A Murderer's Past Revisited
by Dan Hust

A Look at 'Son of Sam': Part I

Editor's Note: This is the first of a two-part series. Editor Dan Hust
recently completed an interview with serial killer David Berkowitz, of
which this story is a result.

FALLSBURG - Every morning, at 6 a.m. on the dot, he gets up and makes
himself presentable for the day. Then, somewhere around 7, he finishes
breakfast and prepares for work, which starts exactly at 8:30.
From that time until 9 p.m., he labors as a chaplain's clerk, a fancy
name for a job that contains a generous mix of paperwork and gruntwork.
But he enjoys it, stopping only for lunch and dinner.
Once 9 p.m. rolls around, he's back to his room and bunk, reading up on
the day's mail, studying his Bible, and saying a prayer or two before
bed, which occurs around midnight.
Welcome to the life of David Berkowitz, New York State prisoner number
78-A-1976.
This monotonous routine is the one he's destined to repeat for the rest
of his days, for 20 years ago, he pled guilty to killing six people and
wounding seven others, qualifying him for the status of "serial killer"
and landing him in a maximum security state prison for the next 360
years.
There's no parole board hearing, no governor's pardon, no newly revealed
evidence to change that fact, either. David Berkowitz, the infamous "Son
of Sam," is going to die in jail, rotting away in a small cell as many
would desire.
He knows as well as anyone that he will never visit a carnival, drive a
car, or ever draw a pension. Getting married is a remote, nearly
insignificant possibility, as are children, and owning a home - even
renting one - is a distinct impossibility. Digging in his garden,
shopping at the mall, and enjoying a holiday trip to see family are
simple pleasures that will forever be alien to him.
This man seems to have absolutely nothing to live for. And for many
years, he thought the same way.
But no longer. This man's alive, vibrant and fresh, full of spirit. Or
in his words, full of the "Holy Spirit."
"I don't see prison walls anymore," he says. "God has set me free."

A Life Tormented
David was born on June 1, 1953, in Brooklyn, where he was adopted
immediately by a couple named Nat and Pearl Berkowitz. For the next few
years, his childhood was apparently idyllic. He had a loving family, a
comfortable home, and more than enough children to befriend.
But something changed.
"I was not aware of it," he recalls, "but I began to be on a different
level."
Years before he entered the typically difficult stages of adolescence,
Berkowitz became lonely and depressed, locking himself in closets and
other small, dark spaces. In what was to become an escalating problem
for the next 30 years, he started contemplating suicide, assaulting
fellow students and teachers, and distancing himself from family and
friends.
"Very dark clouds of depression would come over me," he says. "I visited
with a child psychologist for two hours every week [per the orders of
concerned school officials] for two years, but nothing came of that."
Adding to a brewing storm within Berkowitz was the death of Pearl in
1967, when he was 14, and his rejection of his father, Nat. From there,
his life, as far as he was concerned, just got worse.
"My dad tried his best to get close to me, but I always put up these
walls," he says. "He used to plead with me, 'David, you can't live in
your own world. You've got to mix with people.'"
But he didn't, and his inner torment continued unabated.

Real Personal Demons
However, looking back on that growing period of angst, Berkowitz does
not blame it on his situation, or his parents, or his life in general.
He puts that blame squarely on demons, even the Devil himself.
"At the time, I was, for whatever reasons, possessed," he explains,
"because none of that was normal. I would go berserk in the house,
having seizures, flopping around, kicking things, screaming madly. My
dad would have to tackle me to the floor until these attacks subsided."
This possession, characterized by virtually uncontrollable impulses,
continued to affect him even after he left home and entered the Army in
1971. Stationed in the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) in South Korea as an
infantryman on patrol, he never quite felt out of the demons' reach.
But upon his return home, he struck out on his own, renting an apartment
in Yonkers, working as a postal clerk, and teaming up with a group of
"friends."
"When I got out of the service, I was trying to get my life organized,"
recalls Berkowitz. "But I met up with some of the wrong people. People that were involved in Satanism."
At that time, Berkowitz had no concept of demonic possession, nor was he aware of the link between the belief in demons and the practices of
Satanic cults.
To him, it was just an adventure, "spooky stuff to keep one's
interest."
"But there was a power there, a bonding there. Almost like chains being
wrapped around me, like a spiderweb. Before I knew it, I was
head-over-heels, and there was just no getting out."
Enticed by acceptance and the lure of the unknown, Berkowitz moved
deeper into the occult, eventually participating in drug-induced chants
and ceremonies, cemetery vandalism, and animal sacrifices.
But although he says he was brainwashed in some respects, part of him
still found these acts "repulsive."
"But I felt powerless to pull out. I was led so far as to make a pact
between members of the gang and Satan himself. One part of this pact was
that, if I ever was to betray anyone in the group, my family members
would be killed."
But, ironically, Berkowitz's family was never to be physically harmed.

The Murders
Although both psychologists and police say Berkowitz acted alone during
the months the killings and woundings occurred, he has a different
story, one that he believes police are still investigating to this day, a belief that a separate source confirms.
"At some point, I crossed the threshold of no return," he says. "I went
from a casual participant to an actual Devil worshipper. Once I
willingly gave the Devil my body and mind, I quickly became a human
killing machine."
Though loathe to talk about it even now, Berkowitz explained that
several members of the Satanic group felt compelled to kill others as a
sort of human sacrifice. Partially moved by his own sense of obligation
and partially by these sinister compulsions, Berkowitz took that fateful
step beyond criminal mischief into the hideous world of homicide on July
29, 1976.
That night, 18-year-old Donna Lauria, a Bronx resident, died at the
hands of Berkowitz and, as he says, his fellow cult members.
Five more deaths were to follow, along with seven other woundings. The
victims were mostly young women and men, leading police and the public
to the erroneous conclusion that Berkowitz was a "lovers' lane" type of
killer.
Additionally, whether or not one believes the involvement of people
other than Berkowitz himself, he became the self-proclaimed "Son of Sam"
(in letters he wrote to the press while committing the murders) and was
dubbed by the media as the ".44-caliber killer," due to the use of his
own .44-caliber Bulldog in most of the killings.
"I never wanted to hurt anybody," he says. "I took no pleasure in that.
But a lot of things fell into place, even beyond my understanding. There
was a power there that I tapped into . . . that I deliberately sold
myself to."
By the time the third murder rolled around, New York City police knew
they were dealing with a serial killer or killers, and one of the
largest manhunts in the history of the Big Apple began, ending on August
10, 1977, eleven days after the sixth person was murdered. Tipped off by
Berkowitz's neighbors and a suspicious parking ticket, the police closed
in on his Yonkers apartment and arrested him just as he was getting into
his car, apparently on a trip to the beaches of Long Island (which he
says was motivated by these non-stop impulses) to conduct a homicidal
spree, commonly known as a massacre.
Soon, Berkowitz was being interviewed by what seemed to be nearly every
detective and psychologist in the entire five boroughs. Though many came
to different conclusions, Berkowitz solved all legal dilemmas by
pleading guilty to the entire series of murders, thus landing him in
jail with a sentence of 360 years in prison. No parole, no visits to
the outside world, no nothing.
And so the world promptly forgot about him.

Imprisoned
In August of 1977, Berkowitz entered Kings County Hospital's prison
ward, one of the first of many prisons he would inhabit. There, he spent
nearly one year in a solitary confinement strip cell under continuous
observation. Eventually, after stints in places like Attica, he came to
stay at Sullivan Correctional Facility in Fallsburg in 1987.
For eleven years after his entrance into the world of an inmate,
Berkowitz continued to be tortured by his demons, living a life of
ever-increasing loneliness, depression and desperation.
"I really had no reason to get up in the morning," he says. "I just was
going through the motions of life."
Thoughts of suicide plagued him constantly, but, ironically, it was
another inmate that nearly killed him by slashing his throat with a
knife. The large scar is still visible. A permanent reminder of his
brush with death, although at the time, he would rather not have lived
to see it.
"A part of me wanted to die," says Berkowitz, "and a part of me was
hanging on to something."
One night in 1988, he found out what that something was.

A Killer Turns Around
Berkowitz Finds God: Part 2

By Dan Hust

A Life Changed
"I was walking alone in the yard one night," Berkowitz says, "and I felt
totally rejected, really lonely, one of those depression times. And
another inmate walked up to me and said, 'Hey Dave. My name is Rick.
Mind if I tell you something?'"
Berkowitz said yes, prompting the fellow prisoner to explain that God
had sent him to Berkowitz to tell him that Jesus Christ, the Son of
God, according to Christian belief, loved him and had a plan for his
life.
Recalls Berkowitz, "I said, 'Listen, I know you mean well and I believe
in God, but I've got no time for religion. Besides, I don't think God
would want to have anything to do with someone like me. I've done too
many evil things.'"
And with that, Berkowitz thanked him for his time and moved to walk away
from Rick.
But Rick was not to be denied. After assuring Berkowitz that he wasn't
out to scam him, he invited Berkowitz to participate in his workout
sessions in the yard. The two fast became friends in the following
months, and during that time, Rick would occasionally drop little bits
of information about his Christian faith. A fact that Berkowitz, raised
in a Jewish home, found interesting mostly on an intellectual level.
However, Rick's persistence in giving him a pocket-sized Gideons Bible
and continually telling him that Jesus was the answer to all his
problems, eventually caused Berkowitz to take a look into the facts
behind his friend's faith.
He began reading the Book of Psalms in the Old Testament portion of the
Bible, which he found to be beautifully poetic. Many of the chapters
were written by an ancient king of Israel named David, a man that the
modern David felt had gone through many of the same life struggles.
"His life had a lot of pain in it," he says. "I always thought that a
king's life is supposed to be happy, exciting and prosperous. But I saw
him crying out in tears to God.
"A few weeks later, I found that, after I would read the Psalms, I'd
start to cry sometimes. I'd say, 'Man, this is such beautiful, beautiful
stuff.'"
After reading a few more verses one night, Berkowitz began to cry
violently. The memories of his past came flooding back mercilessly,
driving him to his knees next to his bunk.
"I just started crying out to God, crying like a baby. I hadn't cried
like that since my mom died years ago," he explains. "I told God I was
sorry for everything that happened, that I was
sick and tired of living this life. I was disappointed and discouraged,
hurting real bad, feeling guilty, and I cried out tears of repentance."
He didn't really expect an answer. After all, if God even existed, he
thought, how could he have anything to do with a murderer?
But, says Berkowitz, he did get an answer.
"When I got up off my knees about half an hour later," he recalls, "it
felt as if a ton of weight had been lifted off me. I didn't understand
what had happened, but I just felt different."
A few days later, he told Rick what had occurred.
"He was so excited, he started shouting, 'Hallelujah! Hallelujah!' I was
telling him, 'Shhh! Be quiet, be quiet!'"
But Rick would not be silenced. He told Berkowitz that God had forgiven
him of all his sins and entered his life in a real, meaningful way.
An experience Christians call being "born again."
From that day forward, Berkowitz's life took a 180-degree turn and
stayed that way.

Serving vs. Living Life
"I got a new awareness of life," he says. "I suddenly began to
experience some happiness and joy . . . the kind that just sort of
bubbled up from within."
Not that it was all a "bed of roses," as he puts it.
"There was still a lot of pain in my life. It didn't just like, presto,
leave. I went through a lot of periods of doubt, where I doubted this
was really happening. And I needed a lot of assurance from other
brothers [fellow Christians] in prison."
But the change apparently stuck, and Berkowitz, now 44, moved from a
lonely prisoner to the model inmate prison workers and others say he is
today.
"I could talk all day about how I'm amazed at the situation," says
Richard Rochkind, a traveling preacher from Maryland and a friend of
Berkowitz. "I mean, the whole situation of being there probably weighs
on him a lot, [but] he's free because he's in the Lord."
Rochkind met Berkowitz through another friend, who took Rochkind to the
prison to meet Berkowitz.
"We just shot the breeze," Rochkind recalls, "but there was a joy in the
midst of those circumstances. I could see a genuineness in him.
"He was very sincere and very gentle, the opposite of what he used to
be."
And that's what seems to strike many people who get to know Berkowitz.
One might think that's not too difficult considering that he will never
be released or paroled or pardoned from prison. But Berkowitz has never
financially profited from his crimes and has no desire to do so. And
others will testify to such.
"David is incarcerated and will never have freedom," says Rev. Jim
Whitley, a chaplain at the John Wilder Youth Center in Somerville,
Tennessee. "But he's not reaching out for any attorneys to change the
decision. His life is based on Jesus Christ's love for him, and that
really excites me."
Whitley, who met Berkowitz through their mutual interest in helping
troubled youth, isn't the only one who's excited.
"He's what keeps me going," says Rev. Don Dickerman, a prison minister
from Texas. "There's not many services where I don't mention his
testimony."
But when Dickerman first got acquainted with Berkowitz, he probably
never would have expected to become his friend down the road.
"In 1978, when David was in Attica, I wrote a letter telling him that
God loved him and Jesus could save him," he relates. "David wrote back
and said, 'When I get out of here, I'm going to kill you.'"
Ten years later, Dickerman was at Sullivan for several services, and
after one, an inmate approached him, one he vaguely recognized as David Berkowitz.
"I didn't know he was now a Christian. He put his arm around me and
said, 'I want you to know, I appreciated the service tonight.' After
that, God bonded us, and I now consider David my brother."
Through Dickerman's prison ministry, Berkowitz has shared his testimony in written form with thousands of other prisoners. Something which has been repeated with those outside prison walls too, as Berkowitz is very active in personal correspondence.
"I feel that my ability to write is a gift from God." he says.
Additionally, he tries to share his life story with as many people as he
can, especially those younger than 25.
"He's a very genuine person who's had a real spiritual experience with
God," explains Heinz Fussle, who, in association with Gospel Films,
produced "The Choice is Yours," a video aimed at a teenager/young adult audience and featuring an interview with Berkowitz and several young people. "If that had not been real, he would have just fizzled out.
"He's trying to pay back to society for what he did wrong," continues
Fussle, a professional filmmaker for over 30 years who's worked with
people like Roy Rogers and C. Everett Koop. "He does quite a bit of
counseling and is involved in foreign missions [religious work in other
countries]. He feels that this is where God can use him, and he's
content with that."
Berkowitz, however, is quick to point out that his life, though changed
dramatically, is still full of struggles and hardships, as life in
prison is not easy, nor is the burden of his past deeds.
"I wish I could go back in time and change everything," says Berkowitz.
"I don't even deserve to be alive, and I am intensely remorseful for
what I did and the families I hurt. I wish none of that had ever
happened."
Still, he acknowledges that he has a life to live, and he feels that the
best way to spend his remaining years in prison is to help those inside
and outside the prison deal with the problems, complexities and
catastrophes of life.
"I believe that God has called me to be a minister, to reach out, to
give people hope," he explains. "I want to share the good news."
Even prison officials were apparently convinced of his sincerity in this
desire, granting him his request to become a peer counselor for
emotionally-disturbed prisoners at Sullivan. The very kind of person he
was considered to be years before.
"That door opened up," he recalls. "I lived and worked in that cell
block for several years, counseling guys and helping them through their
emotional troubles."
Nowadays, he works as the Protestant chaplain's clerk, setting up
chairs, cleaning up, encouraging other inmates and helping the chaplain
wherever necessary. A draining task, he says, but a fulfilling one.
"There are Christians in here that are stronger than me, and they
encourage me, because sometimes I burn out and get discouraged. There's a lot of negative attitudes, and there's a big need for encouragement for all of us.
"It's really like a family, because we see each other all the time in
the hallway, in the yard, in the chapel," he adds.
Berkowitz's also involved in work overseas, supporting an orphanage in
Africa, missionaries in Mexico, and a center for mentally handicapped
children in India. In fact, a couple in Tanzania who are involved with
the orphanage named their child after Berkowitz.
All these efforts, especially the youth work, are obviously important to
him, but he maintains that he is not doing this for recognition, money
or simply personal happiness.
"God is a God of hope," he says, citing two verses from the New
Testament Book of Luke. "'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he
has anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor. He has sent me to heal
the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovery of
sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed; to
proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord.' And that's my mission in
life."
Berkowitz's best friend, a 42 year old seminary student called Jesse
Craft, backs him up on that issue.
"I love David very much," he says without hesitation. "I talk to him a
couple of times a week, and he is sincere, honest, and loves the Lord
very much.
"He's taught me about the importance of encouragement, because he
himself goes through persecution and loneliness. Yet he continues to
seek the Lord.
"I'm very blessed to have this wonderful brother in Christ," he adds.

What Matters Most
However, in the end, it all boils down to Berkowitz and what he's doing.

Numerous people have asked him why he does what he does, suspecting
there's a more sinister motive behind his actions. Even fellow
Christians have doubted the sincerity of his beliefs.
"People don't have to believe me. I know they are skeptical. I myself
never thought that things would change around like this," he explains.
"And the number one thing people throw back at me is that I've got
jailhouse religion. But the truth of the matter is I am never, ever
going to get out of here.
"I do what I do because I love Jesus Christ, and I'm thankful for what
he's done in my life," he firmly says. "I want to see people set free
from the bondage they're in. I know that God was merciful to me, and if
he would save somebody like me, who's done so much evil and doesn't
deserve to live, he's willing to reach out to anybody."
So what does Berkowitz's future hold, besides another 340 years of
prison?
"I would like to be used by God to reach out to a lot of teenagers," he
comments. "Even though times have changed, the needs of people have not.
We still want to be happy, to be content with life, to be successful in
life. "And most of all, we want to be loved."

The Next 340 Years
By all accounts, despite Berkowitz's faith, tenacity and activities, he
will continue to struggle with his life past, present and future. But
for him, moving forward within what he believes is God's plan for his
life is of paramount importance.
"In one sense, my life is a failure, not a success story," he
acknowledges.
"But I'm here to say, 'Hey, you don't want to become like me. If you
come to prison, there's nothing here for you, and you will throw away
the best years of your life.'
"But one thing I've learned is to be content," he continues. "Obviously,
no one wants to be in prison. And I do have a lot of pain, especially
when I see faces of the victims. Whenever I hear anything about it, I
feel nauseous. But God is healing me from that.
"He's doing something wonderful. And that's what I live for."

Berkowitz is presently serving six consecutive 25 years-to-life
sentences for the six murders he pled guilty to in 1978.
In the year 2002, he will be eligible for parole for his first life
sentence. Paroled or not, he must then serve another 25 years before his
next parole hearing convenes.
Berkowitz must serve a minimum of 25 years for each murder charge before
any parole hearing can be set. Assuming he is a model prisoner and is
granted parole each time, Berkowitz would have to live to the age of 174
before he would be allowed out on the streets again.