The Acid King

  Advance Praise for The Acid King

  “Real-life murder and hysterical Satanic Panic played out to a heavy metal soundtrack—a must-read for anyone who wants to understand teenage alienation and violence in suburbia. This is the darkest and truest Long Island story.”

  —Nick Mamatas, author of The People’s Republic of Everything and I Am Providence

  “Extremely well-written and artfully laid out. Through his research, Pollack takes us inside Ricky Kasso’s and Gary Lauwers’s world like never imagined. The Acid King stands in the same league as Dave Cullen’s Columbine.”

  —Peter Filardi, screenwriter of Flatliners, The Craft, and Ricky 6

  “If you’re looking for a compelling read that you won’t be able to put down, The Acid King fits the bill. Pollack deftly weaves the tangled narrative that the media created about the crime into a finely crafted tapestry that is incredibly entertaining and informative. The tragic stories of Ricky Kasso and Gary Lauwers kick off the so-called Satanic Panic, but Pollack manages to show the human (and inhuman) parts of the story without the sensationalism. A definite must-read for true crime aficionados.”

  —Jeff Heimbuch, horrorbuzz.com

  “The story of this very specific sort of suburban anomie almost only could have taken place in New York, and specifically Long Island—the other underside of Gatsby’s Long Island where drugs, drink, failure, and anger ultimately throbbed through Satan and murder. This is what happens when the Me Generation takes its sobriquet a little too seriously. The Acid King—Jesse P. Pollack’s magnum opus to the horror of it all—is a recommended read.”

  —Eugene S. Robinson, editor-at-large for ozy.com and author of The Inimitable Sounds of Love: A Threesome in Four Acts

  “The Acid King paints a chilling picture, one filled with twists and turns as dark as any found in the Aztakea Woods. Pollack has delved deep into the past and carefully revealed the many layers building up to this shocking murder, while also giving us a glimpse at the human side of those involved. For as sensationalistic as his crime was, many of us have known a kid like Ricky Kasso. And following his journey—from childhood into darkness—is at once frightening, saddening, and thought-provoking. Pollack meticulously balances the legendary aspects of the story with the bare truths behind it. He spins a tale that builds a dreadful suspense as it travels to its terrible conclusion. But it also remains relatable, rooted in our memories of teenage feelings of awkwardness and rebellion, as it tells the foreboding tale of what happens when the rebellion goes totally sideways. The Acid King is a gripping and engrossing look into an infamous American legend. It is a must-read for anyone looking to explore the deeper truths behind this notorious crime.”

  —Heather Shade, author of Weird Texas: Your Travel Guide to Texas’s Local Legends and Best-Kept Secrets

  “I was a teenager in the mid-1980s and was aware of the events surrounding the murder of Gary Lauwers by Ricky Kasso. I remember the resulting ‘Satanic Panic’ and the sudden scrutiny of my generation’s music, fashion, and recreational choices. The legend stuck in my mind over the years, but in reading The Acid King, I realized there was a lot the legend left out. Pollack carefully outlines not only what happened that fateful night, but also the lives of the participants leading up to it—and of the survivors after the fact. I came away from reading it still horrified by the murder, but seeing it from a wider perspective. This is a story of kids neglected by parents who also screwed things up on their own with drugs, petty crimes, and apathy. Maybe the scariest thing Pollack points out are the people latching onto a ‘Satanic’ influence, based on kids toying around with words and images, but not necessarily doing the unthinkable as a result. This is a fascinating and authentic look at a slice in time, and Pollack makes the facts as interesting as the legend—if not more so.”

  —J. M. Austin, senior editor, Weird NJ magazine and author of Weird Hauntings, Weird Encounters, and Weird Ghosts

  “Pollack did an incredible amount of research for The Acid King, and it shows in the finished product. Finally, someone has filled in the gaps that were left by all the previous attempts to talk about what happened in Northport, Long Island, in 1984. There is no speculation about the power of Satan, no accusations about the evils of heavy metal music. Instead the book presents a sobering look at the reasons behind this tragedy and how it has impacted the lives of those left behind. Wisely, Pollack doesn’t overshadow the story with his own personal spin, but steps aside to let those who lived through the events tell their own stories. There are no clear-cut villains or heroes in The Acid King. Pollack manages to show the humanity of everyone involved, including the ‘Acid King’ himself, Ricky Kasso. This approach is refreshing, especially in a world where opinions have become increasingly polarized. The Acid King is absolutely riveting reading. Anyone who is interested in the legacy of Satanic Panic, true crime stories, or the ongoing problems of troubled teenagers needs to get this book.”

  —Leslie Hatton, author of “All Hail the Acid King: The Ricky Kasso Case in Popular Culture” as featured in Satanic Panic: Pop-Cultural Paranoia in the 1980s

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  CONTENTS

  Who’s Who

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Part One: July 1984

  Part Two: A Brief Innocence

  Part Three: Childhood’s End

  Part Four: The Dark

  Part Five: Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Black Spot in the Woods

  Part Six: Jimmy

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Sources

  For Ann—the star I sail by

  These are the town’s secrets, and some will later be known and some will never be known. The town keeps them all with the ultimate poker face. The town cares for devil’s work no more than it cares for God’s or man’s. It knew darkness. And darkness was enough.

  —Stephen King,

  ’Salem’s Lot

  WHO’S WHO

  Ricky Kasso: a frustrated and bitter teenager; a seeker attracted to darkness

  Gary Lauwers: a lost soul doomed by the desire to fit in

  Jimmy Troiano: Ricky’s closest friend; impulsive and intimidating

  Albert Quinones: a brawler caught up in a perfect storm

  Johnny Hayward: Gary’s best friend and protector; tough, but a dreamer

  Matthew Carpenter: a force of kindness in Ricky’s life; a symbol of his past

  Rich Barton: a loyal kid; the keeper of Ricky’s secrets

  Jean Wells: a troubled but brave girl

  Paul McBride: the young leader of a strange and controversial brotherhood

  Tony Ruggi: a social worker desperate to make a difference where others failed

  Pat Toussaint: an aging alcoholic obsessed with the occult

  Dick Kasso: a man fueled by ambition for his children

  Lynn Kasso: a wife and mother caught between two worlds

  Officer Gene Roemer: a small-town, no-nonsense cop

  Chief Robert Howard: head of the village police department; a hopeful realist

  Detective Jim McCready: a gumshoe bent on solving every case that came his way

  Detective Louis Rodriguez: an investigator with a reputation for securing confessions

  Detective Lieutenant Robert Dunn:
an overdramatic county homicide squad chief

  Eric Naiburg: a lawyer with an eye for a good case

  William Keahon: chief of the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office’s Major Offense Bureau

  David Breskin: a young writer searching for meaning

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The story you are about to read is true. While some names have been changed, no scenes were invented. All dialogue has been re-created from nearly one hundred hours of recorded interviews, in addition to police reports, print media, television broadcasts, and notes provided by the journalists who originally covered this case. Extensive efforts were made to track down the origins of the innumerable myths, legends, and tall tales surrounding the events that took place in Northport, New York, during the 1980s. It is the author’s hope that this book will help destroy the half-truths, misinformation, and lies that have plagued this story, while providing some form of closure for those who were affected by the tragedies of the summer of 1984.

  Prologue

  I grew up in a seaside town where the devil lives.

  Bonfire lights in the woods at night said to “be afraid. . . .”

  —Wheatus,

  “From Listening to Lightning”

  FORTY MILES EAST OF MANHATTAN, there lies a small picturesque village on the north shore of Long Island. The locals are kind—quick to tell you who cooks the best breakfast at one of the many restaurants on Main Street, or whose kid is the star athlete on the school sports team. They work hard, running the mom-and-pop shops downtown, fishing for lobster in the marina, or operating one of the many bars and restaurants on Main Street. Some residents jokingly call the village a “quiet little drinking town with a fishing problem.” Most of them go home to average houses, some of which are old Victorians that have stood on the Island for over a century, while others are of the newer and grander variety.

  Surrounding these otherwise unremarkable homes are a few small, scattered patches of woods, making up the tiny bit of wilderness left in suburban Northport, New York.

  Not too long ago, the newer neighborhoods made up of upscale houses and condominiums were yet to be built, and as such, the woods sat undisturbed by time. As they so often tend to, local teenagers quickly discovered the advantages of hanging out inside a vast sea of trees, far out of view from their parents and the authorities. The woods became a popular lovers’ lane, along with the perfect place for clandestine drinking and pot smoking.

  Soon after, rumors of much more sinister activities began to take flight in Northport. In the early 1970s the villagers began to whisper about a coven of witches meeting inside the forest near Franklin Street, holding midnight ceremonies after an evening of robbing graves. For the citizens of Suffolk County, this gossip was nothing new. The Island has long possessed a storied history of accusing residents of occult activity, going all the way back to 1658 when Goody Garlick of East Hampton was charged with the crime of witchcraft—a full thirty-four years before Salem, Massachusetts, became infamous for its own witch trials.

  The location of Northport’s rumored rituals didn’t help to quash these rumblings, either. The woods filling the southwest corner of the village seemed to be surrounded by an almost supernatural aura in recent years, all thanks to a set of strange ruins deep inside the wilderness. These eerie abandoned structures reminded passing teenagers of the ancient Aztec temples they read about in their high school history books. Soon they began referring to the area as “Azteca Woods.” As word was passed back and forth from kid to kid, the name eventually evolved into “Aztakea.”

  While the ruins had given birth to a name, they certainly failed to reveal any answers regarding their origin. Even today, the citizens of Northport continue to disagree on what the crumbling structures were or where they came from. Some will tell you about a religious fanatic who set up shop in the village sometime during the late 1970s and had a stone chapel built in the woods. The preacher—referred to as “Reverend Shitbird” by his detractors—made a habit of driving around and blasting his sermons through a large speaker jury-rigged to the top of his car, hoping to recruit young followers. Residents soon became uneasy about the man’s behavior and had the village police department chase Reverend Shitbird out of town.

  Some who grew up in Northport maintain that the dilapidated building was erected decades earlier by an Italian religious order. The project was intended to be a home for local orphans of World War II, but was supposedly abandoned halfway into construction when the order’s funding was pulled.

  Others insist the church was merely a ruse during Prohibition, with the chapel being used to smuggle alcohol into the village.

  Perhaps the most unsettling version of how the strange stone structures came to appear inside Aztakea Woods is a tale told by some residents about a Universalist Christian minister who arrived in Northport in the 1920s, asking for money to build a temple in the woods. The village agreed, and construction soon began. A roadway was carved out and a marble floor was laid. A barrel-shaped chapel with a Gothic archway was crafted from stone and brick, complete with windows in the shape of a cross. Then, one day, the project suddenly stopped, and the minister vanished—along with the remainder of the money he had been lent.

  Sometime later the minister returned to Northport completely penniless. He tearfully apologized to the townsfolk for spending all their money, but swore to complete the church if he was again loaned the remaining funds required. Wisely, the village refused to put up another dime, despite the half-finished temple still sitting in their woods. The minister walked away from the meeting completely dejected and ventured back into Aztakea Woods to visit his church one last time. He was found hanging from a tree a few days later.

  With each resident presenting their respective story as the “true” version of the facts, it is hard to say what truly occurred in Aztakea Woods during the first half of the twentieth century. The abandoned church was eventually razed to make room for houses as more and more people moved to the small maritime village, and the definitive story, it seems, has been lost to time. With the construction of North Road, Northport may have been done with the planned church—but Aztakea Woods was far from done with Northport.

  During the summer of 1984, these woods became the guardian of a terrible secret that would horrify this tiny bedroom suburb of New York City and help ignite a worldwide panic—the echoes of which are still being felt today.

  Part One

  JULY 1984

  Our youth has gone to the ends of the earth to die in the silence of the truth.

  —Louis-Ferdinand Céline,

  Journey to the End of the Night

  Chapter 1

  SUNDAY, JULY 1, 1984 4:45 P.M.

  “THERE’S A BODY IN THE woods behind Gunther’s Tap Room.”

  The line went dead.

  Larry Springsteen stared at the telephone receiver cradled in his hand. The fifty-four-year-old lieutenant for the Northport Village Police Department had to think quick. Everyone in town knew Gunther’s. As Northport’s favorite watering hole, the bar had made a name for itself as one of writer Jack Kerouac’s favorite drinking spots. But a body? In Northport? Nothing ever happened here. Hell, that was the reason most people moved here in the first place. As far as Springsteen knew, no one in Northport was even missing.

  The woman on the other end of the line had sounded young. Maybe it was a prank?

  Either way, Springsteen had to follow up. If there really was a body in the local woods and the police brushed a tip off as a crank call, there would be hell to pay. Springsteen dialed the home of Officer Gene Roemer, who was off-duty that day. He told Roemer about the strange phone call and asked him to come into work to help trace it. Roemer obliged and soon the two were working on a trace at the small village hall that housed police headquarters on Main Street.

  Unfortunately, their efforts were unsuccessful. Too much time had passed since the anonymous caller hung up. Springsteen and Roemer organized a brief search of the area behind G
unther’s, but no remains were found. Maybe the call really was a prank? Roemer and Springsteen decided to continue their investigation the following morning, and both headed home.

  Any optimism the two policemen shared was shattered the next day when another call came in—this time from Sister Mary James, the head nun at the Madonna Heights School for Girls in Dix Hills. James told the police that one of their students, Jean Wells, had returned to the school after a weekend in Northport and told a counselor that her friend, a teenager named Gary Lauwers, had been murdered and buried in a place called “Aztakea Woods.” Once the call ended, Springsteen telephoned his boss, Northport Village Police Chief Robert Howard, and alerted him to the situation. Howard had just begun a monthlong vacation, leaving Springsteen in command. Springsteen, however, thought his chief needed to be directly involved.

  When Chief Howard arrived at the station, he placed Officer Roemer in charge of the investigation. At forty-two years old, Roemer had been with the department for nearly twenty years and had proven himself to be an outstanding officer. His first move was to drive over to the Lauwers residence on West Scudder Place to see if Gary was even missing. Chief Howard joined him.

  Once Roemer and Howard arrived, Gary’s mother, Yvonne Lauwers, insisted that she speak with the two on her front lawn. Over the past year, Gary had gotten himself into some serious legal trouble—mostly robbery and assault—and his father, Herbert Lauwers, forbade his wife from even mentioning their son’s name in the house. Standing outside, Yvonne told Roemer and Howard that she had not seen Gary for some time.

  “Well, you know,” she said. “This is not unusual. Sometimes I don’t see him for two or three weeks.”

  “That may be,” Roemer replied, running his hand through his thick graying hair, “but how about doing me a favor? I can’t really do this kind of investigation without a missing person’s report. As soon as he’s located, the law says we gotta tear this up and it never happened. We can’t release it to anybody because he’s a minor.”