She gave him a tour of the available rooms and asked him a battery of questions about his work history and repair skills. There were a few minor jobs still to be done around the house, and Morton liked the calm, eloquent tone of Costa’s voice, so she let him inside. “I’m a carpenter and can help you with any repair work you might have,” Costa offered. “I’m sorry, but I don’t serve locals here, only transients,” Morton replied. The rooming house had been shuttered all winter while she was gone, and she had yet to take in new tenants. Morton had just returned from an extended stay in the Virgin Islands and was sporting a dark tan. “I would like to inquire about a room for rent.” While most people called him Tony, he felt that introducing himself as Antone, his proper name, might sway the matronly landlady in his favor. “My name is Antone Costa,” the young man replied. He heard the shuffling of shoes inside, and the door opened just slightly.īroad-shouldered, thickly bosomed, and wearing a housecoat with her bleached hair in rollers, Patricia Morton, the owner of the boardinghouse, peeked outside. He waited for a few minutes outside, stomping his boots against the wooden stair planks to help fight off the frigid cold. He hopped off his bike and climbed a short set of stairs leading to the front door and then knocked. “And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted than you are now.”Ī short time later, on January 18, 1969, Costa rode his blue English racer bicycle to a white-shingled Victorian rooming house at 5 Standish Street that advertised for guests by the day or week on a freshly painted sign hung on the side of the building. “When I am dead and over me bright April shakes out her rain-drenched hair, Tho’ you should lean above me broken-hearted, I shall not care,” he whispered. His stomach convulsed, his brain pounded, and his eyes were red and sore.Īttempting to calm himself, he recited a poem by Teasdale that famously had been mistaken for her suicide note after she swallowed all those sleeping pills in 1933. Why did this have to happen?” the killer yelled out, startling both the counter clerk and the pharmacist working at the back of the store. She wanted to die, remember? She wanted to commit suicide just like her favorite poetess Sara Teasdale had done, overdosed in a bathtub. “Wasn’t that clean enough for you? Police still think it was suicide.” “But we didn’t need any bloodshed with Chrissy,” Costa reminded Cory. One shot, two shots, then it’s all over, and we can get to our business. We need a gun to keep our deeds clean, Cory told him.
Thumper cod serial#
The following is an excerpt from bestselling author Casey Sherman’s forthcoming book, Helltown: The Untold Story of a Serial Killer on Cape Cod, a dramatized account of the gruesome murders that stoked fear in the hearts of people across the Cape and unleashed one of the most terrifying periods in the area’s history.Ĭory, Tony Costa’s murderous alter ego, began planting more dark thoughts in his mind.
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