Strangled - Brian McGrory [138]
I smiled at the way he spoke, but to myself, not to him. He was rubbing his hands together toward the fire. I kept my coat on because of the dank chill that permeated the thin walls. I said, “You better than anyone knows if the Boston Strangler is still alive today. I came to ask you if he is.”
Thomas stared into the fire through those huge glasses without betraying even a hint or whisper of emotion. He stayed quiet for so long that I said, “You made reference to the Boston Strangler at your front door, as if you wouldn’t be surprised if he was still alive. Is that an accurate read?”
His eyes still didn’t move from the fireplace, though I thought I saw his eyebrows raise. Finally, he looked over at me and asked, “Who do you think the Boston Strangler was, young man?”
“Back then?”
He nodded.
I said, “Not Albert DeSalvo.”
He laughed for the first time, looked at me more warmly, and replied, “No one with a brain in their head thought Albert DeSalvo was the Boston Strangler. Unfortunately, that includes the nice men and women of the jury who convicted him of those rapes rather than believe my argument that he was a ferocious, sociopathic serial killer who strangled so many women that they had to deem him innocent by reason of insanity.”
He paused, stared straight ahead, and added, “Dumbest strategy I ever employed, and the biggest case I ever lost. I’ve regretted it every day since.”
For the first time, he picked up his crystal tumbler of Scotch and took a long, savoring sip, almost as if it was coffee on a cold winter’s morning and he was contemplating a full day ahead. He put the glass down and continued to stare at something that I couldn’t see, would probably never see, that appeared somewhere above the flames.
I kept silent, again employing that old adage that you never interrupt someone in the process of giving you news.
Finally he added, softly now, “And look at what I’ve caused.”
“How do you mean, sir?” I asked this softly, leaning toward him with my elbows on my knees, speaking in confidence, just two guys sharing some thoughts on a Sunday morn.
He shook his head, not accepting the bait. I said, “The police believed DeSalvo’s story.”
He laughed again, not necessarily a deep laugh but a full one, and he regarded me again with a glint in his eye, as if I was someone he could get to like. I had a gut feeling that he may not have had a visitor here in a long time, and might not have another again for a long time.
“They believed exactly what they wanted to believe, what was easiest for them to believe,” Thomas said. “They had a suspected rapist who had never been within their wide orbit of suspects suddenly confessing to every one of the strangulations, sharing intimate details of the murder scenes.”
He laughed again and added, “Stu Callaghan, God bless him, didn’t ask a whole lot of questions — and he didn’t allow anyone else to ask any, either. He merely thanked his lucky stars, got DeSalvo behind bars on the rape charges, and waltzed all the way into the United States Senate.”
He paused. I recalled Lieutenant Detective Bob Walters’s assertions that he was never allowed to interview DeSalvo, and that none of his men were, either.
He wasn’t speaking any further, so I prodded him, asking, “If not DeSalvo, then who?”
“Young man, it could have been anyone — maybe someone we knew, maybe someone we didn’t —”
“Paul Vasco?” I asked, interrupting him.
He smiled at me yet again. “You ask a lot of tough questions. You undoubtedly know that Paul Vasco was my client as well.” He let forth a shallow little chuckle. “I was a busy guy back then, wasn’t I?
“Vasco was a fascinating guy, brilliant, creative, brutal, evil — a demonstrated killer with no capacity for remorse. Could he have been the Boston Strangler? I didn’t allow myself to think about that at the time, because that would have interfered with my defense of DeSalvo at his rape trial. I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t know.”
I asked, “But what about after DeSalvo’s rape conviction?”
“Vasco