Death on the Devil’s Teeth Read online

  Published by The History Press

  Charleston, SC 29403

  www.historypress.net

  Copyright © 2015 by Jesse P. Pollack & Mark Moran

  All rights reserved

  First published 2015

  e-book edition 2015

  ISBN 978.1.62585.157.4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015937834

  print edition ISBN 978.1.62619.628.5

  Notice: The information in this book is true and complete to the best of our knowledge. It is offered without guarantee on the part of the authors or The History Press. The authors and The History Press disclaim all liability in connection with the use of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For my family—my reason to believe.

  —J.P.

  For the friends and family of Jeannette DePalma, along with the people of New Jersey who offered their help to the authors in the writing of this book so that her story could be told and so that she would not be forgotten.

  —M.M.

  The truth, when you finally chase it down, is almost always far worse than your darkest visions and fears.

  —Dr. Hunter S. Thompson (1937–2005)

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue. September 2002

  1. Discovery

  2. The Body

  3. The “Runaway”

  4. The Disappearance of Jeannette DePalma

  5. Witchcraft

  6. Suspicion

  7. The Mysterious Death of Joan Kramer

  8. The Accountant

  9. The Bergen Girls

  10. The Axe Murderer

  11. The Trial

  12. Aftermath

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  PREFACE

  The murder of Jeannette DePalma is one of the most bizarre and controversial homicide cases on record, and yet it is largely unknown outside the state of New Jersey. Many postulate that this was by design. Rumors of a nefarious coverup in this case originated only days after Jeannette’s body was found on top of a cliff, surrounded by supposed “occult objects.” If one side is to be believed, the teenager was one of the first victims of ritual occult murder in suburban America. If the other is taken, this case could be one of the earliest examples of “Satanic panic,” decades before the infamous West Memphis Three case.

  The story vanished from the newspapers only two weeks after Jeannette’s body was discovered, but memories of the girl’s death stayed fresh in the gossip of New Jersey residents for years to come. It seemed likely that this was where the story of Jeannette DePalma would remain—dying with those who knew her personally. However, in 1998, the offices of Weird NJ magazine received a letter regarding an “alleged ritual human sacrifice” in Springfield’s Houdaille Quarry. The letter’s author was unsure whether this “sacrifice” actually occurred or was purely myth, but the publication of his vague memory led to a rebirth of interest in this cold case.

  A few short years after the letter’s appearance in Weird NJ, I started writing short pieces for the magazine. A decade would pass, however, before I began researching the case for this book. Leading up to this point, my co-author, Weird NJ’s co-founder Mark Moran, worked diligently to bring as many facts as possible about Jeannette’s murder to light, conducting interviews with her friends and family and sifting through dozens of letters regarding the case—nearly all of which were mailed anonymously. Eventually, Mark hit a dead end, and the trail again went cold.

  I became familiar with Jeannette DePalma and the circumstances surrounding her murder in early 2012 while flipping through back issues of Weird NJ. In Issue #22, I found several pages devoted to the case, and I could not shake from my mind the mysterious death of this young woman. I began searching reel after reel of microfilm for articles about this supposed victim of murderous cult members. I then located the surviving investigators who had worked Jeannette’s case. Many were willing to speak on the record with me; others were less than enthusiastic, to say the least. I also tracked down many of Jeannette’s friends, along with members of the DePalma family, spending countless hours meeting with them and conducting interviews. It soon became apparent that, despite the many years that had passed since the teenager’s death, a multitude of her friends and acquaintances were still terrified of whoever was responsible for the horrible act. A significant number of these people would speak to me only under the strict condition of anonymity. This required certain names to be changed within the text. These names are marked with asterisks.

  Armed with a wealth of new information about the case, Mark and I decided to team up and write the definitive account of this incredibly strange cold case. A lot of the evidence that we have found is controversial, to say the least, and sometimes contradictory. We have done our absolute best to separate myth from fact wherever possible, all while objectively presenting the many sides of this captivating story. We can only hope that this book will lead to a better understanding of the senseless murder of a young woman and the bizarre events that led up to that dark day in August 1972. Even stranger events surrounding this crime continue to unfold today. The key to finally solving this cold case may lie within these pages. Only time will tell.

  JESSE P. POLLACK

  February 2015

  As a writer for the magazine Weird NJ, I am always on the lookout for new, unusual stories to tell. Back around 2002, the publication began receiving vague and anonymous letters about a grisly murder that had taken place some thirty years prior. My curiosity was sparked, and I decided to piece together as many of the facts of the cold case as I could find. That task, as I soon would discover, would be a much more daunting challenge than I ever could have foreseen.

  The all-but-forgotten unsolved case began in 1972, when the body of a teenage girl was discovered atop a cliff, high above an abandoned quarry in the township of Springfield, New Jersey. The corpse was found thanks to a dog that had brought home to its master a badly decomposed human forearm. The arm, along with the corpse, would later be identified as having belonged to Jeannette DePalma, a local teenager who had been missing for six weeks.

  The details that first drew me to the sad story of Jeannette were the lingering rumors around Union County alleging that the disappearance and subsequent murder had ritualistic overtones. The remote hilltop location where the body was discovered was said to have been strewn with cult-related symbols, and the body of the young girl was rumored to have been placed on a makeshift altar in the woods.

  The various versions of the Jeannette DePalma story that I heard blamed either a coven of witches or a local group of Satanists who had sacrificed her. The strangest thing that I encountered in my investigation of the mystery was that after more than thirty years, most people who remembered the crime were still too frightened to speak about it. Everyone I questioned about the murder seemed to recall the same scant and gruesome details, but nobody wanted to go on record or have his or her name published in my article—including members of the Springfield Police Department.

  The general consensus of the people I interviewed in regard to Jeannette’s murder seemed to agree on certain points: that the killing was in some way cult related, that the Springfield Police Department had covered up certain facts of the case and that Jeannette’s killers were most likely still at large. They also shared the desire to see the killer or killers brought to justice so that Jeannette might finally rest in peace.

  Aside fro
m her life, the only thing taken from Jeannette DePalma on that lonely, desolate mountaintop in 1972 was a gold cross that she always wore around her neck. The necklace was never found. Back at her home, Jeannette’s bedroom was decorated with all manner of religious symbols and posters. One poster bore a picture of Jesus Christ and proclaimed, “You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.”

  Hopefully through this book, the truth will become a little more known, and Jeannette and all those who mourn her shall finally be set free.

  MARK MORAN

  February 2015

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  We would like to thank our families for their constant support and encouragement throughout the creation of this work. We would also like to thank: Wheeler Antabanez, Doyle Argene, Joanne M. Austin, Cheryl Bancey, Darlene Bancey, Gabe Bancey, Margaret Bandrowski, Sonia Leonardo Baxter, Melissa Benner, Elaine Bennett, John Brinton, X-Ray Burns, Edward Cardinal Jr., Edward Cardinal Sr., Russell Christiana, Hugh Curtis, Curtis Dady, Jonathan de la Rosa, Cindy DePalma, Gwendolyn DePalma, Susan DiFrancesco, Grace Petrilli DiMuro, Len Doland, Gail Donohue, John Douglas, Lois Duncan, Nia Eaton, Kristine Mintel Esposito, Jamie E. Farrell, Susan Fensten, Jim Goad, Ashley Gomes, Billy Gregg, Daniel Gregg, William Gregg, Jonathan Grioli, Bill Griswold, Peter Hammer, Michael Helbing, Tom Hunter, Professor Ronald Hutton, Lauren Irene, Nicholas Johnson, Daniel Oxford Jones, Glen Jones, Lee Kimble, Edward Kisch, Curt Knoth, Dylan Knoth, Deborah Kooperstein, Orin Kramer, Dr. Sari Kramer, Wendy Kriss, Molly Hammett Kronberg, Whitney Tarella Landis, Erik Larson, Dan Lurie, Mary Marshall, Christina Mathews, Robert McCarthy, Jill Meier, Dr. Judy Melinek, Michael Mitzner, Bert Model, Eric Model, Audrey Knoth Muratore, Eric Myers, William Nelson, the family of Dominick Olivo, Diane Pezzuti, Rhyin Polen, Nancy Pryor, Kevin Ranoldo, Jerome Rice, Donna Rivera, Deborah Rodriguez, Rai Rothspan, Sal Rubiano, Leslie Rule, Racheal Sajeski, Mark Sceurman, Art Schwartz, Donald Schwerdt, Donald Schwerdt Jr., Heather Shade, Roy Simpson, Judith Small, Marjorie Lange Sportes, Rusty Tagliareni, James Tate, Wayne Tate, Michael A. Vaccaro, Sandy VanderMeer, Jeffrey Villasenor, Rue Volley, Katherine Weber-Turcotte, Dr. Cyril Wecht, Kyle J. Zalinsky, Nick Zavolas, the Baltusrol Golf Club, the Coldwater Ohio Public Library, the Elizabeth New Jersey Public Library, everyone over at WFMU, the Maplewood Police Department, the Springfield Historical Society, the South Orange Police Department, the Woodbridge New Jersey Public Library and everyone else who lent their encouragement and assistance along the way.

  Prologue

  SEPTEMBER 2002

  Midday traffic along Route 1’s Central New Jersey corridor can be a real nuisance, even if you are not already on a tight schedule with a laundry list of things to do. For Mark Moran and Mark Sceurman, however, this was becoming routine. In less than a decade, their magazine, Weird NJ, rose from being an obscure, typewritten newsletter to one of the country’s most popular underground publications.

  Nine years prior, Moran was a frustrated thirty-year-old graphic designer looking for a way out of his job at a pajama company. This way out would come to him via the turn of a radio dial. One day in 1993, Moran was listening to the legendary New Jersey radio station WFMU. On air was a thirty-six-year-old writer named Mark Sceurman. Moran’s attention was immediately drawn to WFMU’s Bill Suggs and Andy Breckman interviewing Sceurman about his homemade newsletter. Hand typed and hand stapled, this up-and-coming newsletter featured stories about some of New Jersey’s more infamous landmarks and legends—places like Verona’s abandoned Essex Mountain Sanatorium and the fabled Albino Village of Clifton. When Moran was not doing silkscreen work at the pajama company, he was out and about photographing similar haunts and attractions. To Moran, Sceurman sounded like a kindred spirit. Reaching for a piece of paper and a pen, Moran decided to reach out to Sceurman, asking for a copy of the newsletter. He also included some of his photography and an illustration of the Jersey Devil.

  Moran’s letter was the fifty-second piece of correspondence that Sceurman received regarding Weird NJ, and he was impressed by the ominous tone of the graphic designer’s work. He picked up his phone and dialed Moran, asking if Moran would like to accompany him on a road trip. After a day spent visiting numerous New Jersey attractions, the two decided to stop at the Franklin Tavern in West Orange. While discussing the day’s trip over drinks, Sceurman hit Moran with a surprise question: “Would you like to co-publish Weird NJ with me?” Blindsided, Moran happily obliged.

  Once this partnership was formed, Moran and Sceurman took the handmade newsletter that was only occasionally distributed and transformed it into a professionally printed biannual release. The response was nearly instantaneous and overwhelmingly positive. Moran and Sceurman had found a way to tap into a niche market that was desperately waiting to be explored. Nine years and fifteen issues later, Weird NJ had become one of America’s most beloved publications, and the magazine was on top of its game.

  For these two writers, known to their fans as “The Marks,” this particular day in the autumn of 2002 was a “road day.” A “road day” was one of the few days out of the year that was not spent sifting through hundreds upon thousands of letters and e-mails, collecting content for what they affectionately called “the ’zine.” It was also one of the few days that would not be spent sitting in front of a computer screen for hours on end, designing and editing the layout of the upcoming issue. There were worse things for Moran and Sceurman than sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on a mild September day.

  Eventually, the two were able to advance far enough to pull into the parking lot of their destination—one of many shops in the area that stocked Weird NJ magazine. The Marks opened the trunk, and each grabbed a large cardboard box filled with dozens of fresh copies of the latest issue, #19. The painted image of a devil’s face graced its cover, an example of outsider art known to the residents of Boonton Township as “Mr. Kincaid’s Nightmare.”

  The bell above the shop’s door jingled as Moran and Sceurman entered. The two set down their boxes and exchanged pleasantries with the store’s owner. After a few minutes of small talk, the three men made their way to the rear office of the store to settle their accounts for that half of the year. Sitting at his cluttered desk, the shop owner quickly went over some numbers. Once the total was figured out, the owner cut a check to the Marks for the previous shipment of magazines. Moran and Sceurman shook the owner’s hand, and the three began to make their way back toward the front entrance of the store.

  Looking over his shoulder, Moran waved to the shop’s owner. “So long,” he said. “Let us know if you hear about anything weird!” This had become his go-to parting line. Most often, this expression would be met with a friendly chuckle or an enthusiastic “You bet!”

  Today would be different.

  As Moran made his way out the door, the shop’s owner said, “You know, there was one thing…” Moran stopped and turned toward the man. The owner paused. A pensive look came across his face. Moran could tell that this man quickly wished that he had never opened his mouth. Another moment passed. Finally, the shop’s owner spoke. “Did you guys ever hear the story of Jeannette DePalma?” he asked, his voice nearly a whisper. “It was some kind of ritual cult killing…”

  1

  DISCOVERY

  Hell is empty. And all the devils are here.

  —William Shakespeare, The Tempest

  For Patrolman Donald Schwerdt, September 19, 1972, should have been a normal Tuesday. It was his second day back to work after a relaxing vacation, and he was easily beginning to settle back into his routine. Sitting in his modest, two-story home on Brook Street, Schwerdt ate his breakfast and drank his coffee. He then put on his freshly ironed uniform and walked out the door. He was immediately greeted by the smell of honeysuckle and the rumble of approaching school buses. On many days like this one, Schwerdt could be seen making the three-minute walk to work, his seven adoring children following behind like ducks in a row. The five Schwerdt daughters and two Schwerdt sons would almost al
ways meet their father halfway home at the end of his shift, asking how his day went. The forty-four-year-old patrol officer was a late addition to the police department, having spent most of his adult life in the United States Navy and, later, working for the U.S. Postal Service. Despite being one of the oldest officers of his rank, Donald Schwerdt loved being a cop. The pride that he took in his job could be seen in the certain swagger in his walk, his head always held high and his eight-point hat cocked slightly to the side.

  Entering the three-story, brick-and-mortar municipal building, Donald Schwerdt made his way into police headquarters, which was housed in the center of the first floor. After reviewing a list of the community’s stolen vehicles, Schwerdt was assigned to patrol the north side of the township. Firing up his patrol car, a late-model Plymouth Fury recently purchased from Morris Avenue Motors, Schwerdt prepared for what he thought would be just another day spent patrolling the streets of the sleepy mountain community of suburban Springfield, New Jersey. It would have never crossed his mind that events were about to unfold that would cast doubt on the police force, divide whole families and terrify the entire tri-state area.

  Donald Schwerdt Sr. pictured in the 1980s. Courtesy of Donald Schwerdt Sr. and family.

  As Schwerdt’s patrol car cruised up and down the pristine streets of Springfield, a dog was weaving its way through the labyrinth of trees bordering the nearby Houdaille Quarry. In its mouth, the dog held a decaying human arm.

  The canine made its way out of the woods, crossed Mountview and Shunpike Roads and came to rest on the lawn of the brand-new Baltusrol Gardens apartment complex on Wilson Road. The dog loosened its bite, and the arm fell to the ground in front of a row of bushes just outside the rear entrance to the two-story, red brick–clad complex. The glass-paneled front door opened. The dog’s owner, a tenant of the building, motioned for her pet to come back inside, completely oblivious to the gruesome souvenir lying only feet away. That discovery would be left for the building’s elderly superintendent. Only moments after the dog’s return, the superintendent stepped outside and made her way down six concrete steps to the lawn. Her attention was immediately drawn to something strange resting at her feet.