The Man in the Monster (23 page)

He was also concerned about how he would be remembered. “I will forever be known as the biggest piece of shit that ever walked in Connecticut—a deliberate, cold-blooded, murdering, raping son of a bitch.” That bothered him more than dying. He had to believe he was not evil, that in his core he was a good person. “I want to prove to the world that I'm Michael Ross and distinct from that ‘monster within.' I don't want people cheering my death—visions of that bother me greatly. I want to prove that I'm not a monster; that I am a good person, that I couldn't help it; that I was sick.” He wished for a miracle. He wished for a way for people to be able to see into his mind and understand the
truth, but he also wanted another way out. “The truth is I wish I didn't have to do this. I wish there were another option, in which no one (including myself) would get hurt.”

On May 30, 1997, he wrote, “If God loves me why does he allow me to suffer so?” He quoted Archbishop Fulton Sheen that life is a struggle: “Unless there is a cross in our lives, there will never be the empty tomb. . . .” The message was clear: You have to have pain and sacrifice to find joy and salvation. He said his problem was that he could never trust anyone but himself and that he had to let go of himself to trust in God. “I must sacrifice my very being to make room for God. It's sort of a suicide—but we know my track record on suicide.” He suggested that just as he couldn't jump off the bridge at Cornell, he would be unable to do what was necessary to give himself fully to God.

Almost a year later, on March 12, 1998, he wrote, “I don't know why I have been chosen to travel down this path. But I
do
know that this is the path that I have been guided to, directed towards my whole life. Please, my Lord, please don't let this be for nothing. You have the power to make goodness out of this evil mess. Please do not fail in this. . . . Your Will Be Done.” He ended many entries with a prayer asking God to help him through his doubts, often concluding with “May Your will be done, not my will.” I wondered if he really meant those words. Because no matter what God wanted for Michael, Michael had already made up his mind. He was determined to be executed. How did he know what God wanted? In truth, I think that Michael made up his mind and then decided that it was God's will because he knew—or thought he knew—that what he was doing was right, so it must be God's will.

Sometime after I read Michael's journals, we began discussing theology. It could be about what he had read in Henri Nouwen or anything
that occurred to either of us. The longer I knew him, the bolder I got in what I was willing to discuss with him.

“Did I ever tell you that I don't believe in the doctrine of atonement?” I asked.

“You don't think Christ died to save us?”

“I don't believe that God sent his son here to die. I don't want to believe in a God who demanded human sacrifice to save the sins of the world. I also don't believe that one person dying saves another—unless they push the other aside and take a bullet for him.”

“How can you not believe in that?” Michael asked.

“I believe that Jesus had it right. Love God and love your neighbor. That would make it a better world and it's all that really matters.”

Michael was silent for a moment. I knew I was treading on areas that would upset him, but I also wanted to know what he believed. “So you think that I'm not going to heaven?”

“Michael, I never said anything like that. I said I don't think that someone dying two thousand years ago saves you. What saves you is you. You are sorry for what you did. You want forgiveness. That's what matters. Dying did nothing and
will
do nothing,” I said, hoping that he understood that I was referring not just to Jesus's death, but also to his own death.

“So you don't believe there is a heaven?”

“I was trying to figure out what you believe in.”

“You started it.”

“Okay, I started it. Do I believe in heaven? I want to. I wish I had no doubts.”

Again there was a silence. “I have to [believe],” he said softly. “I have to.” I knew that if there was ever a time when he was telling me the truth, this was it. I knew that this was a difficult subject for him because he always felt he wasn't making enough spiritual progress. I let it go.

 • • • 

T
here were also passages in the journals that worried me. For the first years that I knew him, Michael had adamantly denied that he was suicidal and insisted that what he was doing was
not
state-assisted suicide. I had lingering doubts. He had not convinced me when we first discussed it in 1996, and when I read through the journals, I saw hints of a death wish. “There are days when I pray to God just before I go to sleep to ‘please, take me in my sleep.' I see no purpose in my life. . . . Get this over with. . . . Let me go quietly.” He said if he had the courage, he'd kill himself, but that he was a coward. “At my funeral they should put a sign above me: ‘Here lies a coward—too afraid to be a man—may he
not
rest in peace.'” He wrote that “there are days when I wake up and say, ‘Damn it, God. Why I am still here?'” It would have been easier for Michael to die in his sleep—to let God take his life and ease his pain. Instead, he was asking the state to do it.

I brought up state-assisted suicide again during a phone conversation, asking him to convince me that he wasn't suicidal. He didn't answer me on the phone when I challenged him. But a few days later, I received his answer in the mail. It was a very long letter, and at the end, he finally answered me. “Now for the issue of ‘state assisted suicide.' Publically I have always maintained that I am
NOT
suicidal and that I do not wish to die. However, the truth is probably not quite that clear-cut. And while I feel uncomfortable admitting it publically, I have to admit to you that part of (perhaps much of) my initial desire to drop my appeals was due to a suicidal ideation. . . . Suicide was nothing new to me (as you know), so here I will discuss only suicide in the form of dropping my appeals.” He wrote that Depo-Provera was a miracle that allowed him to feel human again. “But . . . even with God, there is no such thing as a free lunch. And that price is guilt—a
painful, gnawing guilt that never really goes away. . . . You know, I've often been asked, ‘How can you look at yourself in the mirror?' For many years I literally could not look at myself in a mirror without feelings of deep loathing. Did you know that I can shave without a mirror? And that one of the reasons I began to cut my hair short is so I wouldn't have to look in a mirror to comb it?” He made it clear that it was unbearable to be judged every day by the worst thing he'd ever done. “It's a living hell. It's
my
life.”

He said he wanted to leave the world for a noble cause, sparing the families more pain. He admitted that was, in part, selfish. He said not to think of him as a total fraud because he was committed to sparing them more anguish. “But it is true, that in the beginning, it was more ‘State-assisted suicide' than altruistic feelings for the families of my victims. I'm sorry. I wish I were a better man.”

The letter confirmed my suspicion but added other questions. Was this the writing of someone in emotional pain or of a narcissist who thought only about himself? Or both? And if his mental illness included suicidal ideation, how could his decision to offer to die be reasonable or even sane?

I reread Michael's letter from April 20, 1996. He wrote that he didn't care how others perceived him and that the only important thing was how he viewed himself. He insisted that he had to be true to himself. After rereading it several times one afternoon in 1997, I went out for my two-mile afternoon walk on the winding roads near my house in Connecticut. It was early fall and the air was crisp, the leaves just starting to turn. It was obvious that the opinions of others were incredibly important to Michael Ross. I stopped walking, feeling stupid that I hadn't seen it before, and sat down on a stone wall to think.

Michael Ross desperately wanted to be liked, to be loved, and to be known as he knew himself, as the core person he called Michael. He
had never had many friends growing up. His only real friends in college had been his two girlfriends. When he was arrested, he wanted Michael Malchik to like him, so he tried to help him solve the case, somehow thinking that Malchik would be grateful and see him as a friend—not some evil serial killer. Michael confessed to Malchik for three reasons: He wanted the killing to be over, he wanted to give something to Malchik so that Malchik would be his friend, and he thought Malchik could help him understand why he had committed all those unimaginable crimes. He didn't have a clue why, and Michael desperately wanted an explanation for his horrendous behavior. He thought that Malchik wanted to help him understand—not to make sure that he got the death penalty. It was no wonder he felt betrayed.

Seeing Michael from this perspective, I could understand why it was so important for him to prove that he suffered from mental illness and why he called it his monster. Paradoxically, it seemed to explain why he wanted to take responsibility for his crimes and offer to die. He wanted the families to forgive him instead of hate him for all of eternity. He desperately wanted to change the way he was judged by the world. He could not bear the thought of being known for the worst things he had ever done, so he wanted to do something that he deemed selfless to overshadow those deeds. He was willing to give up his life to prove that he was sorry and make amends with the hope that maybe someday he would be forgiven.

He didn't care about death. He cared about labels—of being known as a serial killer instead of the “good Michael” that he saw as his core identity. He also feared eternal loneliness. In escaping execution, he was afraid he might lose what few friends he had because the death penalty issue would be moot. They would move on to the next death row crusade; he would be alone.

I got up and started walking again, trying to put all this in perspective.
I finally understood an important aspect of why he was willing to die. He would exchange the label of serial killer for “repentant martyr,” a modern-day Sydney Carton, the unscrupulous lawyer from
A Tale of Two Cities
,
going to his death to save another from the guillotine. I could almost imagine the execution scene and his last words, “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done . . . ” Fade to black.

I kept my thoughts to myself but, after a week or two, got up my courage and decided to see if he agreed with me. “Michael, I want to tell you a conclusion I've come to,” I began.

He sighed. “Oh, I can tell this is going to be good,” he said sarcastically. “Should I be worried?” He was laughing, but of course, deflecting anxiety by joking was his form of self-defense.

“No, it's not bad,” I assured him. “I've decided that the reason you're determined to accept death is because you can't stand the fact that you will be remembered as a serial killer. You want your last act to be what you consider to be a noble one. You can separate Michael from the monster, and you want everyone else to be able to do that as well. You hope that someday, somehow, the families will forgive you. You hate your life but can't find a way to kill yourself, so you are making the state do it for you.”

He didn't argue with me at all. He thought about it and said that I was right about both things. “Is it so bad to not want to be remembered for your worst deed? Is it so bad to want to be forgiven? Is it so bad to want to rid myself of the guilt? The families want me dead. What they don't understand is that death will bring me peace.”

Most of us cherish life. We want to hold on to it, live every moment to the fullest. The idea that waking up every day could be the worst thing that happens to you is hard to comprehend, but that was Michael's so-called life. He was a man who never had a childhood, went to college with no interpersonal skills, felt no love from his family, felt
emasculated by his mother and his only serious girlfriend, became obsessed with sex and death, killed eight women and raped more, and went to jail in 1984 at the age of twenty-five.

He knew that in this life he would never get what he wanted most—to be
forgiven.

1998–2000

Judge Thomas Miano rejected the stipulation that Satti and Michael had crafted, saying that it did not meet the requirements for due process. Now Michael needed an attorney, because there would be a full-blown penalty trial. Public defender Barry Butler took the case, and the whole period was deeply distressing for Michael. He even tried to take his own life, saving his antidepressant sleeping pills with the intention to overdose, when he learned that he would have to sit through the horror of another trial. However, guards found him lying on the floor and rushed him to the hospital.

After the suicide attempt, the defense team asked Dr. James Merikangas, an award-winning neurologist and psychiatrist who at the time was at Yale–New Haven Hospital, to evaluate Michael, because his work concentrated on the evaluation and treatment of disorders that include both a neurological and psychological dysfunction. Dr. Merikangas concluded that Michael had brain abnormalities. The MRI of his brain “revealed a mild prominence of the ventricles and mild generalized volume loss, particularly in the parietal lobes. There were also areas of white matter hypersensitivity, predominantly in a subcortical and periventricular distribution. These findings are diagnostic of brain damage, perhaps on a congenital or developmental basis.” A single-photon
emission computerized tomography (SPECT) scan showed an abnormally low blood flow to parts of his brain. Dr. Merikangas said that “the compulsive behaviors that affected Mr. Ross are a consequence of physical biological abnormalities.”

When I met with Dr. Merikangas, he cautioned, however, that neither he nor anyone else could explain how or if Michael's particular brain abnormalities led to his murderous behavior. However, he said, the scans did show that his brain was different from a normal brain. “There was something wrong with his brain. I can't say what was wrong, but there was something wrong. . . . There was an impulse disorder, but impulse disorders are caused by several things. Some are caused by brain damage, some are caused by epilepsy, and some are caused by mental illness.” This diagnosis had been suggested by Dr. Cegalis in his 1984 evaluation for the defense. In his conclusions, Dr. Cegalis said that Michael might have a central nervous system lesion on the right side that “can contribute to the crimes alleged by compromising his ability to control his own actions.”

In discussing cases like Michael's, Dr. Merikangas pointed out that many times people are convicted because of what they do after the crime—and certainly Michael's hiding the bodies fits that pattern. He explained that when coming out of the fugue-like state, people “wake up and they say, ‘What did I do?' And so they hide the body and [the authorities] take hiding the body as evidence that there was intent . . . but there was no intent when they killed them.” Dr. Merikangas said the prosecution or the Department of Correction had not allowed him full access to Michael, so he couldn't do a complete examination when he assessed him at Yale. He was not allowed to do many routine tests and there was no confidentiality because guards were posted nearby.

However, he said it was clear that Michael suffered from “dissociative episodes” in which he went into “some kind of fugue state.” He
said that he agreed with Dr. Borden's conclusions in his 1985 report that negative events in Michael's life would launch him and lead to a rape and murder. “That's my opinion. I think he went into an automatic dissociative state. . . . But once it began, he was just an automaton. However, dissociative states are not generally believed by juries.” He compared dissociation with what happens to some people when they take the drug Ambien. They can walk around, drive cars, and appear to be awake, yet actually be unaware of their actions. Michael was not unaware of his actions, but, according to Dr. Merikangas, he didn't consciously make a decision to commit the rapes or murders.

After reading Dr. Merikangas's reports, Michael thought that finally somebody could explain why he had killed. He had something wrong with his brain, and he couldn't wait for the jury to hear this evidence. Never being totally comfortable with the reality of sexual sadism, Michael was relieved that there was also something physical that you could see on a brain scan.

 • • • 

S
ixteen years after he was arrested and thirteen years after his first conviction, his second penalty phase trial began. I had just moved to California the summer before, but I would fly back and forth to attend the trial. The major difference in my relationship with Michael was that I couldn't visit as often, and his calls came at six on Saturday or Sunday mornings.

From the first day, it was clear that the only similarities between Michael's first trial and the second were the defendant and the crimes. Satti could not prosecute the trial because of his negotiations with Michael during the stipulation. Too much had been said in those meetings that would prejudice the case. Kevin Kane's prosecution of the penalty phase was nothing like Bob Satti's. There were no theatrics
or reenactments of the crimes. This is not to say that Kane didn't push hard for death and try to take every opportunity to put in information that supported his position. Lera Shelley later characterized the second trial as being “more spiritual” than the first trial. It was certainly less strident.

To secure a death sentence, Kevin Kane had to prove to the jurors that Michael Ross had committed the murders, rapes, and kidnappings in an especially cruel or heinous manner that constituted aggravation. According to the law, the aggravation had to be beyond the pain or suffering from the killing itself. It had to be intentionally cruel, heinous, or in a depraved manner in each of the murders. Kane also had to convince the jury that Michael had murdered the women to cover up his crimes of rape. He also needed to convince them that Michael didn't have a mental illness but was merely faking one, because mental illness was a mitigating factor that would rule out the death penalty. Kane relied on the victims' family members and state troopers to prove the bulk of his case. Missing were any expert psychiatric witnesses. If Kane hired another psychiatrist to examine Michael, he would have to share any exculpatory information with the defense. Since every psychiatrist who had ever examined Michael agreed that he was a sexual sadist, the chances of getting a totally different diagnosis were slim to none, so Kane didn't take the chance. He would simply try to refute the defense testimony under cross-examination.

The defense had to convince the jury that Michael suffered from mental illness. If they could do that, they also had to convince the jury that his mental illness rose to the level of mitigation. Juries have a difficult time believing expert psychiatric witnesses when there are multiple victims. It's up to them to decide whether an expert witness is credible; they can ignore any or all of the scientific evidence. Evidence that should prove that a defendant is mentally ill—such as the number
of victims—is sometimes ignored by the jury because of the magnitude of the crimes. They feel the defendant should pay for his many crimes even if the psychiatric evidence suggests that mental illness should mitigate the penalty. This was why Michael Ross felt the system would never be fair to him. This also is why juries have such a hard time when a defendant claims to be mentally ill in death penalty cases.

Going into the trial, Barry Butler and Karen Goodrow gave the impression that they believed they could convince the jury that Michael should not die. They had a battery of experts who would testify not only that he suffered from mental illness, but also that he had physical brain abnormalities that could help explain his behavior. However, in the end, Dr. Berlin and Dr. Merikangas—the two witnesses who Michael thought were crucial to his case—were never called to testify for technical reasons that involved preserving an issue for appeal. It was a decision by the defense lawyers that frustrated and angered Michael.

On April 6, 2000, at 4:00
P.M
. EST, the jury informed Judge Miano that they had reached a verdict after nine days or 208 hours of deliberation. This jury took its time, methodically going through the testimony of forty-three witnesses and 180 pieces of evidence. As of that morning, the deliberations had set a record, lasting longer than any other capital trial in Connecticut, and even ranked among the longest in the nation. Precisely because the jury took so long, I began thinking that Michael would get life or at least a hung jury.

Families of the victims, reporters, and Michael's few friends held a vigil in the hallway of the courthouse, sitting on the hard, uncomfortable benches that line the wall. When the announcement was made summoning everyone back into court, most were taken off guard. It was so late in the day that almost everyone was about to go home. The Shelleys and Roodes, neighbors at home and in the courtroom, had
been waiting sixteen years for this day. But as the days dragged on, they, too, had begun to lose hope that this jury would return a verdict of death. They were well aware that the first jury had taken only four hours to make that decision. “This is worse,” Lera Shelley told reporters.

The family members seemed apprehensive as the jury filed in. Ellen Roode, sitting in Lera Shelley's usual seat directly behind Michael, crossed her fingers and held them to her lips as she waited. Lera, across the aisle from Roode, clutched Ed's arm as the clerk asked for the verdict. I looked around and could not help but notice that none of Michael's support group was there. He was awaiting his fate with only his legal team and me.

Juror number ten, the foreman, stood with both hands on the rail of the jury box and announced each decision. Every time they voted yes for aggravation, the prosecution had proven its case. Every time they voted no for mitigation, the defense had failed to prove its case. On each count, the foreman read the decisions: aggravation, yes; mitigation, no. Between each count, he turned to look at Michael, making eye contact. Did he want to see Michael's reaction or was he trying to make sure that Michael saw his certainty?

Even though Michael was on trial for the rape and murder of only four of his victims, there were six death sentences in all, because death was imposed for both the kidnapping and the murder of April Brunais and of Leslie Shelley. In the end, either the jury had not believed that Michael Ross was mentally ill, or they ignored the law because they thought Michael Ross should pay for his crimes. It's also possible that they believed he suffered from sexual sadism but did not believe that his mental illness had limited his ability to control his actions.

Each of the twelve jurors was individually polled on aggravation and mitigation for all six counts. As each juror answered, Mrs. Shelley
wiped away her tears. Across the rail, Michael tried to comfort Barry by squeezing his shoulder. At one point, he gave Barry a gentle punch in the arm, but Barry did not change his sullen expression. Michael had shut down his emotions, but he was devastated.

As we filed out of the courtroom, Ed Shelley spoke. “When twenty-four people convict a man, I think that's justice,” he said. “Some might say it's revenge, but I say it's justice.”

 • • • 

F
or the five years I had known him, Michael was not under a sentence of death even though he was housed on death row. I wondered how he would react, what he would say when he finally called me. Mostly I wondered what I could possibly say to him that would have any meaning. What do you say to someone who just got six death sentences? I knew that avoiding the ultimate issue of the verdict and sticking to the details was the best way to subdue Michael. He was much calmer when he ignored the larger picture.

When he got back to the prison, he called me right away, sobbing. “I thought I had a chance. It took so long. I figured there was a holdout. I was afraid there might be a mistrial if the jury was deadlocked. But they didn't believe the evidence. They didn't believe my mental illness; no jury will ever believe me.” He complained about some of the defense decisions and harped on the fact that Dr. Berlin and Dr. Merikangas had not testified. It was clear that despite saying that he didn't care if he was put to death, he still had held out the hope that the jury would sentence him to life in prison. What he wanted to avoid was the actual trial, but if the state of Connecticut insisted that a trial was necessary, he had hoped that the jury would believe his mental illness and spare his life.

It was likely that Leslie Shelley's murder had been the deciding
factor; Michael had said that that crime was “going to hang me.” If there ever was a time when he was going to tell me the truth about Leslie Shelley, this was it. “What's the truth about Leslie? What you said in the tape and in your confession or what you have been saying since 1994?” I needed to know whether he'd raped her anally, as he claimed after 1994, or whether he'd killed her without sex to hide his crime.

He was sobbing so hard he could hardly talk. “The tape. What's on the tape. I never tried to rape her.” I didn't know what to feel. I was relieved that I knew the truth, but also disappointed, even hurt to know that he had lied to me. I didn't tell him, because I knew the tears were real. He had let himself believe that this jury had accepted the psychiatric evidence and would not recommend death. I didn't have to tell him how I felt because I was fairly certain that he knew.

 • • • 

I
had watched the Shelleys in court for five years, but purposefully had not tried to interview them until the legal proceedings had come to a close—albeit temporarily. Instead of approaching them in the hallway, I wrote them a letter—as I did all of the families—explaining that I wanted to talk to them about their daughters, promising not to hound them if they decided not to speak with me.

Just before sentencing day, I received a letter from Lera Shelley. She wrote about how she and Ed had developed a good relationship with Barry and the other attorneys and didn't blame them for representing “M. Ross.” She said that they hoped I would keep an open mind but wrote, “I am not sure about meeting with you. I did not even plan on talking to you, but I will give you our phone number. I am trusting you, and I hope that you will not give our phone number or address to anyone.”