The Lady Killer
Those of you who read I Confess on a regular basis will no doubt recognize my byline. In the past twenty years, my name has appeared beneath more than two hundred titles printed in this magazine.
The first murderer I interviewed was the drug-crazed Dunstan Lathrop who, in the late Eighties, shot and killed a sixteen-year-old convenience store cashier during the course of a robbery. The most recent was Althea Emery who murdered her own child because she could not find a babysitter and refused to cancel a date with her boyfriend.
In all my years as a journalist, this is by far the most difficult article for me to write, not only because it will be my last but also because I broke the cardinal rule of the I Confess staff: don't become emotionally involved. But alas, dear readers, I could not help myself.
The subject of my final article is a man whose name you all know: Dean Wellesley. Like nearly all serial killers, he was given a nickname (more than one actually) by the press and the police task force. Of these monikers, the Boston Butcher was the most common until Wellesley was captured. When reporters got a peek at his movie star looks, he was renamed the Lady Killer.
With his unabashed sensuality, natural charm, finely sculpted physique and handsome features, he quickly became a tabloid star. From the day of his arrest until long after his sentence was passed, Dean frequently appeared on the front page of the Globe, the Star and The National Tattler.
Being a journalist, I was able to view the trial from a ring-side seat. I remember quite clearly the first day the charismatic Wellesley was led into the courtroom by his attorney. An electric shock ran through my body. The eyes of the women around me widened in appreciation. It was as though Brad Pitt or George Clooney deigned to visit the Suffolk County courthouse. One of the jurors—a stereotypical spinster in her late forties—even smiled at him as he took his seat at the defense table.
What a moron! I thought with disgust.
Would she still blush like a lovesick schoolgirl when the prosecutor passed around crime scene photographs of the eight women the Lady Killer had savagely slaughtered? I suppose she would, given my knowledge of human nature. Look at how many women wrote to and even married men behind bars, men already convicted of murder. Convicted killers like Scott Peterson and the Menendez brothers attract women who apparently have no fear of becoming their next victim. I have no doubt that if Charles Manson looked like Johnny Depp, desperate women would be lining up to become Mrs. Manson despite the bloodbaths he orchestrated in his younger days.
I admit Dean Wellesley is extremely good looking. I would have to be blind or dead not to notice those deep blue eyes, thick sandy hair, muscular body or the hint of a cleft in his chin—and I am neither. But I also subscribe to the belief that Satan was God's most beautiful angel before the fall. How else could he tempt so many people to part with their souls?
As a documenter of true crimes, I have clung to one principle throughout my career: never forget the victim. For twenty years I have listened to defense lawyers describe the atrocities (real and manufactured) inflicted on their clients by abusive parents or other members of society, and while I have compassion for any beaten or sexually abused child, I cannot excuse their actions as adults. I've always believed that the unwarranted taking of a life—human or animal—is inexcusable.
So, while nearly every woman in the courtroom fantasized about being the one person who could redeem Dean Wellesley's doomed soul, I was saying a prayer that the district attorney could convince Miss Stereotypical Spinster and her fellow jurors to see beyond the soulful eyes and sexy body to the monster beneath.
The trial proceeded as most sensational trials do. It was a long, drawn-out affair complete with courtroom theatrics and countless objections by both sides. The press, especially the tabloid reporters, ate it up like fine cuisine.
The opening statements were dramatic, worthy of a John Grisham novel. The prosecutor described the defendant as the heartless, cold-blooded killer he was, whereas the defense attorney painted him as a good boy who had gone wrong, a hard worker who was good to his mother and kind to animals. You would think, listening to the defendant's lawyer, that Wellesley was on trial for a less severe crime such as joyriding or shoplifting rather than brutally raping and butchering eight young women.
I often thought there should be three lawyers in a murder trial: the prosecutor, the defense attorney and a third litigator to present the crime from the victim's point of view. Why was it that the victims' families were only asked to speak in the sentencing phase? Perhaps the families' impact statements should be heard during the trial to put the crimes into proper perspective. If Miss Stereotypical Spinster could be made to put herself in the place of one of the eight murdered women or their families and feel their pain and terror, she would liken Dean Wellesley to a rabid animal who ought to be euthanized for the good of society.
But enough of my personal views on the American legal system. You did not buy this magazine to hear me cry out for victims' rights from my journalistic soapbox. Like most true crime readers, you are probably interested in hearing the defendant's story. You want to read what Dean told me in our prison interview after he was convicted. Well, I won't disappoint you, although I will spare you the gory details of the murders themselves. For these, you will have to look to the tabloids. Instead, I will share with you the confession the Lady Killer made to me in the Massachusetts Correctional Institution-Cedar Junction, in his own words, unaltered by any guards or prison officials. After all, this is America where even convicted serial killers have the first amendment-granted right to freedom of speech.
For those of you who have read any of my previous articles, I apologize for my lack of objectivity here and for my frequent editorializing, but as I have already told you, I became emotionally involved in this case.
Wellesley's trial dragged on for over five months. True crime addicts followed its daily progress like a soap opera. I will not bore you by relating the details. Besides, it would take several volumes to adequately document the proceedings in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts vs. Dean Samuel Wellesley. Suffice it to say the public and press reveled in the titillating testimony provided by the Lady Killer's single surviving victim. Sadly, not even her chilling story could wipe the arrogant look from the defendant's handsome face or break the spell he cast on nearly every female in the courtroom. Apparently, only I and the witness herself were not card-carrying members of the Dean Wellesley fan club.
The psychiatrists from both sides of the legal battle bandied about terms like misogynist, sociopath and narcissistic personality. The forensics people talked about DNA, hair samples, fibers and prints found at the crime scenes—all of the usual truTV stuff. The defense had virtually no exculpatory evidence to present. (I can't help wondering why they didn't plea bargain.) There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Wellesley was the Lady Killer. The jury had no choice but to convict. Even Miss Stereotypical Spinster agreed despite the fact that she was obviously enamored of the defendant.
When the verdict was read, there were mixed reactions in the courtroom. The defense team was disappointed, the prosecutors were eager to celebrate their legal victory, the male spectators were glad that justice had prevailed and the women were crushed that so good looking a man would most likely be sent to prison for life since there is no capital punishment in Massachusetts. I admit to all, dear readers, that I was elated at the outcome of the trial!
Only the defendant showed no sign of emotion. It was as though he were completely detached from his surroundings. It wasn't shock; it was arrogance. Wellesley acted as though no one could touch him, as if he were above the laws of mere mortals. His lack of reaction took some of the sweetness out of the moment, but at least I could take comfort knowing he would never be set free to kill again.
* * *
It was not until seven months after the Lady Killer went to prison that I was allowed to visit him. I had written his lawyer and made all the arrangements beforehand, so Wellesley was expecting my arrival.
"I remember you," he said upon meeting me. "You were in the courtroom during my trial."
"I'm flattered," I said perfunctorily.
"So why did you want to see me?" he asked.
"I'm a writer for I Confess magazine. I'd like to do an article on you."
"You expect me to confess to killing those women?"
The twinkle in his eyes and the endearing crooked smile were surely intended to put me off guard, but it didn't work. I was immune to his charms.
"I just want to hear your story in your own words. If you say you're innocent, then that's what I'll write."
"And if I don't tell you the truth?"
"Then I'll put your lies in that article."
Dean knitted his brow and looked at me, studying my face as though trying to determine if I was being honest. Apparently, I passed his test.
"Hell, why not admit what I did," he said with a sigh. "I don't stand much of a chance of getting out of here on an appeal. I confess. I murdered every one of those women."
Although I never doubted his guilt, his casual admission to such heinous deeds made my flesh crawl. I forced myself to remain calm.
"Is that all you wanted to know?" Wellesley asked, smiling arrogantly. "Don't you want to hear all the juicy little details?"
I didn't answer.
"No," he said softly, his entire personality suddenly changing. "You don't want to hear about the pain and suffering those women had to endure—not by me, but by life. I only released them from their cruel captivity. I set them free."
This was a side of Wellesley no one had seen during the trial. Was it real or was he playing a sick joke on me?
"You ought to understand such torment," he continued. "I see it in your eyes. Life has not been kind to you, has it?"
He waited patiently for my reply.
"I don't complain."
I had no intention of elaborating. I was the one conducting the interview, not him. But there was something compelling in his voice.
"A man has hurt you, hasn't he?"
I looked into his eyes and was flustered. He was gorgeous! It's the only word that fits his level of attractiveness. Miss Stereotypical Spinster's head might spin at the sight of any good-looking, well-built stud, but I was above all that. It took a man like the Lady Killer, a perfect specimen of masculine beauty, to set my pulse racing.
"You've lived your adult life in profound loneliness because of him."
I couldn't look away. It was as though I was mesmerized by those eyes.
"You never trusted anyone after him. Never fell in love again. Never married."
Had his victims felt as I did at that moment, powerless to turn away, wanting only to surrender to the moment, to feel those strong arms around my waist, to lay my head on his broad shoulder ....
"You go home every night to an empty apartment. Maybe there's a pet cat, maybe not."
"I had a cat once, but it ran away."
"You poor, poor thing," he commiserated. "A woman like you was meant to be adored, cherished, worshipped."
This guy is good! I thought.
It was as though he were making love to me with his words alone. With great effort I was able at last to turn away from his hypnotic eyes.
"Is that what you said to your victims?" I asked, reminded of my mission to the prison. "Did you seduce them with your sweet talk before you raped and murdered them?"
The arrogant smile returned to his handsome face.
"I didn't need to rely on just words. I had no bars between me and them."
My faced flushed and I forcefully pushed aside an image of my body touching his, our lips locked in a passionate kiss. With a shaking hand, I reached into my purse and took out a microcassette recorder.
"Do you mind if I tape this interview?"
"Not at all. I'll consider it a rehearsal for my appearance on Inside Edition next month."
"Let's start with your first victim, Lorna Kilmer. Why did you kill her?"
"Do you drive?" he asked—a complete non sequitur.
"Yes, why?"
"What was your first car?"
"A Ford Mustang."
I could see where he was going with his line of questioning.
"Why did you pick that one? Why not a Chevy Camaro or a Pontiac Firebird?"
"I liked the look of the Mustang. It was more to my taste."
"It's the same thing with my victims," Dean explained. "They were to my taste. She fit the general profile: lonely, sad, beautiful. Those women were all alone in this cruel world, unloved, unwanted, un—"
"No!" I shouted, unable to bear his words any longer. "She wasn't unloved or unwanted."
Dean's eyes sparked with interest and—what was it, fear? Had he a vague inkling of my true purpose for visiting him?
"You knew Lorna? Or was it one of my other victims?"
"Teri Milford," I replied, "the sixth young woman you slaughtered."
"The college kid?"
"She was a lovely, intelligent, compassionate young woman. She had a future ahead of her, everything to live for. She was loved by all who knew her, so she didn't fit your profile."
"There was no man in her life—just books and schoolwork. That's no life for a young woman, any more than writing magazine articles about killers is."
"Who are you to judge the worth of anyone's life?" I asked, trying my damnedest not to scream, not to reach through the bars and rake my long nails down his perfect face.
"I am who I am," he said with a heartless, soulless laugh.
He was a true sociopath, without an ounce of conscience.
"I am what I've become: the Lady Killer. I know who I am, but do you know who you are?"
The gauntlet had been thrown down. I could run or I could stay and fight. I chose the latter.
"I am pretty much as you described me," I conceded bravely, not yielding the high ground in this battle of wills. "While still in school, I fell hopelessly in love with a fellow student. I was foolish enough to get pregnant, and he disappeared without a word."
"What happened to the child? Did you get an abortion?"
"No. I couldn't afford to raise her because I was determined to complete my education, so I let friends of the family adopt her."
"You chose your career over motherhood? How selfish of you!"
"My child had a good home. I saw to that. A nice house in the suburbs. Parents who loved her and raised her properly. I watched her grow from an infant to a young woman. I was never far from her, but I never told her who I was, despite the fact that I longed to hold her in my arms, to comfort her when she scraped her knee, to care for her when she was sick."
"You poor baby," Wellesley said sarcastically.
"You callously took her life without any more regard than if you had swatted a fly."
Dean rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders.
"What can I say?"
Was that a white flag I saw? Was he yielding the field to a superior opponent?
"Maybe she's better off dead," he said. "You know, rather than hate me for killing her, you should thank me for sparing her the truth. Now she'll never know that her mother didn't want her."
The damned fool was not surrendering an inch. He was like General George Pickett, determined to charge up that Gettysburg hill despite certain death reigning down on his division from above. I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard—almost, but not quite!
"I think our interview is over," I said, pressing the STOP button on the small recording device.
I looked at him and saw those handsome features as ugly and loathsome. Then I tossed the recorder through the bars. He caught it with a look of surprise on his face.
"What's this?"
"I don't think my readers will be interested in hearing what you have to say."
"Why not?"
"You're not a very interesting person. Your packaging is okay, but inside there's nothing of any value."
I relished my triumph. I had struck at my enemy's Achilles heel: his overinflated male ego.
"You mean you're not going to print my confession?"
"I have a much better story in mind."
As I headed for the door, I turned and delivered one final salvo.
"Why don't you play back the tape? You'll see just how dull you really are."
The guard opened the metal door and locked it behind me. Moments after I stepped out into the corridor I heard the explosion. I smiled. I had known Dean was bound to rewind the tape and press the PLAY button.
* * *
Capital punishment: it has been the subject of an ongoing, heated debate in our country for many years. As a liberal, I was always against the taking of a human life, even when that life was guilty of murder. But then, I had never lost a loved one to a senseless act of violence. I had never seen a bright light snuffed out by a monster.
Some of you might argue that I should have let the man who murdered my daughter rot in jail for the rest of his life. You no doubt feel that the loss of his freedom was punishment enough. I do not agree. I have heard the oft-quoted slogan those against the death penalty spout: Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord. Well, who are you to say that I am not the weapon God chose to exact his vengeance on the Lady Killer?
In conclusion, dear readers, I confess that I murdered Dean Wellesley with premeditation and malice aforethought, and I also confess that despite my hand in his death, my conscience is clear.
Salem confesses that although he sweeps the ladies off their feet, he never kills them.
