Albert DeSalvo was a liar. He was also a convict, a "Measuring Man," and, if you believe his 1967 confession, the most prolific serial killer in Massachusetts history. But by the time the Boston Strangler 1968 legal circus was in full swing, the city wasn't breathing a sigh of relief. They were confused.
Thirteen women were dead. The city had been paralyzed for years. Women were dead-bolting doors that hadn't been locked in decades. Then, suddenly, a man already in custody for a series of sexual assaults says, "It was me." Case closed, right? Not even close.
Honestly, the 1968 atmosphere in Boston was thick with skepticism. While the 1968 film starring Tony Curtis was busy cementing the "lone wolf" narrative in the public's imagination, the actual legal reality was a mess of jurisdictional infighting and a complete lack of physical evidence.
The Trial That Wasn't a Murder Trial
Here is the weirdest part about the whole saga: Albert DeSalvo was never actually tried for the Boston Strangler murders.
By 1967, he had been sentenced to life for the "Green Man" sexual assaults. When 1968 rolled around, the legal focus wasn't on proving he killed anyone; it was about whether he was sane enough to stay in a mental hospital or if he belonged in a maximum-security prison. It’s a distinction that basically defines the entire year. While the public wanted a hanging, the courts were busy arguing about psychiatric evaluations and the validity of a confession that contained more holes than a block of Swiss cheese.
F. Lee Bailey, the legendary defense attorney, was the one who pushed the confession. It sounds counterintuitive. Why would a lawyer want his client to admit to thirteen murders?
Money. And fame.
Bailey wanted to prove DeSalvo was a "textbook" case of insanity. He figured if he could get DeSalvo committed to a mental institution rather than a prison, he could study the "criminal mind" and perhaps even secure a book deal or a movie contract. It was a gamble that didn't really pay off the way he expected. In the end, DeSalvo was sent to Walpole State Prison, not a hospital.
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Why 1968 Changed Everything for True Crime
Before 1968, the Boston Strangler was a bogeyman. After 1968, he was a brand.
This was the year the movie came out. If you haven't seen it, the film uses this experimental "split-screen" technique to show multiple perspectives at once. It’s stylized. It’s gritty. It also heavily suggests that DeSalvo had a split personality—a "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" situation.
The problem? Most criminologists today think that's total nonsense.
The profile didn't fit. The victims didn't fit. You had young women in their 20s and elderly women in their 80s. Usually, serial killers have a "type." The Strangler’s type was "anyone with a door that wasn't locked." This inconsistency led many, including the lead investigator Phil DiNatale, to suspect there was more than one killer. They thought DeSalvo was just a guy who knew enough details from the news and from his own time in the "system" to craft a believable story.
He was a "convict-celebrity." In 1968, being the most famous killer in America gave you status in prison. It kept you alive.
The Problem With the Confession
If you look at the transcripts from that era, DeSalvo’s "inside knowledge" is actually pretty shaky.
- He got the colors of the rooms wrong.
- He couldn't remember how he entered some of the apartments.
- He described furniture that wasn't there.
But he knew about the knots. The "Strangler" used a specific type of bow or knot to garrotte his victims. DeSalvo knew that detail. Was it because he did it? Or was it because he had spent months talking to other inmates, some of whom might have known the real killers?
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The Forensic Dark Ages
We have to remember that in the Boston Strangler 1968 era, DNA was something scientists talked about in abstract terms, not a tool for detectives. Fingerprinting was slow. Crime scene preservation was, frankly, abysmal.
People walked through scenes. They touched things. They "cleaned up" out of respect for the dead.
Because of this, the conviction (or lack thereof) relied almost entirely on the confession. When DeSalvo was stabbed to death in the prison infirmary in 1973, he took the truth with him. Or so we thought. It took until 2013—decades after the 1968 hysteria—for DNA to finally link him to the final victim, Mary Sullivan.
But here’s the kicker: that DNA only linked him to one victim.
What about the other twelve?
Many modern investigators, including former Massachusetts Attorney General Martha Coakley, have acknowledged that while DeSalvo was definitely involved in at least one murder, the theory that he acted alone across all thirteen cases is still a matter of intense debate. The 1968 narrative of the "lone madman" was a convenient way for a terrified city to finally go back to sleep.
The Cultural Ripple Effect
You can't talk about 1968 without talking about the shift in how we view urban safety. Before these murders, Boston was a "big small town." People left their keys in the mailbox. They trusted the repairman.
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The Strangler changed the architecture of trust.
By the time the trial and the movie dominated the headlines in '68, the psychological damage was done. We started seeing the rise of the "security culture." Deadbolts, peepholes, and the general suspicion of strangers became the new norm.
It also marked the birth of the "Superstar Defense Attorney." F. Lee Bailey used this case to catapult himself into the national spotlight, later defending the likes of Patty Hearst and O.J. Simpson. He proved that a high-profile murder wasn't just a tragedy; it was a career move.
Moving Beyond the Hollywood Myth
If you’re looking to really understand the nuances of this case, don't stop at the 1968 film. It’s a great piece of cinema, but it’s lousy history.
To get the real story, you have to look at the work of journalists like Susan Kelly, who wrote The Boston Strangler. She spent years dismantling the DeSalvo confession, showing how the police basically coached him to fill in the gaps. It’s a chilling look at how the "need for a win" can lead the justice system to accept a convenient lie over a complex truth.
The lesson here is simple: confessions are easy, but the truth is usually messy.
In 1968, Boston chose the easy story. They chose to believe that one man was responsible for all the evil in their streets because if it was one man, you could catch him. If it was a systemic failure or a group of unrelated predators, you could never really be safe.
How to Evaluate True Crime Cases Today
When you’re looking back at "settled" cases like this, keep a few things in mind to avoid falling for the myths:
- Check for Physical Evidence: Always look for what the DNA or fingerprints actually say, not what the newspapers reported. In the Strangler case, the physical evidence was almost non-existent for 12 of the 13 murders.
- Follow the Lawyer: Look at the motivations of the defense. If the lawyer is pushing for a confession, ask yourself what they stand to gain. F. Lee Bailey had a lot to gain.
- Contextualize the "Facts": A confession given under pressure or for the sake of notoriety is often a work of fiction. Compare the confession to the initial police reports—usually, the discrepancies are massive.
- Acknowledge the Victims: The 1968 narrative often treats the thirteen women as a monolith. They weren't. They were individuals with different lives, and the "Strangler" label often erases their specific stories in favor of a boogeyman myth.
Start by looking up the 2013 DNA findings on Mary Sullivan. It’s the only part of the case that is scientifically "closed." For everything else, the files remain a haunting reminder that sometimes, justice is just a story we tell ourselves to feel better.