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I

Is the boogeyman real? Generations of children would say, Yes, of course he is. There, hiding in the closet, amid boxes of toys and smelly socks, creeps that mysterious, unseen monster; that demon underneath the bed; that ghostly image, transparent and ominous, tucked behind the curtains gently drifting in the wind of an open window; that shadowy figure, who comes out at night when the lights are off and Mom and Dad are shouting from the next room, “It’s your imagination. Go to sleep.”

The boogeyman is there. Any child who has ever sat awake at night with a flashlight underneath his or her covers has seen or heard him.

Truth be told, however, popular culture rarely compares fictional boogeymen—i.e., Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger, and the like—to those predators out there right now blending into society, working with us, standing behind us in line at the bank, waving to our children as they pass by their houses on bikes, watching and waiting for the perfect opportunity to snatch one of us off the street to use as a prop in some sort of unimaginable game of God knows what. Think BTK: an outwardly normal, churchgoing animal control officer who tormented and tortured women for years under the nose of law enforcement. To be clear, this is a book about a real boogeyman (like BTK, Gacy, Dahmer, Bundy). A true monster.

A calculating maniac.

Twisted and despicable.

And yet contrary to what you might think, the boogeyman in this true story is not a disturbing-looking, vile creature—an attribute of his character that makes him even that much more dangerous. He doesn’t have a scar, like a bead of weld, running the length of his face. Nor does he wear a hockey mask. Or a creepy Halloween costume. He doesn’t sport big, pointy ears like a bat. Or have sharp, salivating fangs like a demon.

He does not dress up like a clown.

Or sport a tattoo of a swastika on his forehead.

He’s not dirty and sweaty, like every bad guy, in every thriller, in every Stephen King novel and movie.

He’s not stupid.

Or mentally challenged.

In fact, our boogeyman speaks quite charmingly.

Smartly. Intelligently. Even elegantly.

He’s charismatic and good-looking. A Rutgers graduate. Honor student.

Fun to be around.

“The kind of guy your mother,” a former female acquaintance told me, “would want you to marry.”

Indeed. Right up until the moment he places his cold and clammy hands around the throats of those women he chooses to kill and squeezes the life out of them before penetrating the blade of his favorite knife into their chest, he is the perfect gentleman.

The all-American boy next door.

You see, every one of these ingredients—and there are plenty more in the pages that follow—are what make this boogeyman even more dangerous than that creature from your childhood dreams. The one all of us have thought we’ve seen. Yes, the features displayed by our boogeyman will make you think twice about those people you think you know—and, likely, when you’re in bed some night and you hear a bump in the closet, you’ll either get up and run out of the house as fast as you can, or, quite courageously, face your fears and open the door.

II

There are those stories that get under your skin and just sit there, tugging at your soul. For me, this is one of those cases. Having the opportunity to interview a serial killer—a guy who fashioned himself after Ted Bundy and later became obsessed with Bundy’s killing strategy—only heightened the intensity of writing this book. Just when you think you’ve seen and heard it all, along comes a story that changes everything, and for a moment, you think, Is there a human being capable of such madness? And then you begin a dialogue with this person and a new understanding of brutality emerges alongside a rather voyeuristic need to know what makes a guy like this tick. From where do these terrible thoughts of harming women come?

I don’t know why, but some stories never receive the national attention of, say, a Natalee Holloway, John Mark Karr, Jeffrey Dahmer, or any other high-profile crime story you want to insert here. Some stories are just designed for the 24-7 stimulus of roun’-the-clock news coverage the cable networks have adapted to over the years. While others, like the one I am about to tell, fall below that commercial radar.

Still, I love these stories—the ones we’ve never heard of. The ones that seem to embody the clichéd spirit of “truth is stranger than fiction.” The truth is, we may never know what goes on inside the mind of a maniac. Yet, for the first time in my career, I believe I’ve come close. In this story, the killer speaks.

Loud and clear.

III

Hundreds of hours of interviews made this book possible: with prosecutors and crime victims, family members of victims, detectives, patrol officers, investigators of all types, forensic specialists, profilers, and, of course, a killer and jailhouse snitch. In no other book I’ve written, however, have I used more inside (anonymous) sources who have helped me, through their courage, get to the truth and put every piece of this complex crime story together. I cannot thank those courageous people enough for coming forward and making this book what it is.

IV

There may be a question as to why I refer to Ned Snelgrove as a serial killer. I questioned this myself. I’ve written two books about serial killers before this one. I understand the motives and thinking behind their crimes and, of course, the clinical definition. In talking with one of the top forensic psychologists in the United States, it was explained to me that Snelgrove could, easily, be considered a serial killer. He had killed in different states, years apart, and attempted to kill in between. His motives are clear in his own handwriting: he would continue to kill if he had the opportunity. Add to that the additional murders that sources claim he’s responsible for, and a classic serial murderer emerges.

M. William Phelps

January 2008

Vernon, CT