Timesuck with Dan Cummins - 468 - Richard Cottingham: The Times Square Killer

Episode Date: August 18, 2025

The Times Square Killer didn't just kill in Times Square. Richard Francis Cottingham committed at least six murders in New York State between 1972 and 1980, plus an additional thirteen murders in New Jersey between 1967 and 1978. While he primarily targeted sex workers, he also kidnapped women and girls as young as thirteen off of the street. Today we both look at his crimes and also, explore the interesting and seedy history of Times Square, site of his most gruesome killings. Merch and more: www.badmagicproductions.com Timesuck Discord! https://discord.gg/tqzH89vWant to join the Cult of the Curious PrivateFacebook Group? Go directly to Facebook and search for "Cult of the Curious" to locate whatever happens to be our most current page :)For all merch-related questions/problems: [e-mail] (copy and paste)Please rate and subscribe on Apple Podcasts and elsewhere and follow the suck on social media!! @timesuckpodcast on IG and http://www.facebook.com/timesuckpodcastWanna become a Space Lizard? Click here: https://www.patreon.com/timesuckpodcast.Sign up through Patreon, and for $5 a month, you get access to the entire Secret Suck catalog (295 episodes) PLUS the entire catalog of Timesuck, AD FREE. You'll also get 20% off of all regular Timesuck merch PLUS access to exclusive Space Lizard merch.

What do you think about Times Square? Do you love it? Do you hate it? Have you ever been? It's a pretty polarizing place. On the one hand, it's a pretty unique and amazing place, a place where massive LED screens beam the results of billion-dollar advertising campaigns, where the lights of Broadway glimmer to beck and theatergoers into shows, a cultural flagstone where hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people pour out of subway tunnels each day to go to work or site see or simply be in the middle of the city that never sleeps.

But also, it can feel pretty gritty, a bit dystopian, a place where strange people in dirty Elmo, cookie monster, and Transformers costumes, pressure you for a hug and then insist on being paid for this hug that you never wanted, a hug you might have been willing to pay to not get, a place where so many people are running so many different scams, a place where you can just feel the energy of vice,

of all kinds, lingering in the shadows. Again, for many, it's polarizing, a place they either really, really want to visit or have zero interest in ever-stepping footing. Times Square has been polarizing for at least 100 years, going back to the time when the New York Times established its headquarters there and gave the square its current name. Back when the city opened the 42nd Street subway station and when a charismatic and brilliant advertiser named Oscar Goode decided to mount his advertising spectaculars, massive displays of colored lights that move like movie animations, claseling crowds who had only just gotten used to regular streetlights. Upright, aka fun-hating citizens, complained about how Goode's displays were degrading the space, making it seem cheap and tacky.

And there were wars with Goode and others like him who wanted to advertise, who wanted to turn New York not only into a hub of commerce, but into entertainment itself, would last for decades. And then New Yorkers would have a new reason to complain about Times Square. Newly nicknamed the Deuce by 1960, Times Square was considered the worst area in town by the New York Times. Overrun by sex workers, pimps, petty crime, and rampant hard drug use, its formerly beautiful buildings were in a state of decay, and police could do or chose to do little to stop the social ills there. It was mostly

just sectioned off and ignored. It had become a huge red light district and one uniquely close to the, quote, respectable people. All that vice was within walking distance, just a few blocks from Broadway shows. If you wanted to see a chorus line, Evita, Chicago, Annie, or any other iconic musical that was on Broadway in the 70s, you'd likely drive or walk by a bunch of adult businesses and the crowds they drew. Yet, people still took their kids to these plays, walking past abusive pimps and beaten sex workers, peep shows and porn shops, as did all the people who worked regular jobs in the area had to do. Thousands of people passed through all that every day, which made a very easy for someone to slip in, act out their most deviant sexual fantasies, then slip back out

into anonymity. Someone who wanted drugs, hardcore porn, a good time with a sex worker, or someone who wanted something far darker. On December 2nd, 1979, staff at the near-to-Time Square Travel Lodge Motor Inn made a call to the New York City Fire Department. One of their rooms on the fourth floor was smoking. Inside, firefighters found two people. or rather two bodies, or rather parts of two bodies. They had died but not of smoke inhalation. Over hours or even days, these women, these women who were almost certainly sex workers very familiar with walking the streets of Times Square, had been brutalized, stabbed, bitten, raped, beaten, tortured within inches of their lives before they were ultimately killed.

Then, whoever had done all that had also cut off their heads and hands and fled with them. their possessions, any bit of forensic evidence that would have led back to the killer's identity. The press, and there has long been so much press to come out of New York, dubbed whoever did that the Times Square killer, or the torso killer, and also the Times Square Ripper. And these shocking murders shocked many in a very jaded towards violent crime city. A large number of NYPD detectives and other law enforcement officers began working literally around the clock to find the killer, and for a time they had no idea. that just over the bridge in New Jersey, police were also working to find the person responsible

for several horrible murders and assaults there. And that person will be the same sadistic woman-hating killer. The Times Square torso killer was not just doing his dirty work in Times Square. Today we dive in to all the gritty details of one of New York City's worst women hunters in this week's Big Apple, True Crime, Times Square, Fuck This Guy, Edition of Time Suck. Michael McDonald, and you're listening to TimeSuck. You're listening to TimeSuck. Well, happy Monday, and welcome or welcome back to The Cult of the Curious. I'm Dan Kellman's.

Suck magician, faith healer, light worker, dark worker, kind of in the middle of light and dark, not really bright, but also not like super hard to see and stuff. and you are listing the time suck. Hail Nimrod, hail Lucifina, praise be to good boy, Bojangles, and glory be to Triple M. May his holy yacht rock, his sing-alongs still bring brightness and joy to your days.

No announcements today other than congrats on being alive right now. You're doing so much better than Abraham Lincoln, Napoleon, Einstein, Alexander the Great, Charlie Chaplin, everyone else who's also dead. Well done. You're here. Your heart is beating. You can feel the sun on your skin. All hope is not lost. enjoy the day and thanks for spending some of your time here.

Now back to a topic that brings us to some place we don't visit all that often here in the suck first, not really, considering how big of a metropolis it is in New York City. Even if you've rarely visited or have never been, you know, many of us thanks to so many movies and TV shows and just a substantial amount of cultural permeation, do have at least some idea of what it's like. Maybe you think of the catty prep schoolers and gossip girl or the New York City. dating scene in the 90s as portrayed in sex in the city or many of the numerous rom-coms set in New York City like How to Lose a Girl in 10 Days or when Harry met Sally? Or maybe your mind skews more towards crime, towards classic movie like The Godfather or Taxi Driver. Of those two, taxi driver is more thematically aligned with today's topic. 1976 Taxi Driver, directed by Martin Scorsese, written by Paul Schrader, portrays the version of New York City, especially

Times Square that is decaying, violent, alienating, morally bankrupt, a gritty urban nightmare that reflects a psychological deterioration of its protagonist, Robert De Niro's Travis Bickle. That New York City is covered in grime, neon lights, and trash. Steam rises from manholes, rain slicks to pavement, the streets team with pimps, addicts, misfits, and loners. Sex work, drug use, violence, they're everywhere. But the real horror is how normalized it all seems. Jaded people. passing by without seem to notice, let alone care. The only point to living seems to be your own survival. No connection, no community, no self-improvement, just getting by, doing whatever you have to do to keep waking up. Though exaggerated, for thematic effect, in many ways, this mirrored

how life really was for those who found themselves immersed in Times Square in the 60s, 70s, and early 80s. And that made it real easy, far too easy, for a man like Richard Cottingham to do what he did. But that wasn't always the case. Before we get into today's murders, let's first go way back to talk about Times Square a long time ago. And a quick note before we do, while most of today's murders will actually not take place in Times Square or even near it in our timeline, many of Richard's victims were all too familiar with working Times Square, New York City's epicenter of sex work while Dick was doing what Dick did. Okay, here we go. A long, long time ago,

Times Square was a swamp. Not a metaphorical swamp, like an actual literal swamp, with alligators, cottonmouth vipers, witches, a bunch of angry ghosts, monsters, and shit. All right, maybe not alligators, venomous snakes, witches, and monsters, but probably ghosts, you know, definitely was a swamp. When Manhattan Island was first settled by Dutch colonists

back in 1624, three small streets, met near what is now the intersection of 10th Avenue and 40th Street. Those streams form the so-called Great Kill, kill being the Dutch word for river, which then wound through the low line, read valley, which was known for its abundant fish and waterfowl, before emptying into a deep bay in the Hudson River around present-day 42nd Street.

Kind of hard to imagine, right? You know, standing there on the shore, catching fresh bass on Manhattan? Actually, people still do catch bass, some big ones in the lake in Central Park some largemouth bass if you're surprised by that yeah I was too actually ended up getting lost in a YouTube hole

spending way too much time watching New York City based bass videos I fucking love seeing how excited people get when they finally reel in a big fish which actually is so fun but still hard to imagine fishing from a creek in the heart of New York City or seen like wildlife in abundance

or of any kind anyway enough distracting myself with fish talk around the time of the American Revolution the area belonged to John Moran Scott, the general of the New York militia who served under George Washington. Scott's Manor House was on present-day 43rd Street, which was then surrounded by countryside used for farming and breeding horses. Very hard for me to picture, but it happened. By the 1800s, early real estate speculators like the prominent fur trader, John Jacob Astor, saw the district's potential and bought up a lot of land to sell to hotels and other developers as the city spread up

town, probably one of the best real estate investments in modern history. Dude did become the first multi-millionaire in the U.S. By 1872, the area had become the center of New York's horse carriage industry. Since it was still nameless, city authorities named it Long Acre Square after Longacre in London, which was England's horse and carriage trade hub. The streets we now know today for being lined with skyscrapers and glowing billboards were then lined with a lot of stables, riding schools, the headquarters of the American horse exchange where prized racehorses were bought and sold when downtown manhattan started to get

expensive the first businesses to move uptown or at least as uptown as the forties were theaters and vaudeville houses the first theater on the square of the olympia was built by cigar manufacturer oscar hammerstein uh actually technically oscar hammerstein the first uh opened in november of eighteen ninety five long acre square soon became nicknamed the thieves layer for its rollicking reputation as a Low Entertainment District. Then in 1904, the New York Times publisher Adolf Ox, excuse me, Adolf Ox, moved the newspaper's operations to a new skyscraper on 42nd Street at Long Acre Square on the side of the former Pabst Hotel, which existed on the site for less than a decade after it first opened in

November of 1890. That hotel was demolished to make room for the Big Paper's headquarters. The PAPS Hotel was also demolished to help with plans for New York's new subway system. Papp's one of the largest brewers in the country at the time. And yes, the same family behind the Papp's blue ribbon beer was behind that hotel. Ox persuaded mayor George B. McClellan Jr. To construct a subway stop there and the area was renamed Times Square after the New York Times on April 8th, 1904.

Just three weeks later, the square's first electrified advertisement appeared on the side of a bank at the corner of 46th Street and Broadway. Before long, developers realized that the long sightlines along Broadway and 7th Avenue, created by the bow tie configuration from the unique diagonal or from the unique diagonal intersection of the two streets made a natural stage for bright lights. A great place to get a lot of eyeballs on whatever where you were selling. Even before skyscrapers were common in that area, the rooftops of two and three-story buildings were easily transformed into sky-hugging metal frameworks for mounting supersized billboards and flashing signs that drew pedestrians to

the square. With signs situated on facades or rooftops scaffolds, views were encircling and unimpeded. It was like an arena, but inverted, with the audience at the center and the show along the periphery. The Times Square bowtie offered advertisers a perfect showcase, a generous physical space tailor-made for product ads, and it would not take long for the nation's commercial purveyors to understand its potential, especially after electricity supplanted gas-lit signs. Soon, the dark off-putting to some urban nighttime was being transformed into a sparkling environment. of incandescent lights.

But it took the entrepreneurial actions of Oscar J. Gude to make Times Square the most dramatic gathering place of all. A charismatic promotional genius, Oscar was a son of immigrant parents from Germany, who started off as a sign hanger and bill poster before opening his own outdoor advertising business in 1889 to design marketing campaigns for various corporate brands. In a strategic maneuver, he bypassed local businesses, what advertisers might consider stepping stones, to getting big accounts, and he went directly to national companies when looking for clients, convincing them that a properly placed sign would reach a huge audience of entertainment seekers

and tourists coming to Times Square either on foot or by the new subway at 42nd Street. He gained control of a network of the most visible rooftops around the square, and with his designers, applied the latest, greatest technological breakthroughs of the day that allowed groups of connected bulbs to be turned on and off in sequence, and lights to be dimmed or raised. And in doing so, Goode invented what ended up being called The Spectacular. An enormous electric sign consisting of hundreds, if not thousands of light bulbs, wired to elaborate circuits which dictated animation patterns and different lighting effects.

The goal was to stop people in their tracks, and it did. No one had literally ever seen anything like it. The result was motion picture-like actions and lights, a girl performing stunts on an electric tightrope, a polo player galloping on a horse, whacking a ball in an arc above Broadway, boys boxing in their underwear. The signs promoted almost every product imaginable. Safety razors, dental cream, cars, tires, brand flakes, coffee, whiskey, gin, cigarettes, chewing gum,

movies and shows, gloves, underwear, butt plugs, cock rings, leather studded strap-ons, disposable canned vaginas, electrical urethral sounding kit, stainless steel ass spreaders, strict leather dildo face harnesses, and so much more. Maybe not any of those sex toys. But you get the idea. And you know what? I don't know. Maybe one of those.

Maybe one or more. I don't know. Goode's truly memorable, remarkable, and expensive spectaculars came to dominate the growing night scape with the square. The coyly erotic Miss Heather Bloom in 1905. The 50-foot-high, sexy petticoat girl who struggles under an umbrella in an electric rainstorm as her dress whips up to reveal her petticoat and shapely legs. That was featured in the early years of the 20th century.

The frolicing cordoned. Chelly Kitten debuted in 1912, tangling with a spool of thread in different locations. The flowing fountains of sparkling white rock table water showed up in 1915, glittering and changing pastels. And one of the square's longest running spectaculars, the full block long, Wrigley Spearmint Chewing Gum Sign stayed up from 1917 to 1923, atop the Putnam building, a six-story office built on the west side of Broadway between 43rd and 44 streets, built by the Aster Estate in 1909. That last one was Goode's most elaborate animation.

Eight stories high, 250 feet long, boasting more than 17,000 white multicolored lamps with flowing fountains, peacocks with 60-foot-long tails, flora and foliate motifs, six prancing spearmine, each measuring 15 feet high, who went through 12 animated calisthetics, which the public promptly dubbed the Daily Dozen.

the largest electric sign in the world advertises Wrigley's the sign is seen nightly its 1920 advertisement boasted by approximately 500,000 people from all over the world passing through Times Square not sure how long it took 500,000 people to pass through Times Square back in 1920, but I guess it could have happened in just one night. It's wild. For white rock ginger ale, the water for all time. Goode designed a large clock in 1910 that changed color every few seconds. bracketed by flowing fountains of light The flowing fountains and colorful lights of the white rock sign suggested that Times Square was an exotic and magical paradise existing outside the constraints of everyday life wrote the curator for the wall panel in the New York State Historical Societies 1997 exhibition signs and wonders Now something as simple as ginger ale

Or shaving cream or underwear Seemed less like a mundane necessity and more like a ticket into an exotic world of light and wonder. Within just a few years, Gude almost single-handedly transformed Times Square into America's most important outdoor advertising market. Between 1904 and 1917, his company put up approximately 20 large spectaculars in Times Square,

each more elaborate and dazzling than its predecessor. But they weren't popular with everybody. You can never truly please them all, can you? Civic organizations, many of them led by the stodgy, elite railed against what they called sign evil the growing aesthetic problem of large scale billboards sign evil seems like a bit of an extreme description very melodramatic i should start labeling things and just mildly annoy uh uh you know that just mildly annoy me as being evil enough enough of this speakerphone in public evil it's a plague on my soul no more of this dogs not

on leashes and parks evil these devils belong in kennels Eventually there were so much public outcry that Mayor William J. Gainer appointed a billboard advertising commission in 1913 to investigate the problem and issue recommendations, which it did, though none were adopted. The ubiquity of these advertisements is an aggravating phase of the situation. The commission's report complained. They are no respecters of place. They are not confined to the unimproved tracks and rubbish yards on the outskirts of the city. On the contrary, they are thrust into the finest vistas which are public places present. uh yeah it's kind of the point to have them where the most eyeballs can see them by the 1920s despite the businessmen and merchants of broadway continuing to benefit from the economic power of the massive displays of color and light that brought thousands upon thousands of times square the same anti-billboard forces pressed on throughout the decade rival trade associations battled over sign restrictions on one side was the broadway association which wanted no controls whatsoever placed on signage and on the other side was the grandiose and aggressive Fifth Avenue Association who were afraid that electric signs would spill out of Times Square and into everywhere else in Manhattan, and they insisted that all projecting and illuminated signs be banned on Fifth Avenue from Washington Square all the way to 110th Street. In 1922, the Fifth Avenue merchant succeeded in convincing the Board of Alderman,

to pass an ordinance that put strict controls on signage everywhere around Times Square, which had the effect of intensifying the glitter and concentrating it in that one sanctioned area. Besides the fight over the lights, however, the area was doing great. Most legitimate theaters had moved to Times Square from former entertainment districts further downtown, and the area was flourishing. By the late 1920, subway lines, elevated lines, bus routes, stopped at Times Square, meaning it was not just city dwellers coming, but affluent suburbanites and visitors.

Times Square was fucking booming. Everything was going great. But then the Great Depression hit. As Cedars now struggled to survive during this period, As fewer and fewer people could purchase an expensive ticket to a big, costly Broadway production, many of the theaters became cheap grind houses that showed sexually explicit low-budget films. And yes, there were pornoes back then. And they were much more hardcore than you might imagine or remember.

I've talked about them before in here, but it's been a little while. They were called Stag Films, or just Stags. Stags were silent black and white films of about five to ten minutes long each, featuring brief narrative scenes bracketing a pretty haphazard edited jumble of penetrative sex thrusting so-called meat shots and at times snippets oral sex and ejaculation or cum shots and they've been around since at least 1915 and of course they have no matter what the religious political liberal or conservative culture of the day people will always love to fuck they're going always love to have sex and many if not most will be interested in watching others have it and why

because it's fucking hot because we're horny mammals with powerful urges it's a biological imperative hail Lusufina you know you only live once go get your pussy suck bro following the arrival

of these grinder or grind houses I guess sometimes we're called grinder houses other lowly forms of entertainment are so-called lowly arrived in the area burlesque shows I love burlesque

cheap restaurants peep shows dance halls penny arcades and then in such in a section you know in such a sexually charged area during an economically depressed time, it only made sense that sex work followed.

Commercialized sex proliferated throughout the neighborhood as both female and male prostitutes began lingering along 42nd Street, right? Times are tough. People need to do that for money. Other people want to fucking escape from their terrible lives and have some sexual fun. Nevertheless, Times Square continued to be the site of the annual ball drop during this period on New Year's Eve for people of all ages from all walks of life. That has started back on December 31st, The ball drop was placed on hiatus for New Year's Eve in 1942 and 43 due to lighting restrictions during World War II. We were placed by a moment of silence. It was observed at midnight in Times Square, accompanied by the sound of chimes being played from some sound trucks. On May 8, 1945, a massive crowd celebrated victory in Europe Day in Times Square, and on August 15th, 1945, the largest crowd in the history of Times Square gathered to celebrate victory over Japan Day.

there were an estimated 2 million people packed into Times Square in the surrounding area by 10 p.m. It's insane. The victory itself was announced by a headline on the zipper news ticker at one time square, which read official Truman announces Japanese surrender. It was still the place to be for extra special events, but after World War II, the area's decline ramped up. Construction in New York had come crashing to a halt in 1929 when the Great Depression hit, especially big construction projects.

and it really wasn't renewed until the 1950s after World War II. And when construction really took off again, it was all about putting wartime profits into new modern glass and steel corporate office spaces and the Times Square area was passed over because real estate values for retail, hotels, and movie theaters and the neighborhood just had never recovered after 1929.

It wasn't where anybody wanted to invest a lot of money in a big expensive project. Crime was commonplace and very little in Times Square had been renovated in recent memory. Many of the hotels there as late as the 1990s would still have their original elevators, wallpaper, hallways, doors and fixtures, going back to the 1920s, 30s, and early 40s. Worn, fraying, decaying, stained, dusty, and torn. Not to mention insect infested molding. 1960th, 42nd Street between 7th and 8th avenues was described by the New York

Times as the worst block in town. Sex shops, porn theaters, go-go bars, line the streets. in the coming years, the square would get seedier. The success of the 25-cent peep show, introduced in 1966, spurred other small businesses to follow the trend by selling cheap adult films and erotic merchandise. On the streets, prostitution by all genders, open drug trade, homeless addicts begging for change, big groups playing con games like Three Card Monty and Cleo became commonplace. Inside the area's buildings, crime thrived in the underground corridors of the subway and the pastures of the Port Authority bus terminal,

despite an abundance of police. By the 1970s, Times Square was cram full of sex shops, live sex shows, peep shows. The so-called king of the industry there was a man named Marty Hodus. Marty had grown up in Brooklyn after his Jewish family had fled a rising tide of anti-Semitism in Europe. Growing up, he took any job he could find, from shining shoes to working on a chicken farm to make money.

He eventually earned his living working at a company that installed gumball machines in the 1940s. made some gumball money and then in 1966 he dived into the porn business after he discovered numerous neglected old film loop machines in the basement of a New Jersey business he knew he could get up and running for next to nothing and he did. He utilized the machines by putting sex films in them

and placing the machines in adult bookstores in Manhattan according to the New York Daily News, especially in Times Square and he claimed that effort quickly grew to the point where he was earning $30,000 a week. Damn, if you're doing that in 1975, that would be equivalent to approximately $180,000 a week today. A lot of fucking money, staring at boobs.

Part of the reason he was able to make so much money was because he started making his own cheap pornography rather than buying films from third parties. Business was so good. He had to open up a repair shop specifically to fix the Legion of Sex Show machines. He had an operation. These sex shows would then evolve into live sex shows.

Marty's grainy films would be replaced by live women behind a glass window, over which an automated hardwall curtain, would rise and fall as the horny viewer fed quarters into a slot. Customers could give the girls' instructions through the glass as they jerked off. By the mid-70s, these live sex shows in the area were performed on small stages, better lights, and the glass in the peep show booths was taken out, dear God. Now a customer, once they close the door of their booth and fed a quarter into the machine

and lifted the curtain, they could tip, quote-unquote, the girl for a hand job, blowjob, whatever she was willing to do, whatever he was willing to pay for through the open window. The business had evolved from porn to straight-up sex work. But then Martin Hotis got caught cheating on his taxes, was sentenced to a year in prison for tax evasion in 1975. And while he was away, Richard Basciano, Dickie B, became the new undisputed king of porn in Times Square. He opened the show world center, the city's largest sex emporium, possibly the largest sex shop in the world at the time. in 1977 and 669 8th Avenue. Show World Center occupied the first four full stories of a 12-story building.

22,000 square feet of retail space had something for everybody, if everybody was horny, right, X-rated films, peep shows, adult books, live sex acts, such as one where a woman would shoot a hard-boiled egg from her vagina into the audience, like a fucking t-shirt cannon, and in-store appearances by famous porn stars. And I'm not going to lie, live sex shows. generally not my thing. Well, I guess, like, I've never been to a sex show, so I wouldn't even know that was my thing.

But I haven't wanted to go to a live show like in Amsterdam. I'm just like, I don't know. I think it'll make me sad. But if the audience was being respectful, I would want to see a woman shoot an egg out of her pussy cannon. I just don't understand how it's fucking possible.

It's a crazy feat of athleticism. And weirdly hot to me. I mean, what else is that magical vagina capable of if you can shoot an egg across a room? It's like the sexual equivalent of a pro athlete. With the success of the show World Center, Basiano opened up franchises around Times Square. It was a show palace theater at 678th Avenue,

the show Follies Theater at 713 7th Avenue. And though this may sound like a certain amount of fun, and I'm sure it was, something we don't have a lot of access to, access to in today's world. Important to remember that it was dangerous as well. Full of people with no real place in the world at the time, you know, some misfits, some good.

misfits to be sure, but also some bad ones. In the 1970s, it was estimated that there were some 40,000 sex workers plying their trade in different parts in New York, and Times Square had the biggest concentration of them. On 8th Avenue north of 40 seconds, over 1,000 sex workers at a time would stroll 24-7, so many that the NYPD put up wooden barricades along the sidewalks specifically to keep them and their pimps from spilling off the sidewalks into the avenue and blocking traffic. My God. You can only imagine. imagine some of the men this brought. A lot of lonely guys, some nice guys,

but also some women hating sadistic creeps and killers. The blocks of 8th Avenue in the upper 40s were nicknamed Minnesota because of its reputation for teenage runaways from the Midwest, who would arrive fresh and naive by bust only to be met, excuse me, manipulated, beaten, and quote broken in, God, that's so fucking gross, by some awaiting piece of shit pimp

who would then try to get them addicted to drugs, who would physically, psychologically, abuse them, make them feel like they couldn't get out of the horrible life they'd just fallen into. Many of the arriving teens never saw much more in New York, other than the few blocks of the deuce as 42nd Street near Times Square, but really all of Times Square was now being called. Like the porn being sold in Times Square stores, the sex workers were clustered by category, territories of their own, right? Black girls in dime store blonde wigs and hot pants on one corner, Latino girls and go-go boots, platform shoes on another, pasty white girls on their own separate

corner they were all responsible for well i don't know if they were all pasty but you know what i mean they're white uh they were all responsible that'd be that'd be actually kind of weird if they're specifically pacey da da what have you been out in the fucking son deborah oh this is the pasty corner go down two blocks anyway they were all responsible for making a certain amount of money for their pimps and if they didn't they got beat raped or worse sometimes good samaritans would help these poor women other times they would pretend to help them only to turn out to be yet another exploiter like father bruce ridder a catholic franciscan friar and professor of theology at Manhattan College.

He established Covenant House slash under 21 in a group of vacant buildings on 44th Street, offering shelter to thousands of runaway kids arriving at the nearby Port Authority bus terminal. Ritter's Covenant House became, in its time, America's largest shelter for runaway teens. It grew into a multinational, $87 million agency sustained by charitable contributions from New York's elite, whom Father Ritter charmed and cultivated at Black Tie benefits at the Met, until he was exposed for allegedly but almost certainly fucking the same runaways

many of whom were underage right well I guess all of them were underage but some of them legally underage as far as sexual purposes go these kids he claimed to be helping

what a guy Ritter never charged or defraught the Catholic church lawyered up protected him like they have protected so so so many child predators over the years and like I imagine they still do

such a shame because so many Catholics are fucking wonderful people and so many priests like the ones who opened my mind back at Gonzaga years ago awesome right but the Catholic leaders back in New York they simply shuttled Father Bruce Ritter off to a diocese in India and then after I imagine he molested a bunch of other teens over there never got in trouble for it he retired in comfort in Decatur to New York where he died of cancer at 1999 at the age of 72 around the time of the Covenant House scandal

with police tasked with maintaining a bare minimum public order and unable to respond to the thousands and thousands of minor criminal complaints each year, with young sex workers more skeptical than ever regarding who they felt they could trust, things kept getting worse for the people unfortunate enough to find themselves trying to make a living in the dark heart of the city that never sleeps. And that made it so easy for somebody to pray on them. Okay, now that we have a good feel for life and Times Square, back when and where today's killer was killing and got to learn some fun trivia about one of America's most famous locations. Let's really get down to business and suck some dick. Let's meet Richard Cottingham,

the Times Square Killer, and today's TimeSuck timeline. Right after today's first to two mid-show sponsor breaks, if you don't want to hear these ads, please sign up to be a space lizard on Patreon, help us make monthly charitable contributions, get our catalog ad free, get episodes three days early, and more. Thanks for listening to those ads, and now it's timeline time. On those boots, soldier, we're marching down a time-suck timeline. Richard Francis Cottingham was born on November 25, 1946, in the Mott Haven neighborhood of the Bronx and New York City to William and Anna Cottingham, who already had two older daughters, Carol and Katie. A lot of online sources, by the way, toss out all kinds of different info about Dick's

siblings. Some say he was the first of four kids. Some say he has brothers. Some say he has sisters. Some say both. The best sources we could find for this episode, such as the prostitute murders, the People v. Richard Cottingham by Rod Leith and the Times Square torso killer. Sex and Death on the 40 Deuce by Peter Voronski. Unfortunately, are not easy to find in digital form, but they seem to have done the best investigative journalism, and they report that Dick had two older sisters, Carol and Katie. So that's what we're going with. But even those sources don't say really anything about them. It's abundantly clear that Richard has not been interested in discussing his family and interviews over the years, and his family

understandably have had zero interest in talking about their serial killing brother or son. God knows what he did or tried to do to his fucking sisters, by the way. Back when Dick was born, Mothaven was primarily a mix of native New Yorkers of Italian and Jewish descent. Two years after his birth, his parents did the upperly mobile thing for families to do in the 40s, and they headed out to the burbs. William, a quiet brooding career man in strict Roman Catholic who had risen from a line sales position to the executive level at Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, wanted to take his family away from the congested atmosphere and vice of the Bronx. He first moved the family to Dumont, New Jersey, before he bought the family a split-level house in Rivervale, New Jersey in

1956 when Dick was nine, in a community that was at that point about half farmers, half commuters into the city. It was a peaceful couple years for the family. Dwight Eisenhower was in the White House. The Cold War hadn't really escalated like it would later. The Red Scare had basically ended in 1954, would conclusively be finished with the death of that piece of shit Joseph McCarthy, that fucking liar in 1957. It was exactly the right time to be a regular white, straight, church-going American family, and that was exactly what the Cottingham's were. William would be at the up of the crack of dawn to head to the bus station with his brown suit and briefcase, while Anna made sure the three children were all dressed and fed and ready for school.

For little Richard, aka Baby Dick, a morning soon meant a long bus ride to Westwood, where he attended St. Andrews, beginning in seventh grade when he was 12 in 1952. Nice private school, but he didn't love it. He was commuting to school from another town, so he didn't know any of the kids at school. And back home, he still didn't know many kids in his neighborhood. Dick was becoming a lonely boy, a bit of a hermit dick.

At school he mostly kept to himself, he did the same at home where he'd spend. spend his time working, tinkering with whatever he could find around the house. He wasn't that athletic, despite what some sources say, didn't see very well. His poor eyesight, lack of physical prowess made his dick pretty limp. Both attaining popularity in sports were challenging, especially the most popular sports at the time, being a baseball and football, which I guess he wasn't good at. So left to his own devices, Dick became interested in tight, warm, moist holes and also pigeons. Homing pigeons.

That was definitely not something that was considered cool back then. It was not exactly an interest you could easily share with most other people, so Richard remained lonely. He was just dick and his little birds. And if you're thinking that some of the characteristics of a future serial killer might show up here like cruelty to animals, now that was actually the opposite here. Dick did not fuck his pigeons up or try to literally fuck them somehow as far as we know. He was actually quite gentle with him. He was at this time a gentle dick, limp and friendly.

Cottingham has said that he had no childhood tendencies towards arson or cruel. to animals, typical of serial killers, but instead that he would weep if any of his pigeons hurt themselves. He'd also often get up early to feed some deer or frequenting their New Jersey suburban neighborhood. He did, however, start to develop some strange and not so good thoughts about women, if we believe him, going back to when he was still a little kid. As he would later say, quote, at age seven or eight, I already had two girlfriends who thought they were in love with me. They even fought over me. I love the attention. But inside, I always felt like a loner, apart from the crowd yet controlling or directing the crowd subliminally i was a manipulative control freak

up to seventh grade uh great would describe it best i fit in with everyone especially the girls they ran after me i was easy to catch but even then i was the boss and they had to do what i wanted them to do or i dropped them uh yikes but also i fucking doubt that happened he's being the picture of the popular ladies man here but that is not what any former classmates or others willing to talk about his childhood would later say like not at all was he a social outcast who wished he had girls fighting over him a secretly angry loner who just dreamt of such things or was he actually the cool kid i'm gonna say he desperately wanted to be the cool kid to be the boy who girls fought over but definitely was not and that that made him angry and he started to hate the girls the girls he

uh lusted over the girls who didn't uh want to fuck uh you know old uh birdie four eyes by the time he High School at Pascal Valley High in nearby Hillsdale in 1960. He was apparently turned into a handsome kid, though still no idea of any girls liked him. He had traces of a Bronx accent. His new school had been built recently to accommodate for the post-World War II baby boom and all the other families moving out to the suburb, so he didn't feel out of place as a commuter, I guess, anymore. He joined the cross-country and track teams, became a long-distance runner, but it doesn't seem as if he did that well. and he didn't do much else.

Didn't care about cars, never got great grades, never wanted to be on student council, didn't get varsity letters, never went out, tried to date a cheerleader or couldn't find a cheerleader who would date him, just an anonymous face in the crowd.

Nobody really paid him any attention, although some would later recall that his strange attitudes about women, which apparently began in early childhood, had deepened by high school. One classmate would say years later, when he spoke about women, it was in a negative way.

I certainly remember him talking amongst his friends, friends and perhaps in gym class about what girls attracted him. He would talk about the girls in class or the girls out on the street who were better endowed, larger breasted. That sort of seemed to be a key attraction for him. Okay, I mean, being into big boobs, I don't know if that's so bad or unusual, but he may have been nursing some really dark thoughts about what he wanted to do with those big boobs. During his trial in 1981, Cottingham would talk at length about how he had developed an early

obsession with images of women in bondage and peril as a kid. What entertained a lot of males from the 1950s all the way to the 80s were hundreds of monthly salacious adventure magazines featuring stories of women in trouble, often tied up. Magazines like Argosy, saga, true, stag, male, man's adventure, true adventure, man's action, true men, man's story, action for men. How many fucking incels were writing magazines for my magazines back then?

C for men, real men, man's exploits new man men today rugged men man to man man's life men in conflict man's combat man's epic man's book new man world of men gee i'm fucking homoerotic with these two all man showdown for men man's daring rage for men Rage, the magazine for real men I like to think of those two as competitors Oh, oh fucking look at rage for men over here Fucking barely in a rage Let's get a real fucking rage magazine out there

Come on, guys Fury Adventure for Men Peril, All Man's Magazine, and Man's Age Not kidding about any of those titles Oh, so much hot, hard, father-daddy, man talk Just dripping with heroism And covered in so much thick facial hair and rippling mega-chat muscle.

How fucking insecure were you about your manhood if you had subscriptions to two or more of any of those magazines? What are you reading, darling? Man shit! God damn it, I'm tough! Oh, fuck! My dick is fucking hard for women right now

and I wish I could punch a guy in the face because I'm so fucking tough. I never hugged my kids. Go fucking do the dishes, woman. I'm a man. That's what that reeks. me some fucking little noodle armed limp dick piece of shit anyway he also somehow came into possession of a really dark kind of underground porn around in the early 1960s when he was a teen

accounts of wartime nazi rape atrocities seriously uh there were some fucked up niche magazines with covers that featured images that tortured women and headlines for articles inside like soft nudes for the nazis doctor horror hitler's hideous harem of agony Grizzly writes of Hitler's monster flesh stripper, how the Nazis fed Tanya sex drugs, brides of torment for the SS beasts, chains of agony for the bound beauties of Norway, Hitler's baboon tortures in Mabuti, the Nazi madhouse zoo of ravaged women, caged beauties in the Nazi dungeon of the damned, damned beauties for the Nazi horror museum, stripped virgins for the Nazis, torch of torment, tortured beauties for the Nazi,

blood cult, tortured beauties of Hitler's Prince of Pain, shriek for death, my little one. Fuck, helpless maidens of the Nazi's timeless castle of madness and horror. Helpless virgins in the Nazi's harness of terror. Screaming nudes for Hitler's ministry of hell. Stripped for the swastika, soft flesh for the Nazi's greatest horror, shackled nudes of the monster general, helpless beauties of the Nazi circus of agony. Nazi horror tortures of the resistance girls. And last but certainly not at least. Cripped in hell for Hitler's passion slaves. Did not make up any of those titles.

If you've ever jerked off and came to one of those articles, you should break your dig off. Just fucking break it off and throw it away. Burn it. So much fucking sadistic torture and bondage fantasy. My God. The same magazines that featured these stories. Also featured cannibal scenes, you know,

based in the South Seas and Africa, Middle East harem, rape scenarios. Cold War, Korean War, then later, Vietnam War, and torture themes. Again, just so many fucking angry insults. It's like, ah, this is what I wish I could do of women. Women of these publications were generally only

portrayed in one or two ways. Either as totally helpless, captives bound and forced into sex against their will, or as sexually hyper-aggressive, bare-shouldered, sultry women with a cigarette dangling from their lips, ready to be punished by tough alpha men with hard cocks for their evil sexuality.

You don't tell me when to take you for a ride, bicycle? I just get on what I want. All this was what young Richard was spending a good portion of his time on during his identity forming years. That's not good for a developing dick. That's probably not good for any dick. In 1964, Richard graduated high school a few months before he turned 18, and he was lost. He didn't have the grades, didn't have the motivation to go to college, but he had his daddy, and daddy got him a job.

Daddy arranged to have him hired by Metropolitan Life in the company's new computer center. And Dick, he actually went by Rich. but I had to call him dick Apparently he loved it He liked to operate The massive Honeywell H-8200 Computer mainframes Changing their memory tape reels

Ensuring they ran smoothly He was that fucking annoying IT guy Just kind of condescending and nerdy I imagine His work was mostly about The physical maintenance of the hardware And he was not required to

Actually do any programming Data entry or to get under the hood Of the machines But I can imagine him You know Talking other co-workers About how he could I could

I could easily I can take this thing apart and put it back together in like two hours. Oh, no. No one knows this thing better than me. He did so well, to his credit, I hate to give it, but he did well enough that two years later in October of 1966, another firm, a competing firm, Blue Cross Blue Shield offered him better pay to work for them, and he gladly took the job. He's making better money now, real good money.

It's not working for Daddy. I do what I want, Daddy! This little dick was all grown up and almost independent. You know, as long as he had his two healthy balls. beside him he could do anything he could move mountains uh he would now uh not work in the suburbs but out of blue cross's computer data center first on lexington avenue then at six 22 third ave on the corner of east 40 street fortieth street uh in the city a quick 20 minute walk to and from the bus terminal through the heart of the deuce just as the peep shows started to really proliferate i'm sure

he uh jerked off in those peep shows quite a few times right big big fan uh also this is crazy Guess who worked with him in his new office? Your dad. Fucking crazy. Yeah. Oh, no, your dad has a big old perf. He used to work with Richard. He used to have a lot of peep shows.

Oh, all the peep show girls knew him on a first name basis. He would hire a lot of sex workers. He would put on a clown wig. He would stick three Hebrew national hot dogs up his ass, put on a pair of roller skates, glide around the square, butt naked, beaten off his half hard cock, using grape jelly for lube because he liked how sticky it got and the way it tasted

when it mixed with his shaft sweat because your dad is a complete fucking degenerate psychopath for real though he worked not your dad Richard worked

your dad might have Richard worked in an office with former suck alum and another serial killer Rodney Alcala fugitive child molester who lived under the name of John Berger the time

dude who had become known as the dating game killer covered him in episode so 295, that guy was a fucking demon in the flesh. No evidence that the two men knew each other or even ever interacted, but that's weird, right? Two men who both go down as prolific, incredibly sexually sadistic serial killers working out of the same Blue Cross Blue Shield office, so random. Two dudes who undoubtedly frequent in the deuce to the detriment of any sex workers,

unfortunate to spend any intimate time with them. Anyway, Richard's decision to cross insurance company lines actually caused a little bit of strife with Daddy, and Dick moved out to the family home into his own place. I got my own place now, Daddy, you can't tell him what to do. And now he's living in Little Ferry, New Jersey, slightly closer to Manhattan. And now that he's away from Mommy and Daddy's supervision,

he almost immediately starts killing. And before I share any details of his sadistic crimes, I want you to hear from him, give me an idea of the kind of cold-blooded motherfucker doing this kind of stuff. This audio comes from a police interview with Richard conducted by Detective Robert Anzalati, exact date not listed

was sometime between 2010 and 2021 and that's a big date range and they're talking about at the start here like when he began killing what year is the first do you think do you have it in your head or you have no idea I can knock it down to one or two years

what do you think how far back 67 maybe the end of the 66 67 a lot of years are running around. A lot of seats still. Yeah. Do you have a number in your head that you think?

Do you ever sit back and think about it? It's fair to say I couldn't count that. They start to get jumbled. I would say this is well over here. In a minute. Well over. I had done some in Florida. Connecticut, about New York,

Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Baltimore. Any place within driving distance that was not connected to me, I would try. My whole thing was not to make a pattern, which I never did. And I tried to kill him the exact same way Or to, you know, leave the signature. I wouldn't stupid, you know.

As he's talking there, too, it might just be where his hand is resting, but he's gesturing with his right hand and his left hand is just placed right over his dick. And it looks like he's kind of rubbing it, like through the top of his pants, like as he's talking, like, you know, thinking about all that shit, just getting him fucking hard all these years later. so many years later and he clearly still feels zero remorse and said he feels pride right you can hear it laughing bragging about how smart he was

when it came to getting away with sexually torturing killing young women girls as young as 13 maybe even younger right girls who had never done anything wrong to him yeah he mentioned 1967 as when he thought he started killing and that lines up with the first known victim attributed to him uh 9 p.m. January 24th 1967 17 year old mary Anne Della Sala disappeared at the end of her shift at a shopwright store at 3.30 Essex Street in Hackensack, New Jersey. Her body be found three months later, April 20th in the Passaic River in Hawthorne. She'd been strangled. Police concluded that she was killed elsewhere. Then her body was dumped in the river. There were no signs of sexual assault. But then again, her body had been rotten in the river,

presumably for three months. So he would have killed her in 1966, actually, which he mentioned And again, in that interview, saying 66, 67, and water in time degrades that kind of evidence. I'd be shocked if she had not been raped. And she would not be the only one of Dick's victims to turn up that year. Ten months later, October 30th, 1967, the bound naked body, a 29-year-old Nancy, she was known as Bubby, Skiava Vogel, married mother, too, was found in her automobile in Ridgefield Park, New Jersey. She'd been lasting three days earlier in Little Ferry, where she had left. home to go play bingo with some friends at a local church. Three days later, two 12-year-old

girls in neighboring Ridgefield Park, looking out their second floor window, noticed what looked like a mannequin in the park car opposite their house, next to a vacant strip by some railway tracks. Vogue was found nude, her clothing neatly folded underneath her, her hands tied in front her with a thin nylon cord. She had been beaten in the face, dyed of his fixiation by strangulation, either with a cord or a necktie. In the trunk they found shopping bags with new shoes and a blouse from the local Valley Fair Mall. Was that where she had met her killer? Again, no evidence of sexual assault is reported,

but obviously her being found nude strongly suggests the crime with sexual nature. Dick will confess to killing Nancy decades later, but he will not confess to sexually assaulting her. Also, these two knew each other, or at least were acquainted. After killing her, I imagine raping her as well, Dick will not wait long to kill again.

Just four months later, Diane Kusick, 23-year-old resident of New Hyde Park, and an instructor at a dancing school in Oceanside, New York, disappeared. On the evening of Thursday, February 15th, 1968, Cusick had told her family she was going to the Green Acres Mall by a pair of dancing shoes. At approximately 10.30 p.m., her parents started to get very worried about her. Their daughter should have been home hours ago.

So they drove to the shopping center, tragically. Dad discovered their daughter's Plymouth Valiant car in the parking lot of the mall. Diane's body was in the back seat, an adhesive band found over her mouth, her hands were bound. the medical examiner determined that Cusick had asphyxiated due to strangulation and she had also been raped her hands had defensive wounds

DNA from semen discovered at the crime scene was extracted many many years later would be matched to a sample taken from Cottingham near the Green Acres mall there was a drive-in theater that Cottingham frequently visited authorities believe that Dick approached Cusick

while pretending to be a mall security guard and she will not be Dick's only victim in 1968 on July 17th of that year Jacqueline Leah, known as Jackie Harp, just 13 years old, vanished from Midland Park, New Jersey. 13, so young, Dick is now 27, about to turn 28. Jackie was supposed to come straight home after her band rehearsal at school,

but she didn't. Next morning, July 18th, her body was discovered at Goughlebrook, a tributary of the Passaic River. She had been beaten about the face, strangled with the leather strap from her flag sling, this little strapped at flag carriers and marching bands used to hold flags against her bodies. Police believe the attack was sexually motivated

despite the fact that she had not been raped but her clothes were found in disarray. It is thought that Dick was interrupted before he was able to do what he wanted to do and that he hastily killed her so she could not identify him later. Cotty Hamill later claimed that he attempted to persuade Hart to get into his car but she didn't want to

because she was a smart kid. So then he drove his car in front of her, jumped out, chased her down. Once he caught her, dragged her into a cluster of bushes and killed her, just in a fit of rage. Following spring, April 7, 1969, 18-year-old Irene Blasey is reported missing. And the following day, her body is discovered lying face down in four feet of water in Saddle River, New Jersey, strangled with the chain from a crucifix necklace she'd been wearing.

Cottingham later confessed that he saw her shopping in Hackensack, convinced her to join him for a drink. Taking a cab to another location, Cottingham and Blase spent some time together, after which Cottingham offered to bring her back to the bus station. But then instead, change his mind, drove Blase to a remote location. against her will before raping and killing her. Just a few months later, July 13th, 1969, around 8 p.m. 15-year-old, fucking so young again. Denise Falaska left her residence in, she was living on Bergenline Avenue in close to New Jersey,

on her way to meet some friends in nearby Westwood. At around 9 p.m., witnesses claim to have seen Denise heading along Old Hook Road in Emerson in the direction of Westwood. By 11, when she was supposed to be home, she was still gone. Her body then found on the side of Westminster Place in Saddlebrook the next day. Dick Will later confessed that he saw her walking down the side of the road and Emerson pulled up next to her, offer a ride.

Shortly after, he drove her to the parking lot of his former school where he forced Falaska to go down on him and then apparently unhappy with how upset she was at being sexually assaulted he lost his cool and fucking murdered her. A few months later, in October, Cottingham gets arrested, but unfortunately not for

any of the crimes I've gone over. He was charged and convicted a drunk drive into New York City, fined $50 and sentenced to 10 days in jail. And then he got right back to rape and kill him. Also, he managed to get married. Before we share in this piece of shit's marital bliss, time for today's second to two, mid-show sponsor breaks. Thanks for listening to those sponsors,

and now let's meet Janet, aka the bride of dick. On May 3rd, 1970, now 23-year-old Richard Cottingham, marries a woman named Janet. Her maiden name is not mentioned in any sources that we can find. the two wed at Our Lady of Lord's Church in Queens Village, New York. It's unclear how they met. The two moved into a cute little place at the Ledgewood Terrace Apartments in Little Ferry, a borough in Bergen County, New Jersey.

Like the today most famous for being the birthplace at Cake Boss, that Baker Buddy, Velastro. We allowed the couple to live a nice, safe, suburban lifestyle, while Dick commuted to work in New York City via one or two, New Jersey public transport buses with lines that provided transportation to Midtown, Manhattan. and also while he continued to make life so very unsafe for so many others. But before going forward, we need to back up for a second. Just a few months before he got married, back on March 1, 1970, a group of hikers had came across

a young woman's naked body in the woods to the west of Tweed Boulevard in Teaneck, New Jersey. The victim had marks around her neck indicating she had been strangled. The FBI identified the woman as 26-year-old Lorraine Montalvo McGraw. She'd been missing just a few days since February 27. McGraw had a history of drug and prostitution arrests on August 26, 2022 Cottingham will finally confess to picking her up,

raping her and killing her. She just doesn't quit. And in between these murders we know, but it's likely he brutalized dozens of other women. As you'll see going forward, he did not always feel the need to kill them. Sometimes he preferred to instead terrorize him, but then let him live.

Richard will settle into married life the Legwood Terrace Apartments, where he and Janet will live for the next five years, and he will develop quite a little routine. He'll work deliote. diligently for a New York Blue Cross Blue Shield for 13 years as a member of their 200 employee computer staff. He was an expert. His salary rose gradually over the years. By this point, he was already earning about $25,000 a year, which is equivalent to around $150K a year today.

And he had other perks too. Good retirement plan and vacation, all that kind of shit. He was a valuable member of the team, so valuable that the supervisors allowed him to come into the office pretty much whenever he wanted. And he generally chose to work between 4 p.m. and 11 p.m. Monday through Friday. He liked to get done with work late and head out to the bars, you know, not come home until very late the following morning or just not come home at all, you know, that evening. He did come home often enough to impregnate his wife, though. He and his wife's first child, a son named Blair, born October 15th, 1973, and Richard soon found that the apartment where his family lived, a two-bedroom in Little Ferry, New Jersey, felt cramped with a toddler. Loud,

not fun. He found fatherhood just to be kind of a drag, you know, didn't provide the same rush is kidnapping, beating, raping, and killing young women. So, you know, he would go out often. While Dick will later claim to basically just have been continually killing year after year, his next known victim's body will not turn up until about two years have passed since the previous victim's body was found. So backing up again a little bit here, approximately 1045 a.m. May 10, 1972, the year before he and his wife have the first kid, the body of Mary Beth Heinz discovered in Rockville Center, Little Town on Long Island. The 21-year-old nanny was was found floating face down in a muddy stream in a wooded area of Main Avenue, just west

at Peninsula Boulevard. The medical examiner determined her death to be as a result of asphyxia due to strangulation, also suffered multiple contusions and abrasions of the face and neck. Heinz who experienced grand mal seizures had been diagnosed with epilepsy, had vanished five days earlier on May 5th as she boarded a bus to travel to a nearby dance. Dick would claim to have thrown her body from Rockville Center's Peninsula Boulevard Bridge. no mention of sexual assault in this case Maybe he just thought it'd be fun to beat some poor woman strangler and throw her off a bridge

Just to see what would happen Maybe your fucking dad and he were hanging out Right, and your dad dared him to do it That actually does sound like something your dad would do You know, dare a sexual predator murderer To throw him and he'd killed off a bridge He gets fucked up You know it, I know it

Most importantly, he knows it You should text him right now, text your dad Text your dad Why'd you dare Richard to throw that woman off a bridge in 1972 you fucking dickbag literally text him that exact sentence with no context

might rattle him enough to confess you know anyway this would not be the only time one of Richard's victims would be found in this area approximately three months later July 20th 1972

at 1215 p.m. The body of Laverne Moy found in the same area as the body of Mary Beth Heinz an 11 year old boy would discover her corpse in the creek Leverne was a 23 year old woman from St. Albans Queens

mother of two she had been strangled. And again, Cottingham will claim that he threw her body off the same bridge where he'd previously dumped Heinz's body. And again, no mention of sexual assault. Exactly a year later, in the early afternoon of July 20th, 1973, the remains of 33-year-old Sheila Hyman found bludgeoned to death in her home on Mulberry Place.

Oh my gosh, my back of my chair just unhooked, flew over backwards as I record. The remains of 30, excuse me, the remains of 33-year-old Sheila Hyman, found bludgeon to death in her home mulberry place in north woodmere with their three children away at summer camp sheila's husband had left the house that morning to go to a nearby department store and when he returned he discovered his wife dead in the bathroom that's fucking crazy can you imagine you go run an errand and you come back home to find your partner murdered she suffered multiple lacerations to her skull fractured jaw lacerated juggler vein ee uh no mention of sexual assault but that doesn't mean it didn't happen uh two months later in September of 1973, Dick definitely sexually assaulted somebody. A woman named Diana was beaten, bitten, sotomized, and robbed. But she would be lucky compared to a lot of the other women Dick attacked. She would at least live. When the police founder, they registered the incident as an assault and robbery. Not an uncommon thing, unfortunately, to happen to a sex

worker, which she was. Some on the force assumed it was her pimp who had hurt her, or maybe a dissatisfied customer. But to the vice squad, it looked more like a targeted attack. They assigned detectives to find out what had happened. And when they talked to Diana, she said the customer began their interaction very politely. She told him her price what he would get for that, but he wanted more, more than her body, quote, and this is disturbing, was willing to endure. She said he was a large man, much bigger than her. She was five, three, 106 pounds.

She was nervous, but despite what he had said, she still agreed to go on a date with him. She didn't feel like she had much of a choice because she was, you know, very in need of some money. the john then assaulted her and also robbed her when he was done he forced her to hand over some cheap jewelry she was wearing even though he seemed to be plenty well off detective spent the next few days canvassing the streets little coffee shops dive hotels they got a description of a guy from new jersey who spent enough time and money to be considered a regular around the parts or those parts soon they had enough for a lineup and diana was able to identify her attacker right away a man who is five ten muscular with reddish blonde hair richard coddingham was arrested for robbery, oral sodomy, and sexual abuse, September 4th. Then a month later, so often the case in these circumstances, Diana does not show up to court to testify. And the case is thrown out. And then five months after Diana's missed court date, Dick does the same dick shit to somebody else. This time it happened to a woman listed in sources only is Roberta, a 19-year-old blonde, taken to a motel on Manhattan's West Side.

She was sexually assaulted, found by a motel employee, still wearing handcuffs in March 1974. She, since she didn't have bite marks on her body or anything else that spoke of extreme assault, the case was initially written up as just unlawful imprisonment. Roberta did mention, however, that the man asked her to hand over her jewelry. And then like Diana, she identified him in a lineup. Detectives working on this case immediately understood the parallels between Diana's case and Roberta's. They arranged for the two women to show up in court together now to testify against an attacker. Again, Richard Coddenham is the guy, of course, identified.

He was arrested March 12, 1974, for robbery, unlawful imprisonment. detectives hope both women would show up to the trial to prove that this was a serious pattern of behavior, but then neither woman shows up. Fuck. So that case gets dismissed as well. And I can only imagine how much this emboldened Richard. Encourage him to keep primarily targeting women who would be too afraid or too troubled to testify against him, women who didn't want to have his defense attorneys shame, victim blame, and degrade them on the witness stand.

Between those to assault and robbery cases, December 27, 1973, a little over two, months after her son Blair is born, the body of Maria and Marita Rosada Nieves, discovered in a weeded area of Jones Beach. The 18-year-old, again, so young, 18-year-old had been strangled to death in park maintenance workers had found her body covered in plastic bags wrapped in a gray blanket, left in thick grass on the north side of ocean parkway in a bus loading area adjacent to the east bathhouse. Again, no mention of sexual assaults. But I have to imagine, She and the other women, where there is no mention, you know, probably to get assaulted. Or maybe somebody disturbed them before he had his chance.

And now, Richard decides to hunt closer to home for a spell. August 9, 1974, 16-year-old Lorraine Marie Kelly and 17-year-old Mary Ann Pryor left North Burger, New Jersey with plans to go shopping at the Garden State Plaza in Paramus, about eight miles from where Dick and his family lived at the time. Kelly's boyfriend dropped the two off at the bus stop on Broad Street and Ridgefield. and the girls intended to hitchhike to the mall. Their bodies were then found five days later, August 14th, in a wooded area close to the Ridgemont Gardens Complex in Montfail. They were both naked, bound to one another at the wrists

and ankles while lying face down. Both have been beaten and raped. The ligature marks on their neck suggested they had likely been strangled as well. And they had cigarette burns on their flesh, especially their breasts. They'd been fucking tortured. Just a few years ago, Cottonham finally admitted

to kidnapping the girls, tying them up, raping them both in a motel room. He killed them by drowning them in a bathtub before he then dumped their bodies. Just two months later, October 7th, 1974, 15-year-old Lisa Thomas left her house, walked to the Nanuette Mall,

3.30 p.m. approximately, attending to buy a blouse there. Around 700 feet from her family's nanowet home, Thomas's body was found by her father the following morning. Damn it. In the woods behind the mall. Yeah, man, she left

lived real close to them all. Another dad finding their murdered child. Thomas had been blindfolded with a crimson rag that she had in her purse. Her head had been bashed in. She had not been sexually assaulted. Five months later, March of 1975, or again, no evidence.

March of 1975, Janet gives birth to the couple's second son, Scott. How cool! Oh, so many awesome couples out there who just cannot get pregnant despite doing everything they can. But these fucking dirtbacks, they always seem to be

possessing the strongest swimmers. They always seem to have fucking potent sperm. Soon afterwards, the Coddenham family moved into a three-bedroom house in Lodide, New Jersey, at 29 Rilin Street. Janet's high school friends would frequently visit the couple's home, nestled in a nice residential neighborhood near the Saddle River. They were always happy to see Janet and not so happy to see Richard. As soon as they'd moved, he had isolated himself in a room in the basement,

that he would not let anyone else enter, his trophy room. And if he came out of his room When Janet and her friends were laughing or joking around He'd either mock them or pretend like they weren't even there He was very cool and fun like that Then he would retreat back into his room and lock the door Janet of course curious regarding what the fuck he's up to down there What's behind that door

And one day when he's at work she finally dares to walk in And damned if she did not find A fucking huge pile of dinosaur bones Dinosaur bones Yeah We want to see them Yeah. Dinosaur bones.

Yeah. Where can we see them? I don't know. Richard's trophy room, I guess. Hmm. Silly old ding, dang, ding, dongs? No. Unfortunately, there was no dinosaur bones in that room.

You love that. Admit it. Janet would claim later that she found an assortment of women's personal effects in clothing, right? His trophies. They were not gifts for Janet. They were not new looking. They were not gift-wrapped. At the moment, she didn't say anything to anybody, and that's, you know, unfortunate.

if your husband or partner has a secret basement room full of other people's used clothing and personal effects a room he does not want you to ever enter you should probably call the police but I also get why she didn't

truly she's smaller than him she does not know he's killing people she has two small kids no job what if she calls a police and they can't do anything with what they found what if he divorces her tries to fuck her out of child support

what if he hurts her kills her Janet she wanted life to continue on as normal even if normal was not so great and also she's pregnant again. A third kid's going to keep her plenty busy. October 13th, 1976, Jana gives birth to the couple's only daughter and final child,

little girl named Jenny. And after this, Richard decides he is straight up no longer sexually interested in his wife. And they will never sleep together again, ever. And whenever Janet will ask about sex, Richard will go off on her, literally yell at her about how undesirable she is. On brand for Richard.

Truly was such a dick. Janice started to prefer it when he was not home. I bet she did. She's like taking care of the kids, reading them books, making the meals, playing games with them, dressed them in costumes for Halloween. Richard would make an appearance on Halloween

to take him trick or treating. By all accounts, neighbors thought he was a doting, loving father. I doubt he was. And while he was for sure a shitty husband, you know, maybe he was an okay dad. If so, that's where his kindness started and ended. At work where he was known as cot, he was considered reliable,

an efficient employee by management he was also not real well liked by a lot of his co-workers. They thought he was just kind of a dick. And he was secretly stealing from them. Not only petty thefts from their desk, but somehow he would manage to duplicate their house keys and then he would break into their houses and steal shit like expensive cameras.

He did that specifically to several workmates and then he sold them to finance a gambling habit of his. That's a new one. He even loaned sharks some money to his fellow employees who blew across. No clue if they were the same. same employees he was stealing from. A dude clearly liked to just to fuck with people around him.

Held some grudges probably. I liked to bring misery everywhere he went. Dominic Volp, who worked with Cottingham at Blue Cross, would later recall, quote, he was a gambler and he was not afraid to take chances on anything. He would always win, usually. He always said he could get out of anything. He used that gambling thing for everything that he did. Volpe doesn't have a good quote there.

That's one of the best ones we could find. Bulp would also remember that Coddenham spoke openly about his vices saying he was up front about it, bragging about profits. prostitutes, S&M, gambling, all the vices he had. He bragged about. He liked the slave thing, the handcuffs. He was strange. He'd talk about what he did after work.

He'd talk about S&M clubs he'd go to. Talked about prostitutes. You used to talk about how he could lure prostitutes out of Manhattan. He always had two pocketfuls of cash, thousands of dollars. He would show prostitutes cash and then take them to New Jersey. I don't like Vulp. Why is Dominic having these conversations with him? What was he saying during these conversations?

He'd been like, yeah, you fucking good him, dude. also what a fun guy rich was to talk to I hope at least some of his co-workers you know just openly mocked him or despised him like it'd be nice if at least one of them when he started bragging about shit like that just said whatever the equivalent was back then of cool story bro

and then just turned their backs on him and walked away while he was like mid-sentzance I've actually seen somebody do that to somebody else that was fucking glorious it's such an incredible fucking alpha power move I've never pulled it out myself but I would like to someday right just you know

somebody's just talking how much of gross shit you know and then just you know look at it be like ah you just don't even wait for them

to stop talking just interrupt them but huh huh cool story bro and then just walk away like you'd rather eat a fucking bowl

of dog shit than listen to another word come out of their stupid mouth uh 1977 richard finds time

between gambling roughing up stealing from his co-workers you know kidnapping raping murdering women being shitty

to his wife uh to take up with a mistress a nurse from Bellevue hospital by the name of Barbara Lucas. What a lucky lady. They'd met at Flanagan's Tavern on 1st Avenue in the upscale Upper East Side near 65th Street when Dick was out drinking and ignoring his kids

and they really hit it off. Barbara will later say that Richie, as she'd like to call him, was a loving, attentive boyfriend. They never had rough sex or experimented with BDSM. Oh, the miracles of compartmentalization. Only things she ever found odd about him, she would say, was his obsession with books about stalking, kidnapping, and murder. Soon Barbara would not be his only mistress. Cunningham also started dating Gene Connolly, a nurse at the Montefiour Hospital in New York. I will literally never understand how so many of these motherfuckers have time to do everything they do. I have one wife, no mistress. And between work and family time, barely able to sneak in visits with friends and trips to the gym. I don't even really

have a hobby right now. No way I would have time. And the energy to do a bunch of gambling, have mistresses, fucking break into coworkers' houses, pick up sex workers, you know, fucking murder people. Maybe I should start burning through energy drinks again. No, I know. I got to start doing more Alley Coke with strangers. That was probably a secret weapon. Just so much fucking blow. And I bet your dad was selling it to him.

Your fucking dad's really grinding my gears this week. Here I thought this whole time that my dad was the creep we had to worry about most. I'm starting to think that my dad doesn't have shit on your dad. Anyway, back to murder. Where's Dad Watch? December 16th, 1977. A motel patron

at the Quality Inn and Hasper Brook Heights makes a horrible discovery. In the parking lot, he discovered the body of Marianne Carr, 26-year-old nurse for a prominent Englewood physician who had married her husband only 15 months prior. It was immediately clear that this was a murder. Big clump of her dyed blonde hair had been cut off, placed on her right thigh. That were shallow knife cuts on her chest and feet and deep bruise indentations on her wrist and ankles, presumably left behind by handcuffs. There were also traces is a white adhesive tape on her mouth, and her left cheekbone had a nasty wound consistent with a savage blow from a blunt instrument. The rest of her body was badly bruised,

but it was the strangulation that he killed her, combined with suffocation from the tape over her mouth. The rest had just been done to make her suffer. In her apartment at the Ledgewood Terrace apartments, yes, the same apartments where Dick and Janet used to live between 1970 and 1975, she had left behind a half-drank glass of wine and a half-smoked cigarette, but nothing else was disturbed. It seemed as if the killer knew her. Was she familiar somehow, you know, with this killer? Maybe trust him. Yeah, probably, right? Dick had kidnapped her after she had stepped outside for unknown reasons. He probably had his eyes on her since back when, you know, he lived near her. Maybe she said something insulting to him one time. Maybe he hit on her and

she blew him off and he supposed to some fucking hate fantasies ever since about what he wanted to do to her. A neighbor would testify to hearing her scream as he stuffed her in his car and drove away. For the moment, the police would not have any leads on what happened to her. Three months later, March 22nd, 1978, 28, 22-year-old pregnant Karen Schilt was going for a drink at a little bar on 3rd Avenue

not far from Bellevue Hospital, where she'd been visiting her husband. Don't you fucking judge her. It was a different time. The U.S. Surgeon General would not warn women to not drink while pregnant until 1981. Soon after she started to drink, she started to feel woozy because the drink was spiked and then she passed out.

She was found the next morning, unconscious us next to a fence behind a car in a parking lot. The parking lot of the same ledgewood terrace apartments where Marianne Carrey disappeared in December of the previous year, the parking lot where Dick had parked his car for so long. Her blouse had been pulled up exposing her breasts. Her pants have been pulled down below her knees. There were deep scratches on both her breasts. Her left breasts also been burned with a cigarette and there was a deep bite mark on it.

All she could remember of the attack later was a burning sensation on her breast and the man he had introduced himself as John Schaefer telling her, telling her, as he raped and tortured her that he once lived where they were fucking maniac uh brought to a hospital in an unconscious state toxicology test detected uh secondol sodium and amatol sodium bar oh my gosh cliford get over here uh sodium barbitoric derivatives and her blood consistent with the central nervous system depressant manufactured under the trade name of two and all an unfortunately popular date rape drug at the time, odorless, highly soluble in water or alcohol. Strange to me that he hurt her so badly but then let her live.

I wonder if he just got off sometimes instead on just, you know, leaving women with the memories of what he had done with them or to them. Not long after the attack, Susan Geiger, a 19-year-old from Florida, would be his next victim that we know of. She was working the street between Broadway and 7th Avenue looking for a John when she met a man, made plans to meet him the following night, October 12th, 1978 at the Americana Hotel. He picked her up from the Burger King near the Alpine Hotel in a maroon-colored

Thunderbird. Dick was amiable and friendly, so much so that she broke a rule about getting into a customer's car. He introduced himself as Jim, told her that he had a wife and kids in New Jersey, but worked in New York as a computer operator, so fairly honest, drove her to Flanagan's Tavern on First Ave in the, excuse me, near 65th Street, where he bought her drink after drink. They agreed on a generous price for sex and again she broke one of her rules about going with clients to hotels other than those in Midtown Manhattan. She agreed to go with him

to a motel in New Jersey. He then bought her a screwdriver, insisted that she drink it with a straw and keep swirling around. Bit of a red flag there. She did so and she got dizzy and then she was unconscious. Next thing she knew she woke up to find that man beating her with the green rubber hose what the fuck. And she passed out again. When guys Giger fully regained consciousness. It was mid-afternoon the next day, October 13th. She's lying naked on the floor of room 28 at the airport motel in South Hackensack, New Jersey. South Hackensack, home with the prestigious Aviation Hall of Fame of New Jersey.

Just want to make sure all you suckers, fascinated by aviation history, specifically only in New Jersey, know about it. And get your tickets ahead of time. I'm sure it sells out. I'm not sure about that. Geiger, which you came to again, completely naked, in extreme pain all over. her body, bleeding from her mouth, her breasts, her vagina, her rectum, fuck. Police investigator interviewing her notice that some of her artificial fingernails were missing because Dick had ripped them off, or they'd broken off when she was trying to defend herself,

her face beaten so severely that her torn, swollen lips, quote, looked like the false lips kids paced on their faces at Halloween. Fortunately, the police were able to gather some evidence, seminal fluids found on the motel towels returning a result, indicating an O blood type secretor. for the moment that was it if she didn't know her attacker's real name or where he actually lived she couldn't remember his license plate number

but Dick will eventually face justice for what he did to her but not for a while now we'll jump ahead a full year to 1979 in April of that year Dick's wife Janet Cottingham has finally had enough of her husband's nocturnal absences

him never fucking her she files for divorce on the grounds of cruelty including refusing to have sex with her since 1976 her complaint alleged Cottingham had at times left the family without money for essentials and that he would not come home until 4 a.m., 5 a.m., oftentimes, even though his shift ended at 11 p.m. Also alleged he frequented Plato's retreat, a sex club in Manhattan, was also a habitual patron of various gay bars and bathhouses in Manhattan. Not sure if Dick was also interested in men and attacked male sex workers as well. If he did, we just don't know about it. And though you might not think that Richard would care very much about being, you know, divorced. indeed he almost never saw his family apparently this devastated that human turd

later he would write when I got divorced it was the single worst day of my life it was devastating my world crumbled and it seemed my life ended well what do you expect you fucking piece of shit fucking idiot now let's talk about someone else

who will soon connect to the story 22 year old D-day Kedarsi she was born in Kuwait raised by her conservative Muslim grandparents who waited until their granddaughter was before they allowed her to go join her father in Mineola, Long Island, where he had settled, and they would soon, unfortunately, regret that decision. She attended Minneola High School, but she did not have a great high school experience.

She hated it, in fact. Her new country's customs and language were hard for her to wrap her head around. She was a social outcast, and soon she would abandon school. Soon after that, she would become a sex worker. By the time she was 20, she had received prostitution and minor theft charges in both New York and California. one of her favorite places to work on the East Coast Least was at a massage parlor in Atlantic City, but her pimp in New York

would usually find her there after a couple of days drag her back to the more lucrative streets at Times Square. The 5-6 slender, dark-haired woman had snuck off to that massage parlor during the last weeks of November 1979. But then she decided, or her pimp, decided, that she needed to go back to New York. First, she took a train to Trenton to visit the child

she'd given birth to just two months before. Damn. She'd been visiting the baby and the friend who had agreed to temporarily take care of her every couple of weeks. Then on November 30th she took a train to Penn Station and Manhattan, proceeded to Times Square. There she met a client, a client who, unbeknownst to her, had already been in the city for a few days, had already taken a sex worker back to his hotel room and was waiting for, you know, waiting to for him, excuse me, this other sex worker was waiting for him to return with the second girl. She agreed to go with him to room 417 at the nearby travel in motor lodge just off Times Square,

the last place she'll ever visit a few days later december second a hotel employee frantically calls the fire department a room on the fourth floor is on fire the young woman thought uh somebody might be inside there was a lot of heat so fireman jim rogers and his partners got down on their hands and knees crawled through the doorway to try and find the supposed guests inside then jim sees a body on the bed nearest to the door he grabs it hauls it out realizes they're not breathing attempts to do mouth to mouth in the smoky haze, but he can't find her mouth, and that's because she does not have a head. In a state of shock, the fireman extinguishes the flames. They find another body. Both bodies belong to young women whose heads and arms have been severed. Their skin is badly burned. Somebody

had poured gas on the beds in the room, carefully sprinkling a bunch of gas, also between the victim's legs. The bodies were severely burned around their genitals, but their torso's legs almost untouched. makes me think about what Dick said in that interview we listened to. I would like to change up his M.O. To keep investigators from connecting his crimes. The room itself asked more questions that it answered. There was no trace of the women's heads or hands. Also not a speck of blood in the room.

In the bathtub, somebody had placed two piles of clothing with a pair of platform shoes on each stack. There was no knife, no scalpel, nothing you could use to decapitate a human being in the room. Police didn't know who these two women were, where they came from. but some other people who showed up you know outside the hotel that day had an idea these others were a group of working women gathered on the nearby streets

when you know when word the double homicide quickly got out the women cautioned each other about ever going back to the travel in identifying correctly that the victims had been sex workers and that a John had killed them meanwhile investigators are getting to work

Dr. James A. Brussels a Manhattan psychiatrist who had worked on profiling people like the Boston Strangler came down to the Travelin Motor Lodge immediately he had a lot of questions how would nobody supposedly seen this man during the stay

why was he choosing sex workers why was this attack so brutal autopsies on the torsos revealed that both women have been tortured and sexually assaulted while still alive and probably for several days brussell would suggest later he wants to clean up the sordid sexual mess of society

eh feels like a lazy guess or maybe some projection makes me wonder if Dr. Brussels had some sexual hangups while the doctor's working on putting together profile that would be completely and utterly fucking useless, police formed a task force, a force that would include deep-seed divers assigned to plunge into the chilly waters of the Hudson and East Rivers to look for the victim's heads and hands. Without much

to go on, their tactics came down to numbers and brute force. With enough police around the city, you know, maybe they stumble upon, find the guy, or at least somebody who knew him. We are going to keep knocking on doors and talking to people until we find the answers. New York City deputy police chief, Richard Nacostro, told a reporter for the New York Times. Fuck yeah, bro. Dick hunted by dick. You know, sometimes it takes a dick to catch a dick. Sometimes only a dick.

We get a dick job done. I could go on, but I won't. For a solid week, police scoured the city, but they had very little to go on. Not even the women's first names, or their ages. One of them will be later identified as D-Day Gadarsie, based on the shoes she was wearing, being linked back to a store in New Jersey where she got them. The other will never be identified. All we know is that she was between the ages of 16 and 22 years old,

5 to 100, you know, roughly, around 105 pounds, I have been wearing a black wool coat, black patent leather boots purchased at a boutique on First Ave, and a pair of bonjour brand jeans and a Burgundy Mohair sweater. When it came to the perpetrator, police did not have any fingerprints, nor a weapon, nor really any clues. All the man had left was the name he had registered under his stay with, you know, with the fictitious address,

Carl Wilson of Anderson Place, Merlin, New Jersey. And Carl had arrived at the motel, November 29th. Employees noticed that he seemed to go out of his way to avoid conversation. In the four days he stayed at the hotel, barely anybody spoke with him, the do not disturb sign hanging on his door the entire time. But they had gotten a good look at him. They were able to provide enough of a description to put together a composite drawing. The drawing showed a white male about 35, five feet, 10 inches tall,

weighing around 175 pounds, brown hair, you know, you know, clean cut with short sideburns, high cheekbones. You'd have to be strong if you managed to attack two women at once. While they looked for the killer deputy chief, Dick Nacostro, had the task force comb the streets, hotels for anyone who might be able to recognize what the women were wearing and give a clue to their identities. This added some details to the story that was already spreading through the sex worker community, using women to, excuse me, urging women to refuse to go to the travel in or to work in teams.

even if it meant losing time on the street. Some women would leave New York City altogether. By the end of the month, missing persons in Texas from Bergen County, New Jersey, found a file an x-rays in a Trenton, New Jersey hospital that seemed to match the remains of one of the victims. The x-rays belonged to D-Day. That brought something else up, too. If D-Day was from New Jersey, maybe her attacker hadn't been lying when he wrote in the motel registry that he was from the Garden State. For now, however, the Times Square, excuse me, remained in a state of terror.

at the end of that December in 1979 the peep shows put back glass in the booths it was the beginning of the end for the era of wanton sexual sordidness for the deuce i can only imagine how upset your dad was about that before the police could put it all together someone else would meet the torso killer several people in fact unfortunately on may 11th nineteen eighty pamela wiseenfield a twenty-year-old sex worker had met a terrible terrible man he had drugged her he had beat her including badly biting her breasts she woke up in a vacant lot and teen New Jersey with no memory of how she got there. Similar to Pamela, Jean-Marrienne Rayner was a 25-year-old sex worker who used the Hotel Seville on East 29th Street as her headquarters as sorts. She was considered a high-end escort. She liked to dress well, wear expensive jewelry,

be selective with her Johns. On May 15th, the fire department responded to another hotel room fire this time in Jean-Marie-Marie-Anne's headquarters at the Seville. Fireman and police discovered the petite woman's body, nude on the floor of room 1139. it was a savage crime scene Like some of Dick's other victims

Rainer had been beaten, bitten, bitten, cut, and strangled and this time both her breasts have been completely severed post-mortem posed on the headboard of the bed His violence is escalating Or maybe he also just wants to confuse investigators She'd been strangled so savagely by a thin cord That in the crime scene photo It almost resembles a cut across her throat

Her clothing and belongings were taken No forensic clues left behind though it was obvious to the NYPD that the perpetrator of the Seville Hotel murder, very likely the same one from the torso murders on the deuce further uptown. What the New York police did not know was that just over a week earlier, another young woman had been strangled to death in a motel room in Hasbrook Heights, New Jersey. That woman was later identified as 19-year-old Valerie Ann Street. She'd been picked up on May 4th while soliciting on 32nd Street near Madison Avenue in Manhattan.

She had arrived in New York just a few days prior, fleeing Miami after an arrest for prostitution, getting off on a bus in Times Square. When she was picked up, she'd been wearing a simple white blouse jeans and dirty white tennis shoes. The John drove Valerie to the same quality-in motel on Route 17 in Hasbrook Heights,

where Marianne Carr's body had been found two years earlier. Arriving there sometime between 4 and 4.30 p.m., the John had sent Valerie into the motel to check into a room while he waited outside in the parking lot. Valerie checked in with no luggage under her Florida name of Shelly Dudley. The desk clerk would later recall that while she was waiting for him to finish with another customer, she briefly strolled off in the direction of one of the side entrances before returning to the desk. She was probably opening the door for her customer to slip in unnoticed,

as he had instructed her to do, so nobody could see him. At around 10 a.m. the next morning, Valerie called down to the front desk, asked for the room to be kept another day. The next morning, May 6, 1980, housekeeper Marianne Schenelli went in to clean up that room, room 132. It appeared to be vacated. she noticed that one of the room's twin beds looked like it hadn't been slept in.

But the bed covers had been pulled down to the foot of the bed. She vacuumed the floor, but as she attempted to vacuum underneath the bed, she kept running into something, kept hitting something. So as Kennelly peered under the mattress, started to scream.

To her horror, she had found Valerie Street's nude and battered corpse jammed under the bed, her cold hands still handcuffed behind her lifeless back. She was bruised over most of her torso. She'd been badly tortured, and for a long time.

She'd been beaten with a lot of her. something heavy on her legs. Her mouth had been sealed shut by white adhesive tape so none of the other guests could hear her screams. Lab tests would show she had been brutally raped both anally and vaginally shortly before her death. Her breasts covered in deep bite marks. She had likely endured anywhere from six to 24 hours of continuous assault. Most likely she'd been drugged for most or all of that. But there was virtually no trace of her perpetrator having been in the room. They'd taken sheets. Another bedding with them when they'd left. Law enforcement couldn't fine hairs left behind, no fingerprints. Well, almost no fingerprints. On the cheap pair of Japanese

manufactured handcuffs that had bound Valerie's hands behind her back, police were able to lift a single latent print, and it would be matched to Richard Cottingham after his eventual arrest. His desire to leave the body posed as it was when it was found had backfired on him. But it will now take law enforcement a bit to make that connection. Back in those days, the technology for image and pattern recognition and computer searches to link fingerprints with suspects that not quite yet exist like it does now. Suspect fingerprints had to be physically reviewed by an identification specialist who would look through a magnifying glass at hard copy fingerprint records one in a time.

Obviously, a long painstaking process. So for now, the murderer recently, recently labeled by the press as the torso killer, the Times Square killer, and as the Times Square Ripper, gets away with it yet again. Fortunately, that is about to change. Wednesday, May 21st, 1980 was a day that began badly for Cottingham. He had to make an appearance in a Bergen County court in New Jersey for a matter regarding his divorce. He left the courthouse around 1 p.m., drove into Manhattan, caught the movie Friday the 13th at the Cinerama on Broadway and 47th Street on Times Square. Not surprised that

Dick loved a slasher flick. I guess he rooted for Jason to keep hacking teenage girls to death and get away with it. Cottingham then walked 20 minutes to Blue Shield on 3rd Avenue and 40th Street. began his shift at 3 p.m. Got off at 11. Afterwards, he stopped off at the Blarnie store bar and grill on 8th Avenue, or excuse me, Blarney Stone, Bar and Grill on 8th Avenue, in what was in a porn district. After he was good and tanked, Cottingham got in his car,

decided to go hunting, and he would soon find another victim. Cutting to the next day, May 22nd, it's a Thursday. 9.20 a.m. patrolman Stanley Mellowick receives what would turn out to be the most important call of his 13-year career. He jumped in his police cruiser, rushing ahead of traffic on Route 17 and Hasbrook Heights to get to the quality-in motel. Took him only two minutes to get there. But to somebody else, those two minutes would feel like hours. And that person was Leslie Ann O'Dell.

18-year-old Leslie had endured three hours of savage sexual torture in room 117. She'd arrived in New York just four days earlier, near dawn, getting off on a Greyhound bus at the Port Authority terminal, just west of Times Square. After she'd gotten off the bus, she'd sat on a bench, unsure what to do next. She had a fight with her boyfriend on the way from Washington, D.C., and they decided to part ways, and now she was all alone, and she was broke. A tall man approached her who said his name was Jimmy, and that he was 21, but he looked older. He offered to buy her breakfast, and she took him up on it. Before she knew it, they were chatting away like old friends. Jimmy then invited her to come to his dad's place in New Jersey if she agreed to work for him on the streets.

And just like that, she's a sex worker, and Jimmy's a fucking pimp. She was then sheltered around Manhattan for another day, passed on to another man. named Kenny. It was on her fourth night of street walking that Leslie met a man who called himself Tommy. He pulled up in a blue and silver Chevy Caprice on the corner of Lexington and 25th. He said he didn't care much for the neighborhood. Leslie

agreed. The area frightened her. She was so new to it. This guy seemed nice. He had sandy reddish blonde hair, neatly trimmed mustache. Talked about his house, his job, his girlfriends. She was pleased when he asked her to come with him to New Jersey, since New Jersey seemed safer to her than New York.

Then he said he would take her to a bus Depot over there and she could make her way home. They grabbed a few drinks at the bar before they walked back to his car around three in the morning, headed off to the George Washington Bridge. They stopped at a restaurant to get a bite to eat, and at some point he mentioned that he, of course, was interested in sex. She agreed, saying she'd have sex with him for a half an hour for 50 bucks. They negotiated a little before settling off for the, or setting off for this quality in, where they arrived just before dawn. In the room, Leslie freshened up, had a cigarette when Tommy came in. He was carrying a paper bag in a briefcase.

He told her to roll onto her back for a nice sensual massage. She complied, glad for the opportunity to participate passively, but then she heard a click. He'd handcuffed her. Now he tells her, as he sits on her with a different voice, gone is the gentle-seeming guy who've been joking around with her, showing her good time for hours, now his tone is menacing, and he says, you have to take it. The other girls did, you have to take it, too. You're a whore, and you have to be punished.

And now as Leslie felt more fear than she'd ever felt before in her life. She felt a knife pressing to her throat as he ordered her not to scream. He told her that before they were done, she was going to end up with scars on her face, tits, pussy, and asshole. This fucking piece of shit. She quietly begged for him to just please let her go. She promised she wouldn't cause any trouble. She resisted the impulse to scream when he painfully squeezed and then cut into one of her breasts. Then he penetrated her from behind, not gently.

When he was done, he toppled off of her. and in the silence he started to slowly play with his dick, trying to get it hard again. Then out of nowhere he starts screaming, yelling, telling her that she's a whore, that she needs to be punished. He grabs a thick leather belt from his pants. It's about to beat her with it.

Then he changes his mind, decides to anally rape her instead. When he's done with that, he cleans off her face with the washcloth, wiping away her tears and snot. He rolls her over, takes out a black pistol, another set of handcuffs, which he now uses on her ankles.

He says he's going to shoot her in the head and blow her fucking brains out if she resists. He then removes the cuffs off of her hands, orders her to give him a blowjob. She does as he is commanded, terrified that she's going to be dead if she doesn't. She follows his orders, which also includes now licking his back

from his neck all the way down to his feet. Then while he's laying down and she's sucking on his toes, she feels around for his gun, and she finds it and she grabs it. When he then orders her to stand up, she feels like it's now whenever she raises the gun, points it to that piece of shit's face, pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens. There's a fake. It's a little decoy for a sick game, and he starts to laugh at her. Then he grabs a knife, and she starts screaming, as loud as she fucking can. A maid at the hotel, Eleanor Kickwick. He's first to hear her while she's making her usual morning rounds, and when she hears the scream, she immediately, to her credit, calls her front desk to report a guest in distress. Meanwhile, inside the room, Tommy, but of course, Dick, throws Leslie to the ground, excuse me, to the bed in a fit of rage.

When the phone rings, he tells her to tell whoever's on the line that she is okay. She does so, but the assistant manager Todd Radner hears the fear in her voice and is not convinced. And to his credit, he tells her that the motel security will be sent to her room immediately. When they hang up, Tommy slaps Leslie across the room, setting her tumbling back onto the bed. Then before he hurts her further, there's a knock on the door. Leslie goes to answer her with instructions not to unbolt the door and to tell them that everything is fine. She tells Paula de Matthews, another employee, and Todd Radner, that she's okay, but also makes the fingers sign that she hopes, along with the obvious fear in her eyes, they will recognize that she

needs help. Once the door is shut, Dick holds a knife to her back, says to call the front desk and tell them that she's fine again. So she does when she hangs up, Richard asked her, are they coming? She's too tired, too scared to come up with a lie and says, yes, they're on their way. Meanwhile, Officer Stanley Mellowick pulls into the parking lot. She's a small gathering of people near the rear end of the motel. The assistant manager is waving him down frantically. Stanley He radios back to headquarters for backup. He reaches under the dashboard, retrieves his 12-gauge shotgun. Fuck!

Yes! A shotgun has entered the chat, and I'm here for it. Perfect firearm for this situation. Inside the room, Richard is frantically trying to get his shit together, get his things together. As Leslie now screams for someone to stop him, he bolts out of the room, runs down the hall. Officer Mellowick, out in the parking lot, pauses momentarily to peer through the glass door at the rear entrance to the quality in. Then he pushes the door open, slowly moves forward. here's the sound of keys jingling, somebody running,

they're coming towards him. Then the source of the noise appears, a large white man carrying a small caliber pistol. He raises his shotgun, shouts, Hold it right there, don't move! And I wish Richard would have pointed his fake pistol at him, given Officer Mellewick the chance to rip a fucking hole through his chest. But instead, he drops the fake gun,

quickly assumes a police arrest position spread eagle against the wall. While Mellowick handcuffs him, he blurts out, I didn't do anything. I was with a hooker and I got scared. Meanwhile, back in room 117, Leslie Ann O'Dell is crying hysterically when Sergeant Edward Chermark walks in. She's sitting on the bed with a sheep wrapped around her naked and battered body, the handcuffs still dangling from her wrist.

He said he got off on hurting girls, seeing them in pain, Leslie tells him. Before she's taken to the hospital, she identifies the 1979 Chevy Caprice, silver with the blue top that had brought her to New Jersey that morning. No more than an hour later, Janet Cottingham gets his phone call from the Hasbrook Heights police telling her, that her husband is under arrest. Their divorce had not yet been finalized. Not long after she answers the phone,

about a dozen detectives converge on her home at 29 Riland Street. Fucking Richard, the gift that keeps on giving. The detective searches her house, find a collection of mysterious items in the basement, women's clothing, jewelry, perfume, motel keys, purses. At first, Janet suggests that maybe they were gifts her husband

had once bought for her and just hadn't gotten around to giving her. But she couldn't say the same thing about some of the other items. round hardcore bondage porn mags purchased at the deuce open roll of adhesive tape leather slave collars gags and more when investigators found all that shit she broke down and started crying she confirmed that her husband's schedule had been unpredictable that she was never actually sure when he was going to be home may 3rd for example had been their anniversary but on that day he'd gone to work hadn't come home until the next morning meanwhile coddenham sat alone in the cell at the Hasbrook Heights Police Station. His expression was stoic, as that we hadn't just been found

with a toy pistol, black-handled knife, three-inch blade, right handcuffs, several containers of pills, black leather mouth gag, two black leather collars with bright chrome studs, as if he hadn't just got caught beating, raping, sexually torturing somebody. He even had the key to room 117 in his pocket or had had it before officers took it. Seemed painfully obvious that what Leslie had said he had done, he had done. But now Leslie was proven to be just one small part of law enforcement concern regarding Richard. Based in large part of what was being recovered in the Cottingham House, Detective Edward Denning was beginning to realize the true magnitude of what he was dealing with. Denning would soon interview Karen Schilt, the housewife who had been abducted from New York

City, found in an apartment complex in Little Ferry, New Jersey, the Ledgewood Terrace apartments, where the Nottie Hems had lived until 1975. That same apartment complex have been home to Marianne Carr, her husband Michael, Marianne's body have discovered outside the Qualty Inn in 1977. Cottingham insisted he had never been to the Qualty Inn before he had registered as a guest with Leslie O'Dell, but he's a fucking liar. Another woman, Barbara Lucas, would tell detectives that, yeah, she stayed with him of that same Qualdeon, at least twice,

in the summer of 1977 and 1978. She would also tell the police that Richard liked to be called Blair, his son's name, and that he was known in a few Manhattan bars as Jimmy. Among his favorite hangouts was Flanagan's on First Ave where victim Susan Geiger had had a few drinks before he had taken her to a New Jersey motel and drug, beat, raped, and sexually tortured her. Back in the holding cell where Richard was, he could clearly see the writing on the wall. He started fidgeting with his glasses, glasses he had got his first pair of glasses when he was nine, and he'd hated them, and in a moment of hopelessness, he smashed the wire room glasses on the floor,

picked up a sliver of glass cut deeply into his left wrist, blood spewed over his clewed over his close, ran under the floor, but a police officer noticed and rushed Cottingham to the county hospital in Paramus, or Pyramus, excuse me. He was then transferred to the Bergen County jail where he would unfortunately recover. May 23rd, 1980, a 33-year-old Cottingham appeared for his arraignment on the charge of attempted murder of 18-year-old Leslie O'Dell. Bale was set at $250,000, a high amount for a man who was technically a first-time offender. But prosecutor Dennis Callow persuaded the judge Benedict I. Lucci that the defendant, quote, had a bad reputation and inclinations of criminal activity.

Wakely, Paul Cottingham's court-appointed attorney complained about the bail amount but failed to get it reduced, despite Paul's mention of Cottingham's good relationship with his wife and kids, bullshit, and his consistent employment. While Cottingham sat in a cell in Bergen, news of his arrest and his potential crimes made its way through the police network, you know, led to a firestorm of activity. Police from across the country, L.A., Las Vegas, Maryland, Delaware, Moore, were calling the small New Jersey office trying to cross-reference other cases in which

women have been abducted, raped, murdered, and mutilated. But those cases would have to wait. There were other more immediate logistical problems that proved to be more important. For example, despite being geographically close, New York and New Jersey authorities rarely worked together. In fact, they had a pretty poor relationship.

Going all the way back to the Lindberg kidnapping in 1932, when New Jersey investigators tracked down Bruno Hoptman, a carpenter living in the Bronx. The New Jersey State Police refused to disclose their evidence to the District Attorney of the Bronx conducted his own grand jury probe into Hopman and his associates. In part due to the bitter rivalry between the police departments, kidnapping was made a federal crime, not long after

the abduction of Charles Augustus Lindbergh Jr. Luckily, decades later, some individual officers would choose to overcome this old and frankly pretty fucking stupid rivalry. New Jersey cops like Tony Tortora, Richard Rafino, yes! Larry Garofalo, they were now working with Jimmy Keene, Gerald McQueen, Michael Clark, Edward Dallum, Anthony Orcelli, Richard Bohan, Dick on Dick, on Dick, you know, from precincts all over Manhattan. Anthony Tortora had been trying to figure out the name of the young woman who had died at Room with 132, which was still unknown to police at this point. Jimmy Keene, meanwhile, worked for the forced nickname the Pimp Squad, aka New York City's Public Morals Division, which had its offices above police headquarters between 6th and 7th Ave near Times Square, where nearly all their cases took place. suspecting that the woman found in the quality ends Room 132 was a sex worker

Totora called his old friend Jimmy Keene who was then working on the Hotel Civil case he remembered that a sex worker had told him her roommate went missing a little while before soon the murdered woman was identified as Valerie but that wasn't enough the PIMS squad wanted to link Cottonham definitively to these so-called torso murders

right the two women who had been found burned in the smoking motel room on the fourth floor of the travel inn adjacent to Times Square police examine the handwriting from the ledger at the motel wherein the murderer identified himself as the fictitious Carl Wilson and sent a request for Coddenham's handwriting to be sent along for comparison. In New Jersey, the district attorney's office sent word that they were working on it. Among the other things the Pimp Squad wanted to know was exactly what their suspect had done with the victim's heads

and hands. Divers and nearby rivers had still failed to turn up anything. Nothing was found in dumps, incinerators, or even manholes. Now they headed to New Jersey, search pop possible dump sites like the Meadowlands, New Jersey's major dump. It was a thankless task, and they weren't making any progress. Around that time, Meadowlands took it enough garbage each day to fill the Yankee Stadium. Since the crimes had taken place six months before, holy shit. That meant searching through fucking hundreds of thousands of tons of garbage. And despite doing that, they didn't turn up anything.

Man, can you imagine getting to sign that task? Hey, rookie, got a job for you. You're going to want to go home and change Grab a gas mask, some rubber gloves You're going to be digging through trash of the dump from now Until I don't know you fucking die of old age You fucking melt down and quit you piece of shit Get over there

Both investigations New Jersey and New York were proven more complicated Than they had initially seemed Roger Breslin staff at the Bergen County DA's office We worked day and night for two months On the Valerie Street murder Racking up nearly $30,000 in overtime pay To two dozen investigators, lawyers and technical staff

in the end both investigations came down to focus on a few crucial pieces of evidence eyewitness accounts at coddingham with the various crime scenes the signature on the travel in registry and the tools of torture found on him at the time of his arrest in a hastily called news conference august 14th 1980 new york district attorney robert m morganthau announced a three-count indictment against richard codynham in the case of the two bodies found at the travel in motel and the murder of Marianne Jean Rainer whose breasts had been severed

the high-end escort who had died in Hotel Seville where she often worked on East 29th Street, Manhattan. That hotel is still around, by the way. It's now a Hyatt. Cottingham himself, meanwhile, remained in jail in New Jersey. His bail now been raised to 350 grand.

He didn't have the money to pay it, much less a good lawyer, but somebody else would help him on the lawyer front. Anna Cottingham, now 62, reacted to the charges against her son with bitter outrage. She and Richard had always had a close relationship and she had been angry when he had chosen to marry Janet

and the couple had elected to stay in New Jersey rather than move to Florida with the nodded hams like she preferred. Now baby boy was being taken away from her again. Her fucking murderous, monster, sexual predator baby boy. So Mommy hired the best attorney money could buy, Donald Conway, the former president of the New York, of the New Jersey Bar Association, and she would foolishly put her home in Tampa up for sale

to pay her son's legal bills. truly believing that sweet, sweet Richard despite the crazy amount of evidence against him was innocent. She believed some fucking bullshit baby boy story that Richard was a small time loan shark the mafia had framed him for the murders rather than you know pay their debts. Cool, you know, so now Dick is needlessly torturing his mom as well. She's, you know, he's costing her

his house over fucking nothing. Might as well just burn that money. A little less than a month after the New York triple murder indictments, New Jersey officially began the proceedings for a grand jury indictment of Richard Cottingham. When the grand jury completed its deliberation, September 7th, 1980, it had approved a 21-count indictment, including carnal knowledge, aka rape, atrocious assault, aggravated sexual assault while armed, attempted murder, and possession of drugs. Leslie Ann O'Dell, Susan Geiger, and Karen Schilt had all identified Cottingham and

police lineups, making it more difficult than ever for Cottingham to deny the charges against him. But the greatest piece of evidence came from deceased victim. Valerie Street, Detective Robert S. Rayberg, an investigator for the county prosecutor's office, along with some lab technicians with the FBI, were able to positively match match fingerprints from the handcuffs used on Valerie with prints found on the cuffs around Leslie's hands. Still, that would have to be presented at trial, and that trial was many months away. For now, Dick would spend the winner in old Bergen County Jail nicknamed Bastille for its resemblance to the medieval French fortress. There, he was forced to move each day

in case he got too familiar with his cell, you know, and tried to figure out some way to escape. Curacy at that time, Janet, for some reason, decided to withdraw her divorce proceedings against Richard, quote, for my own reasons, as she told the court, okay. But then she would never even visit her husband. She and her three children would relocate to a small apartment in Poughkeepsie.

His New Jersey trial would begin in May of 1981 with the prosecution given its opening statement May 19th. June 11th, he would be convicted, of 15 of 20 counts. Just three days later, he attempted suicide by drinking six ounces of a liquid antidepressant in his sale at the Bergen County Jail, and unfortunately, again, doesn't work, and he'd have to face the music. July 25th, Richard is sentenced to 173 to 197 years in state prison.

His prison term after applying concurrent terms for multiple kidnap and assault convictions will be 60 to 95 years, and also importantly, he was fined $2,350. dollars. Highly doubt he cared about that part. Fucking what? I want to have that kind of money. God damn it. When I get out of here in 197 years, how am I going to come up with that? February 25th, poor Richard collapsed while being escorted to a jail cell all the way to the Marianne car trial. He was diagnosed with the duodenal ulcer. Man, poor little guy has been under so much stress. And that resulted in a mistrial for the car

case. But nonetheless, in October of that year, trials back on. Trying it again, he attempts to escape now, but is quickly recaptured by authorities. On October 12th, 1982, he is convicted of a second degree of second degree murder for Marianne Carr in a non-jury trial in Bergen County, New Jersey. He'll be sentenced to 25 years to life for the car murder with the minimum term of 30 years to be served consecutively with the 1981 sentence. Then in late March of 1983, he's removed from the maximum security state prison in Trenton, transferred to the men's house of detention in Manhattan for another trial for the August

1980 charges of murdering D-Day Godarsie, Jane Doe, and Gene Rayner. And on July 5th, 84, during the trial, Cottingham attempt of suicide for the third time by slashing his left forearm with the razor in the court before the jurors. And he will live again. He was fucking way better at killing other people than himself. He was, of course, still maintaining that he was innocent throughout all of this, right? You know, so unfair what was happening to him, such a witch hunt. July 7th, he'd be convicted in New York for the August 19th.

charges of murdering Gadarsie, Jane Doe and Rainer, later sentenced to an additional 75 years to life. He would have actually ended up on eligible for parole this year at the age of 78, but thanks to confessions in recent years, that did not happen. He would end up making many confessions and the story of how he made those confessions is a journey all its own. In 2000, a detective in the Bergen County Prosecutor's Office, the BCPO, Robert Anzalati, was tasked with reviewing a bunch cold case files from the 60s and 70s. And Zladi came to believe that Cottingham, quote, between his history and the suspicions of detectives that came before me, could be responsible for any of these crimes.

So he began to interview, Richard, starting in 2003. And he would not be the only one looking for justice. That same year, somebody else made a shocking discovery, just maybe not the kind you might think. That year, Jennifer Weiss, then in her early 20s, found out who her birth mother was. D-Day Godarsie. Jen had grown up 20 miles from Trenton in suburban Spotswood, New Jersey, having had a very Brady Bunch-esque upbringing.

In an old photo, dark-haired Jennifer grins between her fairer-skinned parents, bangs teased high, teal dress, puffy. Three older brothers fill out the frame. Everybody has the same slightly crooked smile except for Jen. Jennifer knew she was adopted at the age of four. Wasn't a big deal, but around the age of 12, she had started to wonder who her parents were. At first, her mom told her that her biological mom had died at a motorcycle accident.

Then a few years later, she said she died in a fire. When she was 16, her mom finally told her the truth. Her mom was a sex worker. And her birth dad is your dad. No, she of course does not know who her birth dad is. At the age of 23, Jen reached down to an adoption agency in Trenton to access her original birth certificate. She was told to come pick it up. But when she came into grab it, she was also handed a folder full of grizzly articles.

And that was how she found out that her mom had been murdered decades earlier by the Times Square, aka Torso Killer. At first Jen was terrified, had nightmares where Cottingham would come after her. But after she survived breast cancer in 2017, after her adoptive mom died in 2010, and then her adopted dad died in 2015, she decided to face her fears. She wanted to talk to this son of a bitch. He confessed to one additional crime at this point, pleading guilty in September of 2010 to the 1967 murder of Nancy Skiava Vogel. Nancy Skiyava Vogel. That year, 2017, Jen wrote a letter to Cottingham

intending to have one question answered. What had happened to her mother's head? Cottingham wrote back. Why did he write back? Well, he was lonely. He'd been incarcerated for 37 years longer than he'd live free. Also, he was talking to a woman, which excited him, especially a woman that looked like one of the women

he remembered raping, torturing, and killing. In his initial letter to Weiss in 2017, in between apologizing for what he had done to Gadda as he and expounding on the wonders of prison communication services, he told her, I can't get you out of my head, girl. Not creepy at all. To Rolling Stone magazine, he would say,

Jen is generous, wild, brave, beautiful, and very vulnerable, like a bird with an injured wing. Yeah, you fucking hurt her, you piece of shit. She follows her heart and her instinct, is very determined and sometimes drives me out of my mind. It's a love-hate relationship. Yeah, I've given half the chance. I have no doubt he would love to put some hate on her,

due to her what he did to her mom. he did finally answer her question Jen contacted the Fort Lee Police Department in 2017 to report that Cottingham had told her where Godarsie's head was that it was located under a prominent New York landmark

and a place that she would not end up disclosing to the public. That information made its way back to someone who had been interested in Cottingham for a while now. Former chief of detectives for the Bergen County Prosecutor's office Robert Anzolati.

He started getting into cold cases as I mentioned in the early 2000s before there was an official department back when he had to thumb through unsolved murder files, you know, while drinking a glass of wine at home while his kids were asleep. It was his interactions with New Jersey's infamous murder Richard Leonard Kuklinski, aka the Iceman in another dick and the subject of Timesluck episode 51 that had led him to Cottingham in 2004. And there's been a lot of dick in this suck. Despite having done all manner of terrible things,

the Iceman got his nickname by freezing a victim to conceal cause of death. Kuklinski was disgusted by Cottingham hated his crimes against women, some of which closely resembled some of Anzalati's cold cases. Since the two criminals were at the same facility, Kuklinsky fed Anzalati some intel about an illegal gambling ring. Cottingham was running in prison at that time, and the cops staged a bust. Anzalati then let Cottingham sweat it out in isolation in the hole for a few days that he introduced himself. This is the way he would later tell it. He said, I went down to the president Trenton, stepped to him and said, the reason you're in here is because of me. I'm going to continue to fuck with you unless you start talking.

Cottingham agreed to talk. With the understanding that Anzolotti would never mess with him again if he talked. However, six years of conversations that followed would not really lead anywhere. Whenever it came time to get to actual confessions, Coddingham would clam up. He'd ask for impossible things. For example, he wanted any and all confessions to be fully kept out of the press forever and always. Finally, in 2010, Cottingham cracked confessing to the 1967 murder of Nancy Skiyava Vogel, a 29-year-old married mother a two

who was found strangled nude in her car in Ridgefield Park Cottingham started sweating the second the second the tape recorder switched on for his official confession did not help that Vogel's children were in the courtroom after the judge made him personally apologize

to the kids Cottenham told Robert that he would never confess anything to him ever again and it would take two years for their rapport to get reestablished Anzalati endured hours of playing poker games with the serial killer while the two-eight slices

of Cottingham's favorite pizza from nearby Dumont. The interview we heard earlier came from one of these hangouts. He knew it was all the game for Cottingham. This had to do less with getting Cottingham to fill remorse and more to do with Cottingham trying to control the last little bit of his life

that he could. But it would all be worth it if he learned more about Dick's crimes than he would. Anzalotti gleaned that other than the murder and torture, what got Cottingham off the most, I don't know why that was so hard to say, was just getting these women to do whatever he had happened to want them to do.

right to fuck him how he wanted you know go to whatever motel he wanted etc over the years they chatted a lot these two guys about various women and with anzalati bringing up errant details about cold cases see if they wrong a bell finally in 2014 coddingham confessed to three more murders 18 year old irene blaze in 1969 15 year old denise falasca that same year and 13 year old jackie harp in 1968 coddiham claimed that he attempted to persuade 13 year old jackie whom he remembered for her bull cut haircut to get into his car but she resisted said he drove in front of his uh you know front of harp as we mentioned stopped walked over grabbed her uh dragged her into a cluster of bushes and killed her caught him confessed that he saw irene blaze shopping on hackensack convinced her to join him for a drink took her to another location in a cab uh and then they spent some time together after which cottonham offered to bring blazay back to the bus station but instead drove her to a remote location where he raped and killed her. A 15-year-old Diane Fulaska,

according to Cottingham, had been walking down the side of the road in Emerson, on her way to meet some friends when he pulled up next to her, offered her a ride, and then shortly after drove her to a parking lot of his former school, as I mentioned,

where he forced her to, you know, give him a blowjob, not happy with her level of enthusiasm, he murdered her. Via in agreement with the families, Anzolotti was able to close those cases without going to court or to the press. But after Jen had convinced the cops

with Anzolotti working on the cases to search for her mother's head under that undisclosed New York landmark, the authorities turned up nothing, and then Jen turned to the families of other victims to get some closure, and now news of what else he had done would become public. Jen would find out about the 2014 confessions through a network of victims, families, and friends who were frustrated. They couldn't openly talk about the murders in some communities where the murders occurred, innocent men who the public liked for the crimes were still living under a burden of suspicion. After receiving permission from Anzolotti to write about the

confessions in one of his books, Jen's friend and forensic historian Peter Voronsky at the behest of Harp's family and friends held a sort of press conference in Midland Park, New Jersey in December of 2019 to announce that Cottingham was behind these infamous murders. Anzalotti was initially pissed. He had spent years bending to Cottingham's press shy will, only to have that damn now burst. Curiously, though, Cottingham didn't climb up after this. Seemed like he was fine if the news went to the press if it went through Jen first. It's so fucking weird for this cold-blooded pile of shit To have a soft spot for the daughter of a woman

Who he had sexually tortured and raped for several days before he killed her Cut her head off Poured gasoline on her breasts and vagina set him on fire All this leads to Cottingham confessing in April of 2021 To the 1974 murders of 17-year-old Marianne Pryor and her friend's 16-year-old Lorraine Kelly Cottingham admitted he abducted the girls while they were on their way to shop for bathing suits At the Paramus Mall took him to a hotel and after raping them, drown them in a bathtub.

Jesus. Cunningham would say to Rolling Stone that he admitted this as a favor to both Jen and Robert, who was close to retiring. He said, In our negotiations, Rob and I were always close to an agreement, but never able to reach a final understanding that was agreeable to both of us.

Along came Jennifer. Jennifer does not understand what the word no means, nor let's do it tomorrow, maybe, or we can pick up where we left off next time. Seeing how important these confessions were to her only made me want to please her more. But I also felt an obligation to rob for all the years he put into convincing me to do the right thing. He'd go on and give him one more gruesome retirement present in March of 2022,

a confession to the murder of Marianne de la Sala, who was 17 when she vanished in January of 1967, after working her shift at the shop right on Essex Street in Hackensack. Robert would say about it, unfortunately, many of Marianne's family have passed, but her brother and sister are still here. And I've spoken to her sister a number of times and made sure her brother knows as well. They've been more inclined to stay out of the spotlight, but have been extraordinarily supportive of my efforts. Marianne's sister cried about not having her big sister around all these

years. That would not become public news until a documentary about the torso killer aired on A&E in March of 2023 a year after the confession. Backing up a bit, June of 2022, Cottinghamer rained from his prison hospital bed for the 1968 murder of Diane Cusick. His health had been on the decline for months. he'd spent most of his time being shuttled from the prison infirmary to the hospital to the Southwoods prison in Cumberland County. Then on August 26th, with a non-prosecution agreement, officials in Rockland County, New York, corroborated and accepted Cottingham's confession to the 1970 murder of 26-year-old Lorraine McGrath. Cottingham would plead guilty to the murder of Diane Cusick in a court appearance on December 5th, also officially admitted killing four, or excuse me,

of the women during 1972 and 1973, Mary Beth Heinz, Laverne Moy, Sheila Hyman, Maria Emerita Rosada, Nevis, and Lisa Thomas. But the NCDA agreed not to prosecute Cottingham for the death since, well, you know, he'd already be in prison with the rest of his life.

So many women and girls. Judge Fink sentenced the defendant to 25 years to life in prison for Diane's murder, and that's where news of Richard Cottingham, now 78, close to 79, drops off. As for Times Square, things have changed a lot in the past 30-plus years that Coddenham has been in prison. The arrival of crack cocaine in New York in 1985, which made people too dangerous and crazy even for the deuce, brought it all down. In 1990, there were an extraordinary 2,245 murders in New York City, the annual highest in its history, over six murders a day.

The insane crime rate drove out of midtown, its remaining low-income residents clinging to their rent-control apartments. the real estate values of slum tenements and Manhattan bottomed out, allowing developers to snap up blocks of abandoned buildings at discount prices in the 90s. Next came gentrification, condominiums, even Walt Disney and Starbucks on a redeveloped 42nd Street, which was purged of porn shops and grind houses and transferred into something akin to a corporate theme park. A more modern version of the kind it was all the way back in the early 1900s. Maybe one day the cycle will continue and we'll see more of that gritty, anonymous, city energy. I know your dad would

really like that. Let's hope that if that happens, we don't get another Richard Cottingham burning headless, tortured torsos in a hotel room. Good job, soldier. You've made it back. Barely. Today, time suck.

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convicted of brutally attacking three women who survived. I'm sure he brutalized and or killed dozens of others. He started pretty much immediately after moving out of his parents' house. Why? Why did Dick do it? Well, like with so many of these guys, if not most of them, you know, we'll probably never know. Not for sure. You know, was he abused growing up?

It doesn't seem to have been. No one ever found some neighbor, family, friend, teacher, etc., who shared that little Dick would often be found covered in bruises or alleging his parents hit him or molested him. No sibling never came forward with a claim like that. Dick himself has never alluded to it. There's no old records from social services or the police who would indicate that either of his parents

or anyone in his family or a family friend had mistreated him growing up. Did he have some nasty frontal lobe injury that suddenly turned him violent, left him with poor impulse control? Nope. No medical records indicating that at all. No admissions. No witnesses to that. Also, his behavior doesn't indicate that.

he held down a steady job the entire time he killed got pay raises making great money does some girl break his heart and he wanted to take his revenge out on all women that doesn't seem to be the case either he was certainly capable of not abusing women while he emotionally abused and neglected his wife doesn't seem like he ever physically or sexy abused her didn't abuse his mistresses either he could show restraint could be gentle just uh sometimes didn't want to be well he was never formally diagnosed that i'm aware of of being a sociopath, he fucking clearly was. At the end of the day, he was a guy who could be your neighbor,

co-worker, brother-in-law, et cetera, just enjoyed torturing, raping, and controlling women, you know, here and there. And if he had to kill him to make sure they didn't tell the police or because that was just what happened to turn him on the most in the moment, well, then that's what he did. He'd snuff you out, whether he thought you were trash because you were a sex worker,

because you simply didn't cave to his sadistic demands or because he just fucking felt like it. Thought he could get away with it. It sounded fun. He was a guy who started developing some dark, dark sexual fantasies as a kid. Fantasies resolving around women in peril, women tied up and scared and willing to do

anything to please their captor. You know, if that meant they got to stay alive. So what's the lesson here? Careful what you beat off to. Don't start connecting and don't start, you know, continually associating sexual pleasure with truly hurting somebody.

Don't let that darkness overtake you. Don't be a piece of shit, you dirty little piggy. Some kinks should be shamed. Time for our takeaways. Time shock, top five takeaways. Number one, known primarily as the torso killer or as the Times Square killer, primarily due to the remains being found of his two most infamous murders.

Richard Cottingham was actually disturbingly prolific. While his double homicide at the Travel Lodge in December of 1979 was certainly horrific, he decapitated and cut the hands off of two women after torturing them possibly for days, Richard Cottingham was not a bloodthirsty maniac roaming only the streets around Times Square. He was a cold calculated predator, a computer operator for Blue Cross Blue Shield. He used his professional success to free up his schedule and allow him to cruise the streets in New York and suburban New Jersey for victims. The total number of his victims still is not numb, but he has claimed to have killed up to around 100. Number two, while one expert would come to believe that Cottingham killed sex workers because he wanted to clean the city of sexual filth,

Ah, that's a bunch of bullshit. He didn't just target sex workers. He targeted a lot of different women, young mothers, random teens, former neighbors, basically any vulnerable woman he came across. His goal was always the same, to get women to submit to any desire he had, no matter how much it might hurt them,

to have them do whatever he wanted them to do, even if what he wanted them to do was die, bloody, and scared. That was what seemed to have always got him off, and it was likely inspired by images in the bondage slash medical torture slash historical porn he read magazines as a kid. Number three, Times Square was at its deadliest in the late 60s, 70s, and early 80s. Forgotten by building developers decaying and crumbling after World War II,

Times Square became a gritty, dangerous, and seedy hub in New York City, infamous for its adult theaters, rampant crime, drug trade, and prostitution. The area's chaotic atmosphere reflected the city's broader struggles with urban decay and lawlessness during that decade, before major cleanup efforts and redevelopment began in the 1990s. Number four, Cottingham is currently incarcerated at the New Jersey. state prison in Trenton, nearly 80 years old, he continues to speak with investigators. He might end up, you know, confessing to more unsolved murders, or it might just be leading investigators on to try and get some more pizza slices. So far, his confessions have largely

been spearheaded by two people, Detective Robert Anzalati and Gene Weiss, or excuse me, Jen Weiss, daughter of murder victim D-Day Gaddaerzi, one of the two infamous headless and burned torsos found in a travel lodge motor in just off of Times Square. And number five, new info. If you want to know more about what Times Square was like in the 70s and 80s, even though it's, of course, a dramatized version. Check out the Deuce. It's an HBO show featuring an ensemble cast, including James Franco, playing twins, and Maggie Gyllenhaal as an ambitious former sex worker.

First season takes place from 1971 to 1972. Second season jumps ahead to 1977, concludes in 1978. Third and final season takes place from 1984 to 1985. Lindsay and I watched the first season, loved it, but then got distracted between season one, season two, you know, start watching some other things, hope to finish it someday. It's well rated, very well. Each season holds at least a 86% approval rating

on Rotten Tomatoes with both critics and the audience, and critics have applauded its accuracy and realism. The show's creators David Simon and George Pelicanos were meticulous in their research to capture the authentic atmosphere of the era, including the low-slung grindhouse and peep show theaters, the prevalence of streetwalking sex workers,

drug dealers, even the specific architecture and street layout of uh street layout of west forty second street time suck top five takeaways richard coddingham the time square killer has been sucked uh thank you to the bad magic productions team for all their help make a time suck thanks to queen of bad magic lindsay commons thanks to logan keith helping to publish this episode design a merch for the store at bad magic productions.com uh thank you to sophie evans for her research on this one and thank you to you to the all seen eyes moderating

the cult of the curious private Facebook page the mod squad making sure discord stays fun

and run smooth and everyone over on the time suck subreddit and bad magic subredits and now

this week's time sucker updates updates get your time sucker updates first up I want to share

something that one of our space lizards the knowledgeable Alan Neva posted on Patreon

some correction or a correction coming here. Alan wrote regarding something I said in the John Brown short suck. It is 36 degrees, 30 minutes latitude, not degrees and feet. Coordinates are given in decimal degrees or degrees minutes seconds. There are 60 minutes and one degree, 60 seconds in every minute, just like the time. I completely understand the confusion because the same symbol is used to designate feet.

Yeah, Alan, thank you. I was confused by seeing the single apostrophe after the number 30, as in 30 feet. following 30 degrees. I should have looked into it further. I do find this system very confusing still. Not sure why I was decided to use the same symbol to measure latitude and longitude that we also use to measure distance,

but then also combine it into sums of 60 like how we do with time. It's fucking weird. So really the latitude I was talking about and that John Brown's suck was 36 and a half degrees latitude north, which sounds less confusing to me than 36 degrees, 30 minutes north latitude.

I've looked at map since I was a little. little kid, and I had no idea how to speak about latitude designations between different degrees until now. So thank you. And somebody fucking changed that. Now for an anonymous message from a caring and concerned anonymous sucker with the subject lineup call to action regarding censorship of adult content. Hey there, bad magic team. I wanted to drop this by you and hope that you could get the word out to a wider audience. I know the bad magic has always been big proponents of freedom of expression and the audience you perform for very much the same. There has been a large push for payment processors

such as Visa, MasterCard, and PayPal, to pressure online sites to remove, quote, adult content off their pages. Collective shout has been in the anti-porn sector of advocacy for a while, but rather than taking a puritanical Christian approach, they go for a feminist angle arguing that porn and sex work is degrading for women. I am not going to bog you guys down with the dissertation of the morality of porn, mind you.

But this feels like the same argument you make how it's not the government or payment processor's job to monitor and decide where and how you can spend your money. It's not partisan to defend and advocate for your rights, especially in these times. Attached as a link to an ACLU petition, there are many communities that advocate for calling Visa and MasterCard to pressure them, to rescind their restrictions. I know that this being about porn is a real goofy thing to advocate for, but adult content, you know, i.e. smut, pornographic material, have always been shifting goalposts that politicians can easily use to wield against things that are not so.

Any additional signatures help and any other participation, just like getting the word out helps. Thank you, Anonymous Sack. Yes, I fucking hate this kind of shit. It's a kind of thing that appeals to the morality, in my opinion, of the simple-minded. Something that appeals good at first glance, but is much more nuanced and not as good when you look further into it. You know, it's just this mindset of porn bad.

What about the kids? Let's not have kids get hooked on the same kind of porn that twisted Richard Coddney has brain, right? That's a good thing. And it is a good thing, but it's not that simple. in this situation. When a company makes a blanket declaration like this, you know, when they put artists, for example,

who might just celebrate the male or female form like Renaissance art kind of shit. Out of business because they happen to fall under the very broad spectrum of adult content. It's just absurd. They can make it harder for people to get paid to make sexual tutorials that actually help couples achieve better intimacy in marriage, for example,

when they do this. You know, there's also a lot of ethical porn that gets made. Might seem like an oxymoron to some. ethical porn. But like I said in this episode, people will always want to have sex. There's always going to be a lot of people around who want to watch others have it. Watching porn is not all bad. Some people gain more sexual confidence, have better romantic relationships because of it. Some people will gain confidence by making it. And when you push shit into the shadows, when you take away the mainstream for something, it always just makes

it seedier and more fucking damaging and more dangerous, right? Especially with like sex work. Take away certain sex workers' ability to make money via credit cards through something like OnlyFans, right where they can like make videos with who they choose and the company or the excuse me the safety of their own home they can have security around if they want they can really monetize it very well no pimps needed well you take away their ability to make that kind of money and you know some of them are going to go into sex work stay in sex work whatever and they're going to end up in places like the streets of times square some equivalent and it's going to be way less safe way more dangerous what's not going to happen is it's just not going to go away that is just a fucking naive

frankly ignorant idealistic notion that if you just oh if we just crack down on this stuff it'll just go away it's like with drugs no it won't

it'll never fucking go away not fucking ever ever ever they say never porn sex drugs will never go away the best you can do is just make it

the safest possible for people to indulge in and also you know fucking freedom you know I believe in a lot of different kinds of freedoms

but yeah the corporations in these situations they just follow the money, which I get. That's never going to change either. And so all you can do is show them that it's in their best financial interest to do things a certain way. And one way you can do that in this situation, it's a sign, a petition like the ACLU petition. I just signed saying like, hey, fucking let these guys keep making money through MasterCard, through Visa, et cetera. I signed the petition.

I donated the petition from the ACLU to MasterCard specifically is at a little over 167,000 signatures. as I record this on August 10th, the goal is 200,000. You can find that one by searching ACLU MasterCard Sex Workers Work and your unjust policy or just a variation that'll get you there. I just searched for ACLU Adult Content Petition. Came right up.

So thank you, Anonymous. Hail Nimrod. Hail Lucifina. Yeah, I definitely believe in more freedom than some people or I guess are interested in in these situations. Now it's in on something adorable and also fucked up

from Super Sucker Kirk, who sent in an email with the subject line of Crypted Cumminslaude. Kirk wrote, Hey, Dan Nimrod's dutiful secretary. Nice. I've been to Space Desert since the beginning, but I was recently catching up on a couple of back episodes.

It's a long story, kind of long. I got Cumminslaude by technology and chance. One afternoon, I was putting the finishing touches on a guitar I was building while listening to the Appalachian Cryptids episode. I'm from Kentucky. I heard, thank God, the Rocky Brank ranch, giant, rape beetle is not a thing anyone has to worry about.

Follow by silence on my AirPods. I was aggravated, but I stayed on task. Little did I know my wife had returned home to grab something she'd forgotten. She was only going to be a minute. She left my six-year-old son in the car when she ran inside. Wasn't until later that evening I realized the car's Bluetooth had hijacked my AirPods, and I learned the full extent of the fateful CLE Cumminslaw event. My wife informed me that she got back in the car.

There was some weird guy on the radio talking about loopholes in Appalachia. She's fantastic, but sadly not a space lizard. She went on to tell me that our son was now deeply worried about something called a rape beetle. One pregnant pause and a few seconds of stammering later, I recovered and quickly shifted into spin mode. What? Oh, grape beetles. Yeah, they sometimes cause trouble with local grape harvest. Happened a long time ago.

Other harmless to humans, that guy was just joking about burning, you know, burning them, you know, running for your life and stuff. I don't know. I think grape beetles might be extinct, actually. fortunately the hike we had planned for the following day got rained out because I'm not sure there's any way I could have convinced my son to go in fact he seemed a bit worried anytime he went outside for the next couple of weeks a month later I'd all but forgotten about the CLE when I heard a blood-curdling scream from the back porch I ran to see who had died or been maimed only to find my son running and screaming rape beetle rape beetle it was actually a harmless roly-poly or pill bug as if there aren't already a million difficult things the parent has to explain and warn it to child about. Now I've got rape beetles as well. Thanks a lot, Dan. But also thanks for maybe helped me teach my son about the dangers of nature, real or perceived. Sorry this is so long, but I couldn't seem to make it any shorter. You get it right. P.S., my only regret is that I didn't get to see his face during that one minute. I can't wait to let him hear that episode again

when he's quite a bit older. You suck. Kirk. Kirk, thank you for sharing that. I totally forgot about that episode entirely. That was a while ago. Man, poor little man. Terrified some rapy bugs outside. I mean, you know, to be fair, it's a horrifying concept. I hope that this, yeah, I hope that this is something. The two of you can laugh so hard about years from now. I laugh pretty hard when I read it and when I added it to the notes. And that is all I got this week. I hope you were all doing all right. Next time, suckers, I needed that. We all did. well thanks for listen to another bad magic productions podcast be sure in rate and review time suck if you haven't already check out nightmare fuel please and thank you uh careful with what you jerk off to this week don't jerk off to images of terrified women women who look like they're in pain dying or dead that's creepy as fuck you're better than that your dick might not be better than that but you can teach that little deviant fuck to be better and also of course keep on sucking

AdMagic Mad Magic Productions Oh, oh, who's this? Who's coming in the office, in the studio? Bac, bach, b'bac, playboy, bach, bach. It's chicken Joe, for show, for show. Back to let you know, it's still low. The target girl's working at street walker hustle and flow.

You think you better than them? that they're worth nothing? Why, because you make money helping someone else sell something? How are they hurting you selling their skin? Are they stealing your money? Are they hunting down

or hurting your kin? It's selling whatever you're selling really better than selling pleasure and making folks grin. Only people ever getting hurt of the girls. So maybe instead of judging them and clutching your pearls, help them and shut your mouth and stop playing.

You dig? You feel me? You hear what I'm saying? That was chicken. Joe speak for, you know, it's stupid and heartless for people to look down on sex workers like Richard Cottingham did. Is what you're telling really any morally better than consensual sex? If you're not going to actively help them, well, at least don't judge him and make them feel worse than they like they already do. Their lives are hard enough, so shut the fuck up.