She locked her door. She bought new deadbolts. And still, he walked right in.

Let’s go back to a Tuesday in June of 1962. The air is thick with summer heat, but inside these apartments, the temperature drops. A woman hears a knock. Not the frantic pounding of an emergency, but something softer. Something polite. She opens the door, perhaps thinking it’s a neighbor, perhaps thinking it’s a repairman, or maybe just someone she knows. But it isn’t anyone she knows. It is a stranger who has already stepped across the threshold of safety.

Between June 14th, 1962, and January 4th, 1964, thirteen single women in Greater Boston were taken from this world. Their ages ranged from nineteen to eighty-five. They lived alone. They trusted their instincts, or perhaps they trusted the social contract that says a knock on the door is usually safe. Most were sexually assaulted. Most were strangled in their own homes. There were no signs of forced entry. No broken windows to explain away the intrusion. The police, confused and terrified by the pattern, assumed the women must have known their attacker. Or they believed him to be a service provider. A plumber? A salesman? A doctor?

The fear was not abstract. It was visceral. Residents purchased tear gas for their pockets. They installed new locks and heavy deadbolts, trying to build walls against a ghost. Some moved out of the area entirely, fleeing the city itself because the city had become unsafe. The attacks continued despite extensive media publicity. You would think that knowing there was danger would stop the killer. But it didn’t. The predator thrived in the silence between the headlines.

At first, there was no name. Just a shadow. The press called him the Mad Strangler of Boston. Later, the Phantom Fiend. The Phantom Strangler. These titles carried weight, yes, but they also carried distance. They turned human beings into symbols of fear. It wasn’t until 1963 that two investigative reporters for the Record American, Jean Cole and Loretta McLaughlin, changed the narrative. They wrote a four-part series that connected the dots, linking disparate murders into a single, horrifying pattern. They dubbed him The Boston Strangler. By the time Albert DeSalvo’s confession was aired in open court, the name had become part of crime lore. It stuck. It defined a generation of anxiety.

But here is where we need to look closer. Because while the public saw one monster, the investigation revealed a fracture. In the years following DeSalvo’s conviction, before the modern era of DNA testing, various parties investigating the crimes suggested something unsettling. What if it wasn’t one person? What if the Silk Stocking Murders—the nickname given to some of these cases—were committed by more than one individual? The police themselves were not convinced that all the murders were the actions of one man. Yet, much of the public believed so. Why? Because it is easier to imagine one evil genius than a systemic failure that allowed multiple predators to operate unchecked. But let’s remember the victims. Each one mattered. Each death demanded an answer.

Jurisdictional oversight was a nightmare. The murders occurred in several cities across eastern Massachusetts, making prosecution nearly impossible for any single force. Massachusetts Attorney General Edward W. Brooke stepped in to coordinate the various police departments, desperate to bring order to chaos. In his quest for answers, he made a controversial decision. He 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 Brooke. The scientific community scoffed. It was a moment of panic masquerading as procedure.

Despite the ridicule, the underlying truth remained: the connections between a majority of the victims and hospitals were widely discussed. Many victims were poor, elderly, or lived alone. Police initially underestimated the connection between the attacks, missing the pattern because the victims did not fit the profile of the 'ideal' victim in the eyes of 1960s law enforcement. Forensic techniques available then were limited compared to modern standards. We lacked the tools to link evidence across jurisdictions. We lacked the patience to listen to the stories of women who had no voice left to tell them. This is the human cost here. Not just the violence, but the neglect.

On January 4th, 1964, the final victim of the official strangler killings, 19-year-old Mary Sullivan, was raped and strangled in her Boston apartment. The details are harrowing, but we must hold space for her life, not just her death. 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. It was a message of cruelty, a taunt at the start of a new year. Mary was nineteen. She had a future, friends, a family. Her murder shocked the nation. It was the breaking point. The terror could no longer be ignored. The police knew they needed a name. They needed a face to put on the nightmare. And soon, they found one.

Albert DeSalvo was not initially suspected of being involved with the strangling murders. He was a different kind of predator. Earlier on October 27th, 1964, DeSalvo had posed as a motorist with car trouble and attempted to enter a home in Bridgewater, Massachusetts. The homeowner, future Brockton police chief Richard Sproules, became suspicious and eventually fired a shotgun at DeSalvo. That same day, a stranger entered a young woman's home posing as a detective. He tied the victim to her bed, sexually assaulted her, and suddenly left, saying 'I'm sorry' as he went. The woman's description led police to identify the assailant as DeSalvo. When his photo was published, many women identified him as the man who had assaulted them in similar fashion. He was known as 'The Green Man' and 'The Measuring Man,' collecting measurements of women's bodies during these assaults.

DeSalvo was charged with rape. But it was in jail, speaking to fellow inmate George Nassar, that he began to talk. Nassar reported the confession to his attorney, F. Lee Bailey. The police were impressed. DeSalvo cited details that had been withheld from the public. He even got one detail right that one of the victims was wrong about: he described a blue chair in a living room. The victim stated it was brown. Photographic evidence proved DeSalvo was correct. His descriptions of crime scenes were accurate. Too accurate to ignore.

No physical evidence substantiated his confession. This is the crux of the tragedy. Because there was no DNA, no fingerprint, no weapon linking him directly to the stranglings, he was never formally convicted for the murders. He was tried on charges for earlier, unrelated crimes of robbery and sexual offenses. His defense attorney, F. Lee Bailey, brought up DeSalvo’s confession to the murders as part of his client’s history at trial, attempting to assist in gaining a 'not guilty by reason of insanity' verdict for the sexual offenses. But the judge ruled it inadmissible. DeSalvo confessed to strangling fourteen women, including the nine officially recognized victims, but later recanted some confessions while in prison. He died in 1973, behind bars, having never stood trial for the Boston Strangler murders.

For decades, the case remained open, shrouded in ambiguity. Was he the sole perpetrator? Or did others walk free? The lack of closure haunted investigators. We had a confession, but we didn’t have proof. We had a name, but we didn’t have justice. The dust on the file grew thick. But as I always say, the dust doesn’t mean the story is dead. It just means we haven’t looked closely enough yet.

What if we listen now? Decades later, science caught up to the intuition of those early investigators. In 2013, DNA evidence linked DeSalvo to the 1964 murder of Mary Ann Sullivan. Scientific confirmation finally arrived. It proved his involvement in at least one of the cases beyond reasonable doubt. Authorities have not officially closed the case file for all victims solely based on this evidence, leaving some historical ambiguity regarding individual identifications. The debate continues. Some argue that the DNA link validates the entire confession. Others maintain that without physical evidence for each specific scene, we cannot assume he acted alone in every instance.

This case reminds us of how fragile truth can be. It reminds us of the power of names like Loretta McLaughlin, who refused to let the stories disappear. It reminds us of the limitations of our past systems. And it reminds us that justice is not just about punishment; it is about acknowledgment. Mary Sullivan. Betty Jo Donahue. Margaret Sullivan. These are not just numbers in a police report. They are lives interrupted. They are mothers, daughters, sisters. Their stories deserve to be told with dignity, not sensationalism. The Boston Strangler case is not just a mystery. It is a mirror reflecting our failures to protect the vulnerable. And it is a testament to the resilience of those who seek the truth, long after the bodies have been laid to rest.

Thank you for spending this time with me. I hope you feel a little less alone today. Remember, you matter. Your attention matters. This story is drawn from public records and widely reported accounts. Our thoughts are with everyone affected. Until next time, stay safe, stay curious, and keep listening. I’m Susanna Humphries. Goodnight.