The Acid King

by Jesse P. Pollack

  “Suddenly, ‘dirtbag’ became a totally different thing,” Brown recalls. “ ‘Dirtbag’ wasn’t just a dirty-looking kid walking around in an AC/DC T-shirt anymore—‘dirtbag’ was now Satanic. ‘Dirtbag’ was homicidal. ‘Dirtbag’ was drugs. When you’re ten or eleven years old and you’re just starting to find your musical identity, having the whole world suddenly tell you it’s the worst thing ever is pretty weird.”

  However, this was only part of it. Brendan’s mother was now so fearful of the teenagers in the New Park that she arranged for Brendan to go to school in Mineola, nearly thirty miles away, effectively cutting him off from any chance of a social life at home. For her, the risk was simply too great.

  “This ruined people’s lives,” Johnny Hayward says. “I had girlfriends that I saw in school one day, and the next day they were gone. After the shit that happened here, their parents packed up their families and moved. That happened with a lot of people.”

  While the scared citizens of Northport had the option of fleeing the ensuing mess, Ricky couldn’t run from the reality he had created. He and Jimmy arrived at the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Office Correctional Facility in Riverhead around two p.m. on Friday, July 6. The four-story hunk of concrete surrounded by barbed wire was a cold reminder of the severity of their actions. Jimmy had been here before, but a less-than-sympathetic jury might ensure that this facility was the last building he and Ricky ever inhabited.

  An hour later a coworker of jail psychologist Dr. Richard Dackow handed him a copy of a newspaper detailing Gary’s murder along with Ricky’s and Jimmy’s arrests, and noted that the young prisoners were downstairs. Normally Dackow visited new inmates the day after their arrival, but he knew Jimmy from his previous stay and wanted to check in. When he found Jimmy in the holding pen, he was surprised by his demeanor. After skimming through the alleged Satanic elements of the article, Dackow expect to find two raving lunatics. Instead he found Jimmy curled up in the fetal position on a bench inside the holding pen. Jimmy refused to move or even make eye contact while Dackow tried speaking to him through the bars. The few times he said anything were only to express his frustration and hopelessness at the situation he was in. Based on this behavior, Dackow ordered that Jimmy be brought to the jail’s sick bay, where he could be kept under suicide watch.

  When Dackow spoke with Ricky, he was taken aback by how calm he appeared. In a way, he was almost disappointed by Ricky’s placid behavior. If he had been foaming at the mouth while speaking in tongues, it would have helped Dackow make sense of Gary’s brutal murder. However, there would be no such revelations. Ricky made good eye contact, was respectful, and spoke coherently. The only noticeable change came when Dackow mentioned reading about him in the newspaper. Ricky lit up and asked for a copy. Dackow was reminded of eager children at Christmastime as Ricky excitedly pleaded to see the press he had received. He told Ricky he could probably get a copy once he was brought to his cell.

  “Are you having any thoughts about hurting yourself or others?” Dackow asked, trying to bring the conversation around to more serious matters.

  Ricky replied that he was not.

  “Have you ever tried to hurt yourself in the past?”

  “No,” Ricky replied, stretching the truth. “My parents put me in South Oaks last year, but that was for drugs. Is there a drug counselor here I can talk to?”

  Dackow replied that there was, but since it was Friday afternoon, he asked Ricky if he would mind waiting until Monday morning to speak with them.

  “Sure,” Ricky replied.

  “You know,” Dackow said, “the article I read was pretty negative. Some of the other inmates here might be aware of what you did. Some of them even knew Gary. Are you concerned about this?”

  “Nah,” Ricky replied. “I’m not even sure what really happened that night. I was high on PCP. It sounds like the newspapers are making a bigger deal out of this than it really is.”

  Dackow didn’t find Ricky to be suicidal and declined to send him to the sick bay with Jimmy. However, as special protection for him against the other inmates, Dackow assigned Ricky to administrative segregation. While this meant he would be on the same cell block as prisoners who were accused of rape, child molestation, and murder, it also meant Ricky would be checked on every half hour by a guard—twice as often as the inmates in general population.

  When Ricky was brought to his cell, his belt and shoelaces were removed as a precaution. He was offered dinner shortly after speaking with his mother via telephone, but declined. A little while later, he was permitted to leave his cell and watch television before bed. When the evening news came on, a special report about his arrest aired. The news anchor started off by incorrectly pronouncing Ricky’s last name as “Kay-so.” Incensed, he leaped to his feet and shouted, “Goddamnit! The bastards can’t even get my name right!” before returning to his cell.

  A few hours later, around twelve thirty a.m., Ricky sat in his cell, waiting for the next round of check-ins by the guards. This time they didn’t show. Suddenly the entire cell block began to chant in unison.

  “Hang up!”

  No guards.

  “HANG UP!”

  Still no guards.

  “HANG UP!!!”

  Ricky stood up, took a sheet from his mattress, and tied it around his neck. Just as Corrections Officer Ronald Horton finally entered the cell block to belatedly begin his rounds, Ricky secured the other end of the makeshift noose to one of the uppermost bars of his cell door, climbed as high as he could, and jumped. A distinct thud was heard by a prisoner in the neighboring cell, and then silence. Within thirty to forty seconds, the sheet cut off the blood and oxygen flow to Ricky’s brain, rendering him unconscious.

  Horton found Ricky hanging from the door about five minutes later. He immediately cut the boy down and called for help. After mouth-to-mouth resuscitation failed to bring Ricky back to consciousness, he was rushed to Central Suffolk Hospital, two miles away. An IV was administered while doctors went to work with a defibrillator, administering electric shocks to Ricky’s chest.

  Despite exhaustive efforts made to save his life, Ricky Kasso died at 2:17 a.m., taking any chance of justice for Gary Lauwers with him.

  Chapter 38

  THE DETECTIVES CALLED DICK AND Lynn in Argyle around four in the morning on July 7. They informed them of Ricky’s suicide and told them they would have to return to Suffolk County and formally identify the body. Dick and Lynn were already planning to drive back later that morning, as they had spoken to Ricky twice over the phone since his arrest. At first Ricky had downplayed his involvement when speaking with his mother, claiming, “The detectives told me I killed him. . . .”

  Lynn didn’t believe him. She had witnessed Ricky’s downfall firsthand over the last two years, and though she might have been ashamed to admit it, she wasn’t surprised that he had killed someone. Only a few short hours before his own death did Ricky finally admit to his mother that he had killed Gary.

  “Mom, I was absolutely out of my mind on mescaline,” he said. “I was out of control. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  As the call went on, Ricky eventually showed his true colors.

  “He ripped me off, Mom,” he said, trying to explain away the horrible thing he had done.

  Now, instead of driving back to Long Island for more answers, Dick and Lynn would be returning to claim their son’s body. Once the sun rose, they got dressed and threw a few things in the car, ready to drive back. Dick’s sister, Sue, who had driven up to visit a few days before, agreed to stay with Kelly, Jody, and Wendy while their parents attended to matters back home.

  When Wendy woke that morning, she shuffled into the living room and switched on the television. As she sat half-awake watching a rerun of The Muppet Show, Lynn walked up behind Wendy and placed her arms around her youngest child.

  “Your brother just killed himself,” she whispered in her ear. “Your father and I have to go home and identify his body.”r />
  Before Wendy could ask any questions, Lynn got up and walked out of the house. Kelly and Jody soon followed, leaving the cabin to go play with some friends. Left alone to deal with the news, Wendy broke down and fled back to her room. There, lying on her bunk bed, she wept. At eleven years old, Wendy could barely wrap her head around what her brother had done back in Northport. Now, before she could make sense of the charges against him, Wendy’s brother, who adored her more than anyone else in the world, was gone. She didn’t feel like being alone with this thought. Wendy left the bedroom and sat in her aunt Sue’s lap, bawling. Sue tried to console her, but it was no use. Wendy felt awkward crying in front of her aunt. She wished her mother was there to hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay—even if it was a lie. When Wendy hopped down from her aunt’s lap, the realization fully hit her: Ricky was dead and was never coming back—and neither was the boy he had killed.

  It was all too cruel and quick.

  * * *

  After a quiet drive marred by unforgiving rain, Dick and Lynn arrived at the Suffolk County Medical Examiner’s Office in Hauppauge later that afternoon. Once they identified Ricky’s body, Dick and Lynn had his remains transported to the Brueggemann Funeral Home in East Northport. In the past, Ricky had told his parents and several friends that he wished to be buried in his leather jacket, but Dick and Lynn opted to have their son cremated instead. Over the phone, Dick told Paul Papa, one of the funeral directors, that they did not want a funeral service for Ricky, and that he would pick up the ashes sometime in the future.

  The Kassos then returned to their home on Seaview Avenue to pick up some paperwork for Ricky’s cremation and check on the elderly couple renting the house for the summer. While Dick searched inside, his wife walked over to the Koerner residence. Grant’s mother, Betty, maintained a close friendship with Lynn and rushed to greet her. When Betty opened the door, the two quietly embraced each other.

  “I don’t know why they didn’t have him on a suicide watch,” Lynn said softly, her voice cracking through the tears. “Don’t think I’m hard or cruel, but it’s over—and it’s better this way. He’s at peace.”

  Betty invited Lynn inside to sit in the living room. Normally one for spirited conversation, Betty held back, allowing her friend to speak uninterrupted. She knew nothing she could say would soften the blow of the last forty-eight hours.

  “The body’s going to be cremated,” Lynn said. “No service. They’ll save the ashes for me.”

  Then Lynn paused, almost completely overwhelmed by emotion.

  “I just keep thinking about his hands,” she told Betty. “Those were the hands that I washed when he was a baby, and he used those hands to kill someone. . . .”

  After talking for a few more minutes, Lynn asked if Betty would take care of her houseplants until they returned in the fall. Betty agreed, and they walked to Lynn’s house, where Dick was still rummaging through drawers, trying to find Ricky’s birth certificate and other documents.

  “Lynn, we have to find those papers!” Dick called out to his wife as she walked by. “We really have to settle some things!”

  Betty told Lynn to go do whatever she had to and that she would take care of the plants.

  As Lynn walked away, Dick turned to Betty and said, “You know, we’re really worried about these plants right now. They’re very important.”

  Amused by Dick’s sarcasm, Betty winked at him and went about helping collect the rest of Lynn’s things. As she moved about the house, she passed the bedroom that had once belonged to Ricky, long since taken over by Kelly. A sudden and unexpected sensation came over her. In that moment, the full depth of the situation finally hit Betty—the boy who had played with her own son in their sandbox for years was now dead. Dead and a murderer. There would be no second chances for the child who had countless sleepovers with her son, and had even helped her collect pinecones at Christmastime so they all could make wreaths together. Ricky’s short life was over, and he had taken another’s with him. What was once a completely normal suburban home now felt like a tomb. Betty quickly grabbed the last of Lynn’s plants and raced back to her house.

  After the Kassos said their good-byes to Betty, they retired for the night inside their home. Despite the growing controversy, the elderly couple renting the Kasso house decided to stay, so Dick and Lynn caught a few hours of sleep in another part of the house. Early the next morning, the two drove off as the sun rose over Northport. They couldn’t have left a second sooner. The newspapers had already gone to press by the time word reached them of Ricky’s suicide the day before. However, on that Sunday morning, every major newspaper in the tristate area would carry the latest terrible update in an already horrific case right on its front page.

  Any hope the citizens of Northport had for this dark stain on their community to go away quickly and quietly was about to be destroyed.

  Part Five

  THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACK SPOT IN THE WOODS

  Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.

  —Mark Twain,

  Following the Equator

  Chapter 39

  SATAN TEEN KILLS HIMSELF IN JAIL . . .

  CULT SLAYING FIGURE FOUND HANGED . . .

  RITUAL KILLING SUSPECT HANGS HIMSELF IN JAIL CELL . . .

  ARRESTED SATAN CULT LEADER KILLS HIMSELF . . .

  SATANIC CULT MURDER SUSPECT FOUND HANGING IN CELL . . .

  The news of Ricky’s death shocked the world almost as much as the headlines about nonexistent devil cults scurrying about Long Island. For those following the developments, it felt as if the air had suddenly been sucked out of the room. What did this mean for the case? Would the truth ever be known now that Ricky was dead? Were there other “cult members” lying in wait, ready to strike now that their supposed “leader” was gone?

  And what about his accomplice?

  There would be no front-page pictures of Jimmy Troiano grinning maniacally at the camera, proud as a peacock. No further tales of crow caws or Satan’s demands. The world wanted to see Ricky Kasso in a courtroom, his dark deeds dissected and analyzed before his very eyes—the same eyes that pierced the soul of society. The public wanted juicy blurbs straight from the mouth of a teenage “Satan killer”—something to whisper in horror to their friends, neighbors, and coworkers, as their heads shook in disbelief. However, with one cheap prison-issued bedsheet, Ricky Kasso denied the world this grim pleasure.

  One final act of defiance.

  The public would now have to settle for James Vincent Troiano in the hot seat. Sure, Jimmy’s hazy, drug-polluted recollections may have only amounted to dragging Gary back to the fire and kicking him while Ricky hacked away, but it would have to do.

  In the end, someone needed to pay.

  Someone had to be held accountable for what had happened to Gary Lauwers.

  Despite the tricky position that they now found themselves in, the prosecution wasn’t about to cut Jimmy loose just because Ricky was dead. Everything continued as planned, with Ricky’s role in Gary’s murder being treated as an afterthought. It was almost as if Ricky Kasso never even existed. He might as well not have. With his suicide, Ricky’s confession would now be inadmissible in court, due to the United States Constitution’s Sixth Amendment Confrontation Clause, which guaranteed Jimmy the right to face any accuser. With Ricky lying in the Suffolk County morgue, this was now impossible. It was a considerable hit to the prosecution’s strategy, but they felt they still had a chance of a conviction, thanks to the combination of Jimmy’s second confession and the aid of Albert Quinones, who had agreed to testify in exchange for the guarantee that he would never be charged in Gary’s murder.

  Hinging a high-profile criminal case on the sworn statements of two drugged-out street kids was a risky move, but it was all the prosecution had.

  Life for the media, however, wasn’t nearly as bleak. As the days wore on, the story grew and be
came more fantastic. As early as Saturday, July 7, major papers like the Post and the Daily News were no longer using Northport Police Chief Howard’s recollections of the Knights of the Black Circle as a brief aside to contrast and compare the rumors of Ricky having his own small Satanic collective. Instead they somehow jumbled the two elements together and started telling the world that Ricky Kasso was the leader of the Knights, and that more than a dozen of its members stood before a “roaring” fire, “chanting” as Gary was sacrificed to the devil. Not having Ricky around to refute these tales only made them that much easier to print.

  And print they did.

  The Daily News devoted its front page and several accompanying articles to Ricky’s suicide, declaring Northport to be a place “where evil dwells.” The Post and Newsday both ran articles, as well as the New York Times, which offered a large spread detailing Gary’s murder and Ricky’s suicide. To top it off, ABC, CBS, and NBC all produced television segments on the case for their nightly news programs.

  This surge of coverage was attracting significant attention—not only from the public, but from other media publications as well.

  One such publication was Rolling Stone. The magazine’s managing editor, Robert Wallace, had taken special note of the growing controversy surrounding the “Long Island Satan murder,” and felt the magazine should run their own story on the case. While the newspapers were quick to blame hard rock bands for Gary’s murder, coloring their articles with quotes from AC/DC’s “Hells Bells” and Ozzy Osbourne’s “Rock ’n’ Roll Rebel,” Wallace felt the magazine might have something more substantial to offer. Rolling Stone had always prided itself on being a champion of the counterculture, and the media’s recent attack on rock groups—all thanks to Ricky’s AC/DC shirt—certainly opened a figurative door for the publication to have a say in the matter.