lung. Any one of the wounds would have been sufficient to kill him.

Walpole went into lockdown. A prison authority remarked that Albert's murder had been carried out like a professional execution.