The story was a complete fabrication. In reality, the dog—a German shepherd belonging to local resident Peter Pavarini—had fallen between some large rocks near the water after wandering away from home the previous April, and Nolan never spoke with the tabloid, as he was away in Oregon while its reporters were snooping around town.
With David Breskin still at work on his own article, the only reprieve from media sensationalism came two weeks later when Newsday released their own long-form study of the tragic lives of Ricky Kasso and Gary Lauwers. Titled “A Shared Secret: Murder in Northport,” the article hit stands on the morning of August 12, 1984, and was the result of a month’s research conducted by Rex Smith, Thomas Maier, Michael Naidus, and others, with Smith helming the writing duties. While the article showcased some of the most factual reporting on the case since the Northport Observer’s initial coverage, it still contained some mythmaking.
This time, however, the lies and exaggerations came from the Kassos, not the reporters. Determined to save face, Dick Kasso minimized his own role in Ricky’s downfall by refusing to admit he had been violent toward him for years. Lynn also lied about the many times she and her husband kicked their son out of his own home, claiming to have always told the local parents who took Ricky in that “he had a very good home and we wanted him to come home.”
Dick Kasso went a step further by coldly disparaging the very people who fed and clothed Ricky by saying, “Parents do it because they are having communication problems with their own kids. It earns them points in their kid’s [sic] eyes by showing that they care about their kid’s [sic] friends.”
He even lied to the reporters about the incident in front of the Midway the day before the murder, claiming he had offered Ricky the chance to come home and eat when he asked for a quarter to buy breakfast. The half dozen or so people who had actually witnessed this interaction knew Dick was full of crap, especially when they read the part where Dick said he drove back to give Ricky two dollars because he “felt guilty.” He conveniently left out telling Ricky to never contact his mother or sisters ever again.
When David Breskin picked up a copy of the paper, he wasn’t shocked by what the Kassos had told Newsday. He was, however, surprised to see Rich Barton quoted in the article. Barton had been notoriously wary of the press—even Breskin, initially. When he saw that Rich had finally agreed to sit down with the paper, Breskin picked up the phone and dialed the Barton house. He asked Rich if he would be willing to talk again and the boy agreed, telling the journalist to meet him in the Crabmeadow Burying Ground. Breskin grabbed his tape recorder, hurried over to a rental car agency, and drove back to Northport.
* * *
“This used to be our hangout,” Rich said, pointing to the broken headstones surrounding him and Breskin. “We used to have séances here. We’d get wasted and trip out. Ricky came here every day.”
“Who else was here when Ricky tried to dig up the grave?” Breskin asked.
“I was,” Rich replied. “So was Albert, J. P., and Gary. Ricky dug seven feet down. Everyone was into it. It was pretty scary. Ricky eventually got tired and stopped.”
“Are you glad you talked to Newsday?” Breskin asked. “Do you think it was worth doing?”
“Yeah,” Rich replied. “I just wish they didn’t call me ‘Richie’ in it.”
Breskin nodded, his mind beginning to wander elsewhere. He was still haunted by the idea of Gary Lauwers being murdered in front of a crowd of cheering kids, as a few Northport and Kings Park teenagers had suggested to him.
“I know everyone says there were only four people up there,” Breskin said, “and I am begging you to be as honest with me as you can—is there anything you know that would suggest there were more than four people up there that night?”
“No,” Rich replied. “There were four people up there.”
Breskin thought for a moment.
“If you knew that there were more people up there, would you tell me?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Rich replied.
“Can you find out for me for sure that there was nobody else up there?” Breskin asked.
“I tried to find out if there were any other people up there,” Rich said. “There’s this one kid who thinks he’s a detective. He’s funny. He’s like, ‘Well, I went up there and I looked at all the different footprints, and I saw five different sets of footprints. They were all fresh and there were three different kinds of beer there.’ ”
“But it was two weeks after the murder,” Breskin replied. “How could he have known?”
“Yeah,” Rich agreed. “I told him he didn’t know what he was talking about, and he was like, ‘Yes, I do!’ ”
“You’ve known Jimmy longer than Ricky,” Breskin said. “Did you say anything about Jimmy during the grand jury hearing?”
“No, McCready was telling me stuff to say about Jimmy,” Rich replied. “He was telling me to say stuff about him cutting locks of Gary’s hair and kicking him. I never knew any of that.”
“That’s important stuff,” Breskin said. “Mark Florimonte told me the same thing: that McCready told him to say Ricky and Jimmy cut the locks of hair from Gary. Did he ask you to say anything else?”
“Nah,” Rich replied. “He just asked me to tell that story.”
“Are you sad that Ricky’s dead?” Breskin asked, watching the sun slowly set behind the tall trees bordering the graveyard.
“Yeah,” Rich replied.
“Can you picture Ricky at age forty-seven after thirty years in jail?” Breskin asked.
Rich laughed. “He’d be calling me like, ‘Hey! What’s up, man?! I just got out!’ ”
“What about you?” Breskin asked. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A cop,” Rich deadpanned before chuckling. “Nah, I’m just kidding. I’m thinking about going into the army, or something.”
“Then you really get to kill people, right?” Breskin joked, making light of the daily newspapers accusing the boy and his friends of being part of a murderous Satan cult.
“Yep!” Rich laughed as the two walked away from the graveyard before going their separate ways.
* * *
Later that evening Breskin caught up with Dan Petty, who had finally found the tape he and Gary had recorded during the summer of 1983. Dan invited Breskin back to his house to listen and make a copy. Standing in Dan’s bedroom, Breskin set his Sony Pressman down next to the teenager’s boom box, anxiously waiting for him to press play.
The tape began with the jumbled sounds of kids talking over each other, laughing, demanding a lighter to spark up a joint. Then, suddenly, a voice rose over the cacophony.
“And now, an interview with Van Halen!”
The voice started humming the guitar riff from the band’s 1978 song “Ain’t Talkin’ ’Bout Love.”
“Hi, I’m Sid Vicious,” the voice continued, now in a faux British accent. “I’m here to interview Van Halen—a so-called teenage pop group. Actually, I think they suck. Let’s hear what the band says.”
The voice now switched to a high, squeaky inflection.
“Hi! I’m David Lee Roth!”
The boys on the tape all laughed.
“The reason I talk like this is . . . I have no nuts!”
In the background, Dan yelled out, “No, that’s Geddy Lee!”
The voice then returned, this time lively and animated.
“Hi. Eddie Van Halen here. I don’t know how to fuckin’ play these guitars. Our music sucks! We don’t even play it, man! We’ve got the band from The Little Rascals playing in the background! That’s right! The same guy who did the Buckwheat theme did our fuckin’ songs, so thank them, man!”
The boys all howled with laughter.
“My name is Gary Lauwers,” the boy said, resuming his natural voice. “I’m here at the Path in Northport, Long Island. I’d like to introduce the people here. I, myself, am Gary Lauwers. You’ve got Bill Kreth. He’s tokin’ on the doob. Colm
Clark. Dan Petty. We’re all sitting here. I bought a twenty count and I’m really fuckin’ high.”
“I’m gonna interview everybody,” Bill Kreth said, chiming in. “Gary, what are your hobbies and activities?”
“Let’s see,” Gary replied. “My profession is . . . I’m a robber. But part-time, I’m just a druggie. I like tripping on ’cid. I like to smoke pot, get laid, and have a good time, you know? We contribute this tape to the society of the man who invented acid and fuckin’ drugs. Man, I dedicate this fucking tape to the man who invented ’cid and mesc. This fucking dude, man! I fuckin’ took five hits once, man, and I fuckin’ flipped out! Thanks a lot, man! That was fuckin’ cool! That was a pisser! Man, wherever you are, fuckin’ trip! Fuck the world, listen to punk!”
“Thank you, Gary,” Dan laughed. “That’s a very good philosophy on life.”
The rest of the tape featured the boys arguing over their favorite drummers—Carl Palmer versus Ginger Baker—and finished with a group sing-along of Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man,” led by Gary.
When the tape ended, Breskin was left stunned. Every element involved in the murder of Gary Lauwers could be found on a recording made when he was still very much alive—the drugs, the stealing, his desperate desire to fit in. There was even an appearance by Black Sabbath, one of the many supposedly “Satanic” rock groups who were being blamed by the media for this tragedy. For Breskin, listening to the dead boy was eerie, touching, pathetic, and sad, all mashed up into one clean package of teenage angst.
Simply put, it was all there on this little time machine of a cassette tape.
Breskin turned off his Sony Pressman, thanked Dan, and headed back to Manhattan. Now that he had heard Gary’s voice, Breskin was determined to give one to his peers. By the time he got back to his apartment, Breskin had decided to ditch all the interviews he conducted with adults and focus solely on the kids who had been doomed by them. As far as he was concerned, there were already enough articles like “A Shared Secret,” allowing people like Dick Kasso and Chief Howard to save face.
It was time for the kids of Northport—kids like Gary Lauwers himself—to tell their own story.
Part Six
JIMMY
We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.
—Oscar Wilde,
The Duchess of Padua
Chapter 55
ON FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1984, Jimmy Troiano visited Aztakea for the last time. His lawyer, Eric Naiburg, had successfully petitioned Judge John Copertino to allow him to take the prisoner back to the murder site so he could better understand his client’s actions during the night in question. The prosecution objected, arguing there was “no legal basis” for the request.
Copertino, however, felt otherwise.
While Naiburg had presented his request as little more than routine, telling the press the trip would provide “a mind’s eye view of what they’re alleging occurred and where,” the real reason was much more complicated. In the nine weeks since he had become Jimmy’s lawyer, his client had provided him with no less than three separate accounts of the murder, each one differing from the last. Naiburg hoped a visit to Aztakea would help refresh his client’s memory.
Instead Naiburg got a fourth version of the story.
“Jimmy,” Naiburg said, “I asked you four times about what happened, and you gave me four different stories that you seem to believe, but none of them are like each other.”
“Mr. Naiburg,” Jimmy replied, “when the trees are melting, and the stars are racing across the sky, it’s very hard to remember what happened.”
A lightbulb suddenly went off in Naiburg’s mind. “You know what, Jimmy?” he said. “That’s going to be our defense—LSD.”
Naiburg needed to convince a jury that no one could ever know what had truly happened in Aztakea Woods that night, let alone the prosecution. Jimmy’s memory was so unreliable that Naiburg had already decided not to let his client testify on the witness stand. That left Albert Quinones. Naiburg would have to show twelve men and women that Albert’s testimony was just as questionable. It was a long shot, but it was also their best shot. After joining the sheriff’s deputies in returning Jimmy to jail, Naiburg drove back to his office and began crafting his defense strategy.
* * *
Two months later, on November 22, 1984, David Breskin’s article was finally released. His editor at Rolling Stone, Carolyn White, felt the original title of “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Black Spot in the Woods” was a bit too dramatic and changed it to “Kids in the Dark.” With the cover touting the story as a “suburban death trip,” the article made immediate waves for its unvarnished look at teenage life in Northport.
One person who took special note of the story was Eric Naiburg. “Kids in the Dark” was the only piece of published media featuring an interview with Albert—and what he had to say was damning toward the Suffolk County Police.
ALBERT QUINONES: The detectives were beating the shit out of me. See, I don’t trust them, man, I don’t trust no one anymore. They picked me up at two, and they were beating the shit out of me for like two and a half hours, in Yaphank. They brought me up to this room, and they started questioning me and shit, and they were beating the shit out of me. They didn’t tell me they were going for Ricky and Jim. . . .
Naiburg couldn’t believe his eyes. If the cops had beaten a confession out of Albert, it would be inadmissible in court under the Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution, which states that no person “shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself.”
“Compelled” was the key word here. If Albert’s statement had been illegally obtained, either through violence or coercion, he would be useless to the prosecution. Without their star witness at their disposal, they would have a hell of a time trying to convict Jimmy. Ricky’s confession, which laid near equal blame for the murder on Jimmy, was also inadmissible under the Confrontation Clause of the Sixth Amendment to the United States Constitution, which guarantees an accused criminal the right “to be confronted with the witnesses against him.” Now that Ricky was dead, that was impossible.
With this in mind, Naiburg began drafting the necessary paperwork to subpoena Rolling Stone for copies of Breskin’s tapes.
Chapter 56
A LITTLE MORE THAN A week after “Kids in the Dark” was released, “Pagan Pat” Toussaint woke up, showered, and threw on a jacket before leaving his mother’s house on Rutledge Avenue without saying good-bye. He walked downtown, bought a pint of gin, and headed over to the East Northport train station, where he often enjoyed drinking.
By ten thirty that morning, Toussaint had finished most of his gin and was visibly intoxicated. A concerned passerby called the Suffolk County Police Department, who dispatched Officer Joseph Jackson to report to the scene. There, he found Toussaint still sipping from the bottle of gin and issued him a summons for having an open container of alcohol in public.
Two hours later, railroad engineer Patrick Quinn pulled his train out of Greenlawn Station and headed east. As he turned a corner about half a mile from the East Northport train station, he noticed a man lying on the tracks. Quinn blared the train’s horn, but the figure didn’t move a muscle. Thinking quickly, Quinn threw the emergency brakes, trying desperately not to hit him. Despite Quinn’s best efforts to stop in time, his train plowed over the man. When police arrived to identify and collect the mangled remains, Officer Jackson recognized them as what was left of Pat Toussaint.
The man who some recall as Ricky Kasso’s occult mentor was dead.
A coroner’s report declared that he had taken his own life.
* * *
A month after Toussaint’s suicide, Eric Naiburg finally filed his motions to subpoena David Breskin’s notes and interview tapes. Breskin’s first instinct was to panic. He knew enough about the law to see the dangers in this order if it were granted. Under the First Amendment to the United States Constitution, Breskin’s notes, ta
pes, and anonymous sources were all protected, as they had been collected during the process of news gathering. Still, if this fact was disputed—or worse, ignored—it could set a dangerous legal precedent that any lawyer could use in the future as justification to hunt down information provided in confidence to a journalist.
It was just too risky.
Breskin decided to split up his tapes and notes, handing a few each to various friends around Manhattan. For one last backup, Breskin copied his interviews with Paul McBride and Albert Quinones onto two fresh tapes, labeled them “Black Sabbath 1” and “Black Sabbath 2,” and locked them away in a safe-deposit box.
If Naiburg wanted to get his hands on those tapes, Breskin wasn’t going to make it easy.
Rolling Stone also cried foul and enlisted the services of their own attorney, Harriette K. Dorsen. Dorsen moved to quash the subpoena, pointing out that Breskin’s work was not only covered by the United States Constitution, but also by New York’s shield law. Luckily for Breskin, Judge Copertino agreed, and on March 13, 1985, Naiburg’s motion to subpoena was formally denied.
The trial would go on without the tapes.
Chapter 57
ON THURSDAY, APRIL 4, 1985, Jimmy Troiano’s trial for the second-degree murder of Gary Lauwers finally began. Pacing around the small Riverhead courtroom, prosecutor William Keahon gave a thirty-five-minute opening statement, damning Jimmy as “that young man who held Gary Lauwers while Kasso stabbed him.” The jury of eight men and four women listened intently to Keahon’s impassioned description of the murder. His account was rife with Satanic overtones, despite Keahon admitting to the New York Times during the previous December that “it was not a cult murder. They did some bizarre things and the killing involved some ritualistic acts, but unlike Manson, it was not part of a cult. . . .”
When the forty-year-old lawyer sat back down in his chair, Eric Naiburg rose from his seat next to Jimmy and made a brief, eight-minute response. He had no intention of spooking the jury with fanciful tales of demonic boogeymen.
The Acid King Page 28
