Michael Benson Michael Hanlon I have danced with evil, stared unblinkingly at depravity, and poked at the brains of psycho killers. I have memorized playfully sadistic crimes, creepy-crawly methods and motives, and, after a beat of digestion, popped the results out in book form, packaged to give readers the willies in the middle of the night. I’m a true crime writer.
Robert would become a serial killer, eventually convicted of murdering a prostitute and his girlfriend among others. The murders of the Spahalski brothers is the subject of the 2010 book.
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I get Christmas cards from a cannibal, and three times I have covered murders most foul right here in the Rochester area. My fascination with evil stems from childhood trauma. On June 25, 1966, when I was nine, my babysitter, George-Ann Formicola, and her friend from just down the road, Kathy Bernhard, went swimming in Black Creek behind the Benson house off Ballantyne Road in Chili—and didn’t come home. A month later they were found two miles to the west horribly mutilated by a knife. Monroe County had its very own Jack the Ripper. The case was never solved, and it was too ghastly to be covered in detail in the newspapers of the day.
I grew up knowing that a real-life boogeyman had crossed my back field. Even as a kid, paralyzed by fear, I wanted answers, to solve the crime, to find out who the monster was. I grew up to become a true crime writer. Ishq na karna female version mp3 song download mr jatt.
Not a coincidence. In the 1990s, I read every true crime book. My Manhattan office was a crazy quilt of detective magazines with bright, vivid covers of lingerie-clad babes packing heat and newsprint innards as gray as a Monday morning corpse. I learned plenty about serial killer Arthur Shawcross, convicted of killing eleven women in Rochester during the 1980s. Earlier in life, he had killed two children in the Watertown area. The thing most fascinating about Shawcross was the fictional biography he gave a shrink after his Rochester arrest.
He recounted his days in Vietnam, alone on jungle patrol. Coming upon a pair of “Vietcong chicks” swimming in a stream, he killed, mutilated, and cannibalized them. The man was clearly confessing to something, but his records showed that he had never been in a position to patrol a jungle, alone or otherwise.
Change jungle to woods and Vietnam to Chili and he could have been describing “my” murders. By the early 2000s, true crime was already my obsession, and I figured I might as well make a living at it. My first crime book was about a family affair in Penfield: Betrayal in Blood. In July 2003, diminutive lawyer Kevin Bryant sleepily called the cops to report that he’d been upstairs reading while an intruder came into the house and shot his wife, the beautiful and much-younger Tabatha. The tapes of that 911 call are shocking. Bryant is the calmest man in the history of 911 calls. At one point it sounds as if he yawns.