Part 13...The Ultimate Evil...A Call to Copco

THE ULTIMATE EVIL
An Investigation into a
Dangerous Satanic Cult

By Maury Terry
XXII 

A Call to Copco 

It had been six years and forty miles of bad road, but from Gravesend Bay in Brooklyn to the old aqueduct in Yonkers the story was the same: evidence demonstrating a conspiracy had been uncovered in every crime first attributed to David Berkowitz alone. Now, even the basic police belief that all the .44 shootings were random acts of violence was challenged by the informants. But was there any truth to these allegations? 

Pretty, dark-haired Donna Lauria was the first Son of Sam victim. She was slain deliberately, the informants said. 

"Berkowitz was very weird and vague talking about this one, which he admits he did," Vinny reported. "But he said she knew something about the group, or about someone in it, and started talking. She was killed because she talked too much. He wasn't specific, but her killing had special significance." 

That part made sense. Of all the victims, only Donna was named in the Breslin letter—crowned a "very, very sweet girl" in the cynical, taunting prose that spewed from the printer's pen. But what about the rest of the story? Could it be supported? 

It could. 

Donna, a medical technician, and Jody Valente, a student nurse, were attacked on a weekday. With the exception of the Voskerichian slaying, the .44 assaults happened on weekends. So why was Donna shot at 1:10 A.M. on a Thursday? 

"They always went to the Peachtree disco on Wednesday nights," Donna's father, Mike Lauria, had told me. 

The glitzy Peachtree was in New Rochelle, a city with multiple links to the .44 case. Habitual Wednesday visits there could well have explained the timing of a deliberate attack. Moreover, it was established that members of the Carr family, at least, occasionally patronized the Peachtree. 

As reported earlier, a suspicious yellow car was seen cruising Donna's block shortly before she went out that last night. And later, just minutes before the shooting, Mike Lauria spied a yellow, Nova-sized car occupied by a lone male parked across the street and behind Jody's car. Additionally, the police themselves originally believed that the shots were aimed only at Donna. 

Perhaps one of the most pertinent pieces of the Donna Lauria puzzle was hidden in a long-forgotten, confidential police report. In it, a male acquaintance of Donna's was quoted by a young woman Donna knew. According to the woman, the man had said shortly before Donna's death: 

"Donna has one week to live." 

Although the information was secondhand, its import cannot be downplayed: within ten days of the statement, Donna was indeed dead. 

The NYPD didn't disregard it either This youth was a prime suspect until he provided an alibi and Jody Valente said he wasn't the gunman. Of course the alibi was valid: Berkowitz  committed the crime. But did this man, who had a checkered past, know something was coming? 

I also recalled the Laurias sadly telling me that Jody Valente, whom they regarded "almost like a daughter," seemed to avoid them in the months after the murder. "We could never understand that," Mike Lauria explained. 

Perhaps Jody experienced unsettling reminders of the tragedy when she saw Donna's parents. But maybe, as one of Donna's closest friends, she herself had heard something and tried to suppress her suspicions. I don't have that answer yet. But what is certain is that nine months after Donna's slaying Valentina Suriani and Alex Esau were gunned down in a car parked barely a hundred yards from Jody's front door. Another coincidence? Only the killers know for certain. 

But the initial question was: did information exist to fortify the jailhouse charges that Donna was an intentional victim? The answer: yes. 

"Target crimes," Vinny labeled them, saying that the cult, to cloud issues and disguise motives, would commit random shootings to hide the fact that some victims were purposely marked for death. Like Donna Lauria, the beautiful, twentysix-year-old Christine Freund was said to have been slain in such a "target crime."  

In 1984, the now retired NYPD veteran Hank Cinotti and I sought out Christine's boyfriend of seven years, John Diel. 

Christine and Diel were seated in his car in Forest Hills, Queens, on January 30, 1977, when the fatal shots were fired at about 12:30 A.M. Fortunately, Diel wasn't hit. 

Christine was by far the oldest Son of Sam victim, and we wanted to determine if more than coincidence was at play in that regard. We also had other allegations to work with, courtesy of Vinny. 

Now thirty-six, the short, athletic, curly-haired Diel was a bartender by trade. When we found him, he was serving customers in a friendly Queens grill. Ironically, Christine Freund's younger sister, Eva, dropped by while we were talking with Diel. Her presence may have been an omen, because the case began to unravel that evening when I posed a question Diel said no one had asked before. 

"Did anything unusual happen earlier that night?" I wanted to know. That opened the floodgates: the police hadn't covered the entire evening. Now, through Diel's statement and supporting official documents, the true story of Christine Freund's final hours emerged. 

It was an eerie tale, one which stirred images of the chilling Arlis Perry operation. 

The story actually began two nights before the murder, when Chris received two calls from an anonymous man who asked: "Are you Christine Freund? Do you live on Linden Street?" Frightened, Chris told the caller she was married to a cop, hung up and phoned Diel. (This information also appeared in confidential police reports.) 

The next evening, Chris remained late in Manhattan, socializing with her girlfriends. On Saturday night, with the temperature locked at a frigid fourteen degrees, Diel picked Chris up at her home in the Ridgewood section of Queens at about eight o'clock. On Metropolitan Avenue, as they were en route to Forest Hills to see the film Rocky, a yellowish-colored car pulled abreast of Diel on the passenger's side. The driver, whom Diel couldn't describe, peered at them before speeding off. Diel didn't know if another person was in the car. 

"It was an unusual thing," Diel recalled. "He passed us on the wrong side on a street that was icy and narrow. There was snow piled at the curbs. After slowing down to look at us, he drove off at maybe forty miles an hour. The conditions weren't good for that. But I can't remember what model or size the car was." 

A few minutes later, Diel and Chris arrived in front of the Forest Hills Theatre on Continental Avenue (71st Street). The movie was going to be crowded, and the narrow street was swarming with people and cars. "I was stopped in the middle of the street," Diel explained. "It was cold and I knew I'd have trouble parking. So I told her to go inside and get the tickets and I'd meet her there. So Chris got out there in the middle of the block." 

Diel then circled the neighborhood unsuccessfully. There were no parking spaces to be found. He next drove east on Austin Street, turned south at the first intersection and traveled west on Burns, heading back toward Continental and Station Plaza, less than two blocks south of the theater. There, in Station Plaza, Diel noticed a parking spot—some three car lengths in from the corner of Continental—and parallel parked, backing into the space. His car was facing Continental. 

As he turned off the engine, a pale yellow, light tan or offwhite compact the size of a Chevy Nova or Ford Fairlane suddenly stopped about thirty feet behind him in the middle of the street. The car, which was between five and eight years old, was occupied by two men and was unnaturally angled so that its headlights shone on Diel's blue Firebird. 

As Diel idly watched, the passenger in the compact jumped out and leaned against its open door while gazing intently at the Firebird. The man appeared to be thin and had dirty-blond or sandy-colored hair that was styled in a blow-dry cut. He looked to be in his twenties, and his face seemed "pinched," said Diel, whose vision was somewhat restricted by the headlights' glare. 

Diel, now out of his car, locked the Firebird and—being late —began to jog north to the theater. The other man then climbed back into the compact, which drove away. 

Four hours later, the murder would occur in this exact spot. 

After the movie, at about 11 P.M., Diel and Chris walked about a quarter mile through the biting cold to the Wine Gallery restaurant on Austin Street, where they lingered until about 12:20 A.M. While there, Chris remarked that two men seated behind Diel and near the door were staring at her and making her uneasy. Diel turned around and stole a quick look at them. One, whom Chris termed "creepy," had brown hair and severe acne scars. The other, Diel reported to police in 1977, had sandy-blond hair parted in the center. He also wore a mustache and appeared to be in his early thirties. 

When the couple left the Wine Gallery, the two men were nowhere around. But someone else was lurking. 

Outside the restaurant, Diel bumped into a man he positively identifies as—David Berkowitz. Berkowitz was dressed in a beige raincoat (the same garment he was seen wearing just two blocks away at the Voskerichian killing six weeks later) and had one or both hands stuffed into his pockets. "Sorry, sorry," Diel apologized to Berkowitz, who merely replied: "O.K., O.K." 

Leaving David behind, Diel and Chris began the quartermile trek to their car. Now the streets were empty as the numbing cold gripped the night. Street signs rattled in the wind and steam clouds rose skyward from the manhole covers that speckled the snow-lined Austin Street. Diel pulled Chris close to him as they walked. 

At the corner of Continental and Austin, they noticed a solitary young man, with an orange knapsack, who appeared to be hitchhiking in a curious direction—right into the middle of exclusive Forest Hills Gardens. It was an unlikely route to be traveling at that hour, in that weather. Regardless, the man slowly made his way south, staying in the middle of Continental, and Diel and Chris passed him by. 

The couple then cut diagonally across Continental and hurried beneath the Long Island Rail Road trestle to the corner of Burns. Their car was parked about fifty feet in from the intersection. When they reached the Firebird, which faced Continental, Diel opened his door, climbed in and leaned over to unlatch the passenger's door for Chris. 

Diel then started the engine, revved it and put on an Abba tape while the car warmed up. "God, it's cold," Chris said, and Diel hugged her briefly and gave her a light kiss. "We had been going out a long time. We weren't making out in the car," he explained. 

Accordingly, he said it was "impossible" that anyone approached them from the front. But as he prepared to pull away, three shots were fired through the passenger's window, shattering the glass. Two of the slugs hit Chris, one in the head, and she died a few hours later. 

Across the street, a woman heard the gunfire and looked out from her room to see a red car speeding from the scene. Diel himself leaped from the Firebird and began shouting: "They shot her! They shot my girlfriend!" witnesses reported. 

"Why," I asked Diel, "did you use the word 'they'?" 

"I don't know," he replied. "It was just an expression." 

Maybe so. 

Were the prison informants accurate? Was Christine Freund a deliberately targeted victim shot by Manson II rather than Berkowitz? After visiting the scene with Diel and Cinotti and meticulously reenacting the events of that fatal night, I showed Berkowitz's confession to Diel. Like other key figures, Diel wasn't interviewed by authorities after the arrest. Reading the transcript, Diel immediately labeled Berkowitz's version as "totally false" in critical areas. 

"I bumped into him all right," Diel said, pointing at the confession. "But it was way back at the Wine Gallery—not where he said. And he was facing the other way; away from the direction we were going [the eventual crime scene]." 

But Berkowitz had indeed confessed to bumping into Diel. There was no argument there. So what was the problem? The problem was that Berkowitz, trying to get himself away from the restaurant and back to the crime scene, erased nearly a quarter mile by claiming he nearly "touched shoulders" with Diel as the couple diagonally crossed Continental Avenue near the railroad trestle—only about 125 feet from their car. 

"That's pure bullshit," key witness Diel told me; and he later repeated his entire statement to Tom Russo in DA John Santucci's office. 

Diel further explained that Berkowitz lied again when he confessed to being "four or five feet" away from the couple as they entered their car. Berkowitz later tried to enhance this claim when he told a psychiatrist that he was able to watch from such a close distance by hiding behind a tree. If so, he must have lugged a spruce from Yonkers, because there wasn't any tree; not there. 

Diel added: "Nobody passed us up either. The only person we saw was the hitchhiker, and we passed him." Then how did Berkowitz pull the trigger, as he first claimed to have done? He was well behind the couple, whose car was facing forward. And the gunman, as Berkowitz confessed, did approach from the rear. So if it was Berkowitz, he would have walked right by as Diel warmed up the car, turned around and came back to fire. 

"He did not walk past us," Diel said. 

Berkowitz didn't say he did either. He just left an unchallenged gaping hole in his confession; perhaps purposely. Nobody caught these major discrepancies in 1977 because no one analyzed the crime scene, paid attention to the direction the Firebird faced or interviewed Diel after the arrest. Nobody wanted to. 

Together, these contradictions comprised what might politely be termed "significant flaws" in the Freund confession. But then hadn't the prison informants, quoting Berkowitz, said he shot only the Bronx victims? Another important allegation was now supported. 

But what about the "deliberate hit" and Manson II? Simply stated, the entire series of events bolstered the charge that Christine Freund was purposely chosen for death. Berkowitz, in his confession, did make one claim which seemed to be supported by the facts. When asked why only three shots were fired, he replied there was only "one person to shoot." Which was exactly the point the informants were making. 

Here is my analysis of the Freund murder: 

First, to ascertain they had the right girl and address, the killers anonymously phoned Chris twice to ask if she was Christine Freund on Linden Street. Two nights later, on her first evening out in Queens since the calls, Chris and Diel were passed by the yellow car in the "unusual" manner Diel described. This act suggested that they were followed from the Freund home and that the killers pulled ahead on the passenger's side to visually identify Chris. Turning off a block or two up the road, they probably fell in behind again and tailed the couple to the theater. 

But there, with the congestion of cars and people, they missed seeing Chris as she left the Firebird in the center of the street. That wasn't surprising because the assassins were locked in on the car itself, which was still sitting in traffic. Believing Chris was still in the Firebird, they stayed with Diel as he searched for a parking spot. 

When Diel parked, they readied to do the hit there and then. The yellowish compact, a familiar sight at .44 scenes, pulled up and aimed its headlights at Diel's car. Ready to strike, the shooter hopped out—only there was no Christine. 

So they waited. In the interim, a small red car (specified by the prison informants) replaced the yellow one; a feat easily accomplished because multiple cars were an intrinsic part of the operation. In fact, the killers had time to drive back to Westchester if necessary. 

Leaving the theater, the young couple was shadowed to the Wine Gallery, where Christine eyed two conspirators, including Manson II, and called them to Diel's attention. The men then left the restaurant, leaving Berkowitz to monitor the young lovers. 

The accomplices returned to Station Plaza and waited in the red compact—which a witness observed there a few minutes before the attack. He told police the car's engine was running and that it was occupied by two people. 

Diel and Chris then left the Wine Gallery. After the "bumping" incident, Berkowitz followed them to the shooting site, saw them diagonally cross Continental Avenue and watched the murder from behind a tree on the opposite, northwest corner of Continental and Station Plaza. 

From that vantage point, which was in front of Diel's car, Berkowitz fled to his own auto, which was parked on a "winding street"—probably Tennis Place—while the killer escaped in the small red car. This auto, which was precisely described as to color and size by the prison informants, was observed racing from the block by a second witness. The car's presence was not revealed to the public. 

On the basis of all the circumstances and evidence, I believe the murder occurred in the manner just described. 

The hitchhiker may or may not have been involved with the killers. Since he never came forward, that question remains unresolved. 

As for the men in the Wine Gallery, Berkowitz's presence outside and his desire to distance himself from that location strongly suggested they were part of the setup. Moreover, the acne-scarred man was soon tentatively identified as an associate of his—and the companion's description was very similar to the one Vinny provided for Manson II. 

"He had an athletic build, was maybe five-ten and had sandy-blond hair which was straight or wavy rather than curly," Vinny said. "I think he would have been about thirty in 1977." 

"So he would have been in his early twenties when he was allegedly involved with the original Manson?" 

"Yeah, that's right. And they brought him in to shoot Freund." 

"Did he have a mustache?" 

"I don't know. I don't recall that, but those things come and go easy," Vinny replied. 

The description was also similar, though not precisely so, to that of the man who jumped from the compact. John Diel, however, couldn't say if that man and the one seated near the door in the Wine Gallery were the same person. 

"Nothing about that compact meant anything to me until you asked me about the whole night," Diel explained. "So I never gave that possibility a thought until now. It's been several years, so I just can't say if they were the same guys." 

Vinny's portrayal of Manson II also matched that of the man who reportedly watched the Elephas shooting and drove off in a yellow car with its lights extinguished. Moreover, the description was similar to that of two men connected to the Arlis Perry case—the law firm visitor and the man who entered the Stanford church minutes before her death. 

There were numerous common denominators. But without eyewitness identification, which we couldn't try to obtain unless we learned who Manson II was, no positive conclusions could be drawn. 

The question of motive remained in the Freund killing. "Berkowitz knew it was a hit. He was very clear on that," Vinny said. "But he said he didn't know the motive. Someone else did, though. Berkowitz only knew that someone had a connection to Camaro or R.R. and that Camaro acted as the middleman. Camaro got the Children to do it and they hid the motive in the so-called random .44 shootings that were going on." 

Vinny provided the name of the person who supplied him with the motive, and said it was someone who had knowledge of the drug-porn phase of the operation. The motive, Vinny said, was as old as time itself. 

"It involved her boyfriend and another woman." 

"John Diel? He was about to become engaged to Christine," 

I countered. "What the hell are you talking about?" 

"He was fooling around with another woman and toes were stepped on. That's the way I got it." 

"Whose toes? And who had the damned connection? Was it the woman herself or did she have another boyfriend who was pissed?" 

"Triangles are messy," Vinny answered. "I know part of it was a warning to the boyfriend [Diel], but Christine herself may have done something to set it off, too. Shit, I can't interrogate people around here when I feel like it. I was told the answer was in that triangle and that at least some of it was a warning to him. I don't know if the woman had it done or a boyfriend." 

In fact, since the Freund killing occurred before the .44- Caliber Killer was "born," the NYPD was searching for a motive in the shadowy recesses of John Diel's clandestine affair with a married Queens woman who, with her husband, had temporarily relocated to Germany. The information was not made public. 

Diel was in love with Christine Freund. But he was occasionally tempted by after-hours opportunities. He told Cinotti and me that three such liaisons happened in the fall of 1976, a few months before the murder. 

The intent here is not merely to examine John Diel's private life. Rather, murder is a public crime; Christine Freund was dead; and serious allegations had surfaced concerning another woman in Diel's world. 

Of the affairs Diel acknowledged, he classified two as "one nighters." But the other was more serious. Christine learned of the deeper affair when she borrowed Diel's car and a love letter from the married woman fell from the visor. Christine then took steps to disrupt the relationship, even though the woman was then in Germany for a time. 

After laying down the law to Diel, Chris mailed a note to the woman (police found a draft copy and the woman's reply) threatening to expose the relationship to her husband unless she stayed away from John. According to police reports, the woman remained in love with Diel despite the letter. 

But on the surface, the matter appeared to be settled. 

However, the woman did have three possible motives for murder. First, to preserve her marriage, which she apparently wanted to do. Second, to hit Diel with a message that he should consider coming back to her. And third, to eliminate Chris because Chris intended to marry John Diel. 

The woman's husband also had a motive. He approached Diel one day and asked if he was having an affair with his wife. Diel denied it, but that didn't mean the husband believed him. Nor did it mean that the woman couldn't have had still another boyfriend—someone else who wanted Diel to stay away for his own reasons. 

After the murder, the NYPD spent several weeks interviewing Chris's friends, some of whom knew about the affair and her letter. But on March 3, the police—for the first time— interviewed a friend of the woman herself. 

Five days later, Virginia Voskerichian was shot to death barely a block from the Freund scene. The shooting, which occurred at about 7:30 P.M. on a Tuesday, broke both the weekend and time-of-day patterns of the .44 attacks. 

The Voskerichian murder had a fascinating impact. Police immediately linked the two slayings and announced that a lone, deranged madman was stalking the city. All investigations of motive in the Freund killing ceased on the spot. 

Was it possible the Voskerichian shooting occurred when and where it did to deliberately deter the police probe of the triangle motive in the Freund murder? It was distinctly possible. 

The entire picture could have explained Diel's enigmatic "They shot her!" cry at the scene of Christine's killing, which he maintained was "just an expression." 

"Was he warned ahead of time?" I asked Vinny later. 

"I don't know if he was or not. I just don't know if the whole thing was to send him a message or if some of it was to get back at her, or both." 

And I don't know yet either. But I do have a suspicion. However, as Vinny said, someone had the means of contacting, directly or indirectly, either R.R. or Camaro, who allegedly then solicited the Children. 

"I think all involved did it as a favor to their connections," Vinny said. "It was important enough to somebody that Manson II was brought in." 

Whatever the final outcome of the Freund case, John Diel is an innocent man. Aware of the prison statements, he cooperated with the probe. Secretive dalliances with women doesn't place responsibility for Christine's death on his shoulders. Apparently, he didn't know what he was involved with. And Christine may have partly contributed to her own demise. The waters remain murky. 

I also am not accusing either Diel's lover or her husband of complicity in murder. That has yet to be proven. 

To return to the original prison allegation: Vinny's report that Christine Freund's murder was sparked by a situation which concerned "her boyfriend and another woman" was strongly supported, as was the concurrent, and complementary, charge that the murder was a deliberate hit. 

On the basis of all available evidence, it was now possible to arrive at a full analysis of the .44 attacks. 

VICTIMS APPARENT SHOOTER 
Lauria-Valente -Berkowitz 
Denaro- Quite possibly a woman; three potential suspects identified.
Lomino-DeMasi- John Carr chief suspect 
Freund - Manson II
Voskerichian- Quite possibly a woman; three potential suspects identified.
Suriani-Esau -Berkowitz
Placido-Lupo- Unknown,but not Berkowitz
Moskowitz-Violante-The hospital worker; two possible suspects identified.

Others said to have belonged to the cult or suspected of participating in Son of Sam shootings or related crimes were mentioned earlier. The roster wasn't complete; some group members remained unidentified. 

In 1986,I asked Vinny to summarize, in his own words, the Westchester-New York City-Long Island relationships. Years after he first stepped forward, this was his written reply: 

When Berkowitz and me first met, I told him I thought his original "demon" story was bullshit. He afterwards showed me those Gannett articles and your letters to convince me his satanic story was credible, had some basis in fact. 

I questioned him about the Westchester group— for specifics. When they met, who was who, names, etc. He had told me all about the Carr brothers, etc., and now I was asking about Mr. RE [Real Estate] and that cult. I wanted to get info to find Mr. RE and get that [coven] book of deeds done, etc. 

He began to tell me about Camaro. And how RE really got orders from someone bigger—how some of the "incidents" [.44 attacks] were not random but "contracted." 

Camaro was the go-between—where was he from? Go-between from where and between who? That's when he told me about the place "in the Village" and about Sissik [Sisman]. This intrigued me—how did he know that? Sounded like B.S. to me. 

He had been there, he said, along with Michael Carr. He saw the place. Saw the chandelier. Went to a party there. At least a party was going on. David waited in the foyer. They had to "pick something up." And that's how he began to tell me about "Mr. Big." 

Mafia? That was my first thought. No—drugs and sex and "entertainment"—kinky shit. 

Big lived on Long Island—a mansion. Had David been there? He hesitated. Denied being there—eventually admitted he had been there. 

Berkowitz explained what he knew (or what he was willing to let up he knew) about "Mr. Big." He said he didn't know the guy's name—just "Mr. Big." Shades of Rocky and Bullwinkle. 

I sent out feelers. It was [name withheld] who verified what David said about the Chelsea setup. Drugs? You bet your ass—cars out front like it was Sunday and this was a church service. Did the cops know? Hell, they directed the traffic so there'd be no hassles for the "paying customers." [Vinny was writing about events which preceded Ronald Sisman's killing. Two years after that murder, a Police Department scandal erupted in the 10th Precinct, where Sisman lived. Several officers were removed for alleged collusion with owners of "after-hours" clubs. Payoffs were involved, the NYPD ruled.] 

Ironically, Berkowitz did let the name slip [of R.R.; "Mr. Big"]. It was on my lists [as both "Roy Rogers" and "Rodan the Flying Monster"], but it was among many names and at first I couldn't tell who was who. 

R.R. was into drugs. He was into a lot, but as I understand it, it was drugs which was his real link to Sissik and Mr. RE. I wonder how he became involved with RE. I know RE was prominent to some degree in Westchester law and political circles, and that Chelsea place was a hangout for political types from all over. 

I'm sure Mr. RE organized the Children on his own—and Sissik/R.R./Camaro were their suppliers. I believe RE was intimately tied to R.R./Sissik—and his Children were merely a mechanism for "distribution" in Westchester and environs. 

The group in Westchester had existed for some time. Berkowitz said that when he joined it, a "small circle" of a dozen members had long planned the events which later came about. It was planned long before Berkowitz entered the picture—various dastardly deeds had been done all along [as Berkowitz also told Harry Lipsig], building up to the crescendo of violence which later ensued. 

R.R. never personally came to Westchester, as I understand it. Sissik didn't, either. Camaro was the "angel" for them. 

The real reason for [the shootings] was a need of R.R. et al. The group had been itching for ultimate violence. Perhaps the first event [Donna Lauria's murder] was even a natural, sick culmination of their hype. But most certainly Mr. RE capitalized on his Children's enthusiasm very quickly. 

It is almost incredible how R.R. then capitalized and organized the whole operation. It was actually very organized. In retrospect, it is obvious no lone nut could have carried it out as smoothly and methodically as it was—movement, arms procurement, strategy for locating victims, hours, etc., were all carefully planned out. As were escape routes. 

In Berkowitz's own words, Camaro came [to some .44 scenes] as an "adviser, a coordinator" of events. And he did not always come alone. Manson II came and was an actual actor [shooter]—a "special guest weirdo," so to speak. 

We both know how fantastic it really got—right down to videotapes of the action. R.R. originated the original Friday the 13th Homebox Channel right there in New York City. 

You know how much of a "net" there was. We still see evidence of it. To anybody as knowledgeable as we are of the "workings and efficiency" of the policing machine, it is not incredible to see how all this went on undetected. I mean, had Ford's Theater been on Central Avenue when Lincoln was shot, and had the whole Westchester PD been present, and had they all seen Booth jump from the balcony—they probably would have arrested an old lady in the third row mezzanine as their suspect. 

R.R. needed some "chores" taken care of. He needed those chores done for other persons to whom he was indebted, or for whom he did things. I believe drugs was the real link between R.R. and the Children. The "events" were a natural consequence of the relationship. It finally got out of hand. 

It got too hot. So they decided to put an "end" to it. Publicly, at least. But the paranoia did not stop. Mistrust led to Sissik's demise. To summarize, R.R. was into a big, kinky scene. He controlled money, people, and drugs. And he used all of them in a very calculated fashion. It boomeranged. That much I know. 

So, who was R.R., called both "Rodan" and "Roy Rogers" and linked in a coded sentence to "Dale Evans"? "Roy Rogers and Dale Evans are my favorite stars. .. . We were a regular jet set of the occult," the 1981 letter read. "Stars"; "jet set." Vinny seemed to be talking about high rollers and the entertainment business. Perhaps about a lofty meshing of drug, kink and cult activities in show business? 

Maybe so. 

In the spring of 1982, when Mike Zuckerman and I first met with Vinny at Dannemora, we asked him about Dale Evans and R.R. Berkowitz wasn't talking at the time, so Vinny had to give it his best shot alone. "I can't remember if the key word is 'Dale' or 'Evans' in that one. Whichever, him and Roy Rogers are the biggies." 

"Then what about Roy Rogers—Rodan? Who the hell is he?" Zuckerman asked. 

"His first name is Roy," Vinny replied. "And he lives in a big mansion in a town with two names on Long Island. Shit, I can't quite come up with the damn town, but it begins with an S." 

"Sands Point?" Zuckerman tried. 

Vinny looked thoughtful. "That may be it. But he's into all sorts of weird shit with whips and chains and kinky crap." 

"What's his last name?" I asked quietly. The visiting room wasn't crowded, and Zuckerman and I were dressed as downbeat as possible to resemble nothing more than street friends of Vinny. Still, we didn't want to call any attention to ourselves by appearing to interrogate him. Serious questions were asked with relaxed smiles. 

"Damn, it's something like Rodan, or Rudin, or Rodin," Vinny said, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his forehead. He was under a strain, and it occasionally showed. "I'm sorry, but I'm a little nervous here. But this guy beat the shit out of some actress and took videotapes of it. At the mansion. Berkowitz was at his place once—and in Minot, too." 

"So he did go to Minot," I muttered. "He was throwing hints all over the place. And we had a girl ID him there." 

"Yeah." Vinny nodded. "But I thought you already knew that—he thought you did. You know a lot of stuff but some shit escaped you, huh?" 

"Sure it did. That's why we're here. But we know enough to see if you're bullshitting—don't forget that." 

"You don't have to play Mr. DA with me," Vinny said. "Can't you just listen and tell those fucks back in New York to shove it? They all screwed this up in the first place, not me. You gotta worry more about their bullshit than mine. If I was gonna bullshit I'd have talked to some reporter who didn't know anything—not you, for Christ's sake." Vinny looked exasperated. 

"What about this Long Island moneyman?" Zuckerman cut in, blanching at a swallow of Dannemora vending-machine coffee. "Berkowitz was at his place once?" 

"Yeah. This guy had a lotta parties for all sorts of idiots. Dopers, bikers, big shots. I don't even know if he knew Berkowitz's name. I mean there were a lot of people always at this jerk's place." 

"So why was Berkowitz there?" 

"Because of the tie-ins with the cult and all. I don't know who he went there with, but it was for one of those big parties." 

"And what about the Moskowitz tape?" I asked. 

"That was made for this Rodan. Sissik [Sisman], some guy Mickey and whoever else. And Camaro was there that night,  too. Either Mickey or Sissik made the thing—I believe it was Mickey, as I got it." 

"O.K., but what was the big guy's name?" 

"It's Roy, whatever—Rodan. It sounds like that code name." 

Throughout the day, we kept returning to Rodan, but Vinny couldn't remember the actual name. On the way back to the airport, Zuckerman and I were mouthing the possible names aloud. Suddenly, we both had it. 

"Roy Radin!" we simultaneously shouted. 

"And it's Southampton, not Sands Point," I said. 

"Goddamned Vinny not only couldn't remember the place, he thought it was two words. It begins with an S,' he says. Shit, he's been inside too long. But it does sound like two words." 

"Yeah," Zuckerman answered. "And Berkowitz's last shoot-'em-up in a disco was supposed to be in Southampton, too." 

"That's right. Damn, talk about your chickens coming home to roost. I'll bet that was a deliberate clue. Rodan is right—freaking Roy Radin." 

"That actress thing happened out there a couple of years ago," Zuckerman remembered. "Melonie Haller, I think her name was. She was on Welcome Back, Kotter or something. She said they doped her up, stripped her, raped her and videotaped it at some weekend orgy Radin was running." 

"Yeah, now I remember that. And they put her on a train to New York all spaced out and the cops were called by the train people." 

"Whips, bondage and videotapes." Zuckerman smiled. "You like that part about the taping, right?" 

"Hell, yes. It's a fetish of Radin's. Just like at Stacy's murder. I'll tell you, there are some things at that scene that a camera's presence could explain. I think that tape does exist, but finding it is another thing—look what Sisman appears to have gotten for his interest in it." 

"You know, that thing could be for Radin's private collection," Zuckerman said. "But if you ever wanted to sell a few copies to your rich buddies—can you imagine the price of the most famous Son of Sam murder on tape?" 

"At least fifty grand each," I speculated. "But like you say, this is like some collector of art who has a masterpiece stolen. He can't tell anybody he's got it, but he gets off knowing he does and revels in sneaking into his vault to look at it." 

"A monster ego trip," Zuckerman agreed. "And if you ever needed cash, sell a few copies to your millionaire pals." 

"Yeah, we've got that 'jet set of the occult' and 'stars' stuff he put in that letter now. But who the hell is this Dale Evans character?" 

"Got me," Mike replied. "But Radin produces concerts and shows with big names in them. And he's definitely into all this far-out crap. I think that's enough to start with." 

"Colonel Kink and his own Hell's Heroes," I said. "Suddenly all this mondo bizarro stuff makes sense. Radin's in the same age bracket as Berkowitz and the Carr boys. The damned thing is actually logical. Crazy logic; but still logic." 

The scenario made even more sense when I learned that the murdered Ronald Sisman, whom Vinny kept calling "Sissik," was a close associate of Radin. Sisman was allegedly slain over the Moskowitz tape. In fact, Radin was interviewed by detectives after the October 30, 1981, murders of Sisman and Smith College coed Elizabeth Platzman. And Sisman, to complete the loop, had been dubbed the "personal" lensman for Melonie Haller, who in April 1980 was the star of a video scandal at Radin's Atlantic beachfront estate in exclusive Southampton, Long Island—a seventy-two-room palace on Dune Road called Ocean Castle. 

Radin's lavish home was known locally as a haven for sex and dope parties, some involving the rich and famous. A month before the 1980 S&M blast, Haller posed for Playboy magazine, trying to capitalize on her small "sweathog" role in Mr. Kotter's television classroom. And a month after the Southampton soiree, she accused Sisman of attempting to force drugs into her. Sisman told police he merely tried to offer her a tranquilizer, and the charges were dropped. Seventeen months later, it was Sisman who was dropped. 

This was a crowd in which murder, drugs and depravity were commonplace. It was like seeing a reflection of the Sam cult. Vinny's statements, rather than straining credibility, could more appropriately be answered by: "Of course." 

I also learned that police, raiding Ocean Castle on that wild Haller weekend, confiscated a sex video starring none other than Radin himself. The sex tape immediately brought to mind James Camaro's alleged performance in a similar epic with the woman producer from the TV network. And at more than six feet tall and 280 pounds, the bearded Radin also matched the description Vinny provided of "Rodan," right down to the glasses he usually wore. 

Once more, the informants were leading us down a corridor of confirmations and complementary details. 

Other articles seized in the Haller raid included a quantity of drugs, a .38 handgun and a set of privately posed photos of a nude young woman wearing a Nazi cap—an adornment I noted with interest. "He had a whole harem out there," said attorney Stephen Siegfried, who defended Radin in the Haller case. The lawyer's comment, made to the New York Times long after Vinny's statement, blended with what the informants said about the cult and collegiate call girl network. 

Actually, Haller's railroading, so to speak, was the second time police attention was directed to Ocean Castle that 1980 weekend. They first investigated a report that Radin's assistant, Michael Deans De Vinko—known as Mickey De Vinko to the inner circle—had overdosed on drugs. Before linking up with Radin in various enterprises, Mickey De Vinko had been the husband of the famed singer-actress Judy Garland at the time of her death in 1969 and night manager of the upscale Arthur disco in Manhattan. 

In the Haller case, Radin was charged with criminal possession of LSD and cocaine, unlawful possession of a handgun and menacing the twenty-three-year-old starlet. Radin's girlfriend, and later second wife, Toni Fillet, was accused of third degree assault. The assault charges against both were later dismissed, but Radin was fined $1,000 and placed on probation for the unlicensed .38 revolver. 

Additionally, Robert McKeage IV, a forty-five-year-old New Jersey businessman who was Haller's date that weekend, pleaded guilty to assault and was sentenced to thirty days in jail. 

A similar tidal wave washed through Ocean Castle in 1981 —on the night of Radin's wedding there to Fillet. After the reception, aspiring model Jacey (J.C.) Layton was lying nude in a sauna at 2 A.M. when Radin, she said, entered and demanded sex from her. Layton—who would become the girlfriend of appliance heir Christopher Maytag, who died of cocaine abuse in 1987—told police that Radin assaulted her when she refused to comply. Authorities couldn't corroborate Layton's story, which Radin denied, but they again removed pills and drug paraphernalia from the estate.  

Drugs were everywhere in the Radin portrait, and he was a known heavy user of cocaine—sometimes spending more than $1,000 a week on the trendy white powder. Radin was also closely allied with Sisman, who we, and the police, knew was dealing coke. According to Vinny, Radin had a piece of that action and influenced Sisman's operation. But I wasn't completely satisfied as to the extent of Radin's alleged dealing until I learned that he was a top target of a secret federal probe of coke trafficking among New York's social and show business elite. It was believed organized crime involvement lurked somewhere in the network, perhaps in the form of a fringe relationship. 

"Bingo," I said to Hank Cinotti as we met one afternoon in a Bronx diner. "The Feds couldn't get enough to indict him, but with what our guys know, maybe they could have. We already knew about his amigo Sisman's dealing, and now we've got Radin himself in there, too." 

"His relationship with Sisman would've been enough," Hank replied. "This just adds to it. The whole sex and dope scene is falling in just the way your boys upstate said it did." 

Yes, it was. But despite his troubles with the Southampton authorities, Radin was still big trouble for us. He had many police connections, a fact which may have answered a number of questions which were swimming in my mind for years. I couldn't prove it, but I'd always suspected a leak—besides our own activities—may have been a contributory factor in the curiously timed deaths of the Carr brothers. 

I'd also wondered if the door was slammed on the Son of Sam case for reasons beyond politics, career enhancement and face-saving. Radin had the money, friends and other connections to buy someone if he needed to. It was possible that several elements, combined, were at play. It wouldn't have been the first time. But a suspicion wasn't proof. 

Roy Alexander Radin was but thirty-two years old in 1982, when Mike Zuckerman and I first learned he was an alleged overlord of the operation we were investigating. Despite his youth, Radin had accumulated a fortune. Ocean Castle alone was worth an estimated three million. 

Radin was a theatrical and concert producer, and much of his wealth was earned via the production and staging of large benefit shows for police unions and associations throughout the country. As such, his official links were numerous and widespread.

Radin's shows were star-studded events, with vaudeville and other luminaries, some fading, headlining his bills. Milton Berle, Red Buttons, Donald O'Connor, Jan Murray, Tiny Tim, Eddie Fisher, George Jessel and others were professionally associated with Radin—who also assumed a role in the management of actor Demond Wilson's career. Wilson had costarred as Redd Foxx's son on the hit TV series Sanford and Son and in the short-lived New Odd Couple and Baby, I'm Back. 

But for all his acumen, the SS Radin ran aground temporarily in 1975, when New York's attorney general filed a civil suit charging that Radin routinely pocketed 75 percent or more of police benefit proceeds. Radin denied the accusation and the matter was resolved when he agreed to stop organizing police fund-raisers in New York State. It may have been then that he decided to show up the establishment. 

In any case, Radin reportedly sidestepped the local restriction by arguing that police agencies were labor unions and not charities. Therefore, no one could claim he was bilking police widows and children. And so the beat went on. 

Show business blood flowed through Radin's veins since birth. His mother, Renee, was an ex-showgirl and his father, "Broadway Al" Radin, owned speakeasies and nightclubs during New York City's golden age. Al Radin's connections cut across the New York scene. When his parents divorced, Roy Radin lived with his father in Florida for a time. He later dropped out of high school to create a traveling show which starred the venerable J. Fred Muggs, the chimpanzee who cavorted with Dave Garroway during the early days of NBC's Today show. 

From that Darwinian genesis, Radin evolved into rock music production, theatrical management and the nomadic vaudeville extravaganzas which made him a millionaire by the age of twenty-five. 

But success went to Radin's head; badly. His world spun erratically through a galaxy of parties, drugs, overindulgence, big spending and oft-observed cruelty to women. On one sadistic weekend at Ocean Castle, Radin's guests were invited to pack dog collars and leashes in their overnight bags—and not because he was hosting the Suffolk County Kennel Club either.

A local merchant on Hampton Road was puzzled by the number of people who stopped by to stock up for canine capers. 

The bicoastal Radin maintained offices in New York and on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles, City of Fallen Angels. Back and forth he shuttled, his jet-set life an amalgam of champagne, coke, women, limos and lechery. As the power trip and drugs took him over, Radin sank ever deeper into depravity. He became a glassy-eyed caricature of the 1930s Hollywood mogul, strutting through Southampton—bodyguards in tow— flaunting a devilish black cape and twirling a cane. 

Water has been known to seek its own level. Radin counted among his many friends one Paul Hill,* a wealthy Manhattan heir whose town house was nicknamed "the Nursery" because he was passionately attracted to pubescent girls; a trait he shared with a certain law enforcement official and with John Carr and the Sam cult—to whom the rape of a young girl was a sacred satanic symbol. 

Hill had a special technique. He'd hook the kids on dope to ensure their dependency on him. There may be some justice, for it appears that Hill himself became a junkie by 1985; bitten by his own snake. 

But Hill wasn't the only Radin associate to ferment in a vile vat. Radin's guests and parties became wilder and seedier. Videotapes reigned. On one occasion, a local delivery boy told of seeing biker types, baring knives and guns, prowling the halls of Ocean Castle. Standing tall at center stage, the youth reported, was Radin. The story meshed with what Vinny said much earlier about elements of the cult crowd dropping by the mansion now and then. 

As Radin and his companions regressed, the power-obsessed Radin began questing for the ultimate thrill, and the informants maintained he found it in the ultimate evil. By the end of 1982, Radin's marriage to Toni Fillet was done, RIP'd after barely more than a year. Ocean Castle was up for sale, and Radin was pondering a move into Manhattan or out to L.A. We now had an alleged leader in sight, and the information I'd compiled did nothing but strengthen the informants' statements. But it wasn't enough. Without corroborating evidence to arrest him, there was nothing anybody could do but wait and watch. 

And in light of the history of the case, we were sure the volcano would erupt again sooner or later.  

* * * 

The outside world wasn't on hold while the Radin investigation progressed. On May 8, 1982, tragedy struck once more. On the fourth anniversary of David Berkowitz's guilty pleas, his chief counsel at the time, Leon Stern, was shot to death when he and his wife apparently surprised two burglars who broke into their Roslyn Harbor, Long Island, home. 

Returning from an evening out, Stern, fifty-six, and his wife, Laura, were jumped in their garage. Mrs. Stern was taken upstairs and bound, but Stern was killed when he struggled for an intruder's gun. 

Berkowitz had spoken to attorney Harry Lipsig four months earlier, and now his own former lawyer was murdered. Because of that fact and the date of the shooting, those probing the Son of Sam case kept a watchful eye on the Stern matter. Two Queens men were subsequently arrested by Nassau County police, and from all appearances Stern was indeed killed by burglars. Still, it marked the violent death of yet another person closely tied to the .44 case. 

At about this same time, Lipsig and I became targets of an intended smear campaign by the Church of Scientology. The shifty cult was unnerved because one of its mid-level counselors, Michael Carr, was linked to the case—although no public disclosure of his involvement had been made. The group also feared that Lipsig and I intended to lay responsibility for the .44 murders at its doors. 

The Church, of course, didn't know that Berkowitz termed the Sam cult a violent Scientology offshoot, or that he possessed the telephone number of their Florida headquarters, the Fort Harrison Hotel in Clearwater, or that I knew the Borrelli letter's allusion to victims as "fair game" was a lift from Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard's notorious "Fair Game" memo on the treatment of enemies. That phrase, I was sure, was courtesy of Michael Carr. 

But from the available evidence, Scientology itself wasn't involved in the .44 killings. An offspring wasn't a parent, and we viewed the phone number as evidence of Berkowitz's link to Michael Carr, who had been to Clearwater. 

It was true that the Church was fertile ground from which a devious member could pluck recruits for the satanic movement. It was true that the Process sprang from Scientology when the DeGrimstons set sail on their own. It was true that Charles Manson, before the Tate-La Bianca murders, received Scientology counseling from a fellow inmate in a federal prison in the mid-sixties. And it was true that Berkowitz's named accomplice Michael Carr was a Scientologist. 

But beyond those links, there was nothing with which to accuse the group of complicity. But that didn't stop Scientology from plotting against Lipsig and me. Only I found out about it. 

Harry and I weren't the first citizens of Smear City. The FBI had an extensive file on the group's activities and raided its Los Angeles and Washington, D.C., headquarters in July 1977. In the aftermath, nine Scientologists pleaded guilty to one count each of either conspiracy to burglarize or obstruction of justice. Mary Sue Hubbard, wife of L. Ron Hubbard, was among the guilty. She was sentenced to five years in prison and fined $10,000 for obstructing justice. 

In 1984, a New York Times report on the cult stated it was "long a subject of government investigation." The article further said: "Several former officials of the church who were disenchanted with [L. Ron Hubbard] had admitted helping him divert more than $100 million in church funds to foreign bank accounts." 

Scientology isn't a religion based on worship of any god. Rather, it holds that one can discover inner peace through self awareness and a counseling program known as "auditing." Budding Scientologists will sometimes pay up to three hundred dollars an hour for auditing, during which a "counselor" gauges their responses to life questions through a device called an E-Meter. The process purports to enhance one's ability to soul-search. 

And according to the former officials, it also enhances the ability to control large foreign bank accounts. 

Author Paulette Cooper, whose book title The Scandal of Scientology speaks for itself, was targeted for an intelligence operation, as was Boston attorney Michael Flynn, who sued the Church at least twenty times on behalf of former members. "He was our number one enemy. We were always trying to set up an operation against Michael," former Scientology official Laurel Sullivan told the Times. 

In 1980, the Miami Herald published a comprehensive report which found that Scientology orchestrated smear campaigns and employed other covert tactics to gain a strong foothold in Clearwater. "A wing of the church had undertaken a systematic program of spying and burglary that went on for years," reporter John Dorschner wrote. Reporters for the St. Petersburg, Florida, Times, the Clearwater Sun and other publications also have investigated the group. 

Geoff Shervell. Dick Storey. Debbie Ward. If exposure renders intelligence operatives useless, then those three Scientologists may wish to short-circuit their E-Meters. Storey, in L.A., and Shervell and Ward in New York were among the Church members who plotted against Harry Lipsig and me. Scientology has its own spy network all right, and it is known as the Guardians. 

Through a confidential source, certain Scientology documents fortuitously came into my possession in mid-1982. They are now in the hands of law enforcement, where they remain accessible to me. One thick folder immediately caught my attention. It was labeled "Lipsig Estimate," and it detailed the Church's plot of the month. 

Geoff Shervell, whose immigration status was unknown—he apparently is British—ran the operation out of New York, where Ward and others assisted him. Storey was the major honcho in L.A. 

In short, the cult feared that a major effort was underway to hang the Son of Sam murders on it, and that Lipsig also was going to employ the .44 connection as a weapon in another case he was handling against the Church. So they drew up a plan of action against Lipsig and me, designed to discredit us. They infiltrated Lipsig's large firm and removed legal documents, interviewed the Carr family, and planned to utilize various media contacts to blacken our reputations. 

Here are some excerpts from the report: 

Replacement of Terry. The idea is to have our friend replace Terry as the OL [main contact] for Lipsig. . . . Terry and Lipsig may be so closely involved together . . . that it would be dangerous to try to split them up. We may have to handle them as a team rather than two individuals. Notwithstanding, we should at least .. . see if it is possible for our person [operative] to become indispensable to Lipsig in a greater degree than Maury Terry. This will be achieved by our person having more to offer Lipsig in the way of contacts in the religious field which is what Lipsig is going to need .. . to push this anticult attack. 

Expose on Terry: At some point we are going to have to do an expose on Terry and his false reports and do a full invalidation of his investigation into this whole Berkowitz affair. He is the mouthpiece for Berkowitz and .. . he has to be discredited. This would preferably be done off of their lines. The reason for this is obvious. If we do it, then we have such a vested interest that it will simply be our word against Maury Terry's, so some credible source will have to be found. This is something which should be researched immediately. 

Expose on Lipsig: This activity will also be conditional on his relationship with Terry. If they are really tight, then we will have to expose them both together. . . . The value of this expose on Lipsig will be enhanced by any connection we can prove to any government agency and of course any psych agency. 

In another section, the following was written: 

Lipsig wants to connect Sen. to the Son of Sam case. He has depo'd Berkowitz who supposedly told him that there existed this death cult. Lipsig's connection is of course the fact that Michael Carr was a Scientologist and he is going to try to blow that out of proportion. 

It was heard that Lipsig told his secretary to note down that he wants to get supporting data that confirms the identifying of the bodies of John and Michael Carr. Lipsig says there are people who do not want this [civil suit against Berkowitz] to go to trial. The police commissioner is one. . . . . . . 

It was heard today that Berkowitz was raised a Jew but . . . was a born-again Christian. When giving the above data the secretary in Lipsig's office said it came from a Mr. Ter . . . She stopped in the middle of the guy's name. When asked if she meant Mr. Terry, she gave a "no" answer. 

The report also contained some twenty marked Son of Sam stories and an assessment: "There are press lines which can be utilized to counter the Black PR Campaign [my articles and Lipsig's public comments]." 

So the Scientologists had friends in the media, probably secret members. Nice thought to contemplate. 

I immediately alerted Lipsig, who took steps on his end, and we were put on guard for the future. It would be too easy— and a mistake—to dismiss the Scientologists as merely paranoid. They are of much more concern than that, as anyone who has crossed swords with them can attest. 

I, and many others, endorse official efforts to root out any illegal activities conducted by this so-called Church. I regard the group as an abhorrent stain on the American landscape—a mind-bending cult of which parents and educators should be aware, and to which young people should give the widest berth possible. 

As 1983 bowed in, the Son of Sam investigation was still focused in New York. In Minot, Jeff Nies and Mike Knoop remained alert, but activity there all but ceased because the prime players had left Ward County. Lieutenant Terry Gardner was gone from the Sheriff's Department to new work in corporate security. From Santa Clara, Sergeant Ken Kahn called periodically to learn what he could about Manson II's identity. My correspondence with Vinny and Danny continued, and John Santucci's office in Queens remained frustrated by the refusal of Berkowitz or another participant to turn state's evidence. 

In January, producer Frank Anthony, who coordinated the several What's Happening, America? programs in 1981, asked if I'd do an update on a special documentary, "The War Within," which would be hosted by prominent attorney F. Lee Bailey. The syndicated hour-long show, which would air in June, would highlight the Son of Sam and Atlanta child murders cases. I readily agreed and we started production. 

Roy Radin's role and the larger scope of the case would remain secret, but I consented to allude to a 1981 Manhattan murder without naming Sisman or releasing any particulars. That part of the report would be picked up by the wire services, along with Santucci's restated comments on the conspiracy's existence. 

In early February, after months of persuasion, Vinny consented to make a formal statement about Radin to authorities. In my presence, he recited the tale for three hours. 

Two months later, Roy Radin told his half sister, Diane Dorr, that he had to vacate the New York scene for a time. "I'm going away for a while. I have to go away," she quoted him as saying. "He was very strange about it." 

Shortly afterward, John Santucci and I met in his office to discuss the matter of Roy Radin, lord of Southampton. 

"I have nothing to base a warrant on," the DA explained. "Vinny says the tape allegedly was made for Radin, but I can't tell a judge we have evidence it's in that damned mansion of his. We don't know where it's supposed to be. And no one says Radin was a direct participant. He wasn't at any crime scenes, or even at any of these meetings in Westchester and wherever else." 

"That's true," I reluctantly agreed. "He's insulated himself pretty well. This James Camaro was at crime scenes, but we can't find him. Everyone else he's talked about is real, so I'm sure Camaro is, too. It'd obviously help if we had the exact name, but we don't." 

"What about this real estate lawyer?" Santucci asked. 

"Several possibles, but no one we can say for sure. That church up there existed, but the witch who was in it is long gone." 

"I've got nothing but problems with this case," Santucci complained. "I'd give anything to be able to convene a grand jury, but my hands are tied. I know you don't like that, and you don't want to accept it—but it's true. I still need independent corroboration or firsthand testimony from Berkowitz or someone else." 

"Vinny and Danny said they'd testify," I tried. 

"Not good enough. Whatever they say may be golden, but it would still net out as hearsay in a courtroom." 

"So what in hell do we do about Radin?" 

"We wait. I can't do anything about him right now. At this moment, he's untouchable." 

No, he wasn't. 

Roy Radin disappeared on Friday, the thirteenth of May, in Los Angeles—said to be the home of the Sam cult's national headquarters. 

It took a week for the news to trickle out, but when it did chaos ruled the lives of those immersed in the investigation. For days, my phone rang off the hook as contacts and sources called to find out if I knew anything. From Dannemora, Vinny wrote: "Tell me, when a person dies, to whom does he bequeath his videotape collection? Remember the meeting? They asked if I thought they could just go put handcuffs on a millionaire. I'll bet even he wishes they did so now." 

Vinny had pronounced Radin dead, but officially he'd just vanished into thin air. My own initial fear was a four-letter word spelled l-e-a-k. John Carr, Michael Carr and now Radin. They had one thing in common: their names were handed to authorities shortly before they died or disappeared. Queens had nothing to do with the prior information on the Carr's, and Brooklyn didn't know about Radin. So a leak wouldn't have sprung from the prosecution. But prosecutors' offices routinely deal with police. So if there had been a leak, I reasoned some police agency would have been the source. 

Slowly, sketchy details of the disappearance became known. Radin had been on the Coast working on a movie deal with producer Bob Evans—friend of Roman Polanski et al. On the night of the thirteenth Radin entered a limousine outside Hollywood's Regency Hotel with a woman named Elaine Jacobs, whom East Coast papers dubbed a "mystery woman." An uneasy Radin had asked actor Demond Wilson, armed with a handgun, to trail them. 

Wilson followed the limo for a time, but said that another car moved between them on Sunset Boulevard and that he lost both vehicles in traffic. Radin and Jacobs were supposed to have dinner at the La Scala restaurant, but they never made it. Or at least Radin didn't. 

Jacobs told two stories about what happened. First, she claimed she and Radin argued and he left the limo on Sunset. Next, she said it was she who got out of the car after the heated discussion. 

He hadn't been seen since. 

Radin's 1983 dealings with both Jacobs and Evans were sparked by a film Evans wanted to produce: The Cotton Club. Short of cash, Evans, whom Jacobs allegedly introduced to Radin, agreed to enter into a partnership with the Southampton squire, who said he could raise $35 million to finance The Cotton Club and two subsequent projects. 

Through a spokesman, Evans told the New York Post that there wasn't any deal with Radin. That wasn't true. On April 26, seventeen days before Radin disappeared, he and Evans signed a contract which allocated to each a 45 percent share of The Cotton Club and the subsidiary projects. The remaining 10 percent was assigned to Puerto Rican banker Jose Alegria, whose government was to provide Radin's contribution. 

In other words, since inking the contract Evans no longer had controlling interest in his own project. 

"I couldn't believe Evans signed it," Alagria later told New York magazine. "I told Roy, 'The day will come when this guy realizes he's not in control.'" 

For her part, the dark-haired, thirty-seven-year-old Jacobs, also known as Elaine Delayne and Karen Goodman, formerly was romantically linked with reputed Miami cocaine king Milan Bellechasses. Jacobs was promised a $50,000 finder's fee from Radin on the Cotton Club deal. But she suspected that Radin was somehow involved in the alleged theft of eleven to sixteen kilos of cocaine from her rented home in Sherman Oaks, California, an L.A. suburb. Jacobs allegedly believed that Radin had conspired with her dope runner, Talmadge (Tally) Rogers, who hadn't been seen since the purported ripoff occurred in March. 

So there it stood. Evans, Jacobs, drug deals, Hollywood films and a missing Roy Radin. 

At 11 A.M. on June 10, beekeeper Glen Fischer entered a desolate, dusty canyon some sixty miles north of L.A. On this warm morning, Fischer was searching for a suitable location to set up his hives. Down a rutted, dirt path he walked into the yawning hole known as Caswell Canyon. To his right, a dried creek bed blanched in the blistering June sun. Sagebrush, tumbleweed and desert foliage splashed patches of color on the grainy, hilly landscape, and clumps of hardy trees flaunted their green resilience to the sizzling sky. 

At his feet, Fischer noted fragments of shattered clay targets; someone had used the area for skeet practice. Whoever it was, the beekeeper thought, didn't belong to any Hollywood rod and gun club. Nobody but a desert rat would know about this forsaken place. Behind him to the west, Fischer faintly heard the infrequent whiz of a passing car on Highway 5. 

To reach the canyon, one drove an hour north from L.A. and exited Route 5 at Hungry Valley Road. Turning east, a driver would then swing north again to traverse the dead-end Copco Canyon service road, which paralleled the highway before abruptly ending at a metal barrier. 

Beyond the rail, hidden behind a small thicket of underbrush, lay the narrow dirt road on which the beekeeper now walked. The path could be negotiated by car—but only by someone who knew it existed in the first place. 

Several hundred yards into the canyon, a hot breeze filled Fischer's nostrils with an unfamiliar, pungent aroma somewhat akin to flavored pipe tobacco. Across the creek bed, Fischer noticed a large green shrub, which looked almost like a wide fir tree. It was thick; its full branches hugged the ground, and tall grass further hid its base from view. The beekeeper thought he saw something on the earth beside the shrub. 

Crossing the dry creek, Fischer hopped up the south bank and walked eight feet to the dense branches. Looking down, he saw it. 

It was dressed in a dark blue suit, and a vest, dress shirt and tie. Four buttons were torn from the vest and two from the shirt, which was laid open. The suit's front pockets were turned out. Someone had removed the identification from whatever this had been. 

It was lying on its back. A Gucci loafer remained on the right foot; the other shoe was next to the body. The left hand was raised upward, grotesquely grabbing a low branch of the shrub. The body was mummified, and there was a large hole where the front of the skull should have been. Beetles swarmed in the hollow stomach cavity. 

It was, the horrified Fischer saw, the shriveled, baking corpse of what was once a large, well-dressed man. Now its weight was a mere sixty-nine pounds, and it languished in the moisture of its own fluids, which still seeped into the earth beneath it. Fischer now knew what the bittersweet odor was. 

It was Roy Radin. 

"We're going to the Coast," I excitedly told Georgiana. "We've got our week at Fire Island and we'll go right from the beach to the airport. Ted Gunderson is expecting us in L.A., and he's arranging a meeting with the Sheriff's Homicide people." 

"I'm already packing two wardrobes," she said, laughing. "I knew there was no way you'd stay home on this one." 

Vinny knew it, too. He wrote: 

When you go to the coast, look out for souvenirs. Understand? You know what to look for, even if everyone else doesn't. Look for those signs we've discussed in the past [ritual objects at crime scenes]. And if you get to view anything about the dead Flying Monster, see if you can identify any marks, etc. Comprende? 

The question I pose to you is this—they know the victim, but do they realize what people were hunting for? It involves movies—videotapes. That I've verified for sure. In October 1981 they acted to preserve those tapes. I'm not sure yet if this was purely over that—there could be other motives, too—but from every source I have, it's about the things we're interested in. And it definitely involved the same cast of actors. 

It's just a hunch, but I say Manson II, or Frank, if that's his name. I believe this was his pet assignment. Do you honestly think the Flying Monster traveled all the way to the Sunshine State and didn't visit any of his old acquaintances? Well, if he didn't plan to, they certainly did plan on visiting him. 

Bleed the coast for all you can. I'm glad the East is staying out. Because you can probably get info from the West that they don't even realize is valuable. It's the SUBTLE things we need—they will break this thing eventually. 

Maury, when will they learn that I've only told the truth? Yes, it sounds fantastic—but so many true things sound fantastic. Let's see—what number victim is this now? One by one, everyone is disappearing. You know, in another two years there won't be anyone left to capture. 

Except for Manson II. Do you realize that L.A. is now the hottest place in this investigation? I'd say the hottest people left are Manson II, Camaro and Mr. Real Estate. Camaro seems to be nowhere. [Mr.] RE is there, but nobody seems to be able to put their finger on him yet. 

Ironic, people are dropping like flies around me. I'm not Houdini. I can't predict deaths in advance by magic. We've both paid a high price in years of effort and frustration. I'm sick and tired of handing gems to assholes and watching them bury it in bureaucratic inanities. 

You will note I'm as humble and soft-spoken as ever. When you go, listen very closely and look for ties. This one was kept tight. Seems to have been a surprise to all as it came down. Except for one interesting bit of info—seems a certain person [Radin] was advised very heavily against a vacation to that place. 

So, it was "about the things we're interested in," Vinny wrote. Drugs, big money and, somewhere in the picture—a videotape or movie. Perhaps, as he suggested, several motives converged at once. And once I heard that Radin was dealing with Bob Evans, I immediately wondered if the "Dale Evans" Vinny had referred to in his 1981 letter had been identified. 

The week at Fire Island was a good one. All the old friends were there, including George Austin, who'd moved across the walk to share a home with Martin and Pat Burke. Coincidentally, Marty Burke was a close friend of Joe Walsh, a writer I knew well from Westchester. Walsh had summered in the Hamptons for years and heard the stories about Radin and Ocean Castle. 

"He was something of a local legend for his weirdness out there," he said. "All sorts of bizarre nonsense was supposed to be going on. Some Hamptons people knew about it. And now he got his." 

And we were going to try to find out why. Just as importantly, we were going to see if the still-unidentified Manson II might have participated in the killing. 

I had a description of Manson II, and I also knew he would somehow trace back to the original Charles Manson—he would appear somewhere in the Manson "family" or in the show business or drug circles Manson himself inhabited. And perhaps we'd find out for whom Manson "volunteered" to commit the Tate murders—and why. 

It was an almost impossible mission, but we had to try. In that, I was fortunate to have the assistance of Ted Gunderson. The gray-haired, fifty-two-year-old Gunderson was a retired FBI senior special agent in charge. Before leaving the Bureau, he'd headed offices in Dallas, Philadelphia and elsewhere before assuming command of some eight hundred agents in southern California. After retiring in 1979, he opened a successful private investigation agency in L.A. 

Through producer Frank Anthony, Gunderson and I had earlier made contact by telephone. And now Roy Radin was murdered on Ted's home turf. In that respect, I was lucky: the highly qualified Gunderson was willing to assist the investigation for no fee. He knew what was at stake. 

Aboard a Pan Am flight on Sunday afternoon, July 17, I busied myself with notes on the case while Georgiana watched a film. Our plan was to spend three days in L.A. before driving up the coast to Monterey; then to Stanford University in Palo Alto on the Arlis Perry case; and on into San Francisco for a long weekend of relaxation. I had a feeling we'd need it. 

We touched down at L.A. International at about 7 P.M. With a waiting rental car, we were but a short drive from the Marina International Hotel in Marina Del Rey, a few blocks from Venice Beach and the rolling Pacific. Stepping from the terminal into the gathering dusk, I was struck by the thought that the man whose murder we were probing had walked through those same doors for the last time two months before. 

"Welcome to L.A.," I said to Georgiana. "We're right back where all this lunacy really began in the late sixties. And now it's gone across the damned country and come home again." 

"And so have we," she answered. 

Sliding our luggage into the back of the car, we pulled into light traffic on Lincoln Boulevard as we drove north toward the Marina. "I can't help thinking about Manson II, the deadliest of all of them," I said, pointing toward the hazy L.A. skyline to the east. 

"He's right around us now, either somewhere over there in the city or in one of these suburbs along the coast. Venice, the Marina, Santa Monica, Torrance, Manhattan Beach. Somewhere here. Damn, the whole freaking headquarters or whatever is here." 

"What do you suppose that is?" Georgiana asked, as the Beach Boys' "I Get Around" piped from the car radio, making me wish it was the summer of '64 again. "Do you think it's an old church or a private club or house?" 

"Yeah, one of the three. None of the informants knew which." 

It was twilight and the colors and sounds of Marina Del Rey beckoned us. 

"It's beautiful here," I said. "Thousands of boats, great restaurants, and right off the ocean. The hotel is also done with a nautical flair." 

"Some of these places look familiar," Georgiana noticed. "They use this area a lot for TV backdrops, don't they?" 

"Yeah, they do. Hey, after we check in and eat, let's hit the beach and walk a little. In the Atlantic this morning and the Pacific tonight—bicoastal beach bums. Tomorrow's time enough to worry about Radin. Ted's coming for breakfast at nine and we've got the cops at eleven." 

"And we're going out to the scene, right?" 

"Absolutely. That area's got to be searched. I'm sure the cops will give us directions." 

"You're into the upper levels of this now," Georgiana remarked. "The TV show worked fine, and you were still able to keep this part out." 

"We had to. There'd be no way of getting anywhere at all on this otherwise. Nobody knows a damn thing, so we're going to be able to sneak in the back door here." 

I refrained from bringing up the fear factor. Secrecy about Radin and Manson II also helped us sleep better, and was especially important now that we'd landed in Manson II's backyard. He had no reason to be worried about us, and that's the way I wanted to keep it—particularly since the previous month's TV report also aired in L.A. I was certain he and his friends had seen it. 

Later, after a quiet dinner of prawns and shrimp Louie at a seaside restaurant in Venice, we wandered the darkened beach. Beside us, the Pacific waves crested majestically and slapped the shore. 

"I've got to thank Berkowitz for this someday," I said. "It's a perfect night in a perfect spot. Finally, they've done a crime that didn't take me out to Minot or to another of those godforsaken max prisons in the wilds of New York State. Maybe I'll ask him if they have another branch in Tahiti." 

"You like to joke your way through these things," Georgiana chided. "But you're just trying to play Mr. Cool. This is probably the most important trip of the whole case." 

"Which case? You know how many killings we've had to look into? But yeah, this trip may be for the whole enchilada." I stopped walking and gestured toward the invisible inland hills. "Just think, we've now got a real Hollywood drama— and shot on location, too." 

"Very funny." Georgiana laughed weakly. "It's after two A.M. in New York—I think your jets are lagging." 

"Screw it. I really do know how important these next few days are. It's been a long haul; so many people have come and gone. The case kept moving and we kept moving with it. We've got Gerry Buckhout left, and Hank Cinotti and Joe Basteri, and Mike Novotny when he can do it." 

"And Santucci," Georgiana added. 

"Ah, yes. Those people are prosecutors and they think like prosecutors. They're worried about the courtroom, which is their job. The rest of us think in terms of the investigation itself. The hunt. Queens is still waiting on somebody to turn. I'm not of a mind to count on that, and I've got no jurisdictional boundaries to be concerned with either. Maybe we can make something happen our way. And so here we are in California, lady." 

"Queens knows we're here, don't they?" 

"Yeah, they knew we were coming out two days after we did. I told Tom McCarthy. They just said good luck and want to be filled in when we get back. For a while McCarthy had thoughts of coming with us." 

"Well, let's just hope something happens out of this week," Georgiana said. "Ted'll be here early. Let's call it a night. I think we're both exhausted." 

We hiked back to the car, which was parked at the end of the nearly deserted Washington Street. Dishes clinked through the open windows of restaurant kitchens as clean-up crews drew the curtain on another night. Two Chicanos on Harleys lingered in front of a convenience store and gulls picked at discarded french fries in the gutter. 

It was almost tomorrow. 

The coming days would make a difference. But no one could have anticipated that a stark, unnerving confirmation of what force was behind Roy Radin's murder would be discovered in less than seventy-two hours. 

The Ultimate Evil had risen from the depths of the River Styx and struck once again.

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In Death's Valley