Tom Philbin - I, Monster

BACKGROUND

David Berkowitzwho would grow up to become the infamous serial killer Son of Sam, prowling the streets of New York City, armed with a .44 caliber Bulldog revolver and shooting people at random, mostly young womenwas born to two people who were married. But not to each other. They gave the bastard child up for adoption to Nat and Pearl Berkowitz, who raised David in the Coop City complex of apartments in the Bronx.

The exact reasons for his development into a serial killer are not known, but by the age of twenty-two he was, as one cop put it later, three quarts low. He thought bloodthirsty demons were controlling him, one in particular named Sam, who was embodied in a neighbor's black Lab dog. (Which, ironically, is one of the most gentle dog breeds there is.) Berkowitz started thinking of himself as a Son of Sam, the sort of son-of-a-bitch who would follow Sam's orders exactly, and those orders were to send people into the next life.

Following are selections from official court documents or notes and letters he wrote after his conviction.

David Berkowitz

PERSONAL WRITINGS

At one point Berkowitz cruised Southampton, Long Island, looking for victims. But he said the demons in him didn't want him to murder that night so they started a storm to stop him. They had enough force to call these clouds to stop me. They always selected the people I'd shoot. It wasn't up to me.

I am the demon from the bottomless pit here on earth to create havoc and terror. I am War, I am death and I am destruction.

I am tormented

I cry in my cell

I miss my daddy

I am very uptight

I hear demons

I see demons

I need to talk to someone.

I cannot be left alone

I will have a breakdown

I cannot be understood

I am truthful

I am doomed

I have made myself a promise not to remain locked up behind bars forever. I have debut [sic] to pay to society and one day I will be free to repay it.

I must repay society and now that I am a Christian I will work to help other people find true freedom and eternal life.

In this hospital I found Jesus Christ and it is Him who I am obligated to. I must tell society about the truth and hope.

A LETTER TO DAD

In November 1975 Son of Sam wrote a letter to his adoptive father, Nat, who had moved to Florida and left Berkowitz to fend for himself as, of all things, a security guard. In the letter, Berkowitz more than hinted at the depression he was feeling.

Dear Dad,

It's cold and gloomy here in New York, but that's okay because the weather fits my moodgloomy. Dad, the world is getting dark now. I can feel it more and more. The people, they are developing a hatred for me. You wouldn't believe how much some people hate me. Many of them want to kill me. I don't even know these people, but they still hate me. Most of them are young. I walk down the street and they spit and kick at me. The girls call me ugly and they bother me the most. The guys just laugh. Anyhow, things will soon change for the better.

On Christmas Eve of that yeara month after he wrote this letterBerkowitz, his paranoia in full blossom, went on his first hunt and started killing people.

SON OF SAM WRITES TO POLICE AND THE PRESS

In the midst of the Son of Sam killings, Berkowitz got offended by Captain Joseph Borrelli of the NYPD and wrote him the following letter.

Dear Captain Joseph Borrelli,

I am deeply hurt by your calling me a wemon hater. I am not. But I am a monster. I am the Son of Sam. I am a little brat.

When father Sam gets drunk he gets mean. He beats his family. Sometimes he ties me up to the back of the house. Other times he locks me in the garage. Sam loves to drink blood.

Go out and kill, commands father Sam.

Behind our house some rest. Mostly youngraped and slaughteredtheir blood drainedjust bones now.

Papa Sam keeps me locked in the attic too. I can't get out but I look out the attic window and watch the world go by.

I feel like an outsider. I am on a different wavelength then everybody elseprogrammed too kill.

However, to stop me you must kill me. Attention all police: Shoot me firstshoot to kill or else keep out of my way or you will die!

Papa Sam is old now. He needs some blood to preserve his youth. He has had too many heart attacks. Ugh, me hoot, it urts, sonny boy.

I miss my pretty princess most of all. She's resting in our ladies house. But I'll see her soon.

I am the MonsterBeelzebubthe chubby behemouth.

I love to hunt. Prowling the streets looking for fair gametasty meat. The wemon of Queens are prettyist of all. It must be the water they drink. I live for the huntmy life. Blood for papa.

Mr. Borelli, sir, I don't want to kill anymore. No sir, no more but I must, honour thy father.

I want to make love to the world. I love people. I don't belong on earth. Return me to yahoos.

To the people of Queens, I love you. And I want to wish all of you a happy Easter.

May God bless you in this life and in the next.

And for now I say goobye and goodnight. Police: Let me haunt you with these words: I'll be back! I'll be back! To be interrpreted asbang, bang, bang, bang, bangugh!!

Yours in murder

Mr. Monster

Below is a letter written to Jimmy Breslin, a reporter for the New York Daily News, who received it on May 30, 1977.

Hello from the gutters of N.Y.C., which are filled with dog manure, vomit, stale wine, urine, and blood. Hello from the sewers of N.Y.C. which swallow up the delicacies when they are washed away by the sweeper trucks. Hello from the cracks in the sidewalks of N.Y.C. and from the ants that dwell in these cracks and feed on the dried blood of the dead that has seeped into these cracks.

J.B., I'm just dropping you a line to let you know that I appreciate your interest in those recent and horrendous .44 killings. I also want to tell you that I read your column daily and I find it quite informative.

Tell me Jim, what will you have for July twenty-ninth? You can forget about me if you like because I don't care for publicity. However you must not foget Donna Lauria and you cannot let the people forget her either. She was a very, very sweet girl but Sam's a thirsty lad and he won't let me stop killing until he gets his fill of blood.

Mr. Breslin, sir, don't think that because you haven't heard from me for a while that I went to sleep. No, rather, I am still here. Like a spirit roaming the night. Thirsty, hungry, seldom stopping to rest; anxious to please Sam. I love my work. Now, the void has been filled.