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Welcome to the Serial Killer Podcast. The podcast dedicated to serial killers. Who they were, what they did, and how. I am your Norwegian host, Thomas Viborg Thun. And to the others he said in mine hearing, Go ye after him through the city, and smite. Let not your eye spare, neither have ye pity.
Slay utterly old and young, both maids and little children and women, but come not near any man upon whom is the mark, and begin at my sanctuary. Ezekiel chapter 9 verse 5 to 6 Tonight we continue on our journey following David Berkowitz's downward spiral through his personal hell.
We near the end now, closing in on Son of Sam's ninth level of hell. Tonight we focus on David's many letters to the police and public, as well as his escalation of murder. This episode is brought to you by my loyal patrons and is 100% sponsored ad-free.
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Caught up in a city-wide drama of his own creation, Berkowitz began to crave the spotlight. As the frenetic New York tabloids ran story after story about the .44 caliber killer, he set to work composing a letter that would enlighten the world about the conspiracy of evil that was controlling his path.
He worked on the letter off and on for three days, beginning on April Fool's Day. When he was finished, he penned two additional messages. Berkowitz would dole out these missives over the weeks that followed, leaving the longest of them at the site of his next major crime. The first message was received by Sam Carr on the 10th of April, 1977.
It was an anonymous note that complained about the barking of Carr's dog. I quote, Our lives have been torn apart because of this dog. The letter was simply signed, A citizen. Nine days later, Carr got a second letter, this one much more menacing in tone. Again, I quote, I can see that there will be no peace in my life, or my family's life,
until I end yours. End quote. Carr was understandably shaken by this and contacted the Yonkers police, who filed a report of citizen harassment. It is perhaps not so strange that police did not prioritize the letter, considering David Berkowitz had given the city authorities something far more horrifying to contemplate in the interim. On the night of the 16th of April,
He left his apartment and began cruising again. He was on the prowl. He drove aimlessly through the Bronx, less than two miles from Co-op City. He was stopped at a routine police traffic checkpoint. Asked for his license, registration and insurance cards, he failed to produce the insurance documents. The result was a summons to appear in traffic court on the 6th of July.
David accepted the summons and went on his way, driving for hours, until he found himself back in the Bronx. He was, in fact, less than a half mile from the house where he'd killed Donna Lauria, and he spotted a car. It was 3A. Stalking victims had by now become a matter of routine for him. Berkowitz walked back to the maroon mercury he had just seen.
Approaching the passenger side of the car, he leveled his weapon, crouched, and fired four times. Inside the Mercury, 20-year-old Alexander Esau and 18-year-old Valentina Suriani both slumped down in the front seat.
Suriani, a student actress, and Isao, a tow truck operator, had stopped for a moment of intimacy after a dinner and a movie. Suriani had been driving. Isao, who sported shoulder-length dark hair, was in the passenger seat. Struck in the head, Suriani died almost instantly. Isao expired about two hours later at a hospital.
This time, the death of the man was no accident. The demons had ordered that both should die. General Jack Cosmo had a wife, David explained, and she had demanded a playmate of her own. With the two new murders, what was already a sensational case of serial killing was about to explode into the biggest manhunt in New York's history.
One of the first policemen to arrive on the scene of the Suriani-Isao murders had discovered an envelope on the ground, about ten feet from the slain couple's car. It was addressed to Joseph Borelli and printed in slanting block letters. It reads as follows. Dear Captain Joseph Borelli, I am deeply hurt by your calling me a Weeman-hater.
I am not. But I am a monster. I am the son of Sam. I am a little brat. When Father Sam gets drunk, he gets mean. He beats his family. Sometimes he ties me up to the back of the house. Other times he locks me in the garage. Sam loves to drink blood. "'Go out and kill,' commands Father Sam."
Behind our house, some rest. Mostly young, raped and slaughtered. Their blood drained, just bones now. Pap Sam keeps me locked in the attic too. I can't get out, but I look out the attic window and watch the world go by. I feel like an outsider. I am on a different wavelength than everyone else. Programmed to kill.
"'However to sock me, you must kill me. "'Attention all police. "'Shoot me first. "'Shoot to kill, or else keep out of my way or you will die. "'Papa Sam is old now. "'He needs some blood to preserve his youth. "'He has had too many heart attacks. "'Ug! Me hoot! "'It hurts, Sonny boy. "'I miss my pretty princess most of all. "'She's resting in our lady's house.'
But I'll see her soon. I am the monster. Beelzebub, the chubby behemoth. I love to hunt. Prowling the streets looking for fair game. Tasty meat. The women of Queens are prettiest of all. I must be the water they drink. I live for the hunt. My life. Blood for papa.
Mr. Borrelli, sir, I don't want to kill any more. No, sir, no more. But I must. Honor thy father. I want to make love to the world. I love people. I don't belong on earth. Return me to Yahu's. On the people of Queens, I love you, and I want to wish all of you a happy Easter. May God bless you in this life and in the next.
And for now, I say goodbye and good night. Police, let me haunt you with these words. I'll be back. I'll be back. To be interpreted as bang, bang, bang, bank, bang, ugh. You're in murder, Mr. Monster. End quote. The letter was quickly released to the press, and they happily published it.
It frightened the population, and everyone was now certain New York had a bona fide demonic lunatic stalking the streets. The letter personalized the previously anonymous killer in a way that must have given him great pleasure. He had gotten an identity at last. Overnight, more than one hundred detectives were assigned to what became known as Task Force Omega, the search for Son of Sam.
Police in unmarked cars beefed up patrols of residential areas in Queens and Brooklyn. But for a scared public, this was not good enough. Demands for an even broader police effort began to rain down on city officials, and soon the force would grow to 200 detectives.
One of those drafted for the search was 51-year-old detective Redmond Keenan, whose 18-year-old daughter Rosemary had narrowly escaped death alongside Carl DeNaro. Despite the increased police presence, nightlife in the city that never sleeps was grinding to a halt. Discos were empty on weekends, and restaurants went hungry for customers.
The Forest Hills area in particular all but shut down in the evenings. And there were other signs of the fright inspired by Son of Sam. Since several of his victims had long, dark hair, women rushed to have their hair trimmed short, or, in some cases, dyed blonde. An average of 250 tips about the case flooded police hotlines daily.
and every possible lead had to be checked out. Police also undertook a dogged search for the whereabouts of every one of the 28,000 Charter Bulldog revolvers ever sold by the gun's manufacturer. None of the investigative measures seemed to lead anywhere.
On the 27th of April, in the midst of the city-wide hubbub, Sam Carr heard a shot outside his home. He found his dog, Harvey, bleeding in the yard. Sam saw a man wearing jeans and a yellow shirt running away. Carr shouted at the man to stop. David Berkowitz kept running. The wound was in the dog's flank, and luckily wouldn't prove fatal. The bullet was, however—
never extracted. Yonkers police investigated. They turned up nothing. But the shooting was peculiar enough to linger in their minds. Within the next month, authorities released a psychological profile of the killer, describing him as neurotic, schizophrenic, and paranoid. The document further speculated that the son of Sam regarded himself as a victim of demonic possession.
Police Commissioner Codd added his view, which turned out to be very accurate, that a murderer was probably shy and odd, a loner inept in establishing personal relationships, especially with women. The task force motive for releasing the profile may have been to goad the killer into making a mistake. And goad him it did.
On the 3rd of June, the tabloid New York Daily News published a bombshell. Columnist Jimmy Breslin had received a letter from the son of Sam, and the newspaper was printing selected portions of it in installment over the next two days. Like the first letter, this one was rambling, egocentric, and chilling.
It harked back obsessively to the killer's first victim, Donna Lauria, and it purported to offer the police new clues for solving the case. It reads as follows. Hello from the gutters of NYC, which are filled with dog manure, vomit, stale wine, urine, and blood.
Hello from the sewers of NYC, which swallow up these delicacies when they are washed away by the sweeper trucks. Hello from the cracks in the sidewalks of NYC, and from the ants that dwell in these cracks and feed on the dried blood of the dead that has seeped into these cracks.
J.B., I'm just dropping you a line to let you know that I appreciate your interest in those recent and horrendous 44 killings. I also want to tell you that I read your column daily, and I find it quite informative. Tell me, Jim, what will you have for July 29th? You can forget about me if you like, because I don't care for publicity.
However, you must not forget Donna Lauria, and you cannot let the people forget her either. She was a very, very sweet girl. But Sam's a thirsty lad, and he won't let me stop killing until he gets his fill of blood. Mr. Breslin, sir, don't think that because you haven't heard from me for a while that I went to sleep. No, rather, I am still here.
like a spirit roaming the night thirsty hungry seldom stopping to rest anxious to please sam i love my work now the void has been filled
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Whatever, if I shall be fortunate enough to meet you, I will tell you all about Sam, if you like, and I will introduce you to him. His name is Sam the Terrible. Not knowing what the future holds, I shall say farewell, and I will see you at the next job. Or should I say, you will see my handiwork at the next job.
Remember Miss Loria. Thank you. In their blood and from the gutter. Sam's creation. Point 44. Here are some of the names to help you along. Forward them to the inspector for use by NCIC. The Duke of Death. The Wicked King Wicker. The 22 Disciples of Hell.
John Wheaties, rapist and suffocator of young girls. P.S. J.B., please inform all the detectives working the slaying to remain. P.S. J.B., please inform all the detectives working the case that I wish them the best of luck.
"'Keep him digging. Drive on. Think positive. Get off your butts. Knock on coffins, etc. Upon my capture, I promise to buy all the guys working on the case a new pair of shoes if I can get up the money.'" Police technicians labored over the letter for weeks, but in the end they were only able to lift two partial fingerprints from it. Not enough for a match.
The detectives thought most of the letter were incoherent ramblings, but they did notice the repeated mentioning of Donna Lauria. What they didn't know was that Berkowitz had developed a peculiar obsession about the first of his victims. He believed Sam had promised him Lauria's soul. After he killed her, she was the pretty princess of the first Son of Sam letter.
But Sam's offer had proven to be a lie. In his disturbed mind, the slain young woman had come to symbolize for Berkowitz love thwarted and love withheld. He now connected this love with murder. And so it was that on the 10th of June, Berkowitz's former landlord, Jack Cassara, received a get-well card
On the envelope was the name Carr, with a return address in Yonkers. The card bore a picture of a German shepherd, and a truly baffling inscription that reads as follows. "'Dear Jack, I'm sorry to hear about that fall you took from the roof of your house. Just want to say I'm sorry, but I'm sure it won't be long until you feel much better. Healthy, well and strong.'
"'Please, be careful next time. Since you're going to be confined for a long time, let us know if Nan needs anything.' The card was signed Sam and Francis. Cassara was mystified. He hadn't fallen or hurt himself, and he didn't know anyone named Carr.'
Subsequent events would reveal that the entire episode had stemmed from Berkowitz's failing grip on reality. Once in prison, he explained that he'd learned from a demon dog that Cassara had experienced an accident, and the news had prompted his gesture of concern. What the card prompted was a call from Jack Cassara to the mysterious Sam Carr at 316 Warburton Avenue.
That same night, Jack and Nan Kassara visited Carr at his home, and they brought along the Get Well card. Carr could offer no explanation, but he did say that he'd been getting some very strange letters himself, letters threatening him and his dog.
He went on to describe the gunshot wound to his pet, the shotgun blast that had killed a neighbor's German shepherd, and a Molotov cocktail that had landed in his driveway. When the Casaras returned home, they related these stories to their younger son, Stephen, and he wondered whether the strange assaults could be the work of their dog-hating former tenant, David Berkowitz.
The Casaras passed on this suspicion to Sam Carr, and his daughter, Wheat, relayed it to local police. The police listened, but they heard nothing that sounded like proof that Berkowitz was causing Carr's difficulties. And nothing set off any bells that would cause them to link this harassment case with the Son of Sam murder investigation.
There was, however, an interesting twist to the story. Another person in the same Yonkers neighborhood had complained of receiving bizarre letters. This time it was Craig Glassman, a burly registered nurse and auxiliary deputy sheriff for Westchester County. In March, Glassman had moved into apartment 6E, directly below Berkowitz.
As a police volunteer, Glassman sometimes worked directing traffic at school crossings and special events, so he was often in and out of the building wearing his special green uniform and hat. Berkowitz found this proximity to a policeman so threatening that he'd incorporated Glassman into his private fantasy world. The part-time cop
was now also a demon, a fiend named Gregunto Laccinto. Soon, Berkowitz was imagining hellish noises rising through the floor from Glassman's apartment. Gregunto Laccinto, he decided, had the power to enter his mind. Berkowitz's obsession with the new neighbor was recorded on the walls of his apartment. The graffiti read as follows—
As long as Craig Glassman is in the world, there will be no peace, but there will be plenty of murder. And another inscription claimed that Glassman worshipped the devil and held power over Berkovitz. On the 6th of June, Glassman received a genuinely disturbing letter scrawled on blue-lined notebook paper.
The writer called himself a slave and referred to Glassman as the master. The letter said in part, True, I am the killer, but Craig, the killings are at your command. The message raved on about how Glassman would burn on Judgment Day while the streets ran red with blood. Less than two weeks later, a second message arrived.
And this time, Glassman called the police. An ominous pattern of harassment reports was beginning to emerge in this Yonkers neighborhood. The new Boost Mobile Network is offering unlimited talk, text, and data for just $25 a month. For life. That sounds like a threat. Then how do you think we should say it? Unlimited talk, text, and data for just $25 a month for the rest of your life? I don't know. I don't know.
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And so ends part five of my special expose into the life and crimes of David Berkowitz. Next week I will give you the final episode in the saga of Son of Sam. So, as they say in the land of radio, stay tuned. I have been your host, Thomas Weyborg Thun.
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