The Evil That Men Do: FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood's Journey into the Minds of Sexual Predators

306 Pages·2000·2.19 MB·English

by  Stephen G. Michaud

BY STEPHEN G. MICHAUD
Lethal Shadow:
The Chilling True-Crime Story of a Sadistic Sex Slayer
BY STEPHEN G. MICHAUD WITH BECK WEATHERS
Left for Dead: My Journey Home from Everest
BY STEPHEN G. MICHAUD WITH HUGH AYENSWORTH
“If You Love Me You Will Do My Will”
The Only Living Witness:
The True Story of Serial Sex Killer Ted Bundy
Ted Bundy: Conversations with a Killer
The Vengeful Heart and Other Stories
BY ROY HAZELWOOD AND STEPHEN G. MICHAUD
Dark Dreams
BY ROY HAZELWOOD WITH PARK E. DIETZ AND ANN BURGESS
Autoerotic Fatalities
BY ROY HAZELWOOD WITH ANN BURGESS
Practical Aspects of Rape Investigation:
A Multidisciplinary Approach
THE
EVIL
THAT
MEN DO
FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood’s Journey into the Minds of Sexual
Predators
STEPHEN G. MICHAUD
WITH
ROY HAZELWOOD
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that
this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for
this “stripped book.”
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO
Copyright © 1998 by Stephen G. Michaud.
Cover photograph courtesy Photonica.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without
written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For
information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-45537
ISBN: 0-312-97060-9
EAN: 9780312-97060-4
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / February 1999
St Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2000
10 9 8
For Louella and Earl
CONTENTS
ONE “His Influence Is Everywhere”
TWO The Lonely Hearts Killer
THREE “I Don’t Like Women All That Much”
FOUR The Dead Speak
FIVE Terminal Sex
SIX Louella and Earl
SEVEN Organized and Disorganized
EIGHT “I’d Like to Pray About This”
NINE A Porno Show for Cops
TEN Atlanta
ELEVEN The Mindzappers
TWELVE “My Intentions Were to Inflict Fear”
THIRTEEN “I’m Going to Have Sex with You”
FOURTEEN Who Hanged Andrew McIntyre?
FIFTEEN “We Changed the Rules”
SIXTEEN The Fetishist
SEVENTEEN Linkage Analysis
EIGHTEEN “He Wanted to Be My Boyfriend”
NINETEEN Pseudovictims
TWENTY “I Felt I Was Rehearsing for My Own Death”
TWENTY-ONE Ken and Barbie
TWENTY-TWO You Be the Analyst
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SOURCES
SELECTED HAZELWOOD BIBLIOGRAPHY
INDEX
1
“His Influence Is Everywhere”
You could say that Ted Bundy introduced me to Roy Hazelwood.
We first met on a russet Iowa autumn evening in 1984 in the crowded lobby of
a Des Moines motel, where next day Roy and I were to address a professional
symposium on serial murder.
The FBI man’s presence lent the annual gathering considerable cachet. It also
guaranteed the symposium’s delighted organizers, a local college’s criminal
justice program, an SRO audience of veteran homicide detectives drawn to dozy
Des Moines to hear the world’s foremost authority on sexual criminals.
My invitation had come on the strength of The Only Living Witness, the
biography of Bundy that I’d published the preceding year with my coauthor,
Hugh Aynesworth.
Ted was a figure of consuming interest to criminologists, and ours was the
definitive treatment of his strange odyssey.
Once a dark legend throughout the West, a roving, phantom killer who
murdered, undetected, for years, Bundy finally was convicted and condemned to
death in Florida for the Super Bowl Sunday, 1978, bludgeon murders of two Chi
Omega sorority sisters. He received a second death sentence for the throat-slash
murder of a twelve-year-old Lake City, Florida, child, whose brutalized remains
Ted had dumped beneath a derelict hog shed.
But it wasn’t the horror of such crimes that made him stand apart in the minds
of the police. Rather, it was Ted’s extraordinary success. There were no living
witnesses, besides Bundy, to any of his murders. Save for a single savage bite
mark Bundy left in the buttock of one Chi Omega victim, there also was not a
single piece of incontrovertible physical evidence connecting Ted to any crime
more serious than shoplifting. One prosecutor called him “the man with no
fingerprints.”
A onetime law student and young GOP volunteer in the state of Washington,
Ted was handsome, witty, and poised, nobody’s idea of a deviant killer. But
behind what the late psychiatrist Hervey Cleckley, coauthor of The Three Faces
of Eve, famously termed the sociopath’s “mask of sanity,” there was a hidden
Bundy—the “entity,” as Ted first described him to me: a deviant killer who
collected and preserved his victims’ severed heads on cabinet shelves in his
small Seattle apartment.
It was also the “entity” who sought credit for the murders, even as the public
Ted indignantly disclaimed them.
In an effort to exploit this split between the public and private Bundy, Hugh
and I asked Ted if he would speculate on the type of offender who might have
committed the many homicides for which he was a suspect—put himself in the
killer’s shoes, so to speak.
Bundy, the supreme narcissist, promptly agreed to do so. He had much to tell.
On the audiotapes we later played for the detectives in Des Moines, Ted
carefully explained what it was like to be a serial killer.
He said that a killer comes to hunting humans gradually. The appetite builds
from a young boy’s undifferentiated anger and morbidity of mind to a search for
ever more violent pornography, the visual and written material that Ted believed
had shaped and focused his fantasy world.
Then comes the window peeping, followed eventually by crudely conceived
and unsuccessful assaults. In Ted’s case, these gave way, over time, to a
sophisticated taste for the chase and its aftermath: the selection of what he called
“worthy” victims, pretty and intelligent young daughters and sisters of the
middle class, nice girls whom Ted desired to possess, he said, “as one would
possess a potted plant, or a Porsche.”
No multiple murderer before or since has so vividly communicated the
essence of his urge as Ted did on those Death Row tapes, or taught law
enforcement more about the ways of a serial killer.
In the end, Hugh and I would learn, the apparent mystery of Ted Bundy was
really only a matter of failed perception. The skulls and necrophilia—Bundy
revisited some victims in their woodland graves for days—so difficult to
reconcile with his attractive public persona were ghoulish but hardly unique
examples of how the sexual criminal attempts to create a fantasy that
complements his underlying motivations—in Ted’s case, a monstrous hatred for
women and a consuming, frantic quest for power—and then tries to realize that
fantasy.
To the sexual offender, possession is power, and total possession is absolute
power.
Roy Hazelwood taught me that.
When I located Hazelwood that night in Des Moines, he was seated alone at a
low table, savoring a nonfilter Lucky Strike and a sparkling glass of iced gin,
habits he has since reluctantly abandoned. Roy’s gaze was obscured by the
amber lenses in his aviator frames—a look he’d acquired in Vietnam—and he
was bathed in a haze of blue cigarette smoke.
Clustered in knots throughout the lobby were dozens of heavy-limbed middle-
aged men, each with a practiced grip on his own cocktail-hour libation. A glance
at their weary eyes and wary posture immediately confirmed that here was a
room full of cops.
“Roy Hazelwood?” I asked, approaching the celebrated FBI agent.
“Yes.” He stubbed out his Lucky. “You must be Michaud.”
Hazelwood rose to extend his right hand. We shook.
“Have a seat,” he directed. “Care for a drink?”
Roy wore a spiffy dark blue blazer, open-necked white shirt, gray slacks, and
carefully polished black loafers, an arresting sartorial contrast to this writer in
old chinos and the assembled homicide investigators in their cop mufti, double
knits and short sleeves.
The scene is indelible in my mind, and years later the details still play exactly
the same way in my memory. It’s humid, and the icy cocktail glasses sweat rings
through paper napkins onto the damp Formica tabletop. Ecru tufts of stuffing
poke up through a hole in the red Naugahyde seat of my chair.
But what turned an otherwise ordinary night into an ineradicable memory was
the conversation with Hazelwood. By evening’s end I’d already begun an
extraordinary journey, a frequently harrowing fourteen-year exploration across
the shadowy nether edge of human behavior, the psychic precincts of the sexual
criminal.
This book is the record of that trip.
Police departments from around the United States and Canada had paid $145
apiece for their detectives to attend the Des Moines meeting, a bargain ticket
given some of the big-dog crime authorities scheduled to lecture.
Besides the meeting’s top draw, Hazelwood, speakers included Cook County,
Illinois, state’s attorney William J. Kunkle, Jr. Four years earlier, Kunkle had
won a death sentence for John Wayne Gacy, the portly bisexual serial killer and
Democratic Party operative who strangled or stabbed to death an estimated
thirty-three of his sexual partners, young men and boys, throughout the 1970s.
Gacy buried more than two dozen of his victims in the crawl space beneath his
house in Norwood Park Township, a northwest suburb of Chicago.
Also in Des Moines was Sergeant Dudley Varney of the Los Angeles Police
Department. Varney was a key investigator during LAPD’s Hillside Strangler
case of 1977 and 1978, the string of ten (and possibly more) brutal torture-
murders for which serial-killing cousins Kenneth Bianchi and Angelo Buono
ultimately were caught and imprisoned.
Another of the presenters was Bob Keppel, chief investigator for the
Washington State attorney general’s office, and probably the world’s most
experienced serial killer hunter. At the time of the symposium, Keppel was
advising various law enforcement agencies in western Washington on the Green