Part 5: The Ultimate Evil...The Process & Into The Maze

THE ULTIMATE EVIL 
An Investigation into a 
Dangerous Satanic Cult

The Process 

Looking back, I realize the indications were present all along. I never ignored them, but did keep them at a safe distance those first four months—slightly out of focus on the horizon. Publicly, I'd hold them sequestered for two years. The reason I did so wasn't complex: the idea of satanic cult involvement in the .44 killings was initially too bizarre for me to even want to consider. 

Such groups certainly existed. There was ample documentation from across the country. But my entire thrust was aimed at uncovering the presence of a single accomplice. Frankly, I didn't want to confront the implications, or face the consequences, of still more conspirators. As a result, I kept steering away from the signs. But inevitably, I was pulled back into the web. And after a time, I came to accept the unacceptable. 

The path of the old Croton Aqueduct in Yonkers passes between the rear of the Carr home and Berkowitz's apartment building. At one time, the aqueduct—an underground pipeline approximately eight feet in diameter—carried drinking water from the Catskill Mountains watershed region to New York City via the Croton Reservoir in northern Westchester County. It was now obsolete. Above it, at ground level, one could walk a wide path which snaked for miles through numerous Westchester communities. 

In the early 1900s, some Yonkers residents dug tunnels from nearby basements and managed to tap into the water supply. Although most were later sealed, apparently some of the old tunnels still existed, offering access to the now-empty pipe from the cellars of a handful of aging homes in the area. Also, at select locations on the surface, entrance to the subterranean passage could be gained through hidden, and long-forgotten maintenance portals. 

Once inside the aqueduct itself, it was possible to walk for at least several miles beneath the ground. The pipe was damp and musty, groundwater seeped through the rust at points, and vision was impossible without a flashlight or candles. 

Behind the Carr home, the aqueduct path cut through a wooded area. A mile to the north, it traveled through the lower reaches of Untermyer Park—a sprawling, formerly lavish estate that had fallen into considerable disrepair. Once owned by Samuel Tilden, a U.S. presidential candidate who lost the 1876 election to Rutherford B. Hayes, the land was purchased by wealthy attorney Samuel Untermyer in 1903. Untermyer, whom a British magazine labeled a satanist, imported stone and statuary from England to embellish the landscape. Other researchers stated that Untermyer had belonged to the Golden Dawn society—a nineteenth-century British- based ritual-magic organization that had claimed infamous black-magician Aleister Crowley as a member, Both the Golden Dawn and Crowley would later become relevant in the investigation. 

After Untermyer died in 1940, the grounds were assigned to the city of Yonkers. Partial restoration was accomplished, but crumbling stone outbuildings, weathered Grecian- and Roman-style columns and sculptures, and acres of overgrown gardens, vineyards and woodland dominated the site. The estate's main entrance was on North Broadway, but the property then sloped dramatically toward the Hudson River far below. 

On August 11, 1977 two young boys, ages eleven and fourteen, were walking along the trail somewhat south of Untermyer Park. They weren't out for a relaxing walk on the warm summer's day. Searching through the tangled brush adjacent to the aqueduct behind Berkowitz's apartment, the youths were on a specific mission. They were looking for a grave. 

The previous Christmas, they found three dead German shepherd dogs at the site, lying together in separate plastic bags. The boys had buried the animals but now, hearing of Berkowitz's alleged hatred of canines, they believed their find might be connected to the case. 

At first, the police weren't interested. Yonkers Det. Leon Wyka said he thought NYPD wouldn't be concerned with the animals. "They're satisfied—they got their man," he told the Yonkers Herald Statesman. 

However, after some publicity about the matter, Yonkers PD picked up the skeletal remains and had them autopsied. Two of the shepherds, which still had chains around their necks, were strangled; the third was shot in the head. 

At this same time, Laura Pisaturo, sixteen, reported that Berkowitz had walked up and stared at her at twelve-thirty one night a few months before the arrest as she waited for her boyfriend in the parking lot behind 35 Pine. Laura, who had seen Berkowitz before, said, "I smiled at him because I was scared. He didn't smile back." 

At first glance, Laura's statement appeared to be of little consequence. It wouldn't be unusual for Berkowitz to be spot- ted in the parking lot of his own building. And the 12:30 A.M. time estimate meshed with an hour he'd be at home since his postal shift ended earlier. But there was a twist to the girl's account, a nuance missed by the police. She said Berkowitz was walking a dog that night. 

Berkowitz, however, didn't own a dog. So whose animal was it and why did he have it? The three German shepherds on the aqueduct had been slain—two of them strangled. Was that the intended fate of this dog? If so, it would have taken a consider- able effort for Berkowitz to try it alone. German shepherds don't passively resist strangulation attempts. 

Additionally, if Berkowitz in fact hated dogs and regarded them as fearful demons, it was incongruous to think he'd be out for a moonlight stroll with one. I'd already learned that he had a dog, Lucky, as a child, and that he also got along well with the guard dogs at IBI Security. So, what was going on? 

As for Laura, she knew Berkowitz by sight before this incident; and her account was credible in other respects. In analyzing the case, I noted the dead German shepherds and the dog-walking observation with large asterisks. (At this time, I didn't know of the satanic cult letter found in Berkowitz's apartment, or that still more German shepherds were slain in the area.) 

Several days after the police removed the bodies of the shepherds in Yonkers, yet another Berkowitz-dog incident surfaced. 

Mrs. Florence Larsen, a portly, pleasant Bronx housewife, was active in a volunteer agency known as PAWS (People for Animal Welfare Society). Mrs. Larsen had come by an un- wanted German shepherd, named Big Boy, in her neighborhood and transported him to a kennel in Mamaroneck, West- 194 On Terror's Trail Chester County. She then placed an ad in the Westchester newspapers advising that the dog was available for adoption. 

On Monday, August 8, someone calling himself David Berkowitz phoned her to inquire about the German shepherd. As Mrs. Larsen later told me: 

"It was about ten-thirty in the morning. He said his name was David Berkowitz and that he lived on Pine Street in Yonkers. We always try to screen the callers, so I asked him about himself. He said he once had a dog and gave it away to his girlfriend, and he now wanted another one. He told me he was in the service at one time. 

"He sounded like a nice person, a responsible person, so I told him where the dog was being kept. He said he would drive up to Mamaroneck to see the dog." 

And then another call came, later the same day. 

"This person told me his name was Jeff and that he fixed cars behind Pine Street in Yonkers. I thought it was very strange to get two calls about the sarrie dog that both mentioned Pine Street in Yonkers. He also said he'd go to see the dog." 

Berkowitz was arrested two days later. 

Said Mrs. Larsen: "I had his name on a piece of paper. I told my husband, 'Hey, this guy called me about a dog. He'll never get one now.' " 

Mrs. Larsen then called the Mamaroneck facility to ask if Berkowitz had in fact shown up there. Jay Baldwin, a veterinary student at Cornell University who was working at the kennel during the summer, told her he thought the alleged killer had indeed visited the premises in the company of another young man. 

Police were then called in by kennel employees, but NYPD soon determined Berkowitz didn't visit the shelter after all. I would later see a photo of the man police decided had appeared at the kennel—and he did resemble Berkowitz. The man's companion, first thought to be a possible .44 accomplice, was also identified, although this information was withheld from the public. I have no disagreement with this assessment by NYPD. 

But, in ruling out the Berkowitz visit and proclaiming at the same time that no accomplice existed, NYPD Chief of Detectives John Keenan conveniently forgot something of importance: 

"The police came back to me and told me Berkowitz didn't go to the shelter," said Florence Larsen. 

"Okay," I answered. "But did you question them about the phone call from Berkowitz or someone saying he was Berkowitz?" 

"I sure did. I said, 'Well then, who called me?' They told me someone just must have used his name." 

"Someone just must have used his name—really?" I was shaking my head in bemusement. "And what about the second call about 'fixing cars behind Pine Street'? He could have meant C-a-r-r-s, you know; they're behind Pine Street. Didn't they think it was curious that you'd get another call mentioning Pine Street which inquired about the same German shepherd?" 

"They didn't say anything about that call," she replied. "They just said he didn't go to the shelter and someone must have used his name in calling me." 

". . . Two days before the arrest," I interjected. 

"Yes, that's the day it was. You can see when the ad ran in the paper." 

"I know. I already have." 

Whether Berkowitz actually visited the shelter constituted only half the story. The police apparently neglected to see that the important issues of the phone calls remained. Someone— two days before his arrest—gave Berkowitz's full name and address to a third party in a conversation which linked him tightly to German shepherd dogs, a breed of animal that had been turning up dead with distressing regularity around Pine Street. 

It reeked of a setup; yet NYPD discounted it. 

Berkowitz, writing two years later, would say he didn't visit the kennel. But as for the phone call: "Someone must have used my name. Yes, I will agree with this." He refused to nominate any candidates. 

In the course of four interviews, I found Mrs. Larsen to be an entirely credible witness. Some time later Det. Capt. John Plansker of NYPD would interview her again, in the wake of an article I published. 

"She was believable. I have no reason to doubt what she said," Plansker would acknowledge. "Her story was consistent and her memory was excellent." 

Later, another important connection would be established between Berkowitz and an animal shelter—this one in Yonkers. 

There was, I reasoned in mid-December 1977, a considerable log of accounts linking Berkowitz to dogs, especially German shepherds. Carr's dog, which was wounded, was a black Lab; but that was an exception. The Neto dog, shot Christmas Eve, 1976, on Wicker Street—the day before the boys discovered three more—was a German shepherd, as were others previously referenced. 

Satanic cults sacrificed animals, including dogs and cats. But why only German shepherds in Yonkers? Research had led me to the knowledge that groups of dead German shepherds, presumably sacrificed, were found in recent years at scattered locations across the U.S.—including Houston, where the .44 was purchased. Both northern and southern California authorities reported similar finds, as did police in New England. And I would learn that several more were found in Minot, North Dakota. 

A total of eighty-five skinned German shepherds and Dobermans were found in Walden, New York, between late October 1976 and October 1977. Officials believed a cult was behind the killings. The site was only an hour's drive from Yonkers, and people later connected to the Son of Sam case were known to have frequented that vicinity. 

Cults dispatched animals for a number of reasons. Sacrifice to Satan was a prime incentive. Blood was also used in fertility rites and was often consumed from a chalice stolen from a church. When found, the animals might be skinned, hanged, shot or even strangled. The strangulation often occurred because the animal was hanged from a tree limb and its throat cut to drain the blood. 

Body parts were sometimes removed for mixture in a potion or because they were thought to possess magical powers. As abhorrent as these practices sound, they aren't the product of the mind of a demented Hollywood scriptwriter: they are real, and are being performed today. Law enforcement officials across the country can attest to that statement's veracity. 

Dale Griffis, retired police captain of Tiffin, Ohio, and a recognized authority on cult practices, told me: "The public is generally not prepared to accept the fact that these killer groups exist, and neither are many law enforcement people. Some police agencies—who have dealt with cults—learned the hard way how real they are, and how elusive they also are. 

"But the activities are so bizarre, so apart from the norm, that many—police and public alike—will contrive any explanation at all to rationalize away crimes that are obviously cult- connected. There is a massive education program to conduct," Griffis said. 

Berkowitz himself astutely observed that society's reluctance to face up to the fact that cults are slaughtering animals —and humans—is one of the movement's greatest strengths, a primary reason killer satanic groups are able to flourish. 

"If you don't want to deal with something, pretend it isn't there," he said. 

But "it" is indeed there. There has been no census of the number of witchcraft and satanic cults active today in the United States. But the number is certainly in the thousands. Fortunately, the majority of these groups are benign, or "white," witchcraft covens, as they are often termed. But not all of them. 

The witchcraft phenomenon began in Europe in the Middle Ages. In time, it surfaced in America, and anti-occult hysteria triggered the infamous Salem trials in Massachusetts in 1692. 

Legends and beliefs concerning the powers of witches abound in folklore, and to many in the United States, the stories are just that—fables fueled by superstition. But there are believers, and those who practice the "old religion," as it is sometimes called. Some devotees operate alone, others join a coven. In total, there are many thousands of witchcraft advocates casting their spells in modern America. 

As indicated, the preponderance of these are relatively harmless. Purists point out that a murderous devil cult should not be confused with the numerous benign covens which dot the landscape of the United States. 

To an extent, that admonition is accurate. Not everyone who smokes marijuana advances to heroin addiction; nor does every social drinker become an alcoholic. But just as addicts are initiated on pot and alcoholics emerge from the cocktail party set, hard-core satanists frequently earn their stripes in the lower ranks of occult curiosity or "white" witchcraft. 

Witchcraft, per se, is not illegal, and most covens ostensibly operate within the law. There has been an ambitious public relations effort undertaken in recent years to present witchcraft in an acceptable light. But the fact remains that while some groups claim to celebrate "nature," many others pay homage to Satan. That is their tradition; and they honor it. 

A typical coven consists of thirteen members, but that number varies often. The group will meet regularly, usually at the full moon. These gatherings are known as "sabbats." Several times each year, according to witchcraft calendars, Grand Sabbats—major festivals—are celebrated. Grand Sabbats occur, for example, on All Hallows Eve—October 31—and on April 30—Walpurgis Night. 

For the purpose of blasphemy, some major holidays coincide with important Roman Catholic holy days. Others mark the dates of old pagan festivals. 

As mentioned, covens pay homage to Satan, just as traditional religions honor God. Accordingly, in defiance of the Catholic Church, the concept of the Black Mass evolved during the Middle Ages. In the Black Mass, satanic prayers were substituted for those contained in the Catholic service; the Lord's Prayer was recited backwards; crosses were inverted; black vestments were worn; chalices and hosts stolen from churches were used in the rituals. 

Elements such as feces, urine, vomit and animal blood were also employed. The host was sometimes smeared with feces or vomit, and urine was frequently poured into a chalice, and consumed. 

Animals, such as dogs and cats, were sacrificed to Satan and their blood drunk in fertility rites or for other purposes. Some covens, questing for the ultimate sacrifice, offered humans to the devil. 

Some contemporary witches, trying to distance themselves from their own traditions, discount the volumes written concerning the Black Mass and human sacrifice. Others readily acknowledge that such rites existed at one time. Some will even concede that militant, drug-ridden, hard-core Satanist covens active today have carried those practices into the 1980s. 

It is that element that is of concern in this narrative. I raised the subject of the dead German shepherds with Larry Siegel—he of the Woodlawn Cemetery Caper—while visiting his home in mid-December. Larry, twenty-seven, was a well-informed researcher and professional writer. He'd offered to spend some time checking into the occult, and was ready with an opinion. 

"You've heard of the Process, right? Well, the Process kept German shepherds." 

"The Process? I've only heard a little about them. But we want someone who killed German shepherds, not kept them." 

"You've got to remember that cults split up and change their names. They're as varied as other religions. They worship one deity, but they do it under different names and practices." 

"Like the Great Schism in the Catholic Church, or like the dozens of Protestant sects that started, really, when Martin Luther nailed his complaints to that door?" 

"Yes," Larry responded. "That's the basic idea. They keep what they like, discard what they don't like, and sometimes adapt a practice that's just the opposite of the parent group's." 

Following Larry's reasoning, I asked if we might be looking for a Process splinter group that, instead of keeping dogs, was killing them as an act of defiance or a sign of independence. 

"That could make sense," Larry agreed. "These satan cults are religions, too. Perverse and sick, but still religions." 

"Yeah, and in that context, since shepherds are a strong breed they might also represent a higher, or more pure form of sacrifice, like the offering of the virgin in pagan days," I said, 

"They're also known as police dogs," Larry added, emphasizing that satanic cults, like organized religions, begged and borrowed ideas from other sources. "So there might not be a blueprint. It might be a mixed bag of philosophies. And just what do you know about the Process?" 

"I'm just getting my feet wet in all of this," I answered, explaining that I knew the group had been in California and a few other U.S. locales after emigrating from England in the 1960s. I told Larry that the cult was barely more than a name to me. 

"A dangerous name," he stated. Larry gave me an apprehensive look. 

"This already involves mass murder," I reminded him. "It's already in that league." 

"But we're not. If all this is true, it could get pretty damn unnerving before it's finished." 

"What are you saying?" 

"I'm saying that we're off on this great adventure here, but these people think nothing about blowing heads off." Larry paused and shook his head. "I don't know what I'm trying to say." 

I could see he was uncomfortable with the course the conversation was taking, so I narrowed the discussion to the reason we had convened this December Saturday, five days after the sleeping Berkowitz photos appeared. I'd gone through about a dozen books on witchcraft and the occult and found some close parallels to the Sam letters. 

Taking the Breslin and Borrelli notes from a folder, I spread them out on the dining room table. Larry produced a set of notes and a stack of occult books. The information we'd uncovered, it turned out, was nearly identical. When we finished comparing the data, we were convinced satanic references peppered the letters. 

"A crazy guy who imagines demons is a far cry from somebody who's up on occult terminology," I said. 

"Yeah," Larry concurred. "Whoever did these letters knows a lot about satanism and witchcraft. But couldn't that have been Berkowitz just reading up on this stuff like we did?" 

"It could have been. But if that was so, we'd have to forget about the handwriting problems, the composite sketches, the Moskowitz scene, John Carr and the dead sheps." 

Larry sat back in his chair. "Then I think there's a cult involved." 

"Are you sure?" 

"As sure as anyone can be with what we have to work with up until now." 

"What kind of cult?" 

"Not some hocus-pocus group of witches, but something like the Process or those Satanists who dug up that British cemetery a few years ago and drove stakes through corpses' hearts." 

"Well, I think we've got a cult here, too—in some form or another. But we have no proof at all—zip. The clues are all over the lot, but we'd get destroyed by the cops if we tried to push this now; and I'm sure the Post wouldn't go for it either." 

We also didn't know if the suspected cult planned the .44 attacks with all its members involved, or if it only served as a catalyst, or an inspiration for Berkowitz and someone else— like John Carr—to do the shootings. 

"If they were all in it, we'd be dealing with thirteen, right, if it's a typical coven?" I asked. 

"That's the traditional number," Larry answered. "But some stick to it, some don't. This doesn't sound like people who pay strict attention to tradition." 

Larry picked up the Breslin letter. "See this alias? I think that may be the answer." 

It was, "The Twenty Two Disciples of Hell." 

As we had discussed, the Sam letters were sprinkled with occult references. In the Borrelli letter, they included "wemon," as in demon; "brat," as in imp or small devil; "outsider," the title of an occult book; "Beelzebub," the demon known as Lord of the Flies; "the hunt," a reference to the goddess Diana, queen of the Black Sabbath and leader of the Wild Hunt; and "I'll be back, I'll be back," words identical to those spoken by Satan in the book Black Easter. In addition, the Borrelli letter contained obvious references to blood drinking, a satanic practice. 

When we reached the name of "Behemoth," the infernal watchman and demon of gluttony, I asked Larry, "Do you know how Behemoth is depicted in the occult?" 

"As an elephant, right?" 

"Yes—and do you know the Latin word for elephant?" 

"No." 

"It's elephas—does that ring a bell?" 

Larry let out a long whistle. "Sure, the Elephas disco in Queens, where the shooting occurred." 

"Yeah. This letter was left at the April shooting in the Bronx. The next attack happened outside the Elephas." 

Larry nodded. "And look at this," he blurted. "The next paragraph talks about the 4 wemon of Queens.' It's Elephas and Queens back to back. If this stands up it knocks down the random-shooting idea the cops are pushing." 

"Exactly. It would at least mean a location was chosen in advance." 

"And who knows who or what else might have been," Larry added. 

"That's the point," I said. "The police have built a house of cards, and we're trying to prove it's just that flimsy. We don't have to come up with all the answers. If we can show Berkowitz didn't do one—just one—of these shootings we've knocked down the whole thing." 

"Like who really wrote the letters . . . ," Larry said. 

That was another thing. The Borrelli letter sounded as if it was written inside the Carr home. The text was clearly from  the viewpoint of someone in that house, not from Berkowitz's apartment high on the hill behind it. The telling phrases included: "Behind our house . . . locks me in the garage . . . look out the attic window . . . ties me up to the back of the house." And there were also some extremely personal references to Sam Carr's health and habits in it. I was certain that someone who knew Sam Carr well—and hated him—had a hand in the composition of the Borrelli letter. 

"What do you think—John or Michael?" Larry asked. 

"I don't know who printed it. But I'd bet you anything one of them provided the words, at least some of them. He spelled 'honor' the British way, too, with an o-u-r. Does that sound like Berkie from the Bronx?" 

"No, it doesn't." Larry laughed. "I'd also say whoever wrote this was stoned on something when he did. It sounds so crude when compared to the Breslin thing. It's just off the wall." 

Larry then reached for an occult work entitled, The Book of Ceremonial Magic. "You talked about Behemoth and Elephas being the same thing," he said. "Take a look at this." 

On the cover of the book, a large, circular symbol of obvious occult derivation was staring at me. I shrugged and asked Larry what he was getting at. "Look inside the circle, near the center," he advised. 

It looked like the graphic symbol on the Breslin letter. It wasn't exact, but all the elements were there. It was very similar to the Sam symbol and was identified as "The Goetic Circle of Black Evocations and Pacts." On the inside pages, I read a section which explained the symbol's origin. I almost dropped the book. The symbol was created by famed nineteenth-century occultist Eliphas Levi. It was another Eliphas link. 

"The Elephas disco and Eliphas Levi," I said slowly. 

"It's spelled with an i instead of an e but I don't think that matters," Larry said. 

"It doesn't matter a bit," I agreed, and studied the Levi symbol more closely. On the outer perimeter of the circle, there were several words written at intervals around the circumference. One was "Berkaial" and another was "Amasarac." 

"One of Berkowitz's nicknames is 'Berk,' " I advised Larry. "And we know how backward words and phrases are part of satanic practices—like saying the 'Our Father' backwards." 

"So?"  

"So look at 'Amasarac' backward. It's Car-a-sam-a—or Sam Carr." 

"Jesus Christ," Larry exulted. "When they found this symbol they must have flipped. It ties to Elephas and now this. It was perfect for them to base the Sam symbol on it." 

It was. We'd found a symbol almost identical to Son of Sam's that was drawn by Eliphas Levi and contained Berkowitz's nickname and Sam Carr's name. Then, the shooting that immediately followed the use of the symbol in the Breslin letter occurred outside the Elephas discotheque. 

"I say they hit at Elephas as some symbolic act and cutely tipped their hand with the symbol in the Breslin letter and the behemoth-elephas reference in the Borrelli note," I stated. "They were letting it out in advance where they were going to hit." 

Larry's response was subdued. "If the symbol and the disco were both named 'Jones,' that'd be another matter. But not 'Elephas.' We're beyond coincidence. I don't like this feeling I'm getting. It's like we're inside somebody's head out there. Somebody that scares the hell out of me." 

We quickly went through the remainder of the Breslin letter. There was another allusion to blood drinking, along with the phrase, "spirit roaming the night." However, the most important satanic clue was contained in the letter's first sentence: "Hello from the gutters of N.Y.C., which are filled with dog manure, vomit, stale wine, urine, and blood." 

These elements, as listed in numerous occult books and explained earlier, were used in the satanic Black Mass, a full- scale mockery and debasement of the Roman Catholic mass. And the allusion to stale wine implied more than was apparent: "stale" was also a synonym for animal urine. In other words, animal urine was drunk instead of wine in the ritual. 

"So now we've got the Black Mass, too," Larry said. "It's like they were hinting all the while, but no one picked up on it." 

"I don't think anyone wanted to," I observed. I was sure people in the occult underground understood the meaning of the Breslin letter. But they either remained silent or the police didn't listen. I recalled that on the preceding Halloween, the CBS nightly news had wrapped up its broadcast with a lighthearted feature about a parapsychology convention being held in New York City. 

"Right there, on camera, was a flip chart with the Sam symbol on it and wording about the occult influences in it," I said. "This was a camera pan; they didn't talk about it. But there it was, on national TV, and nobody catches it. But this association obviously knew about some of the references. .. . I guess it just sounds so damned unreal." 

"To us in the mainstream it does," Larry countered. "It's a whole other culture. There are people out there who take this stuff very seriously—and it looks like we've run into some of them." 

"Wonderful." 

As if to illustrate his point, Larry reached for another book, The Encyclopedia of Witchcraft and Demonology. "We're new to this, these people aren't," he said, indicating a passage for me to read: 

In New York, the covens have become largely warped and perverted. A twisted sexual element has crept in more and more until today they are sado- masochistic, often homosexual, and are using the occult as an excuse. 

Criminologists studying these matters suggest that when such people tire of their "staged" activities, they are liable to turn to ritual, motiveless killing. The alarming fact is that many such murders occur in the United States today. 

The warning was plain, and was echoed in other publications we studied. And during the ensuing years, its validity would continue to ring out through the course of the investigation. 

"New York and California seem to be the spots these authors highlight more than anyplace else," I noted. "This is all hitting me right in the face, yet I'm still antsy about it." 

"Yeah," Larry agreed. "Knowing and proving are two different things. But you just can't go out and infiltrate a cult." 

"Hell, we don't even know where it is," I said. "These people don't put ads in the papers. This is middle-of-the-night stuff. We find what they leave behind, like the dogs. But where the hell are they?" 

"We've got to keep looking," Larry observed. 

"And keep it quiet." 

Larry chuckled nervously. "You don't have to worry about me saying anything. Living has become a lot of fun the last few years." 

☠   ☠   ☠

The talk of murder and death was disconcerting. We simply didn't want to believe we were in treacherous waters; in fact, I refused to acknowledge that we might be. The atmosphere had a decidedly surrealistic spice to it. We were circling the beast, observing it, and trying to maintain it could never move against us. 

I had seen enough Hollywood depictions of witchcraft to rebel at the reality. The temptation to laugh it off was there, but on the other hand so were the documented references and other evidence we'd found. Now, despite my anger at the police, I suddenly understood their reluctance to sail the river Styx to the realm of Satan. There was a lifetime's worth of conditioning and prejudice to overcome, and it wasn't easy to accomplish. Nonetheless, I still couldn't excuse the official unwillingness to investigate a Son of Sam conspiracy, per se. Accomplices, whether Satanists or truck drivers, were still accomplices. 

Larry and I concluded our session by comparing the dates of the .44 shootings with a satanic/witchcraft calendar which listed the major occult holidays—occasions that called for some form of sacrifice to Satan. The police had been puzzled because there seemed to be no discernible pattern to the Son of Sam attacks. But we found one: with one exception, the shootings occurred proximate to occult holidays, of which there were only about ten each year. 

"If there was one a week, this wouldn't mean a thing," I said. "It's still not positive proof, but along with everything else, we're building a strong circumstantial case, at the least." 

The attacks hadn't occurred exactly on the holidays, but we reasoned that the shootings were public displays, and the cult may have done other things privately on the days themselves. 

"They needed to find victims. Maybe they failed on the actual days or only intended that the hits happen as close as possible to them," I offered. 

Larry had a further explanation, suggesting that the group may have had to report on a shooting at a cult meeting; to do the deed and then describe it to the assemblage. He also believed that the cult met at least once a month, on the full moon, and convened again on the major holidays. 

"You know too much," I joked. "Why don't you confess now so we can get this over with?" 

For all his professionalism, Larry understandably had a weak stomach regarding this subject. 

"Can you imagine those people drinking urine and dog blood? They've got to be high on acid or something to do it. . . . Here, take this damn list. They've got a holiday coming up. You can have fun and stake out Pine Street at midnight —send me a telegram if they show up." 

In fact, the upcoming December 21 (St. Thomas' Day) was a satanic feast. The Son of Sam shootings, compared with the witchcraft holidays, or sabbats, appeared in the following manner: 

Son of Sam                        Witchcraft Holiday 
July 29, July 31              August 1 (Lammas Day) 

October 23                October 31 (All Hallows Eve) 

November 27         November 30 (St. Andrew's Eve) 

January 30                February 2 (Candlemas Day) 

April 17           April 24 (St. Mark's Eve) and April 30                                        (Walpurgis Night) 

June 26                    June 23 (Midsummer's Eve or                                             St. John's Eve) 

Larry and I were aware that some cults celebrated Good Friday, so we considered it possible that the April shooting (the Borrelli letter left at that scene mentioned Easter) might actually have been geared to that feast day. The March 8 murder of Virginia Voskerichian matched no occult festival, however. 

"That shooting broke both the weekend and time-of-night pattern," I noted. "Maybe they went off their schedule for a reason we don't know about." 

"It could have been a leader's birthday," Larry said. "That's always the highest of all holidays, on an individual basis." 

Our meeting had been successful, resulting in the discovery and confirmation of significant occult connections to Son of Sam. But the information, while strong, was still circumstantial. There was more work to be done. 

Essentially, there were several directions to travel, each of which could lead to the corroboration we sought: 

1. We could find the cult itself, and link it to Berkowitz. 

2. We could uncover evidence that put someone involved in the case—Berkowitz, one of the Carr brothers or someone whose name was still unknown—into a cult. 

3. We could continue to accumulate evidence which demonstrated Berkowitz didn't act alone, whether that evidence was linked to a cult or not. 

The paths were separate, but at the same time they theoretically converged at a point in the future. As repugnant as the idea of a satanic cult was to me, I knew I'd be as remiss as the police if I disregarded the information we'd assembled. I knew it was accurate; the research material we'd obtained was in black and white. But there were still a considerable number of unknown factors. 

Back at home in White Plains, I phoned Jim Mitteager and briefed him on the newest developments. We arranged to meet the following week. 

When Mitteager arrived on Wednesday evening, December 14, we drove to New Rochelle, where we unsuccessfully attempted to pursue the Cassara-Fred Cowan-Berkowitz connection. The case was now branching out in many different directions, and we were few in number. We risked spreading ourselves too thin on what was already a part-time effort for all of us. 

As Christmas neared, I made several phone calls to North Dakota, seeking John Carr. I found two people with the same name, neither of whom was "John Wheaties." I represented myself as an old, distant acquaintance from the Air Force, but the John Carrs I spoke to were Army veterans. 

We also phoned authorities in Los Angeles, where the Hillside Strangler killings had begun. "It can't hurt," Mitteager said. "He was called a rapist and suffocator in the Breslin letter, and that's what's happening out there. Maybe in a stroke of blind luck it'll turn out to be him, or maybe they'll at least be able to locate the bastard." 

John Carr, however, wasn't in Los Angeles. 

Mitteager and I also visited each of the Son of Sam crime scenes, where we sketched maps, noted nearby streets and tried to develop indelible mental images of each location. To enhance the project, we took a number of photos and reenacted the circumstances of each shooting as best we could. 

The trip to the Brooklyn scene was my third. Earlier, I dragged George Austin, and later another friend, to the site. Each time, as I explained the scenario, my companions agreed serious contradictions existed in the official version of the shootings. 

Mitteager, an ex-police officer, voiced similar sentiments and decided to pursue the matter further. He arranged for us to meet with 10th Homicide detectives three days after Christmas. 

In the meantime, I endeavored to learn as much as I could about the cult Larry and I discussed: the Process. There undoubtedly were other satanic groups we could have considered (and subsequently did consider); and there assuredly were still others of which we had no knowledge at all. If Berkowitz was a member of a small, strictly local group, with no ties beyond Yonkers, we'd have to approach the investigation differently. 

But the dead German shepherds were a tangible parcel of evidence, and that breed of animal was in fact linked to the macabre group formally known as the Process Church of the Final Judgment. And so it began. 

Initially, I was surprised to learn that most of the occult writings I perused were bereft of any substantial information about the cult. Most references were vague. Later, through extensive field research and personal contacts with reliable sources in California, and elsewhere, I was able to complete the biographical picture that is painted here. 

Among my advisers was Ed Sanders, author of The Family —a superb study of the Manson clan-—who graciously sat with me in a wild blueberry patch in an upstate New York meadow one summer afternoon and significantly added to my knowledge of the shadowy cult. 

We convened in the open air at Sanders' request. "It's too distasteful a topic to go into anywhere else but out here— where the setting and surroundings are as far removed from what those people stand for as we can get," he explained. Sanders is not given to hyperbole. He is a thoughtful, sincere man; and an accomplished writer, poet and musician. His band, the Fugs, became well known in the late 1960s, and the group still plays reunion tours on occasion. Sanders spent eighteen months probing the grotesque world of Charlie Manson while researching The Family, and he hasn't forgotten what it was like. Neither, for that matter, have other sources—who are still fearful of the group—erased the memories of those days when they came to know of the Process. 

The following is an overview of the organization which I,  and others, consider to have been one of the most dangerous satanic cults in America. 

The Process, as far as is known, has now officially splintered, and its offspring—while still active—have gone underground. But before the Process divided, it spread seeds of destruction throughout the United States. Those spores were carried on winds of evil across the 1970s and into the present. The terror still reigns, with far-flung subsidiary groups united by the sins of the father. 

But in the beginning, there was a man and a woman; and they came together in London, England. The year was 1963. . . . 

Satanic cults lurk in various guises, and their recruitment techniques also differ. Some harvest via pseudo-legitimate counseling or "self-awareness" groups—actually fronts— which frequently flourish around campuses or military bases or in major cities. 

An unsuspecting youth, already possessed of a mind-set ripe for manipulation, will enroll for a series of courses, seminars or therapy sessions allegedly intended to put his or her life into focus. What follows is a period of careful screening and weeding out. In time, the chosen few find themselves drawn deeper and deeper into a web of deceit, rejection of traditional values, and conversion to the twisted beliefs of the group's leaders. 

At its outset, the Process was one of these groups. 

The Process Church of the Final Judgment was born in London, England, in 1963-64, the Damien-child of two ranking members of the Church of Scientology who split with the parent organization following some philosophical differences with the teachings of L. Ron Hubbard, the developer of Scientology. 

The founding couple of the Process, Robert Moore and Mary Anne MacLean, had met while receiving advanced training at the Hubbard Institute of Scientology on London's Fitzroy Street. Divorcing Hubbard, they married one another and adopted the cult name of DeGrimston for themselves. 

Robert Moore DeGrimston was born in Shanghai, China, on August 10, 1935; David Berkowitz would be arrested on DeGrimston's birthday. DeGrimston, a tall, bearded blonde who affected a Christ-like appearance, was an educated man, studying at Winchester in England and later pursuing a career in architecture at the Regent Street Polytechnic Institute.

His bride's background was checkered. Mary Anne MacLean DeGrimston was born illegitimately in Glasgow, Scotland, on November 20, 1931. She reportedly endured a frustrating childhood, punctuated by tenure in a reform school. 

Mary Anne subsequently entered the United States, where she managed to meet former boxing champion Sugar Ray Robinson and became engaged to him. However, the relationship ended and Mary Anne returned to England, where she worked as a dance-hall hostess. 

At a dwelling in London, she became romantically involved with several prominent British citizens during the days of the John Profumo-Christine Keeler prostitution scandal which rocked the British government in the early 1960s. At least one of those linked to the Profumo affair, Dr. Stephen Ward, was an occult adept. Ward soon died, an apparent suicide. 

It was during this tumultuous period that Robert Moore and Mary Anne MacLean met while immersed in profound mental exercises at the Hubbard Institute of Scientology. 

On their own, and with their new cult names, the DeGrimstons began to experiment with sophisticated mind-control games. They started a center to study what they termed "Compulsion Analysis"—for research into and elimination of compulsive behavior. They preached a doctrine of free choice, declaring that individuals were completely responsible for their own fates, actions—and afflictions. Mary Anne, for in- stance, reportedly believed that Jews chose the gas chambers; and even birth defects were said to be freely selected and carried into the present from past lives—as the DeGrimstons also believed in reincarnation. The gods they worshipped were two in number: Jehovah and Lucifer. 

Not surprisingly, the fledgling Process attracted a following. Young, searching and disturbed men and women were drawn to the group like metal to a magnet. The DeGrimstons also actively recruited, particularly from the ranks of the wealthy young. 

This cult modus operandi is an important one, worthy of remembrance. Monied recruits served two purposes. First, they could be tapped for sizable donations that would allow the cult to expand and its leaders to maintain an appropriate lifestyle. Second, wealthy converts often held top jobs or had important connections, enabling the cult to gain entry into powerful business, entertainment, government and financial circles—laying the foundation for an influential, cultic "old boy" network. 

In March 1966, the DeGrimstons, flush with success, leased a mansion on Balfour Place in London's fashionable Mayfair section. Now totally absorbed in their power trip, they brought twenty-five groveling followers into the house with them. Here, the German shepherds entered the picture as the DeGrimstons each obtained a large Alsatian, a breed of German shepherd. To mirror their leaders, the acolytes also purchased German shepherds, and the canine corps grew to over thirty in number. 

The DeGrimstons weren't content with a limited operation, however. In the tradition of egomaniacal gurus everywhere, they decided to expand—internationally. Accordingly, they, along with eighteen disciples and a number of Alsatians, embarked for Nassau in the Bahamas in June 1966. They lolled in Nassau for six weeks before leasing a large tract of land on the beach in Xtul, Mexico, which is situated on the Yucatan Peninsula. 

The Mexican period was a significant one because while in Xtul the Process' two gods, Lucifer and Jehovah, were joined by a third: Satan. For the first time, the group began conducting moonlight satanic rituals. Also at Xtul, the notion of founding a formal Process Church evolved. To Process members, the Xtul experience was the equivalent of Christ's forty days and nights in the desert. 

Returning to England, the group sought out the famous, striving to convert the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, among others. A bookstore was opened, a coffeehouse perked and a Process magazine rolled off the presses. 

The cult was enamored of bloodshed and war, and its magazine reflected this obsession. Hitler was considered a noble gentleman worthy of admiration—and worship. In this, the era of flower power, the Process briefly managed to entrap singer Marianne Faithfull, a close companion of the Rolling Stones. In one issue of Process magazine, she was pictured supine, as if dead, clutching a rose. 

In late 1967, Robert DeGrimston published a book, As It Is, which spelled out the Process' philosophy: 

Christ said: Love thine enemy. Christ's enemy was Satan and Satan's enemy was Christ. Through love, enmity is destroyed. Through love, saint and sinner destroy the enmity between them. Through love, Christ and Satan have destroyed their enmity and come together for the End. Christ to judge, Satan to execute the judgment. 

The key to this treatise is contained in the sentence which says that Christ and Satan have joined forces to bring about the end of the world. Christ, according to the Process, was employing Satan as a hit man. So worshipping Satan was akin to worshipping Christ. And killing in the name of Satan was actually killing for Christ: a divine mission. 

Naturally, DeGrimston was thought by Process members to be Christ, and they, in adoring Satan, were the agents of God working under divine orders to save the world from itself by hastening the day of the Second Coming. In the end, the cult would survive to build a new world of satanic glory. 

From the Bible, the signs of the Second Coming were evident: the fires of Armageddon, death, chaos and confusion. The Process firmly believed its divine duty was to hasten the arrival of the Final Days—and bastardizing the Bible told them how to do it. This was a blueprint for murder, butchery and other crime cloaked in religious justification. 

Would the disenfranchised, rebellious or power-hungry swallow this perverse theology? Most assuredly, the DeGrimstons believed, and they prepared a go-ye-forth-and-teach-all nations crusade which swept into the United States in late 1967. 

"My prophecy upon this wasted earth and upon the corrupt creation that squats upon its ruined surface is: THOU SHALT KILL." 

It is not known if Process members seeping into San Francisco in the autumn of the "Summer of Love" distributed pamphlets containing that quote from Robert DeGrimston book Jehovah on War. But arrive they did, bringing their German shepherds, magazines, recruitment raps and twisted theology with them. 

In the United States, this was the era of burgeoning student unrest. The Vietnam War was igniting protests; parental values were under siege; psychedelic music was the rage; dope was rampant; the hippie movement's flower children were in full bloom. The summer of 1967 and the crossroads of Haight and Ashbury transformed San Francisco into Mecca. Timothy  Leary was advising youth to "turn on, tune in, drop out." It was an age of "do your own thing," free love and transcendental meditation. Even the Beatles were grooving on the Maharishi and singing "All You Need Is Love." 

This was fertile ground for the Process to plow. 

The cult was at this time arranged into three subgroups, which represented its three gods. The Jehovah's were strait- laced and uncompromising, the Puritans of the sect. The Luciferians, in contrast, literally embraced each other—advocating sensuality, tranquillity and the free use of narcotics. Finally, the Satanists believed what Satanists everywhere believed in: gore, violence, sacrifice and devil worship. 

New Process members were free to select the discipline of their choice. This option mattered little to the DeGrimstons since, according to their preachings, all three branches would converge for the Final Judgment, which would mark the end of the world as nonmembers—the "Gray Forces" of moderation—knew it to be. 

For Processans, no matter which god they bowed to, it was a joyous time. The End was coming, and they, as the Chosen People, were going to be part of the big event. 

Landing in California, the Process was just another group of proselytizers hawking their wares in an already teeming marketplace. They attracted little official attention, since law enforcement authorities lumped them into the same category as other messianic minions littering the streets with their literature. 

But there was a difference here. The Process was dangling a carrot seasoned for a variety of taste buds, and thus was able to entice a sizable number of recruits. Death and violence advocates were attracted by the Satanist wing and the promise of upcoming end-of-the-world rampage and destruction. Free- love and dope aficionados were seduced by the Luciferians; and self-flagellating hairshirts were drawn to the strict, forbidding Jehovah's. 

And, it should be noted here, the Christ-Satan duality was very appealing to an aging flower child by the name of Charles Milles Manson. Manson's considerable connections to the Process will be explored later. However, it would not be inappropriate to reveal at this point that Manson was heavily influenced by the group. 

In San Francisco, the Process set up house on Cole Street, and later moved to a more amenable residence on Oak Street. In March 1968, after spreading the news in the north, a contingent consisting of thirty members, accompanied by more than a dozen Alsatian dogs, drove down the coast to Weirdness West—Los Angeles. 

In L.A., they rented a large house on South Cochrane Street, from where they descended on Sunset Strip like so many vultures in quest of cadavers. There, they vacuumed up new disciples from the swarms of runaways, castoffs, bikers, dopers and other outsiders for whom the Strip was "home." 

But true to form, the Process approached the elite as well as the down-and-outers. Singer John Phillips of the Mamas and the Papas, Mama Cass Elliot herself and Terry Melcher, son of Doris Day and a TV and record producer, were among those in show business sought out by the group—apparently with mixed success. 

The Process, not surprisingly, was fond of the color black. They wore black capes, some with the Mendez goat of Satan stitched in red on the back. Underneath, they donned black robes, or suits and turtlenecks, and adorned their necks with silver crosses. Some wore a Mendez goat pin. The official Process symbol, paying homage to the idolized Hitler, was a form of inverted swastika. 

On the streets of Los Angeles in the spring of 1968, the Process was distributing the "Sex" issue of Process magazine. Its front cover displayed a photo of a satanic ceremony, showing a naked girl lying on an altar surrounded by a band of hooded cultists. An inverted cross shadowed the scene. 

The back cover contained a rendering of a winged skeleton suspended over a pile of naked bodies. The humans, mouths gaping, apparently were either dead or in hell, or both. The inner pages of this charming piece of literature contained articles relating to Black Masses and necrophilia—the practice of performing sexual or other violations on corpses. 

A subsequent issue of Process magazine was devoted to "Fear." On the back cover of this publication, a band of marching Nazis spewed from the mouth of a fiery pink skull. The Nazis were tramping on a group of people being consumed by fire. Elsewhere in this same illustration, the face of Hitler appeared in a fun-house mirror and a human being was shown burning to death. 

At the top of the page, a legend promised: "Next Issue: DEATH."

The magazine's centerspread was devoted to the Unholy Alliance of the Lamb of God and the Goat of Satan. A caption read: "The Lamb and the Goat must come together—pure love descended from the pinnacle of Heaven, united with pure hatred raised from the depths of Hell." 

Other articles of great interest in the "Fear" issue included a page of quotes about fear from members of the Hell's Angels biker group (the Process actively recruited bikers, considering them the frontline troops of the great war-to-come), an essay entitled, "Satan Is Fear," and a picture of twenty-four Process Alsatian dogs menacing the camera. 

Regarding the obsession with fear, it is not a coincidence that one of Charlie Manson's favorite lectures to his followers revolved around the expression "Getting the Fear." 

As incredible as Process magazine was, its rantings could only be considered routine, coming as they did from a group whose leader, Robert DeGrimston, wrote in Satan on War: "Release the fiend that lies dormant within you, for he is strong and ruthless and his power is far beyond the bounds of human frailty." 

Was a more divine trumpet of violence ever blown? 

What the Process had managed to do was to envelop isolated weirdness freaks from various social backgrounds and mix them together. It was a volatile brew, and the common cause resulted in long-standing alliances being sealed. 

I have spoken to several professional people, including educators, who remain sympathetic to the group's theology; so any impression that the cult managed to attract only society's misfits would be erroneous. 

In terms of inner ranking, there were six levels of membership in the group, which borrowed from the family structure for its inspiration. In fact, the Process referred to itself as "the family," as Manson did with his group. It is yet another interesting link between Manson and the Process; and there are many more. For instance, cult names were substituted for legal names once initiates reached a certain level of Process indoctrination. This was another practice Manson utilized for many in his "family." 

The lowest level in the Process was that of acolyte, followed by initiate and messenger—the rank at which the recruit acquired his or her cult name, such as Brother Tom, Sister Rebecca or Father Jonas. From the rank of messenger, the aspiring cultist graduated to prophet, priest and ultimately master. 

At one point in the journey, all members—regardless of their chosen god—were required to enter a long period of Satanic worship, which reportedly included blood rituals and sacrifice. Accepted Processans then formally convened twice each month to summon their three gods, who would then "speak" through the mouths of the gathered cult members. 

Most of the original cultists were British citizens who apparently came to America on ninety-day visitor's visas. Some extensions of time were granted, but eventually—in the summer of 1968—many of the group suddenly dropped from sight. Some, it was said, returned to England, but others appear to have remained in the United States clandestinely. 

The DeGrimstons themselves headed for New York City, where a Process Church was established on Cornelia Street in Greenwich Village in late 1968. In addition to the church, numerous members lived in a building on East 12th Street, while the DeGrimstons stayed in Brooklyn. 

As in California, the Process recruited among the artists, poets and hordes of counterculture youth who frequented the Village. Later, a cult spokesman told United Press International that more than two hundred Americans were fully converted to the "faith." Process contingents subsequently materialized in New Orleans, Dallas, Toronto, Chicago and Cam- bridge, Massachusetts, among other locations. 

In a development that is critical to this story, once the group's leadership turned over the reins to local disciples in Los Angeles, power plays and political infighting inevitably resulted. Differences in philosophy and theology also arose. 

As the cult went underground there in the aftermath of the assassination of Senator Robert Kennedy (perhaps concerned that law enforcement would hear of Sirhan Sirhan's occult interests and alleged acquaintance with a Process member), secret Process chapters, or spin-offs using other names, were established in northern and southern California. 

Not so coincidentally (since certain members' movements were traced), authorities soon began finding the bodies of mutilated, decapitated or exsanguinated dogs—including numerous German shepherds—in the Santa Cruz area south of San Francisco. Some of the animals were skinned, prompting a humane society official to comment on the killers' abilities with knives. 

Reports of human sacrifice were also relayed to the police, including one from a gentleman named Stanley Baker, who was himself arrested for an out-of-state murder. Baker, who said he was a member of the Santa Cruz cult, carried a finger bone from his recent unfortunate victim in a leather pouch. 

Upon his arrest, he delivered one of criminal history's epic comments to authorities: "I have a problem. I am a cannibal." 

Baker, who sported a swastika tattoo and other occult emblems, said he was recruited from a campus setting in Wyoming. He participated in blood-drinking rituals there, was further programmed and then joined the California activities. 

Concerning this particular victim, Baker told the police he murdered the man, cut out his heart—and ate it. Baker, and at least one other witness, told authorities the Santa Cruz group later headed back downstate, where they resumed their obnoxious rituals—including murder—in the O'Neill Park area of the Santa Ana Mountains, south of Los Angeles. 

This cult, a Process splinter group, was said by the witnesses to call itself the Four P Movement, or "Four Pi." Its leader, alleged to be a prosperous L.A. businessman or doctor, was known as the Grand Chingon. Interestingly, Ed Sanders stated that on several occasions—in his presence—Manson family members referred to Charlie as the Grand Chingon. However, Manson was under arrest at that time and the cult was still functioning, so he was not the Grand Chingon. 

But a key question remains: how did Manson's followers know the cult name of the leader of this top-secret slaughter society? (It should be mentioned here that there is no evidence available which implicates the DeGrimstons themselves in these alleged Chingon cult crimes.) 

Shortly after the Four P cult relocated to Los Angeles in early 1969, another split apparently occurred. Some Four P members decided there was too much emphasis on sacrifice and devil worship and not enough sex. This faction apparently went off on its own, leaving the Grand Chingon and his remaining followers to carry on their business of draining and drinking the blood of sacrificed dogs and humans. 

There is a curious similarity here to differences which arose in the parent Process between the sensual Luciferians and the hard-core Satanists. 

According to the witnesses, including Baker, the Chingon cult practiced its rituals on the basis of a stellar timetable and employed its own cultic terminology. The group also was alleged to possess a portable crematorium to dispose of victims' remains, an ornate wooden altar and a specially designed sacrificial knife with six blades. 

A biker who belonged to the cult did provide the police with one name, Erickson, but authorities were unable to find him. And as many in cults go by names other than their own, or by first names only, rounding up perpetrators is at best an extremely difficult task. Moreover, such underground groups are mobile, often meeting at a variety of remote locations in the dead of night. And informants are scarce, due to the fear factor and blood oaths of loyalty often taken by members. Plus, of course, almost any informant was likely to have been an active accomplice in murder himself and as such would have little incentive to provide information to the police. 

Baker, incidentally, did not renounce his satanic proclivities when sentenced to prison for the brutal heart-meal murder he acknowledged committing. Authorities report that he actively and regularly conspired to organize a devil-worshipping cult among his fellow inmates. Apparently an otherwise model prisoner, he was eligible for release in mid-1985. But his parole board, for whatever reason, was finding it difficult to locate a halfway house willing to accept him. 

Lower-ranking Satanists such as Baker often literally believe in the havoc they wreak, but cult leaders are likely to be motivated as much by power and greed as they are by infernal incantations. It is possible to visualize the structure the Process left in place—the network of cult contacts between various cities. And it is also possible to envision how such a structure, staffed by willing satanic slaves, could be employed for purposes that could greatly benefit a handful of leaders— both monetarily, in terms of drug distribution and child pornography, for instance—and personally, in terms of power, influence and immense ego gratification. To those leaders, allegiance to Satan is a secondary, convenient avocation. 

The Process and its secret offshoots didn't have the Southern California or U.S. occult scene or philosophies to them- selves. Master black magician Aleister Crowley, who died in 1947, had written of a unification of God and Satan. That precept, and other Crowleyisms, found their way into Process doctrine. 

By sharing Crowley's beliefs, the Process also blended those of the Order of the Golden Dawn. The Golden Dawn was an English occult society to which Crowley belonged in the late nineteenth century. The Golden Dawn believed in cabalistic magic and taught that the will could be trained to accomplish paranormal effects, including astral projection. The Golden Dawn also strongly believed in symbolism, teaching that certain symbols, or thoughts, had the same meaning for all human beings. 

After internal dissension, elements of the Golden Dawn more or less merged into the Ordo Templis Orientis (OTO), a German occult society founded in 1902. The OTO accused Crowley of revealing one of its most secret precepts: that sex could be employed for the purposes of magic. 

But, after mending some fences, Crowley won permission to head a British OTO branch, and the teachings of the OTO entered the United States with Crowley in 1916, during World War I in Europe. 

Later, during World War II, Crowley helped establish an OTO lodge in Pasadena, California, and OTO branches subsequently sprouted in a number of U.S. cities, including New York and Houston. In effect, a loose network was formed and already functioning via occult shops and bookstores, newsletters, ads in the underground press and other methods—including personal contacts—by the time the Process arrived in 1967. 

In fact, many believe that the entire occult underground in America today can be traced back to the formation of that Crowley OTO operation in Pasadena. 

The Process, then, incorporated the ideas of a number of its ancestors and current occupants of the occult landscape, including the OTO. Accordingly, there was intermingling of philosophy, membership and networking among the groups. This arrangement makes labeling a difficult, restrictive measure. Charles Manson, for example, was exposed to the practices of a renegade OTO lodge in Southern California as well as having been influenced by the Process. 

During the Christmas season of 1977, my research of the Process, its offspring and allies was not nearly as complete as presented here. At that time, I had merely learned enough about the group and network to consider if a definite possibility that Berkowitz may have been involved somehow with a branch of that treacherous English society or one of its OTO counterparts. 

But I was still facing the task of finding corroboration to buttress the occult clues in the Son of Sam letters and the dead German shepherd connection. In order for the cult or overall conspiracy suspicions to stand up undeniably, we either had to find the group itself, put Berkowitz or John Carr into such an organization or uncover other evidence demonstrating a conspiracy existed—evidence that was either cult-related or tied to the .44 crime scenes themselves. Simply stated, that is how the entire investigation was structured to try to find the proof we needed. 

As the year drew to a close, Christmas Day would bring some unexpected information about John Carr. And after that, there would be murder in the wind. But as we geared down for the holiday, no one could have foreseen that this was to be the last Yuletide for a number of people connected to the Son of Sam case. 

For them, the "final judgment" was near.

X 

Into the Maze 

On Wednesday morning, December 28, Jim Mitteager and I linked up near the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, which unites the borough of Staten Island and the south shore of Brooklyn, and veered east on the Belt Parkway toward Coney Island. As we passed under the footbridge crossed by Stacy Moskowitz and Robert Violante that fatal night five months earlier, Mitteager remarked that someone had hung a crucifix on the light pole the couple parked beneath. 

"Someone also sent a letter to the 60th Precinct that week before," I answered. "It warned of an attack in Coney Island or Seagate. It was taken seriously and diverted some attention from this spot." 

"That's slick planning if it's connected," Jim said. "Maybe we'll find out before this is over." 

A few miles to the east, we pulled off the highway and stopped at a local deli where Mitteager picked up eight containers of coffee and an assortment of pastries. "I was a cop, remember? The last guy in always picks up the coffee and rolls." 

I wanted to ask how someone knew he would be the last to arrive for duty, but I let it go. Once inside 10th Homicide, which was located on the second floor of the 60th Precinct, we were greeted by Sgt. Bill Gardella, the young supervisor who participated in Berkowitz's arrest. I took a liking to Gardella, finding him perceptive and intelligent. We were then joined by Lt. Robert Kelly, and, later, Ed Zigo materialized briefly. 

We summed up the purpose of the visit, and painstakingly went through the Moskowitz scenario as we then knew it. (The most important evidence was not yet discovered.) Surprisingly, with the exception of Zigo, the detectives were not unreceptive to the sales pitch. 

"You've done your homework," Gardella said. "You've caught some things no one else in the media did. There are some unanswered questions about the shooting; we won't deny that. But sometimes, like it or not, those questions are never answered." 

Kelly added: "All we know is that we had probable cause to arrest Berkowitz. Once the arrest went down, the files were out of here. Everything was turned over to the DA. It's his case now. We have nothing more to do with it." 

"Between here and Westchester there are quite a few unanswered questions, to use your phrase," I said to Gardella. 

"I can't talk about Westchester," he responded. "We're here in Brooklyn. We don't know anything about these incidents going on up in Yonkers, and we honestly never heard of John Carr until now." 

Mitteager pulled out a copy of a note Berkowitz wrote at Kings County Hospital which mentioned John Carr. "That's John Wheaties," he pointed out. "He's real, not just an alias." 

Zigo leaned forward, looked at the note and grudgingly said, "That's Berkowitz's handwriting all right. Where'd you get this?" 

Jim brushed off the question, and Zigo, evidently bored with the discussion, soon left the room. But Kelly and Gardella remained attentive. "I think you brought up some interesting things here," Gardella remarked. "We want you to see the DA." I looked at Kelly, who nodded in agreement. 

"Gold?" Jim inquired. 

"No, Shelly Greenberg. He's the chief assistant and he's coordinating the case for Gold." 

"I don't know if we'd get anywhere," I said. It was more a question than a statement. 

"We think you should see them," Kelly responded. "We'll call over there and tell them you're coming in about an hour." 

Mitteager readily consented, but I had reservations. I wanted to hear Jim's impressions of this conference before committing to another and asked the detectives to tell Gold's office that we'd call for an appointment in a few days. On the way back, we rehashed the morning's events and agreed to carry the information to the DA. 

"I think we touched a nerve," Jim said. "I wonder if we just might be running interference for a few people with integrity at the Tenth?" 

"Maybe. They weren't just patronizing us. You were right to set this up. We're right into the damn lion's den now." 

Mitteager had been urging just such a strategy and had accused me of undue caution. He was right to an extent. I was acutely conscious of the mountain we were trying to move and wanted to be as secure with our facts as possible before presenting them to the authorities. We weren't espousing a popular cause; we were going against the established grain. One slip, one error, and our budding credibility would be eagerly destroyed. We couldn't afford to let that happen. 

I then told Jim about a Christmas Day conversation I had with my cousin, Mary Ellen, whom I hadn't seen for several months. In describing what we were working on, I mentioned John Carr and said I knew very little about him. Mary Ellen chided my faulty memory. 

"You knew John Carr. He was in our freshman class in high school." 

"Are you serious?" 

"He was in another homeroom," she explained. "He was thin, had light, sandy-colored hair, and he was always cutting up. This was high school, and yet he was always throwing spitballs around and doing other antics that were more like a kid in grammar school would do. But he obviously thought it was all funny." 

As Mary Ellen spoke, I was starting to remember John Carr. 

"What else do you recall?" 

"Not much. He wore a red blazer a lot, and I can remember that he wanted to join the Piper's Band." 

With the mention of the Piper's Band, my mind switched to the Borrelli letter. The sentence, "Ugh, me hoot it 'urts, sonny boy," was written with a Scottish inflection and was a puzzle the police were unable to solve. They couldn't explain how Berkowitz, allegedly the letter's author, had come up with a Scottish phrase; or, more importantly, why he did. However, John Carr was interested in playing in a bagpipe band, complete with kilts, while a high school freshman in Yonkers. 

"Did he actually join it?" I asked. 

"I don't know if he did or not. But he liked the whole idea, and he may have tried out or gone to one of their meetings. Do you remember him now?" 

"I think so." 

When I pulled out an old yearbook later, I put the name and face together at once. I had indeed known John Carr for one year. But I hadn't seen or thought of him since we were fresh- men, sixteen years before. My memories were vague. He was just someone I would occasionally spend some time with be- tween classes or during lunch breaks. We didn't socialize after hours, and Carr transferred to Gorton High the next year. Our paths hadn't crossed again—until now. 

I also recalled that he attended Holy Rosary grammar school in Yonkers and, despite the puerile conduct my cousin spoke of, was an intelligent person. 

"Catholic schools," I thought, remembering the police belief that the writer of the Borrelli letter had received a Catholic education. 

The yearbook picture was too old to be of much use; Carr was only fourteen when it was taken. Nonetheless, his hair color, eyes and cheekbones approximated those in a Son of Sam sketch released after the Lomino-DeMasi woundings. At least the photo didn't rule him out. Little pieces were slowly coming together.

When I related the Carr story to Mitteager, I did so sheepishly, saying that I should have remembered him. 

"Why?" Mitteager asked. "A kid you knew casually sixteen years ago? You didn't even hang out with him after school. Screw it. We've got the information now, and that's more than we had before. We're starting to get a feel for this guy." 

We were also starting to get a handle on another early suspect, and the source of the information was former football star Kyle Rote. Rote was a collegiate all-American and Hall of Fame gridiron standout from Southern Methodist University who later starred with the great New York Giants teams of the fifties and early sixties. After retiring, he was a Giants assistant coach for two seasons before branching out into broadcasting, working at WNEW radio and WNBC-TV in New York City. He was also a color commentator on NFL games broadcast nationally by NBC. 

We met in 1972 and became close friends over the succeeding years. In November 1977, I was having dinner with him and his wife, Nina, in their Manhattan apartment. While talking about Son of Sam, the Rotes recalled an incident that happened in September, just a month after Berkowitz's arrest. At a business dinner they were introduced to a salesman from Westchester who, as the night passed, inexplicably engaged Nina in a discussion of mysticism and black magic. 

"He then lowered his voice and said, 'Son of Sam was in a satanic cult in Yonkers and they helped commit the  murders " she explained. "I didn't believe him, so I asked him how he knew about it, and he said he was acquainted with some people who were connected to it." 

The relevance of this statement by the salesman, whom I will call Roger Flood, is that the assertion was made only weeks after Berkowitz's apprehension, when the public was universally satisfied that Berkowitz was a lone killer. It was long before any reference to a satanic cult was made. Flood also claimed that the group operated in Yonkers. It would turn out that this statement was accurate, too. 

Flood would be questioned in the future by investigators for the Queens district attorney's office, who tracked him down on the West Coast. And while he admitted that the meeting with the Rotes occurred, he denied any knowledge of the cult. Since Flood was in California, authorities were left with limited legal means through which to pursue his purported links any further. He either made an extremely accurate guess, or he was in fact aware of the cult's activities. At this time, the answer remains unknown. 

I had just completed compiling some preliminary data on Flood's job history when I received an unexpected phone call on the night of January 3. Bill Gardella wanted to know if we'd contacted the Brooklyn DA's office yet, which we hadn't. 

"We talked to them and they're expecting you," the detective sergeant explained. "If you don't call, we're going to make the appointment for you." Gardella was being friendly, but it was apparent he was also serious. I was reasonably certain he, and presumably Kelly, thought we might be on to something. But I also believed he couldn't come out and say so. I decided the phone call spoke for itself, and simply thanked him for his interest. 

"I'm just doing my job," Gardella said. "You came in with information that we think should get into the right hands." He gave me Sheldon (Shelly) Greenberg's extension, and said he would learn of the meeting's outcome from the prosecutors. 

On January 5, Mitteager and I convened with Greenberg, the chief assistant district attorney, and Ron Aiello, head of the homicide bureau, in Greenberg's office in the court complex in Brooklyn. 

Greenberg was a large, assertive man of forty-one. Aiello, who was younger, was more amiable than Greenberg, who opened the ninety-minute meeting by reminding us that a  court-imposed "gag order"—which prevented principals from speaking publicly about the case—was now in effect. While the edict applied to comments to the press, we weren't there in that capacity. I thought Greenberg was hiding behind the order, and said so. But he insisted his hands were tied. 

"Think of me as a big sponge. I'm here to absorb information, so let me soak up what you've got," he pronounced grandly. 

Jim and I looked at each other. "And just what do we get in return?" Mitteager asked. 

"Nothing. I can't say or release a thing." 

For a moment, we were sorely tempted to say sayonara to the "sponge." But we opted to stay, hopeful that in the course of the meeting something would slip out anyway. 

We told the prosecutors about John Carr, the Moskowitz scene, the occult references, the dead dogs and Roger Flood's statement about the cult. Both men asked numerous questions. When Aiello saw the Eliphas Levi occult symbol and compared it with Son of Sam's, he whistled: "I'll bet this knocked your socks off when you found it." At another point, Greenberg stated: "I once talked to a girl who knew John Carr." 

The hints were dropping, but we wanted more; and we pressed hard to get it. Greenberg kept walking the tightrope. Finally, he blurted: "Don't you think I'm not pissing in my pants wanting to talk to you? I want to talk to you—but I can't. So if you don't stop pushing, we'll call this off right now." 

"We're not here to fight, Shelly," I said. "We're supposed to be on the same side." 

"Look, here's where I stand. We'd like to copy your material, and we want to listen to the rest of your ideas. More than that, I can't do. If you don't like it, you can leave. Otherwise, we'll continue," Greenberg stated. 

After nearly five months of work, Greenberg's position was infuriating to us. Aiello attempted to mediate, but he was unsuccessful. After some more bickering, I was clutching at straws. 

"Would you at least tell us if you know where John Carr is —just if you know—so we can stop looking if you do?" 

The bulky prosecutor rested his head on his hands. "For all I know, he's on the moon. . . . Does that answer your question?" 

"Shit," Mitteager muttered. 

"No, wait," I interjected. "It might answer the question at that. You don't know where he is, do you?" 

"No comment." 

"Look, Shelly," I went on, "your time is valuable and so is ours, believe it or not. We've put in a lot of hours on this, and we came forward to you people. We haven't tried to exploit what we found. All we want to know—without any details—is if there might be some value in all this. Just tell us if we're wasting our time and money pursuing this." I was trying for any left-handed confirmation I could get. 

"Word games," Mitteager spat. "Everybody in this room is playing games. It's a bunch of garbage. We're out there trying to get to the truth and you guys sit there like you're anointed. You represent 'the people'—well, we're the people, too." 

Greenberg shifted in his chair, pushed his glasses to the tip of his nose and glared at Mitteager. "I will respond to your associate's question by saying that if good citizens feel they have reasons to continue to check on certain things, we're here to listen. That's listen—not share—listen." 

Mitteager groaned. 

"That's noble of you, Shelly," I said. "But would I be reading something incorrectly if I took your statement to mean we're not wasting our time?" 

"No comment. Let me read this gag order to you just in case you haven't heard about it." 

Our frustration level had peaked. Fortunately, Aiello chose that moment to take our typewritten material to a secretary for copying. Five minutes later, as we walked to the car, I exploded. 

"Those bastards. They danced around the whole time. They took our information and we have zero except for some hints that we're moving in the right direction. They're just trying to cover their tails. I thought Aiello was willing to be reasonable, but Greenberg was the ringmaster in that circus." 

"Now you're the one who's mad," Jim answered. "You kept the lid on pretty good in there." 

"It wasn't easy." 

"Well, it wasn't so bad, at least not a total disaster. They did give us a few things. And they would have laughed us out of there if the case really was a lock; they wouldn't have sat there debating with us." 

"I don't think there even would have been a meeting with those two if they were so sure Berkowitz was alone," I offered. "First, Gardella calls me; then we meet with Gold's top people —not some fifth-level assistant. And they asked a hell of a lot of questions." 

Jim stopped walking and said, "You know, it's possible, just possible, that they didn't know much at all, and that we knew more than they did." 

"Who knows? I did hear some non-direct confirmations, and they didn't give us the ten-minute brush-off. But if anything ever comes of this, they'll pretend they did it all and we never existed." 

"No, they won't," Mitteager answered. He opened his camera case and pulled out a small tape recorder. 

"I don't believe this—you taped them? In Greenberg's own office!" 

"Only about two minutes' worth. I wanted to be able to prove we were there. And I wanted John Carr's name on there to prove we warned them about him." 

Jim turned on the machine, and we heard ourselves discussing the missing John "Wheaties." Greenberg's pants-wetting comment also was recorded. When I heard that statement, my anger and tension broke and I began to laugh. 

"I'm sorry," I stammered, "but the image of him sitting there blustering away and wetting his pants at the same time is too much for me to deal with." 

Mitteager grinned. "That arrogant son of a bitch. Maybe he'd like to hear himself saying that on the six o'clock news." 

In truth, less than two minutes of conversation appeared on the tape. "If they were up front with us I'd never have turned it on at all," Jim explained. "But once I caught Greenberg's act, I thought they'd take everything and shaft us the first chance they got if the case ever breaks. Two can play their game." 

"O.K., but please, no more of that. Besides not being kosher, it's also risky." 

"For all we know they were taping us, too. At least we're even."

At this time, we weren't aware of the confidential police reports and other information available to the DA, or of the office's failure to interview its own witnesses, such as Cecilia Davis. But with this meeting, the Brooklyn district attorney was advised of a probable John Carr and satanic cult link to Berkowitz. The notification was formal, and on the record. And soon, another police agency would receive the same advisements. 

I subsequently spoke to Ron Aiello twice. Each time, while evasive, he indicated Mitteager and I weren't chasing the wind. And through another contact in Gold's office, I learned several assistants were shown copies of our material, and that John Carr's whereabouts were unknown by the Brooklyn prosecution. 

There would be fallout from our excursion. Inquiries would be made, rippling a heretofore placid pond. In six weeks the swell would reach significant proportions. But first, an incident that grabbed our attention occurred in New York. 

On Friday, January 6, the day after the Brooklyn gathering, the bullet-riddled body of Robert Hirschmann, twenty-five, was found a hundred feet off the Taconic State Parkway in East Fishkill, an hour's drive north of Yonkers. Hirschmann, who had a minor theft record, was shot at least six times. He worked for a moving company and lived in Queens. 

The next day his wife, Mary, twenty-three, was found slain in a vacant lot near Flushing Airport in Queens, about sixty miles from where her husband's body was discovered. Fully clothed, she was slashed, stabbed and strangled. 

The couple were married seven months earlier and then separated for a time. But three days before the killings, they checked into a room at the Aqua Motor Inn in Queens, near Aqueduct Race Track. They were last seen there the day before their deaths. Hirschmann's body was adorned with tattoos, one of which was a swastika with the words "Brother Tom" beneath it. Hirschmann's first name was Robert, but "Brother Tom" was consistent with a Process ranking and name-change practice. 

This double homicide wasn't the first outburst of violence I noted since the arrest of Berkowitz. In October, Suzette Rodriguez, twenty-two, who had a shoplifting record in Yonkers, was shot in the head three times at point-blank range as she stood on a sidewalk in Elmsford, New York, a Westchester village several miles north of Yonkers. Curiously, Rodriguez, who may have been thrown from an auto before being shot, was found dead on a lawn next door to the home of Elmsford's police chief, who heard the shots and saw a light-colored car speed away. 

Rodriguez was wearing an occult coiled-snake ring and another ring police euphemistically described as being "popular with gypsies." 

Six years later, in the northern New Jersey town of Mountain Lakes, another coiled-snake-ring victim would be found stabbed to death. The young woman, who was unidentified, also wore a satanic pentagram type of ring, which had a crescent moon mounted beneath the star-shaped pentagram. The woman was killed just days before Lammas Day, a major satanic holiday, and she was the fourth woman slain in that area during an eight-month period. 

On November 21, 1977, a rifle-toting sniper gunned down thirteen-year-old Natalie Gallace as she stood in her ground- floor apartment in New Rochelle. A family friend, Susan Levy, thirty-eight, was seriously wounded in the 10:40 P.M. attack. A full-sized dark green car with a white vinyl roof was seen racing from the site. Not released by police, and perhaps not even known by them at the time, is the fact that six months earlier —during the height of the Son of Sam spree—a full-sized dark green car with a white vinyl roof was also observed at another bizarre sniper incident in Westchester County. That victim also was a teenaged girl, and she also was shot with a rifle through a ground-floor window. But unlike Natalie Gallace, Lisa Gottlieb survived. 

Lisa, sixteen, lived in Greenburgh, a township in central Westchester about fifteen miles from New Rochelle. On a warm night in late May 1977, she was dropped off at her house at 1 A.M. by several friends. The teenagers noticed an unfamiliar, full-sized dark green and white-topped auto parked near Lisa's home. Moments after she entered her residence, a rifle shot—fired through a ground-floor window—wounded her. 

Because of the similar green cars, the other common circumstances and the unusual, apparently motiveless nature of both crimes (which remain unsolved), they were noted by me as I looked for something resembling a cult pattern. Their potential importance was raised appreciably three years later when I learned of the satanic cult letter Berkowitz had left behind in his apartment. The wording warned of random attacks on "at least 100" young women and men in the tri-state area of New York, New Jersey and Connecticut. 

What sparked my initial interest in these ground-floor sniper attacks was another series of similar assaults which took place in the same general time frame—with a dart gun. 

The assailant was known as the infamous Westchester Dartman (a depiction of "Death" in the Middle Ages), and before he (or they) disappeared, twenty-three women, almost all of whom lived in ground-floor residences, were wounded by inch-long steel darts fired into their heads, necks or chests from a dart gun. 

The Dartman prowled the night, selecting ground-floor victims and shooting into their homes in several communities in Westchester—including Yonkers—and Rockland County, which lies across the Hudson River from central and northern Westchester. The Dartman attacks preceded Son of Sam and overlapped other bizarre Westchester events—commencing on February 28, 1975, in Yonkers and ceasing May 13, 1976, in the Rockland community of Nanuet. It was a strange time, indeed, for Westchester County. 

"Strange? Not strange. This is incredible," Mitteager exclaimed as I briefed him on the county's recent crime history. "All of this completely off-the-wall stuff going on at the same time. Fred Cowan shooting up New Rochelle; Son of Sam; dead German shepherds here and eighty-five more an hour away; sniper killings and woundings; a girl with an occult ring blown away in front of a police chief's house; and a goddamned Dartman from out of the fifteenth century or somewhere." 

"Oh, and let's not forget the Westchester Child Rapist," I added. "Between April and November of '76 there were about fourteen attacks on young girls between the ages of about ten and eighteen. Most were under fifteen. They got somebody on that." 

"Did he do all of them?" 

"It's still in the courts. You know how it goes—whether he did or didn't, they'll try to wipe the books clean. What is unusual is that this guy supposedly was driving about five different makes of cars." 

"So maybe he didn't do all of them," Mitteager said. "And John Wheaties was called a rapist of young girls." 

"I hear you. But all of this wacko stuff going on at once does tend to be curious. And these are just the things we know about. Who knows what we might have missed? None of this has ever happened before." 

Mitteager was incredulous. "A Dartman—a Dartman who wounds twenty-three women? This is like the Twilight Zone around here. How many murders occur each year in Westchester?" 

"About twenty or twenty-five; no more than that. This is peaceful suburbia." 

"Well, it looks like somebody decided to start a war," Mitteager observed. "Some of these things would seem like they'd almost have to be connected, especially if the crime rate is usually steady and the types of crimes aren't as unique as these are." 

"I would tend to agree with you. Unfortunately, we have no proof yet." 

"Does Dunleavy know about all of this?" Jim asked. 

"Not in this context—except for Fred Cowan and the sheps." 

Steve Dunleavy, in fact, was preoccupied with a phantom telephone caller who was regularly regaling him with lurid tales of a satanic cult to which she insisted Berkowitz be- longed. The woman, who contacted Dunleavy several times, had the Post's flamboyant columnist convinced she was at least sincere. 

"She's driving me batty, mates. I don't know if she's crazy or not, but she's naming names. I haven't been able to get anywhere with it. Do you think you can find her or any of these people?" 

"But she's never given her name. How are we supposed to find out who she is?" Mitteager complained. "The world goes beyond this city room, Steve. There are millions of people out there." 

"But it would make sense if we could locate her before going off on what could be a fool's errand as far as these other conspirators go," I said. "It's funny, though, there's not a word about Westchester in here." 

The story merits repeating because its future implications would be considerable. Briefly, the mystery lady charged that Berkowitz belonged to a devil cult operating in Queens and Staten Island. She claimed that a station wagon belonging to a girl named Jane was used in the Moskowitz murder and then abandoned in a pile of rushes adjacent to Little Neck Bay, off the Cross Island Parkway in Queens. Jane had then been chopped up and dumped into the bay. 

She named a former NYPD detective as one of the cult's dope suppliers, and said he could be found by surveilling the Blue Dolphin diner in Queens. More murders were planned. The cult's leader was said to be an accountant and former drug user, whom I will call Reeve Carl Rockman.* Rockman maintained two addresses, one of which was very proximate to the Son of Sam killing ground in Forest Hills. A major cult "safe house," complete with Black Mass ceremonies, was said to be located at an address on Van Duzer Street in Staten Island. 

The information was so detailed and specific that Dunleavy rightly was intrigued by it. With a copy of the woman's latest letter in hand, I met George Austin after work at Gambelli's restaurant in White Plains on January 25, a Wednesday night. After reading the note, he asked, "What are you going to do about all this? She talks about a mutilation murder three years ago and says they used a hairbrush on the girl—and Berkowitz witnessed it?" 

"That's just the thing, George. That crime did happen. We checked it out today—and the hairbrush part was never made public." 

"So she knows?" 

"She sure as hell knows something. Jim lives on Staten Island, and he's sniffing around that Van Duzer house tonight. He'll get plate numbers, but no one's going near that front door. Who knows what the hell is going on in there?" 

"And you have no idea who wrote the letter?" 

"Not a hint. She told Dunleavy on the phone that she knew people in the group and was getting out of town in fear of her life." 

"What about the police?" 

"No way. They don't want to hear about any conspiracy, and if we turned it over to the Brooklyn DA, we'd never know what happened. We're staying on our own from now on." 

"Why not the Queens DA, Santucci, or Merola in the Bronx?" 

"For what? It's all a big runaround. Everyone we've seen so far is stonewalling. It's horseshit trying to get to the bottom of all this and seeing the 'public protectors' covering their butts. Mitteager's right. He says the truth doesn't count—it's politics and perception that's important. The system takes care of its own. All this work we're doing is outside the system's appraisal of the case." 

My evaluation was based on more than our Brooklyn experience. I had made one additional pilgrimage, and it would soon prove to be a consequential journey. 

Not at all convinced that Brooklyn would follow up on the local Yonkers activities we suspected, I spent more than an hour with Sal D'lorio, the Westchester Sheriff's Department's chief of criminal investigations, to inform him about the satanic cult connections we'd uncovered concerning Berkowitz, John Carr and the dead German shepherds. 

I explained to D'lorio that despite contrary statements by the Carrs and the NYPD, we strongly suspected that Berkowitz and John Carr, at least, were acquainted, and that both may well have belonged to a Westchester-based satanic cult. John Carr, I told D'lorio, was our top suspect. I gave D'lorio a copy of the material we'd earlier provided to Brooklyn, and explained that while I knew the .44 homicides weren't in his jurisdiction, any regionalized cult activities or crimes were in his domain. It was hoped that both investigatory ends could meet in the middle. 

I also discussed another topic with D'lorio. It concerned his department's investigation of the four threatening letters Berkowitz anonymously sent to volunteer sheriff's deputy Craig Glassman. I was very interested in confirming that a certain return address,that of Berkowitz's former New Rochelle landlord-appeared on one of those envelopes. D'lorio avoided that issue. 

The meeting transpired in mid-January, shortly before Jim and I received the Dunleavy letter. When I left D'lorio's office in Valhalla, I didn't know that he would soon begin a quiet investigation, which meant—strictly speaking—that the .44 case was reopened then on at least a limited, local basis. Among other things, the department would begin to make inquiries about John Carr. D'lorio, whom I contacted occasionally thereafter, never revealed that a John Carr probe had begun. I later learned why. 

D'lorio would attempt to wash his hands of any culpability, but he would become, perhaps unwillingly, a player in the game of cover-up which was about to begin anew. Technically, he would claim noninvolvement on jurisdictional grounds, but one will be able to judge the extent of his responsibility—with the cloak of territorial innocence removed. 

In fairness to D'lorio, it's possible he protected his standing in his department's hierarchy by adhering to Son of Sam marching orders dictated by the man who was then his boss, Sheriff Thomas Delaney. Delaney was a former captain in the New York City Police Department. The NYPD was engaged in an all-out battle to protect its "sole killer" interests in the .44 case, and Delaney's ties there were numerous. 

We didn't know it, but the clock had now begun to wind down on Mr. John Wheaties Carr. We had set it in motion ourselves. 

☠   ☠   ☠

Standing at the bar in Gambelli's, George and I continued rehashing the frightening Dunleavy letter as the night wore on. At about 8 P.M., an acquaintance named Jim Duffy took over our side of the serving area as the bartenders changed shifts. Duffy, thirty-two, wore glasses and sported curly brown hair and a friendly demeanor. He knew of my involvement with the Sam case, and asked me how the conspiracy hunt was going. 

"Tell him about the letter," George suggested. 

"Yeah, this is the latest entry in the sweepstakes. Some unknown woman is calling Steve Dunleavy and sending him letters about this Satan cult. It's eerie stuff, to put it mildly." 

"What's she saying?" Duffy asked. 

"Blood, gore, murder and mayhem. She names a couple of people and says there's some supposed cult house out on Staten Island." 

"Staten Island?" 

"Yeah, my partner lives out there and he's checking on it now." 

"Where on Staten Island?" Duffy wanted to know. "I used to go to college there, at Wagner." 

"Well, I don't know Staten Island, but this address is on Van Duzer Street." 

Duffy's eyes widened like globes. "Where on Van Duzer? I used to live on Van Duzer. It's a small residential street." 

"Really? Then maybe you'd know where this is. It's number 583." 

Duffy dropped the bar towel. "That's the house I rented a room in!" 

George opened his coat like a cop flashing a badge. "You're under arrest. . . . Search this man for dog biscuits." 

I was laughing. "Great collar—put him on the chain gang." 

"Yes, as soon as we shepherd him out of here." 

"Hey, you shitheads—I really did live at 583 Van Duzer Street," Duffy insisted. 

We weren't buying the story at all. There were millions of addresses in the New York area, and it was statistically impossible that the second person I'd tell about 583 Van Duzer would have lived there at one time. Moreover, it was at least forty miles from White Plains. But Duffy remained adamant. After another five minutes of deriding him, I decided to put an end to his joke. 

"You claim you lived there nine or ten years ago when you were in college. Who owned the house then?" 

"The Meehans." 

"First name?" 

"Jack—actually John. John Meehan." 

I went to the pay phone and dialed information to learn if a John Meehan still resided at 583 Van Duzer in Staten Island. In a minute, I was back at the bar. I gave Duffy a quizzical look. "You'll be interested in knowing that they're still there." 

George was startled. "Jesus Christ, it's for real—could your old landlord be running a cult house, Duffy?" 

Duffy was suddenly as mystified as we were. In the right- wrong debate about the address itself, he'd forgotten why the subject was broached in the first place. 

"Awww, no. No way. They're a nice family. They couldn't be involved in any of this deranged stuff." 

"The letter says they are. Maybe something snapped out there since you lived in the house, or maybe they've got some boarders into this thing and the Meehans don't even know about it," I suggested. 

We were all still shaken by the incalculable coincidence. "Hell, after tonight anything's possible, I guess," Duffy replied. "But I still can't believe the Meehans—I can't believe any of this is happening!" 

It was time for a plan. Without Duffy, we could be staking out the house for months. We needed to get inside, and Duffy could provide a way in—through the front door. I asked the stunned bartender if he'd accompany us to Staten Island the next night, and told him Mitteager, who had police experience, would come along. 

"You know them," I explained. "We'll all knock at the door. You can say you were visiting Jim and me and stopped by to say hello for old times' sake. We'll play it by ear from there." 

"I don't know. That letter sounded pretty specific. If it's accurate it could be dangerous out there." 

"Come on," I said lightly, "the Meehans know who you are. They're not going to butcher you in the basement. Even killers take a night off now and then." I was smiling, but didn't feel any mirth. The potential for danger did exist.  

Duffy thought for a long moment. "O.K. I'll do it. This might be something to tell my grandchildren someday." 

The next night, after convincing Mitteager that he, too, wasn't being set up for some diabolical joke, we knocked on the door of 583 Van Duzer, a quaint wooden house on a narrow street. Before approaching, we took down plate numbers of all nearby cars and looked around the back of the house. The Meehans, to our relief, seemed like a pleasant, middle- aged couple. But we wanted to meet their children, and then there was the matter of any boarders in the house. 

As the Meehans and Duffy talked over old times, Mitteager and I, trying to appear unconcerned, took in as much of the surroundings—and the Meehans—as we could. At one point, their son arrived, and we eyed him cautiously. Finally, after a prearranged signal, Duffy timidly mentioned that Jim and I were reporters who wanted to discuss "something" with them. 

I grimaced. Duffy was supposed to ask the first tentative question so as not to alert or alarm the couple, but he tossed the ball to us instead. Fortunately, Jim was ready for it. 

"Have you had any kind of trouble recently with anyone in the neighborhood?" It was a safe, nonthreatening question, and if it struck the right nerve, a floodgate could open. 

"Now that's something out of the blue. How did you know about that?" 

"We'd rather hear it from you, Mr. Meehan, if you don't mind," I responded. 

Meehan and his wife, at ease because Duffy was with us, said that a "strange woman" who wore "long robes" had lived in the neighborhood until several months previous. The woman, they said, would "stare at the house all the time" and stop their son and say, "I know who you are and what you're involved with. Don't think you're going to get away with it." 

"When did this start?" I asked. 

"Last summer. She wasn't really threatening to us, she was just very strange," Mrs. Meehan answered. 

I then threw out the name of another Staten Island resident —from a different neighborhood—whom Dunleavy's caller accused of being a cult member. "Do you know a Mike Wollman*?" 

"Yes, of course we do. He's a good friend of our son." 

"Does he come to this house?" Jim asked. 

"Yes." 

After another series of questions to both the Meehans and their son to satisfy ourselves they were being truthful, we knew right where we stood. 

"Do you happen to know the name of this 'strange' woman and where she lived?" Jim inquired. 

"No," Mrs. Meehan replied. "We don't know her name, but she lived down the street. An elderly woman named Erna owns a two-family house. This woman, her husband and I think a black girl lived on the other floor. They rented from Erna, who is a sweet, harmless old lady. I don't think she'd know anything." 

"Would you show us the house and introduce us?" Jim questioned. 

"Sure, Jack will take you down there." 

Jim and I had been circumspect about our reason for talking to the Meehans. But as we left their house, Jack Meehan asked, 

"So what's this all about, fellows? Is this woman in trouble?" 

"It wasn't her, Mr. Meehan, it was you," I replied. "You're supposed to be David Berkowitz's accomplices and hold Black Masses in your basement." 

Meehan, flabbergasted, stopped dead in his tracks. After we summarized the allegations, he was enraged at the letter-writing "strange woman." "She should be thrown in jail," he stormed. "And telling this to the newspapers! God knows who else she slandered us to!" 

"We're not sure it's her yet," I said. "But you just found out about this tonight. She's been haunting Dunleavy for months —that should make you feel at least a little better." 

"I'm afraid it doesn't," Meehan said. 

"It would if you knew Dunleavy," Jim deadpanned, but Meehan just gave him a blank stare. "Don't worry," Jim added quickly. "We're upset about this, too. We're not sure yet it's this woman, but we're going to try to find out." 

Erna Wagner was a frail, white-haired woman well into her eighties. She was infirm, hard of hearing, and couldn't understand much of what we were saying. Her home was filled with statues of various saints and the Blessed Virgin. She kept no records, and couldn't remember the name of her former tenant. We were about to give up when I asked if she'd ever heard from the lady again. 

A spark of recognition lit the old woman's eyes, and she hobbled to a bureau and produced a letter. On the envelope was a name and return address in Bayside, Queens. The enclosed message was rife with crosses and symbols and mentioned the Meehans, Son of Sam, bodies in Little Neck Bay and Black Masses on Van Duzer Street. The writer claimed she was on a "secret mission" for the police. "Hush, Erna, you must not tell anyone," the letter warned. 


"We got her," I exclaimed. "And she's got this poor old woman caught up in this dreadful stuff." I looked at Erna. "Are you O.K.? Does any of this frighten you?" I asked, indicating the letter. 

Erna shrugged her sloped shoulders. "I don't see so well," she whispered. 

"You mean you weren't able to read this?" 

"Only a little. But she told me about bad people." 

"And how did you feel about that?" Jim almost shouted. 

Erna gestured toward her myriad statues. "I pray." 

We asked Erna if we could take the letter and envelope with us, and she handed them to Jim. As gently as possible, we told her there was nothing to fear in the neighborhood; and Jack Meehan came in and assured her he'd stop by frequently to see how she was getting along. And then we left Erna Wagner; alone and feeble as we'd found her, but perhaps with a sense of security she hadn't felt in months. 

"Veronica Lueken? Are you guys sure?" Steve Dunleavy was shocked that we'd solved his five-month mystery in two days. "How the hell did you ever come up with this? This is great work, mates." 

"Just good detective work, Steve." 

"How'd you ever figure out it was her?" 

"That's a long story," Jim said. He and I decided to refrain from telling Dunleavy about the ten-million-to-one shot involving Duffy. 

"After we found out it was her, we went looking for this Jane Jacklin* who was supposed to be fish food in Little Neck Bay," I continued. "It turns out Jane is still alive; we found her, too. She told us the cops practically broke down her door a few months ago because someone called to tell them a murder was taking place." 

"Then we went to Lueken's house in Bayside," Mitteager  explained. "Her husband let us in. He seemed O.K., like he didn't know what was going on. Their number is unlisted, but I asked to use the phone and copied it off the dial. She was in the house, but wouldn't come out of the bedroom—the chickenshit bitch." 

Dunleavy was astonished. "What about the cult and this Reeve Carl Rockman who's the leader?" 

"If there's a cult she knows about, it's not in that house on Staten Island," I said. "We checked out Rockman. He does exist, with two addresses under two different names—which is interesting. In one listing he's 'Reeve C. Rockman' and in the other he's 'Reeve T. Carl.' But what does it all mean? This whole thing is Lueken's hallucination." 

"That's right," Jim said. "She had a chance to explain when we went to her house, but she dove under the bed." 

Dunleavy was shaking his head in disbelief. "Hey, Steve," Jim said, "the letter did sound legit; it had a lot of detail and specifics. It had all of us going. But it's bullshit." 

"Christ, but you guys didn't talk to her. She was driving me crazy with these phone calls and this sinister plot. She sounded believable; she really did." 

"To her, it probably seems real," I added. "That's why she was so convincing. I'd love for us to write something about all this, but it would only hurt the investigation. But can you see the headline? 'FAMOUS SEER OF BAYSIDE EXPOSED.' " 

In a real way, Veronica Lueken was in fact famous. Since 1970, the heavyset, middle-aged housewife and mother had been known to countless New Yorkers and others in the United States and Canada as the woman who periodically packed the former World's Fair grounds in Queens with devout believers who listened to the Virgin Mary and Christ speak through the mouth of—Veronica Lueken. 

Lueken's legions numbered in the many thousands. Busloads of the faithful would depart for hallowed Queens from points throughout the country when they received "the word" that Mary or Her Son was about to enlighten them with a new series of messages transmitted through Lueken's trancelike meditations, which took place in full view of the hordes of pilgrims. 

One cannot help but wonder how the multitudes would have responded had they known that this living embodiment of Mary and Jesus was filling her idle hours with scurrilous accusations. 

Lueken's society, which did not discourage contributions from believers, issued a variety of literature, including a newspaper called Michael Fighting, which was named for the Archangel Michael. The publications fervently reported the Sacred Word, as spoken by Veronica, who foretold of World War III, the end of civilization, earthquakes, floods and other natural disasters unless humankind reversed its evil course. 

During these public pronouncements, thousands of ears heard and thousands of eyes read the Blessed Mother's kind words for Veronica herself. This phenomenon would occasionally spawn another minor miracle—the simultaneous opening of hundreds of wallets and purses. 

Veronica-Mary-Jesus frequently bemoaned the dangers of temptation in the modern world, and did so by reminding her disciples that Satan was very much about in the twentieth century. The evil serpent, who lost a heavenly battle to the Archangel Michael, was seeking an earthly inroad via infiltration of the media, the entertainment business and certainly world government. 

Veronica's visions, which she vividly described to the throngs of believers as they were occurring, would invariably involve great flashes of light in the sky—which only Veronica could see—before the Virgin or Christ appeared. Frequently, the Blessed Mother would shed tears as she recounted, through Veronica, the dark times to come unless mankind chose the path to salvation. The Communists and Russia were also routinely discussed on the heavenly hot line. 

Lueken was shielded from her disciples during her visionary sessions by a carefully chosen honor guard of white-bereted followers. She counts among her membership a number of police and fire officials. 

Not surprisingly, Lueken's preaching has been viewed with a measure of disdain by the Archdiocese of New York; and she and her followers have caused headaches for the NYPD and other law enforcement agencies over matters such as crowd control, freedom of assembly, trespassing, permits and the like. Scuffles have been reported occasionally as her followers surged against the white-beret platoons of bodyguards. 

And now Veronica had been feeding us vile information— anonymously, she had thought—about the Son of Sam case. Dunleavy, Mitteager and I consigned her allegations to a circular file in early February 1978. Little did we know she would surface again. 

The determination that the Lueken allegations were false had taken but a few days, but its depressing effect lingered. The anticipation that a break might have been in the offing was high; the ensuing crash discouraging. With his shining star, Lueken, burned out in a flash of futility, Dunleavy became temporarily moribund. There also was no word from Brooklyn or the Sheriff's Department in Westchester; and we were now of the belief none would be forthcoming. 

John Carr, our chief suspect, was still among the missing, and prosecution efforts to convict Berkowitz as a lone killer were grinding through the judicial system. Essentially, we were nearly out of options. We'd made the attempt, but were now on the brink of failure. 

On the eighth of February, a blizzard buried New York and my downstairs neighbors threw an open-air fish fry in defiance of Mother Nature. On the ninth, I ventured through the snow to see Saturday Night Fever, whose Brooklyn discotheque setting reminded me of the previous summer's .44 shootings. Given my state of mind, I could have done without the flashback. 

I saw the film with a new acquaintance, a pretty physical therapist from Mamaroneck whom I was seeing socially because my wife and I had separated a few months before. We'd made a sincere effort, but the mutual magic had eroded. We did, however, remain friendly. 

On Saturday, February 11, I cut through the remaining snow drifts and drove by the Carr home in Yonkers for the first time in more than two weeks. In the large driveway, I vacantly noted the usual assortment of autos, most of which belonged to operators who worked for Carr's telephone answering service. There was one vehicle I hadn't seen there before, a blue 1971 Mercury. Unlike the others, it was still covered with snow—to the extent that I couldn't read its license plate. I was about to drive on when I started to think about that snow, which suggested the car hadn't been moved for at least several days. 

Looking around the street, I saw no one. It was dusk, it was cold, and most people were indoors. I took a small pad and a pen from my glove compartment, pulled over and cautiously ventured up the driveway. Quickly, I knelt out of sight of the house and scraped the snow from the rear license plate. It was North Dakota plate number 462-653. 

I had finally found John Wheaties Carr.

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Blood in the Badlands