The Boston Stranglers

by Susan Kelly

  I told Lee I wanted time to think about it, to read the papers, to confer with my brothers and to get other people’s opinions. Lee insisted that time was important, that I couldn’t now tell anyone what was happening, that I mustn’t ever tell my other attorney, Jon Asgeirsson, about the release.

  Besides, Lee said, the release was only to last for two years and they would have to get my signature again to continue to publish the book. Lee also said that if the book were popular and the movie companies wanted to make a picture of it they would have to get my signature for a contract.

  Lee explained that the book would do me good. Frank was going to write about my needing hospitalization; the book could help me get into a hospital.

  Lee told me to call George McGrath into the room. When McGrath came in Lee sat opposite me across a small desk and McGrath sat beside Lee. Lee told me to lean over close to him, with my back to the door, and he leaned over close to me and took out his pen and gave it to me. He told McGrath to keep his eyes on the small window in the door for the guard. Lee took out the folded papers from his breast pocket and lifted one end of them so I could sign on the line above my typed name. As I signed one page after another I tried to see the writing above my name but Lee told me to hurry. Finally I got impatient and unfolded the papers and saw the line about the fifteen per cent. But I was so nervous I couldn’t read anything else; it was all just a series of words. Lee made me hurry and when I finished signing he told me to turn and watch the window in the door while McGrath signed. Bailey said, “I’ll sign later.”

  When McGrath was through signing Lee said that he had to leave immediately because Frank wanted to get back to New York. He promised me again he would show me and my brother the release, next week, which he never did.

  On February 10, 1970, the Massachusetts Bar Association’s action against Bailey was heard in the Suffolk County Courthouse in Boston. Hiller Zobel, who had been one of the principals in the 1967 investigation of Bailey’s conduct, was one of the prosecutors in this matter. The presiding justice was Paul Kirk.

  In The Defense Never Rests Bailey writes that Chief Prosecutor Calvin Bartlett subjected him to rigorous questioning about his literary activities, his television show (canceled in midseason), his 1964 radio interview on the Plymouth mail robbery, and his conduct in New Jersey.

  The hearing concluded on February 12. Bailey submitted briefs contesting the proceedings. Judge Kirk arrived at his verdict and handed it down: censure. Kirk’s ruling seemed to indicate that he had considered disbarring Bailey.

  Bailey wanted at first to appeal; on reflection, he decided not to for fear of making matters worse.

  That spring, the Bar Association asked one of its members, Francis C. Newton, Jr., to look into Albert’s complaint against Bailey.

  Newton, today seventy, is a tall, genial man with a relaxed and unassuming manner. A World War II veteran, he is an avid Civil War buff whose office near North Station in Boston is overflowing with books about and memorabilia of the War Between the States. He can discourse as fluently about Antietam as he can on a point of criminal law.

  Newton has many vivid memories of his famous client. One of these is of the very close relationship that had developed between Albert and George Nassar. “George had a rather strange hold over Albert,” the lawyer says. “When you talked to Albert in George’s presence, George would inject himself into the conversation.” Nassar would also answer questions put to Albert before the latter could open his mouth to reply. Never was the one unaccompanied by the other.

  Newton’s experience in this respect was almost identical to that of Tom Troy. “On most occasions when I visited DeSalvo, I visited him in the presence of George Nassar,” comments Troy. “He said Nassar was his adviser.” And Nassar seems to have indeed acted as such. Newton has no doubt that Nassar helped Albert write the letters of complaint to the Bar Association, since the language and grammar of the documents was of a far more sophisticated level than Albert could attain on his own—although it was not at all beyond the grasp of the literate and articulate Nassar.

  The sway Nassar held over Albert made Newton uneasy; the lawyer regarded his client’s closest associate as “a very dangerous and twisted man.” And he was concerned about the direction Nassar’s influence over the easily led Albert might take: “George was a schemer.”

  His distaste for Albert’s choice of advisers notwithstanding, Newton agreed to take the case. For even if the language of Albert’s complaint against Bailey was Nassar’s, the sentiments expressed therein were Albert’s own, and to Newton they had merit. At base was a simple—and single—issue. “What it came down to was, Bailey had a lot of Albert’s money, and where the hell was it?”

  Again, Newton’s reaction mirrored that of Troy, whose primary purpose in bringing suit against Twentieth Century-Fox and Walter Reade had been to get these funds disbursed.

  Albert, who had once deified Bailey, had come to loathe him. And he was vocal about it to Newton. “All the time I knew Albert,” says the lawyer, “he never had anything good to say about Bailey.”

  The trust Albert had once reposed in Bailey he now transferred to Newton. That much is evident in a letter he sent to the lawyer on July 27, 1970. This letter, which was probably worded by Nassar, also gives considerable insight into just how deeply dependent Albert was on any strong personality who offered him help or friendship. And it illuminates the intensity of his bond with Nassar.

  F. Lee Bailey, who has been through the prison a couple of times recently to see a client, told me as he passed me in the corridor today, “I’m going to be down to see you shortly.”

  Needless to say I haven’t been having any conversations with Mr. Bailey; in fact I practically ignored his greeting the last time he passed through here. So his comment today surprised me. And I thought that it is necessary that I write and tell you of this incident.

  What should I do if he comes in to see me? Your associate told me that you would be down in about three weeks, and it is about that time now. Does his greeting indicate that he is coming down with you? And when can I expect to see you or hear from you? ... If Mr. Bailey has me called out for an interview, I will insist, unless I hear otherwise from you, that at least George Nassar be present. When you come to see me, please sign in to see George Nassar also.

  On August 16, 1970, in the very early hours of the morning, Albert and seventeen of his fellow inmates were rousted out of bed and shepherded into Walpole’s Block Ten, the prison segregation unit. There they were kept “locket up,” to use Albert’s phrase, and denied any visitors other than their attorneys for thirty days. Walpole authorities had ordered this move as part of the investigation of a drug ring that was suspected of flourishing within the prison. Albert heatedly repudiated any involvement and prevailed on Newton to extricate him from the “hellhole.” The lawyer went to work on it.

  Over the summer, Newton and one of his assistants had been checking the matter of Albert’s finances. Having conferred with Bailey, Newton was able to inform his client that “a reasonably substantial” sum of money appeared to be due him. Albert was pleased by that news, but very shortly another event occurred that took some of the edge off his satisfaction. He learned that Donald Conn, who was now running for attorney general of the Commonwealth, was using the fact that he had won a conviction against the “Boston Strangler” as the biggest plank in his campaign platform. Albert was furious at being thus identified, and wrote so in no uncertain terms to the incumbent Massachusetts attorney general, Robert H. Quinn: “What gives Donald D. Conn the right! To further prejudice any cases pending against Albert H. DeSalvo? ... Mr. Conn here shows his true self, his stability, when he had to stoop so low as to use the name of a mentally-ill person who has never been ‘indicted,’ much less ‘convicted,’ of being the Boston Strangler.’ To gain votes! ... I plead to you, not only for myself, but for my family who much suffer every time my name is used by a person such as Mr. Conn.” On a lighter note, Albert added th
at Conn ought to be sued for polluting the air of Massachusetts: “running his mouth throughout the commonwealth, ‘unregistered and creating illegal exhaust!’ P.S. When one loses their sense of humor. He loses his sense of being.”

  It is clear that Albert composed this letter without any assistance from George Nassar.

  Then Albert complained to Newton that he hadn’t yet heard from the Bar Association about the grievance he’d filed against Bailey. It is fortunate that Newton, who was currently engaged in trying to get money out of Bailey as well as getting Albert out of Block Ten, where he was still confined, was a patient man.

  In November, Albert had a visitor other than his attorney or his brother and sister-in-law, Richard and Rosalie, the only relatives other than his mother who still maintained a connection with him. That visitor was Stephen Delaney, late of the Strangler Bureau. Delaney had left his investigative post with Bailey. He too had gotten in trouble in New Jersey during the Matzner case; he’d been accused of trying to tamper with the grand jury. Bailey says this was because Delaney had made the mistake of consulting a chiropractor who happened to be related to one of the grand jurors.53

  Delaney was now in the employ of a Boston lawyer representing Roy Smith, the handyman convicted of raping and strangling Bessie Goldberg in Belmont in March of 1963. Smith had always maintained his innocence. Delaney had come to Walpole to question Albert about any possible involvement he might have in the crime. “In short, from what I gathered listening to him,” Albert noted dryly to Newton, “he had high hopes it was I who did the Bessie Goldberg murder.”

  The following February Albert erupted in a fresh rage against Bailey. His reason? Bailey, along with defense attorneys Melvin Belli and Percy Foreman, had appeared on The Merv Griffin Show to discuss their most famous cases. During the broadcast Bailey, according to Albert, had stated that he had evidence to prove his former client was the Boston Strangler and that, furthermore, Albert shouldn’t be confined to a mental institution because he would only escape from it. Albert demanded that Newton immediately launch a civil suit (to the tune of five million dollars) against Bailey, and a further suit against the television network that had carried the show. He also wanted to get an injunction preventing Bailey from making any further public pronouncements on his case. He added that he would really prefer it if Bailey were disbarred, but this wasn’t necessary.

  He wrote a letter (with Nassar’s apparent help) to Paul Reardon, a justice of the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts, detailing this fresh complaint against Bailey. Then he shot off another irate missive to Frederick Norton, the Bar Association secretary, accusing the Association of doing “a wonderful job of covering up for [Bailey] so far as my case is concerned.” And he wrote to the Massachusetts chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union asking for its help.

  Newton took all this drama in stride—and kept on methodically pressing Bailey to disburse the funds due Albert.

  That spring Albert became the victim of a practical joke. Representative Tom Moore sponsored before the Texas legislature a resolution commending Albert as one “officially recognized by the state of Massachusetts for his noted activities and unconventional techniques involving population control and applied psychology.” The resolution further stated that “this compassionate gentleman’s dedication to his work has enabled the weak and lonely, throughout the nation, to achieve and maintain a new degree of concern for their future.”

  The Texas House, to whose members the name Albert DeSalvo apparently meant nothing, passed the resolution without comment.

  They did so on April Fool’s Day.

  While Newton was disentangling the financial skeins that still bound Albert to Bailey, Albert was by 1972 consulting another attorney, PJ. Piscitelli of Brockton, on different matters. He had decided—or perhaps someone had persuaded him—to go public with his story, or some version of it. To this end, he had made an agreement with reporter Steve Dunleavy to sit for a series of tape-recorded interviews that would form the basis of a book Dunleavy would write. Piscitelli drew up the requisite release forms for the various parties to sign. This time, at least, Albert seems to have been slightly more aware of what he was getting himself into. And he clearly believed that this project would yield him a considerable monetary return, which is probably the major reason he embarked on it.

  The prospect of making some money on his terms may have lent some brightness to a life that was otherwise unremittingly bleak. Albert had had no contact whatsoever with his children since 1965. Irmgard, long since remarried, was lost to him forever. Richard and Rosalie continued their weekly visits, and he still heard from his mother. Otherwise he had been abandoned by the outside world, or by that part of it he most wanted to see.54 And Walpole, which has been described as “the world’s largest private nightclub” because of the relative ease with which its inhabitants can obtain drugs, liquor, and sex in one form or another, was to Albert the blackest of holes. In a letter to Piscitelli, he offered an evocative description of what happened in the prison after two inmates were discovered missing:

  Then the pigs came into our cells, one at a time, four pigs to a cell, they took every thing out of our cells, throwing them over the tier below smashing them and laughing, after they had us strip naked, skin shake!!! Leaving only a bed, chair, table, locker, pictures of loved ones were torn apart, and the frames broken as well as the glass, as they threw it over the rail below... The so-called food they are bringing around to us, pigs wouldn’t eat it!! I throw it right back at them, so do the others. At least, at Franklin Zoo, they throw in a nice chunk of meat, could you get me a transfer there? I’m at least losing weight, they took every bit of food anyone had in there cells, name it they threw it out over the tier below. Tension is building up unbelievable!!! No one has any smokes, they closed the canteen, is only a matter of time, before. Its sad to think just the other day, another convict, so young, hung it up. Like so many other weak convicts will ... I feel because of the type of So-called Supt. here. He is turning this place into a house of horror, and he is the one who is the man who will be responsible for all the many more deaths that are to follow!!! ... Instead, he is building a H Bomb here!!!

  Nassar, whom Albert had identified to Tom Troy as his adviser, now became, for all practical purposes, Albert’s literary agent. On June 24, 1973, he wrote a letter to Piscitelli informing the lawyer that he would be handling any book offers that came Albert’s way (as well as the arrangement with Steve Dunleavy) and would shortly be retaining a New York lawyer who specialized in publication contracts. Any inquiries along these lines that might be made to Piscitelli should be directed to Nassar himself.

  Just how thorough Nassar’s domination of Albert had become is made clear by the fact that Nassar was now even instructing Piscitelli on how Albert’s criminal business should be conducted. “I think the time is approaching when you should begin preparing for the special trial,” Nassar wrote. “In particular you should, as we see it, give us a general idea, and even point-by-point run-down, on the major factors of bringing the case to trial and the trial itself.”

  Piscitelli (who died in 1990) was apparently exploring the possibility of having Albert indicted for at least one of the strangling murders. Francis Newton, who was operating under the assumption that he was Albert’s principal counsel, knew nothing of this plan and was astonished to learn of it twenty years later. It is impossible today to say whose idea this originally was.

  Nassar wrote also to Richard and Rosalie DeSalvo to inform them that he had dismissed Piscitelli as Albert’s attorney for publishing affairs. “If Pat is going to take offense at being pushed out of the literary business he’ll insist on talking to you and Al personally about his status,” he told them. “I know I don’t have to caution you to be polite but firm with him. Pat can be very useful to us.”

  Nassar thought Penthouse as well as six or seven publishing houses was interested in buying Dunleavy’s book. “I feel very good about the way things are going,”
he wrote to Richard and Rosalie. “We’ve got it more and more together, laying a good foundation for taking on publishers and New York attorneys and concluding a good deal. Between all of us we’ll come out on top yet.”

  Nassar had more in mind than simply making money. “Maybe,” he concluded in his letter to Richard and Rosalie, “[we’ll] even buy Bailey’s jet, since he won’t be able to use it in jail.”

  That was in July of 1973.

  By the autumn, the deal with Dunleavy had collapsed.

  And Nassar and Albert were no longer best friends.

  Richard DeSalvo, a muscular man of medium height with blue eyes and chestnut hair, bears a strong resemblance to Albert. Rosalie is shorter than her husband by several inches; she has dark curly hair threaded with gray and a round, youthful face. They have five children and several grandchildren and live quietly on a small farm northwest of Boston. Richard, who is legally blind—a vision problem he inherited from his mother—works the farm with the occasional help of one of his sons. Rosalie is employed at a local chain retail store.

  Neither Richard nor Rosalie will ever forget the fall of 1973.

  “Things were happening in the prison,” Richard says today. “We had the feeling something was wrong. Al mentioned several times that he was fed up and sick and tired.” Richard pauses. “We were in fear for him. He was acknowledging this.”

  Rosalie and Richard’s weekly visits to Walpole had always been one of the great high spots in Albert’s life, and they were certainly no chore for Richard and Rosalie. “We brought him cakes and pepperonis,” Rosalie says. Albert, who worked in the prison shop as well as in the prison hospital as an orderly, made in return gifts for them—jewelry and handcrafted wooden items, for which he had a particular talent.55