Michele R. McPhee - A Date with Death: The Secret Life of the Accused Craigslist Killer

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.

A DATE WITH DEATH

Copyright 2010 by Michele R. McPhee.

Cover photo of surveillance by Boston Herald / Polaris.
Cover photo of Philip Markoff by Mark Garfinkel / Boston Herald / Polaris.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

EAN: 978-0-312-94506-0

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martins Paperbacks edition / June 2010

St. Martins Paperbacks are published by St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

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For Riccardo

I wish I could thank every law enforcement source and prison insider who helped me confirm facts about this case that have not been revealed publicly. Obviously, I cannot. Those sources know who they are, and I am in their debt.

I am grateful to my editor, Allison Caplin, for her resourcefulnessand unrelenting patienceunder a very harrowing deadline. As always, I am honored to work with Charlie Spicers stable of true crime writers. I must thank my agent Jane Dystel and my former editors at the Boston Herald, Joe Sciacca and Kevin Convey, for helping me nail down photographs. I tip my hat to my friend Norman Knight of the 100 Club of Massachusetts.

Most of all, baci e abbracci for amore mio Riccardo Passini, for his constant support and unmatched sustenance.

I must point out that while Philip Markoff has been charged with Julissa Brismans killing and other crimes, despite the evidence against him, he pled not guilty and, as of this writing, was awaiting trial. He had not, at press time, been convicted of any of the crimes discussed in this book.

Standing shirtless, Philip Markoff stared into the bathroom mirror of his comped hotel room in the Pequot Towers at Foxwoods Resort Casino in Connecticut and the words spilled out.

I cant believe the bitch scratched me.

Markoff knew he shouldnt touch the sores, but his fingers involuntarily traced the angry red marks left on his chest by two acrylic fingernails, dug into his skin with unexpected strength and ferocity. For a small girl, she did some damage, Markoff thought to himself, staring at the wounds. At six-foot-three and 205 pounds, the twenty-three-year-old Markoff was solidly built but for the soft girth around the belly, extra weight he and many of his fellow Boston University medical students packed on as a result of a grueling schedule of study and hospital internships that left little time for the gym or healthy meals.

As he peered into the mirror, Philip noticed his blond hair was still tousled from the baseball hat he had been wearing earlier that night. The worn-out cap was his idea of a disguise. Not surprisingly, it would later prove to be not much of one.

With water from the tap, he smoothed down his hair, still worn in the same style he sported in high school, and then looked up again. His close-set blue eyes locked in on the scratches. Set against his pale-white skin, the red marks especially stood out, appearing deeper than they actually were. He used his meaty index finger to trace the wounds again and forced blood to the surface. As he absentmindedly smeared the blood together from the marks that criss-crossed his lower neck and upper chest, Philip Markoff forced his mind to focus on what to do next.

Focus is what was desperately needed now if he wanted to avoid capture.

It wasnt supposed to have gone that way, not by a long shot. A woman who advertises herself through the Internet as a masseuse who specializes in hand stress relief was very low risk, no risk really, when it came to going to the cops if she got ripped off. When he had tried the same thing with another prostitute at another swank Boston hotel a few days earlier it had gone off without a hitch. Or so he thought.

But this time, things went off the rails. Completely. What caused this little girl to fight back? He had a gun for christsakes! Why did that bitch scratch me? It was not supposed to go this way.

After it was over and a young woman lay dead in a room on the twentieth floor of the Marriott Copley Place hotel, Markoff left the hotel with his hat pulled as far down his face as his nose would allow. As he calmly walked through the lobby, he sent text messages to someone on his BlackBerry. Nonchalantly. As if the beaten, bloodied body upstairs did not matter at all. Then he scurried back to his apartment in the nearby suburb of Quincy.

He had no idea if anyone was following him or if anyone saw him arrive home shortly after midnight on April 15, 2009. But his first inclination was to get out of town. Panicked and bleeding from the scratches on his upper chest, Markoff pulled off his black zip-up jacket and hid the cell phone he had used to contact the masseuse. No one he wanted to hear from would be trying to contact him on it anyway. It was a throwaway, a prepaid disposable cell phone. He took off his loose black jeans and stuffed them in a laundry basket. The blue polo pullover he wore that night was never recovered. He then haphazardly stuffed some clean clothes into a duffle bag and headed south on Interstate 95.