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Transcript
- Imagine the sound of a key turning in a lock you thought was safe. Imagine realizing that the person standing in your doorway isn’t there to help, but to take everything from you. That was the terror that gripped Boston in the early sixties. It began on June 14th, 1962. The city was waking up to a new kind of fear, one that didn’t come from the streets or the shadows, but from within the sanctity of home. Between that summer day and January 4th, 1964, thirteen single women, ranging in age from nineteen to eighty-five, were murdered in the Greater Boston area. Most were sexually assaulted and strangled in their own apartments. The police found no signs of forced entry. This was the chilling detail that turned every neighborhood into a potential crime scene. The women had let him in. Whether they knew him, or believed he was a service provider, doesn’t matter as much as the fact that they trusted the world enough to open their doors. And that trust was weaponized against them. Residents lived in a state of heightened anxiety. Many purchased tear gas for self-defense. They installed new locks, deadbolts, anything to keep the unknown out. Some even moved away, fleeing a city that felt increasingly hostile. The media dubbed him many names at first. The Sunday Herald called him the "Mad Strangler" in July 1962. Others whispered about the "Phantom Fiend" or the "Phantom Strangler," highlighting his ability to manipulate women into letting him past the threshold. It wasn’t until 1963, through a four-part series by investigative reporters Jean Cole and Loretta McLaughlin for the Record American, that the name "Boston Strangler" stuck. It became part of the lore, a moniker that would haunt the city for decades. Let’s remember the scale of this nightmare. The murders didn’t stay contained to one neighborhood. They occurred across several cities in Massachusetts, complicating jurisdictional oversight. Who was responsible? How do you catch a ghost when you don’t know which town line he crosses? Massachusetts Attorney General Edward W. Brooke stepped in to coordinate the various police forces, trying to stitch together a fractured response to a unified horror. In a move that would later be viewed with deep skepticism, Brooke permitted parapsychologist Peter Hurkos to use his alleged extrasensory perception to analyze the cases. Hurkos claimed that a single person was responsible. He provided a minutely detailed description of the wrong person. The press ridiculed the decision. Brooke faced backlash. But the pain points here aren’t just political; they’re human. The police themselves were not convinced that all the murders were the actions of one person. Yet, much of the public believed so. There was a desire for simplicity in the face of chaos. If it was one man, he could be caught. If it was one monster, he could be stopped. The truth, as we often see in these files, is rarely so neat. We must pause here, because the silence here is loud. We need to speak the name of the final victim of what was then called the Boston Strangler case. Her name was Mary Sullivan. She was only nineteen years old. On January 4th, 1964, she was raped and strangled in her Boston apartment. Three ligatures were wrapped around her neck. A broom handle was lodged in her vagina. A card reading "Happy New Year" was left by the killer, leaning against her left foot. Think about the cruelty of that date. The hope of a new year, twisted into a threat. Mary was young, full of life, and taken in the most brutal way possible. Her death marked the end of the spree, or so everyone thought. But the story of Mary Sullivan, and the eleven other women who died before her, would not be resolved in courtrooms immediately. It would linger in the shadows of legal technicalities and unanswered questions for nearly fifty years. The trail to an identity began not with a murder, but with an assault. On October 27th, 1964, a stranger entered a young woman’s home posing as a detective. He tied her to her bed, sexually assaulted her, and then suddenly left, saying, "I’m sorry" as he went. It’s a phrase that haunts victims everywhere—the false apology, the attempt to normalize the violation. The woman’s description of her attacker led police to identify the assailant as Albert DeSalvo. When his photo was published, something remarkable and terrifying happened. Many women identified him as the man who had assaulted them in previous incidents. Earlier that same day, DeSalvo had posed as a motorist with car trouble, attempting to enter a home in Bridgewater, Massachusetts. The homeowner, a man named Richard Sproules—who would later become the Brockton police chief—became suspicious and eventually fired a shotgun at DeSalvo. DeSalvo was arrested, but initially, he was not suspected of being involved with the strangling murders. He was charged with rape and other crimes. But while awaiting trial, he spoke. DeSalvo gave a detailed confession of his activities as the Boston Strangler. He initially confessed to a fellow inmate, George Nassar. Nassar reported this to his attorney, F. Lee Bailey. The police were impressed by the accuracy of DeSalvo’s descriptions of the crime scenes. There were inconsistencies, yes, but he cited details that had been withheld from the public. Bailey states in his 1971 book, The Defense Never Rests, that DeSalvo even got one detail right that one of the victims was wrong about: DeSalvo described a blue chair in the woman’s living room. She stated it was brown. Photographic evidence proved DeSalvo was correct. This level of specificity should have been damning. It should have sealed the case. But no physical evidence substantiated his confession. Because of that, he was tried on charges for earlier, unrelated crimes of robbery and sexual offenses, in which he was known as "The Green Man" and "The Measuring Man." Bailey brought up DeSalvo’s confession to the murders as part of his client’s history at the trial, hoping to assist in gaining a "not guilty by reason of insanity" verdict for the sexual offenses. But the judge ruled it inadmissible. DeSalvo was convicted for those lesser crimes, but the strangler remained legally unproven. For decades, the case sat in limbo. Various parties investigating the crimes suggested that the murders, sometimes referred to as the "Silk Stocking Murders," were committed by more than one person. The lack of physical evidence for most of the killings left room for doubt. Was it really just one man? Or was the narrative constructed by a confessor seeking attention? Then, in 2013, science offered a bridge across the years. DNA evidence linked DeSalvo to the murder of Maria Talabo, one of the victims previously attributed to the Strangler. This was the breakthrough that the courts had missed. It confirmed that DeSalvo was indeed responsible for at least some of the violence. But despite the DNA link, many investigators and historians remain skeptical that DeSalvo committed all eleven murders. Inconsistencies in his confessions and the lack of physical evidence for the other cases continue to cast a shadow over the official classification. Recent forensic reviews have suggested that some attacks may have been committed by multiple individuals. The truth is layered, complex, and still unfolding. We talk about justice as if it’s a binary switch. Guilty or innocent. Solved or unsolved. But justice isn’t just an outcome; it’s a presence. It’s the act of listening to the stories of the women who were taken. Maria Talabo. Mary Sullivan. The eleven others whose names are etched into the history of Boston. Their lives were cut short by fear and violence, and for too long, their stories were overshadowed by the legend of the Strangler himself. The aftermath of these crimes changed how sexual assault and homicide investigations were conducted. It emphasized better evidence collection and inter-agency cooperation. But more importantly, it reminded us that behind every headline, every mugshot, and every DNA match, there are people. People who loved music, who made coffee in the morning, who locked their doors not because they expected danger, but because they wanted safety. That expectation was violated. And while DNA can link a man to a crime scene, it cannot bring back the time lost. It cannot undo the terror. But it can affirm the truth. And for families who waited decades for answers, that affirmation matters. It matters deeply. Thank you for spending this time with me. Thank you for remembering the names, for honoring the details, and for refusing to look away. I’m Teresa Howarth. This story is drawn from public records and widely reported accounts. Our thoughts are with everyone affected.