The Person Currently Living Who I Would Most Like To Meet Is David Berkowitz

I know, I know - serial killers. Yawn. Every pimply, angst-ridden teenager worth his or her salt has delved into the worlds of Speck, DiSalvo, Fish, Starkweather, Dahmer or some other misbegotten creature whose poorly written bio graces the bargain bin at the local mall. It's a chance to feel dark and brooding, maybe carrying the book under your arm at school, convinced that the star quarterback or head cheerleader never asked you out because you're "misunderstood". Unless your wires are seriously crossed, you grow out of it.

Son of Sam, however ...

The Son of Sam cult murdered 8 young women between 1977 and 1978 in the New York area. Most were sitting in parked cars and were shot in the head, from behind. David Berkowitz, who ultimately confessed to all eight of the shootings (by contemporary accounts, he probably only shot two of the victims), became "The Son of Sam" to the media, although the term "Son of Sam" was a complete misnomer - Berkowitz decidedly did not work alone, and certainly never referred to himself as the Son of Sam. His father's name wasn't even Sam.

Why does this story resonate with me, when I'd rather read a cereal box than a third-rate pulp retelling of Andrew Cunanan killing gay lovers across the southeast?

Five Reasons

1. The Occult
2. A coverup. I don't have room to get into it here.
3. Taunting of the police and the media. One of the letters to the police contained coded directions to his apartment.
4. The scepter of bat-shit insanity. Berkowitz claimed to be taking orders to kill from a dog belonging to a neighbor, Sam Carr. Despite the conclusions of the police and much of the media, Berkowitz was completely sane, and his alleged insanity was the product of play-acting and the desire to pacify a terrified public.
5. I was there. In those halcyon days of 1977-78, as a second grader I lived less than three miles from Berkowitz's apartment (my grandmother lived in the same building on Pine Street) where he was ultimately taken into custody. I unknowingly rode my little red 3-speed down the Hudson River Aqueduct past the Estate, less than 50 yards from where occult rituals took place, often with ritual sacrifices. I was scared shitless of the Son of Sam, the 44 Caliber Killer. My parents never threatened me with a boogeyman when I was a child. We already had one.

As an adult, I've spent time walking the river aqueduct past the city line, taking pictures of Pine Street, South Warburton, Wicker Street (home of Wicked King Wicker), reading the old newspaper articles on microfiche in the library (pre-Internet). There's a beautiful park down by the river where in the late seventies, there were multiple instances of children disappearing, occult activity including the mass sacrifice of dogs and other animals, and evidence of cult activity.

"I am deeply hurt by your calling me a woman hater. I am not. But I am a monster."

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