The Devil's Dozen (11 page)

Major Ciznek, the lead investigator of the Warsaw Homicide Squad, believed that the girls had been acquainted with the same maniacal killer and that he had ingratiated himself somehow with both, one at a time, with the intent of slaughtering them. He was too careful to be considered psychotic. Ciznek questioned the parents in the hope of finding a viable suspect among the acquaintances of both girls, but they could think of no one. Of course, their neighbors would have to be checked out, along with any known sex offenders from the area who might have spotted the girls. But there was one item that offered hope: the red-lettered note found on the train.

The police had seen such notes before, written and delivered on the eve of major holidays, around the time of the murders of other young women. The “Red Spider,” as the press had dubbed him, seemed to have struck again, just as he’d boasted in the note. But this time, the police had some leverage. They believed he had made a crucial error and they reviewed the cases that seemed to be linked.

The first message in red ink had arrived on July 4, 1964, at the office of Marion Starzynski, editor of the Warsaw newspaper
Prezeglad Polityczny
. “There is no happiness without tears,” it said, “no life without death.” But it was the last line of this note that sent a chill of alarm through those who read it. “Beware! I am going to make you cry.”

There was no return address, no signature, and no way to know who had sent it. But it was written in longhand, using bright red ink. The letters were thin and uneven, suggesting that it had been written in blood, although it had not dried to the dark brown color or consistency of actual blood. This killer wanted to create a dramatic effect.

Starzynski wondered if the threat was directed at him. Given the visibility of a newspaper editor, one never knew. Sometimes a person just sought publicity and looked to the newspapers; other times a reader might be angry at an item or comment in the paper and hold the editor accountable. Since these correspondents were not personal enemies, it was difficult to identify them, and Starzynski could think of no one who might have sent such a missive, even as a joke. It worried him. Instead of ignoring the ominous message, he took it to the police. They recorded the incident, but were just as helpless as the editor in determining the identity of the author.

Nothing happened in the days that followed, and on July 22, Warsaw celebrated the anniversary of its liberation from Nazi occupation. People took to the streets to watch the celebratory parades. The note was more or less forgotten. But on that day in Olsztyn, a town two hours north of the capital by train, a young woman died. Danka Maciejowitz, seventeen, had gone out to watch a parade in the city streets, saying good-bye to her parents and letting them know she would be back in a few hours. But she did not return. Her worried parents went searching for her and finally went home. She was still not there. It was not like her to be irresponsible, so they grew more concerned and filed a police report. The following day, officers sadly informed them of the reason for Danka’s absence.

A gardener tending the grounds of the Park of Polish Heroes came across the nude corpse of a blond adolescent girl. She had been stabbed several times in the abdomen and had bled freely onto the ground before she was shoved under some shrubbery. She was well hidden, and no one had seen her all night. The gardener had informed the police.

They recalled the reports from the parents of Danka Maciejowitz and made the difficult trek to their home to get an identification. The father confirmed his daughter’s identity. Further examination revealed that she had been raped as well as stabbed and disemboweled. This was a devastating crime for the small town, but the crime scene yielded no viable leads. Nor did further questioning. The girl had no known enemies or potentially brutal admirers, so investigators assumed that, given the festivities of the day before, some predator had spotted her walking alone and taken advantage. As the police canvassed the area to look for witnesses, another letter arrived at the Warsaw newspaper office. “I picked a juicy flower in Olsztyn,” it said, “and I shall do it again somewhere else, for there is no holiday without a funeral.”

This letter, too, was turned over to the police, and they contacted officials in Olsztyn. The implication was chilling: a random killer had sent a warning, traveled to this town, and made good on his threat, striking down a random victim. He’d even taken the time to use a method of communication that would produce an eerie effect, which suggested that he was not impulsive. There was small probability that he could be linked to the victim. He’d simply struck and gotten away. His apparent enjoyment of the act and his bragging afterward indicated he would do it again.

With two letters clearly tied to a horrendous crime and the threat of another one, it was time to start a detailed forensic analysis. Questioned document analysis had achieved some status in prior decades, as had handwriting analysis. Experts could examine the paper on which a note had been written and the type of ink used, and if they were able to acquire examples of handwriting from suspects, they could make comparisons and ascertain if certain features of the handwriting were sufficiently similar to identify the note sender. If so, the police could do a more in-depth investigation to tie the notes to the suspect in other ways. It was painstaking work, and not altogether definitive, but certainly better than nothing.

The examination of questioned documents includes any kind of crime that involves writing, writing implements, and a writing surface. Examiners might look at impressions left on the surface of a tablet or do a chemical analysis of the surface itself. First, the investigators had to decide if the document was authentic, and it certainly seemed so. Second, they hoped to learn something about the author. Third, they sought to figure out where it had been mailed. Since there had been no ransom demands or attempts at extortion, the last task was going to be the most difficult. The letters and accompanying behavior seemed the work of a demented individual hoping to taunt the police and community from afar.

Investigators analyzed the ink, because it seemed to be blood or a bloodlike simulation. Modern ink can be one of four basic types: iron salts in a suspension of gallic acid, with dyes; carbon particles suspended in gum arabic; synthetic dyes with a range of polymers and acids; and synthetic dyes or pigments in a range of solvents and additives. The questioned ink is tested through a highly technical process called microspectrophotometry, to determine the absorption spectrum, or through thin-layer chromatography, to reveal the exact chemical composition. It can then be compared on a precise level to the database of ink profiles at most central investigative agencies. Yet the ink in these letters was unusual. If it was actual blood or a blood mixture, technicians could do a serological analysis to obtain the blood type and the more individualizing protein profiles. However, the writing fluid turned out to be neither blood nor ink. It was turpentine-thinned paint, such as might be used in a print shop. That discovery helped to narrow leads, although not in a way that was useful just then.

The next item to examine would be the type of paper used, and the paper on which the letters had been written proved to be somewhat ordinary, so that analysis offered no clues. It would help only if the same type of paper was found in the killer’s possession or at his workplace. Paper is classified by the materials in its composition, differing according to additives, watermarks, and surface treatments. Specialists can determine the date when a particular type of paper was introduced on the market. Paper was considered to be generic rather than unique evidence, so it proved nothing outside the context of other pieces of evidence, but taken with other circumstances, it could help support a case.

While sophisticated equipment is used for special tests, the basic tools for comparing a questioned document with a known exemplar (we know that this person scripted this piece of writing) are a magnifying lens, microscope, camera with filters, and good lighting. Since the letter writer had not used a typewriter or printer, identification via distinct machine signatures was irrelevant.

The handwriting style of these red-lettered notes was certainly individualizing, as well as cryptic, but investigators knew they would need a suspect and samples of his handwriting before they could fully exploit it. They also had experts examine the content of the notes, which suggested the author’s seemingly angry frame of mind. There appeared to be no codes or cryptic references, and content analysis, which utilizes reading sources that match phrasing, had not yet been developed as an investigative tool at the time of this case. Even if it had, there was too little content available from these brief communications to do a thorough evaluation. The police knew they would have to wait for more such letters before they could develop proper leads, but getting more notes meant that someone else might also die. They did not use graphology—the extrapolation of personality traits from handwriting—because contrary to popular belief, it is not a science.

Handwriting experts study writing samples to try to determine if two (or more) documents were written by the same person and thereby to identify the known author of one sample with the unknown author of a similar one. The same odd characteristics are expected to show up across samples originating with the same person—even when he tries to disguise his writing. Analysts look at both class characteristics, which derive from the general writing system learned, and individual characteristics, which are specific to the way a person’s distinctive handwriting style develops. It’s the latter that plays the most important part in forensic investigation. The best exemplars will contain some of the same words or phrases as the questioned document, and thus some of the same ways of forming letters.

Most people learn to write by imitating a certain style, usually the Palmer or Zaner-Blosser method, but as they develop their own style, idiosyncrasies appear in the way they form and connect (or not) the letters. This is influenced by education, artistic ability, physiological development, and sometimes just by a specific stylistic preference. Many experts insist that no two people write alike, and the fine nuances that make the difference are identifiable to those with a great deal of experience in examining handwriting. Over time, a person’s style crystallizes, showing only slight variations over the years, such that letters she wrote while in her twenties could be matched to letters she wrote thirty years later.

The goal is to collect and compare samples that have been written across fairly tight time periods. Known exemplars are the primary source, but if they are not sufficient in number for a thorough examination, the suspected author would be asked to provide more. The procedure is to sit the subject at a table where there will be no distractions. The text to be written is dictated, keeping in mind not to “lead” the subject into how to form letters or spell certain words. The subject should use materials similar to those of the document and the dictated text should match some part of that document.

While questioned document examination often comes under fire in the courtroom for subjective interpretation, rigorous training, certification, and other “objectifying” measures have won the discipline more respect. In the case of this mysterious author, the Red Spider, it would require only a few circumstances to identify him: possession of the red paint and a thinner, the same type of thin scrawl, the right kind of implement to have written the letters, the same type of paper, and the opportunity to have written these missives in privacy. And, of course, encounters with the victims and a motive to murder.

Since the messages had been written with paint, the police believed the killer was employed in some manner that placed him near art supplies or other businesses related to painting, or that he’d purchased the paint specifically to make his letters look like blood. It wasn’t much, but this fact provided a few clues that might assist if other items identified a suspect. By itself, it offered little to the investigation.

Several months passed and the murder went unsolved. No more notes arrived and no more bodies that had been similarly attacked turned up. Perhaps it had been a random incident. Marion Starzynski watched the mail, afraid of finding another crimson piece of correspondence. But none arrived.

Then in January 1965, a student parade was planned in Warsaw. Sixteen-year-old Anuita Kaliniak had been selected to lead it, and she proudly posed for a photograph for the local newspaper, the
Warsawy
. She was from Praga, a suburb in Warsaw’s eastern zone. The parade route was quite a distance from her home, and having no transportation, she had to walk there. Still, it was a big day for her, so nothing was going to keep her from being part of this celebratory event. She arrived on time, despite her long walk, and led the parade that day, January 17. By the end of the afternoon, Anuita was exhausted. Rather than walk all the way home, she hitchhiked. A local deliveryman driving a truck picked her up. Anuita never made it home.

Her family, proud of her accomplishment, began to grow concerned as the winter day became darker and colder. They went out along the route their daughter would have taken, hoping to meet her and to assure themselves of her safety. But no matter where they looked or to whom they spoke among her friends, no one had seen Anuita since the parade. Her parents located the truck driver who had picked her up and he said he’d dropped her off two blocks from where she lived. At that time, he stated, she had seemed happy but tired. He watched her walk away but had seen no one with her. She had simply disappeared. Unbeknownst to anyone, she had met the Red Spider and had been murdered.

Her body might never have been found had not her killer sent directions in his characteristic style. Another letter arrived the day after the schoolgirl’s disappearance, directing searchers to the basement of a leather factory across the street from her home. She had been within sight of it when he’d grabbed her, killing her and dragging her body into the factory through a sidewalk grate to finish his ritual. He strangled Anuita with a wire and rammed a six-inch metal spike into her vagina. Again, it was an act of sexualized anger. Perhaps he had seen her photo in the paper, learned where she lived, and waited. Or perhaps he had simply been in the neighborhood, had spotted her alone, and jumped. No one knew and he hadn’t spelled it out.