Blood Crimes

by Fred Rosen

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  Blood Crimes

  The Pennsylvania Skinhead Murders

  Fred Rosen

  With the greatest affection, this book is dedicated to my teacher and friend, Prof. John DiGiovanni. John was the first teacher who ever took an interest in me during my first semester at Hunter College. He encouraged me to major in Communications, which is how I come to write these words to honor him. John was one of the six Americans who lost their lives when the World Trade Center was first blown up in 1994.

  PART ONE

  “But the restlessness was handed down and it’s getting very hard to stay.”

  —Billy Joel, Allentown

  PROLOGUE

  Midnight, February 27, 1995

  Benny’s heart raced with the excitement of the kill.

  Crunching snow under his Doc Martens, Benny, with his soft, doughy, innocent adolescent features, trolled over to wait by the driveway. A minute later, the front door burst open, and David ran from the house.

  David looks really scared, like he’s seen a ghost, Benny thought.

  And he’d changed. No more blood on his clothes. Benny looked down at his own jeans for any blood. When Benny looked up again, Bryan was in the doorway.

  Confused, Bryan looked around, listening. Save for the distant sound of the whimpering dog inside the house, he heard nothing. Making sure all the lights were out, he pulled the front door shut.

  Then he closed the outside screen door gently, so it wouldn’t bang.

  “We’ll take ours,” Bryan told David, his younger brother.

  There were three vehicles in the driveway. Bryan and David’s father’s van blocked the first of the two cars. Bryan started up the van. After the engine caught, he turned on the rear windshield wiper to clear the rear window of snow so he could see to back out of the driveway. He double-parked, went back, and started up the first car.

  After the car was out on the street, David got in on the passenger side. Bryan then drove the van back up onto the driveway, hopped out, and went back behind the wheel of the car Benny pulled out. Bryan followed him through the silent, snow covered streets of Allentown, Pennsylvania. When they got to his house, Benny parked and got in the back seat of the other car.

  “You got the money?” David asked.

  Bryan rattled his pockets. He patted them for a moment, feeling not only a lot of change, but piles of crumpled bills that filled them to bursting.

  They slopped for gas and cigarettes at a 7-Eleven, then sped out of Allentown.

  “Where we gonna go?” David asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bryan said. “We’ll probably just go up to Michigan and meet those guys.”

  “Who—”

  “Frank,” Bryan answered. “We’ll go see Frank.”

  He headed north on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Inside of ninety minutes, they had reached Interstate 80, heading west. Bryan drove carefully, obeying the speed limit.

  They made a few pit stops, but by 8:30 A.M. the next morning, they had traveled 388 miles and were across the state line, outside of Youngstown, Ohio. Fearful that the police might be after them, they decided it would be a good idea if they lay low during the day.

  “How about that place?” David asked, pointing at a motel coming up on their right.

  Jesse Capece was behind the desk of the Truck World Motor Inn in Hubbard, Ohio, when the three walked in. Each was over six feet tall and weighed well over 200 pounds. They weren’t men, really, but teenagers in the body of men. They wore combat boots and jackets. And their heads were shaved clean.

  When they came over to the counter to register, Jesse noticed the tattoos on their shaved heads.

  Two of the boys had the word “berserker” tattooed near their hairline. The third boy, who was younger but bigger, had his forehead tattooed with the Nazi slogan, “Sieg heil.”

  Who were these weird guys? Just looking at them gave Jesse the willies.

  The boy who filled out the registration card signed in as “Benny Birdwell.” He listed the license plate number as “LMN 2291, Pennsylvania.”

  He left the box for the make of car blank.

  “What kind of car you driving?” Jesse asked.

  “An Olds,” said Benny.

  “No, it’s a Buick,” said Bryan.

  “Uh-uh, it’s a Pontiac,” said David, who knew.

  “Well, it looks OK,” Jesse said uneasily.

  “Awright, that’ll be sixty-five dollars for the room.”

  Bryan dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a bunch of crushed fives. He counted out thirteen of the bills. Jesse gave them the key to the room. After they were gone, Jesse went outside to check out their car. It was a Pontiac, all right, with a Pennsylvania tag. But the number on the plate was different than the one they had given.”

  “JNK 088.”

  They’d lied.

  When seventeen-year-old Samuel Ehrgott set out on his paper route at dawn, Salisbury Township looked like a Norman Rockwell painting.

  In a place like Salisbury, an Allentown suburb, snow doesn’t turn to slush quickly because there just isn’t enough traffic. The streets stay quiet and soft and nice, the houses peaceful and warm under the snow-white covering. Like a scene out of White Christmas.

  Sam rode his bike up and down the streets of his development. Methodically, he stopped to put a paper on the porch of each subscriber.

  Though they lived next door to him, the Freemans were actually one of the last families on his route. As he did every morning, he got to their place at 5:45 A.M. Today, though, Sam knew something was different.

  Where was Mr. Freeman?

  Mr. Freeman would always be coming down the stairs at that hour, or already warming up his truck. Not today, though. His van was parked on the driveway. That was strange. Mr. Freeman was never late. And he never took a day off. Something was wrong.

  A few hours later at school, when his homeroom teacher took attendance, Sam noticed that Bryan Freeman was missing. They shared the same homeroom. Where was he? Then Sam remembered what Bryan Freeman had said a few days ago.

  Something was very wrong.

  ONE

  Since 1978, Valerie Freeman had lived with her brother and sister-in-law. There was a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch that Dennis kept hidden, to be opened on the day she got married.

  It wasn’t bound to be any time soon.

  Valerie had no prospective suitors. Still, you never knew. Whatever Jehovah wanted for her would be his will. Thy will be done.

  It had been Jehovah’s will that David and Bryan would rebel against their parents and pick on Valerie Freeman by urinating in her shampoo and leaving chicken bones in her bed. Dennis had seen what was happening and knew that Jehovah had chosen him, yet he felt powerless to stop the cruel way his sons were treating his sister.

  That was the usual thing with Dennis these days. He just didn’t know what to do.

  “Maybe if you move out, things might be better,” Dennis had suggested.

  Not wishing to overstay her welcome and seeing that things had gotten out of hand, Valerie left. Still, she saw the family a lot. Her favorite nephew, Erik, was suffering the most. His brothers didn’t treat him well. They felt that the younger boy, always kissing up to his parents, was spoiled, while they were held in nothing but the utmost con
tempt.

  David and Bryan picked on Erik, teased him, and chastised him for his religious beliefs. Erik was a devout Jehovah’s Witness. In him rested the one great hope, that the line of Jehovah’s Witnesses in the Freeman family would be redeemed. But clearly, Valerie realized, Erik had felt himself in some sort of jeopardy, and though he didn’t say from whom, it was clear that he feared his older, more powerful brothers.

  They could be brutes when angered, and with the cruel use of their strength and size, they could inflict tremendous pain.

  All this Valerie knew when, at 5 P.M., her hand reached out for the front doorknob. She tried it. It had no give to it. That was unusual. Her sister-in-law, Brenda, always left it unlocked when she was home, and she was home most of the time. Valerie had a key, but before she used it, she decided to step around to the side and try the garage door.

  It was also locked. She looked over at Dennis’s truck. It looked like it hadn’t been moved.

  Unusual. Dennis, a school janitor, never missed a day of work.

  Growing alarmed, Valerie went around the side of the house and tried the sliding glass door. Unlocked, it gave easily.

  Inside, the house was cold enough to see her breath pluming in the frigid air. It was dark, very dark, and eerily silent. With a growing sense of dread, she climbed the stairs and ran ran down the hallway to Erik’s bedroom. She paused for a moment before the closed door and then pushed it open.

  A few minutes later, there was a frantic knock at the Ehrgott house next door. Samuel Ehrgott answered it.

  “May I use your phone?” Valerie asked.

  “What’s wrong, Valerie?”

  “Erik is dead,” she said, in a shaky voice.

  Sam’s mother came to the door.

  “Ma, Valerie says Erik is dead.”

  Sam told her what had happened. His mom immediately dialed “911” to report a homicide.

  A few moments later, the radio crackled to life in the blue and white.

  “Thirty-five. Thirty-five.”

  Officer Michael Pochran picked up the mike and pressed a button.

  “Thirty-five?” he responded.

  “Proceed to Ehrgott residence on Gale Avenue. See a woman there about a homicide. Body of a young boy has been found.”

  When he got to the residence, Pochran saw that people had already gathered outside the Ehrgott home. They motioned him across the way. The officer followed their direction and parked his cruiser.

  “Who’s the owner?” Pochran asked the crowd.

  “It’s Freeman,” said a small, mousy woman, who stepped forward. She wore tortoise-shell eyeglasses that distorted the shape of her eyes.

  “Brenda and Dennis Freeman. My brother and sister-in-law.”

  “And you’re?”

  “Valerie Freeman. I found Erik.”

  She started to cry.

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Through the back door,” she answered between sobs. “It was open. But I have a key, too.”

  She gave him the key to the front door.

  Officer Pochran walked slowly up the snow-covered driveway. He noticed that today’s paper was still on the porch. In the driveway were two vehicles: a car and, parked behind that, a van. The rear window of the van bore the tracks of a windshield wiper, though the van looked like it hadn’t been moved.

  As Valerie had said, the front door was locked. He went to the back, where he found the sliding glass doors open, exactly as Valerie had left them. He returned back to the front and waited for backup.

  When Officer Michael Reddings arrived, they used Valerie’s key to gain entrance through the front door. Their flashlights cut through the interior darkness. Halfway up the stairs, the flashlight beams picked out blood on the stairway carpet. At the top of the landing, they looked down and flashed their beams again,.

  Below was the living room, and beyond that the kitchen, where they could see a silver, aluminum baseball bat, laying against a blue cabinet. The blood covering the barrel of the bat contrasted starkly with the cabinet’s blue.

  Still on the landing, they heard a dog barking and followed the sound to a closed bedroom door. Behind it, the dog, of course, sensed their presence and continued barking violently to get out. They didn’t open it. Instead, they entered the master bedroom across the hall.

  A man lay sprawled across his bed. His head and face had been struck and smashed repeatedly. So hard had he been hit that his skull had been shattered and his brain had swelled out through the cranium. His throat had throat had been cut.

  “Must be Dennis Freeman,” Pochran said.

  “Look.” Reddings pointed up.

  Dennis Freeman’s blood had spattered across the ceiling.

  “Let’s check for the kid.”

  Down the hall, they entered Erik Freeman’s bedroom. His small, fragile body lay in a lifeless heap on his bed. His face had been beaten into such a bloody pulp, they had no way of knowing that Erik had been a handsome boy.

  Their grim footsteps made hollow echoes. They headed down to the basement, searching for Brenda Freeman as they went and fearing what they would find. On the floor in a narrow hallway they found a metal pipe covered with blood.

  In the back hallway they found Brenda. She was lying on her side, her nightgown pulled up, exposing a large, fleshy body. There was a bloody knife on the floor next to her.

  Brenda Freeman had been stabbed in the back. A pool of dark blood had coagulated underneath her bloated body. Behind her, on the wall, someone had scrawled two swastikas. Is this some kind of hate crime, Pochran wondered. Could the victims be Jewish?

  By that time, the rescue squad of the Eastern Salisbury Township Fire Department had responded. Finding that the victims were dead and there was nothing they could do, they milled around the crime scene, careful not to touch anything, lest they contaminate evidence.

  “Looks like Bryan Freeman killed his parents and little brother,” said Frank Johnson, one member of the rescue squad, addressing another, Harry Liste.

  At 10:30 P.M., Trooper Joseph Vazquez arrived at the Freeman home. With his baby face and dark complexion and hair, he looked more like a movie star than what he was, a seasoned homicide investigator with twelve years of experience.

  Wearing surgical gloves to prevent contaminating the crime scene, Vazquez took a look around the house, noting the angles at which the victims were lying in death; type of wound (stabbing, slicing, et al.); and the blunt-force trauma to the heads of Erik and Dennis.

  Most of all he noted the ferocity of the assaults. It was overkill.

  A small army of technicians that accompanies any violent death in a American city worked silently through the house. They dusted for prints, examined and photographed the bodies and crime scene, and eventually, when the detectives gave the OK, moved the bodies to the morgue for autopsy.

  Detectives fanned out across Lehigh County to question those who knew the Freeman family. They called in after interviews with Brenda’s sisters, Sandy Lettich and Linda Solivan. Both women said that there was bad blood between David and Bryan Freeman and their parents and little brother. At the crime scene, Valerie Freeman confirmed this.

  “David and Bryan had become skinheads,” she revealed.

  The police also learned that the family had kept a shotgun in the house. It was missing. Since Bryan and David and one of the family cars were also missing, along with their cousin Benny, and with the antagonism the boys had openly displayed toward their parents, it was a logical theory to conclude that the brothers had killed their parents, their cousin had participated, and they were all on the run.

  “Let’s get the warrants to arrest them,” Bob Steinberg said.

  Tall, slim, and well-dressed, Steinberg was the district attorney of Lehigh County. He also happened to be honest. A hands-on district attorney, he not only prosecuted many of the cases his office handled, he also participated in active investigations.

  In one previous case involving a rapist/serial killer,
Steinberg had actually discovered the body of a young girl the serial killer had murdered. He was no stranger to helping track down suspected criminals.

  Late that night, Steinberg had his warrants and directed the police to contact the National Crime Information Center (NCIC). Fugitives are listed with the NCIC, and local police departments are expected to tap into their files on a regular basis to see who is wanted. Pennsylvania State Trooper Joe Vazquez became the case’s lead investigator.

  Soon, the NCIC computers had a complete description of the Freeman brothers and Ben Birdwell, a description of the car they were driving, and the license plate number.

  But Lehigh County is just like anyplace else in the United States: You can’t keep a secret very long. The press soon discovered that the Freeman family had been murdered, and that the suspects were their sons and their cousin.

  The case was splashed across the front pages of the Reading Eagle and the Allentown Morning Call.

  “SKINHEADS KILL PARENTS” the headlines read.

  Besides the local stations, ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN, and Fox all bannered the story of the murders and the boys’ escape.

  Sally Dobbins, a fifteen-year-old student at Salisbury High School, was in her home watching TV when the report of the Freeman murders came on.

  “David and Brenda Freeman and their son Erik have been found brutally murdered in their Allentown, Pennsylvania, home. Missing are their other two sons, David and Bryan, and the family car. Police suspect that the missing boys, who are skinheads, are responsible for the crime. An all-points bulletin has been issued for their arrest.”

  “Oh, my God, they did it!” Sally said aloud.

  She couldn’t believe it: They’d actually gone ahead with what they had threatened, and now they were on the run, probably heading for Florida. At least, that’s where they’d said they wanted to run to.

  Florida.

  In searching through Bryan’s room, police came upon a picture of a teenage boy. On the back, someone had drawn a swastika. The picture of the boy was immediately identified by rescue squad members as Harry Liste. Liste was a squad member and was one of those who had responded to the emergency at the Freeman home. He was still on the scene.