A man with 16 wounds in his skull got out of bed and started the coffee maker. He packed a lunch. He wrote out a check and left it on the counter. He stepped outside for the morning paper and when the door locked behind him, he retrieved the spare key from the flower pot and let himself back in the way he had a hundred times before.

 Part of his jaw was gone. The blade had gone through bone and into the tissue underneath into the exact region that would have told him he was dying. So, Peter Porco did the only thing still available to him, his routine. And roughly 230 m to the west, the person who had done it was already back on the throughway, driving toward campus before the sun came up.

Help this channel grow. Like the video, leave a comment, and subscribe for more cases. This help us a lot. Thank you. Delmare, New York, is a hamlet inside the town of Bethlehem, about 5 miles south of downtown Albany. It is not a place with a reputation. Split levels and colonials, mature maples, driveways  with basketball hoops, a high school people move into the district for the kind of address that shows up in real estate listings as quiet, established, family oriented.

 In 2004, the biggest recurring item on the Bethlehem police blotter was teenagers loitering outside convenience stores. 36 Broccoli Drive was one of those houses, two stories, attached garage, a small front step with a flower pot beside it. Peter R. Porco was 52 years old. He was born in Norwok, Connecticut, the son of Jane and Ralph Porco.

 And he built a career in Albany the slow way. University at Albany, then Albany Law School, then a job most law students avoid, assistant public defender for Albany County. He moved into private practice at a downtown firm, but the work he talked about with the most pride was the least glamorous. He served as a law guardian in the third department, which meant he stood in Albany County Family Court and represented children who had no one else in the room arguing for them.

 Custody fights, neglect petitions, cases where the adults were the problem. He eventually clerked for justice William McDermott and by 2004 he held one of the most respected non-judicial positions in the state court system law clerk to Anthony Fariv Cardona the presiding justice of the appellet division third department he read the appeals he researched them he drafted judges in that building trusted his memory more than their own notes outside the courthouse he was the man who volunteered before anyone asked democratic committeeman eucharistic

minister at St. Frances Dale in Ldenville. He organized a program that brought Bethlehem high school students into real courtrooms to watch real proceedings. He stood on the deck at swim meets and on the sidelines at  soccer games and he did not sit down and he was punctual. Not approximately punctual, mechanically unfailingly punctual.

 He arrived before he was expected. He answered his phone. In a building full of lawyers, Peter Porco’s absence was a data point. That detail is going to matter more than anything else in the first 12 hours of this case. His wife was Joan, born Joan Balzano. She was a speech pathologist who worked with children, patient by profession, patient by temperament, the person who spent her days coaxing sounds out of kids who could not yet make them.

She and Peter had been married roughly 30 years. Friends described a marriage without theatrics. They had built the exact life they had planned to build on two public service salaries in a school district they chose deliberately. They had two sons. The elder was Jonathan, 23, an officer in the United States Navy, assigned to a nuclear submarine out of South Carolina, disciplined, direct, and 800 m away.

 The younger was Christopher, 21, a student at the University of Rochester out at the far western end of the state. By November of 2004, Peter and Joan Porco had one child serving under the ocean. And one child they were beginning to understand they did not know at all. Because for 2 years, small things had been going wrong in that house.

 Laptops that vanished during holiday breaks, a window screen cut from the outside, a camera found lying in the front yard as if someone in a hurry had dropped it on the way to the car. Peter had filed police reports. He had spoken to detectives. He had cooperated fully with the Bethlehem Police Department in the investigation of two burglaries at his own home.

 He had simply never asked the obvious question about who kept getting inside. Christopher Porco was born on July 9th, 1983. He grew up in the same house in the same school district with the same advantages his brother had. At the University of Rochester, he presented a version of himself that had nothing to do with a two-income household in Delmare.

 He told fraternity brothers that his grandmother owned much of the land in Fairfield County, Connecticut. He mentioned oceanfront property, vacation homes, a family with the kind of money that does not need to be discussed. Discussed constantly. None of it existed. What did exist was the Jeep, a bright yellow Wrangler on oversized tires, a vehicle chosen specifically because it could be identified from three blocks away.

 On a campus of $20,000 sedans, everyone knew whose it was. everyone. That fact will eventually put him on the New York State throughway at 2 in the morning, but in 2004, it was just the accessory that sold the story. He had been a swimmer since high school, competitive year round, and he quit the team at Rochester.

 He entered the YOTC program and was forced out for poor grades. He started in biomedical engineering  and switched to economics. He worked part-time at a veterinary hospital and told people he was headed for veterinary school. The pattern underneath was steadier than the resume. Christopher Porco took things and then he sold them.

 Thanksgiving break, November 2002. He was home from school. The Porco house was burglarized. A Macintosh laptop and a Dell laptop taken. A camera reported missing turned up later in the front yard, dropped. Bethlehem police took the report. One of the responding detectives, Christopher Bodish, sat in that living room and wrote down what the family told him.

 He would come back to that house in 2 years under very different circumstances. 20 days after the burglary, one of the stolen laptops sold on eBay to a buyer in California. The seller was Christopher. July 2003, a second break-in at 36 Broccon taken out through a window, the screen torn from the outside.

 That machine also moved through an online listing. Police would eventually travel to San Diego to recover it. June 2003, the veterinary clinic where he worked was burglarized. A phone, a camera, computers. He was not a thief in the abstract. He was a thief who stole from the three places that trusted him most.

 His employer, his parents, and eventually his brother’s name. About a month before the murder, the eBay accounts registered to the Porco household were frozen. Christopher had collected payment for items he never shipped. Buyers complained. Money went missing. And because the accounts shared the Delmare address, the complaints landed on his brother.

 His response to that was the single clearest window into how his mind worked. He wrote to the angry buyers pretending to be Jonathan and told them that Christopher had died. That was the explanation for the missing merchandise and the missing  refunds. He used his own death in his brother’s voice as a customer service strategy.

 Jonathan on a submarine schedule tried to reach him more than 40 times. Christopher never called back once. Then there was school itself. His grades collapsed. After the fall 2003 semester, the University of Rochester required him to withdraw. He did not tell his parents. He enrolled instead at Hudson Valley Community College in Troy, 20 minutes from his mother’s kitchen, and failed there, too.

 He found out about those grades while traveling in  Europe in March of 2004, on money that was not his. Then he manufactured a solution. He forged a Hudson Valley transcript showing straight A’s and used it to get himself readmitted to Rochester for the fall of 2004 on academic probation. And when his parents asked why the tuition bills had stopped arriving, he explained that the university was covering his costs.

Because a professor had misplaced his final exam, and the school was making it right. It was in its way an impressive lie. It accounted for the missing paperwork, flattered him, and made the institution the guilty party. Peter Porco, a man who read appellet briefs for a living, believed it. Underneath all of it, the arithmetic was getting worse.

 more than $4,000 in American Express debt, roughly 16,000 owed directly to the University of Rochester, $16,450 in credit extended for the Jeep, and a City Bank student loan of about $31,000, a large share of which went to paying off the previous year’s obligations, money borrowed to service money already borrowed.

 CBS News later put his total exposure at a minimum of $50,000. He had no income capable of touching that number. He had a part-time job at an animal hospital and a car he could not afford. So, he needed a co-signer with a spotless credit history, a stable state salary, and 30 years of financial discipline. He had one. He just never asked him.

In the early autumn of 2004, a routine credit check surfaced something that should not have existed. Peter Porco’s name was on a loan he had never seen. His signature was on the City Bank student loan, roughly $31,000, as co-signer. He had not signed it. He had not been asked. His son had written his name and sent it in.

 Peter did what a lawyer does. He confirmed it and then he wrote it down. The email he sent to Christopher was blunt in a way that friends said was unlike him. He asked directly whether his son had forged his signature as co-signer. He asked what exactly Christopher thought he was doing. He said the correct move would have been a phone call and a conversation.

 And he told him he was contacting City Bank that morning to find out precisely what had been done in his name and to have himself removed from the obligation. That was day one. The next day, Peter found the second one, $16,450,  a line of credit for the Jeep. Same method, same forged name. And the second email is the one the prosecution would eventually put in front of a jury because it does something the first one does not.

 It stops being a father’s complaint and becomes a legal warning. Peter wrote that if his credit was abused again, he would be forced to file forgery affidavit in order to disclaim liability. He specified that this applied to the City Bank college loan as well if Christopher attempted to reactivate it or to use his father’s credit to obtain anything else.

 He understood what he was describing. A forgery affidavit is not a family document. It is a sworn statement to a lender that a signature is fraudulent. It creates a paper record of a felony with a named suspect filed by the victim. Peter Porco had spent his career around the machinery of the criminal justice system.

 And he was telling his 21-year-old son exactly which lever he would pull. And then he closed the email by telling him that he and Joan were disappointed, but that they still loved him and still cared about his future. That is the whole marriage of the thing, a threat and an embrace in the same message.

 The defense would later argue the relationship was mending, pointing to a subsequent email in which Peter noted the fall semester was paid and said they would sort out the spring at Thanksgiving. Come home, in other words, we’ll talk. The prosecution read the same correspondence and saw a countdown because Thanksgiving was 10 days out. And Thanksgiving was when everything Christopher had built would have to survive being said out loud in a kitchen with his mother present.

 The forged transcript, the withdrawal from Rochester, he had never disclosed. The community college he had failed. The frozen eBay accounts and the buyers he had told his own brother was dead. two burglaries at that address that had never quite made sense to anyone who cared to think about them. Not one of those lies could be walked back, and every one of them was now attached to a father who had just put in writing that his next step involved sworn affidavit.

Chief Assistant District Attorney Michael McDermott would eventually reduce the whole motive to a single line of arithmetic. Alive, he said, the parents were worth about $60,000 to their son. dead. They were worth 1.1 million. That is life insurance, the house, the estate, the entire structure of a careful 30-year marriage converted into a number.

 60,000 and a felony investigation, or 1.1 million and  a clean start. There is no evidence anyone in that house knew the calculation was being made. Peter went to work. Joan went to work. The check that was later found on the kitchen counter written  in the last hours of Peter Porco’s life while his brain was already failing was money going out to his son.

 He was still paying for him even then. Sunday, November 14th, 2004,  Rochester, New York. The last instant message sent from Christopher Porco’s computer went out just before 10:00 at night. After that, the account went quiet. At approximately 10:30 p.m., a University of Rochester security camera recorded a yellow Jeep Wrangler moving through a campus lot.

 6 minutes later, a camera mounted on an off-campus medical building caught the same vehicle heading east toward the entrance ramps of the New York State throughway. At around 10:45 p.m., a toll collector named John Fallon handed a ticket to a young man in a yellow Jeep with oversized tires. From Rochester to Delmare is roughly 230 miles, 3 hours and change in the dark with almost no traffic.

 Interstate 90 across the middle of the state. Syracuse, Udica, the Mohawk Valley. A corridor that in mid- November is nothing but headlights, salt stained pavement, and the occasional truck stop glowing orange. The easy pass transponder that would have logged every gantry along that route did not register a single reading that night.

Investigators later found it lying loose on the floor of the Jeep. 1:51 a.m. Exit 24, Albany. A toll collector remembered a yellow Jeep coming into her lane too fast, driven by a young white man. Exit 24 is about 9 miles from Broccley Drive. 15 minutes of Surface Road, Delaware Avenue, past the strip malls, past the high school, into the trees. At approxima

tely 2:14 a.m., the alarm system at 36 Brockley Drive was disarmed. Not defeated, not bypassed, disarmed with the master code. There was no forced entry, no broken glass, no pride frame, no cut screen. The spare key that lived in the flower pot by the front step was later found sitting in the front door lock. Somebody walked in the way family walks in.

The axe came from the garage. A firefighter’s axe. heavy head, long handle, the kind of tool that hangs on a wall for years without anyone thinking about it. It belonged to the house. It had been in that house longer than the man who was about to be killed with it had been lock clerked to the presiding justice.

 Peter and Joan Porco were asleep in their bedroom. The attack was silent in the sense that nobody in the neighborhood heard anything. It was not silent in the room. Peter was struck 16 times in the head. The medical examiner counted them. heavy blows from a sharp instrument, one that drove through the skull, another that removed part of his jaw.

 Trial testimony described injuries so severe he was nearly decapitated. Joan was struck three times while she lay beside him. Her jaw was broken and dislocated. One eye was destroyed. The blade opened her skull and exposed the brain underneath. There was no attempt to make either of them talk. No demand, no interrogation, no restraint.

 16 blows and three blows delivered to sleeping people and then it stopped. At 400 a.m. a neighbor named Marshall Gouki drove past on his way to work. He would testify that he saw a yellow Jeep parked in the Porco driveway. At approximately 4:54 a.m. Telephone company records show the outside line to the house was cut.

That timing is worth sitting with. Roughly 2 and 1/2 hours had passed since the alarm was disarmed. 2 and 1/2 hours inside a house with two people bleeding to death upstairs. Something in that window was being arranged. The alarm keypad was smashed. An attempt to erase the record of the disarming.

 It failed for a mundane reason. The panel that stores the data was not the keypad. It was a box in the basement. It logged everything. The cut phone line, the untouched valuables, the staged look of the scene. Prosecutors would later argue that every one of those choices was designed to say stranger. And every one of them said the opposite.

 A stranger does not know the master code. A stranger does not know where the spare key is kept. A stranger does not bring nothing and use the family’s own ax. McDermott’s phrasing for the jury was that it was like dropping your wallet at the crime scene. At approximately 5:12 a.m., investigators say the jeep re-entered the throughway heading west.

By 8:18 a.m. it was back through the Henrietta Toll Plaza near Rochester and campus area cameras picked it up moving toward the university. And upstairs in Delmare at some point after the blade came down, Peter Porco stood up. His brain had been penetrated in the region that governs awareness. He did not know he was injured.

 He did not know his wife was dying 12 in away. What remained was procedure. 30 years of the same Monday morning running without a driver. He went to the bathroom sink. He started the coffee. He packed a lunch. He wrote out a check and left it on the counter. He began loading the dishwasher.

 He walked to the front door and stepped outside for the newspaper. The door locked behind him. He went to the flower pot, took the spare key, and let himself back in. Then he collapsed in the foyer. The house recorded all of it. Blood on the bathroom fixtures. Blood in the kitchen. Blood on the counter, on the dishwasher, on the interior of the front door.

 A trail through every room of a man’s morning routine laid down by a man who was already medically gone. Monday, November 15th. The appellet division third department Peter Porco did not arrive. That alone was an alarm. He answered his phone. He arrived early. Calls to the house rang and went unanswered.

 The outside line had been cut at 4:54 that morning. Court officer Michael Hart was sent to check on him. He reached Broccley Drive at about 11. The front door was standing a jar. The key was in the lock. There was blood on the front steps. Hart looked inside and saw Peter Porco lying in the foyer and backed out and called for police and paramedics.

 The responders went upstairs. Joan Porco was still in the bed. She had been lying there for more than 7 hours with a skull fracture that had exposed her brain and she was breathing. The axe was on the floor beside her. Detective Christopher Bodish arrived at 36 Broccoli Drive that morning and recognized the address before he recognized the room.

 He had been in this house 2 years earlier taking a burglary report from a polite, meticulous lawyer whose laptops had disappeared over Thanksgiving break. Now he was standing over that man’s wife while paramedics worked on her and there was no version of the next few minutes that was going to be clean. The medical reality was that Joan Porco was not expected to survive the ambulance.

 Her airway was compromised by the damage to her jaw. She could not speak. She could not produce a single intelligible sound. Whatever she knew was going to leave with her. So Bodish asked her questions she could answer with her head. Could she hear him? She nodded. Had a family member done this to her? She nodded. Was it Jonathan? She shook her head. No.

 Was it Christopher? She nodded. Yes. Paramedics working beside him. The crew that included Kevin Robert, Jim Ragan, and Dennis Wood reported seeing responsive movement. Someone in that bed was answering. That nod became the single most contested piece of evidence in the case, and it stayed contested for the next 20 years.

 Here is the argument against it. Jones neurologist, Dr. Mary Donovie would later explain that following a simple physical command and comprehending a complex question are not the same brain function. A person with that degree of traumatic injury can obey straighten your arm while having no capacity to process, “Did your younger son attack you with an axe?” The defense position was that Joan may have been responding to nothing more than the sound of a familiar name, Christopher.

She nodded when she heard her child’s name the way an injured mother might. There is a second problem and it is the one that has kept this case alive in comment sections and courtrooms ever since. Joan Porco does not remember doing it. She was placed in a medically induced coma. She survived barely and permanently altered. She lost the eye.

She lost a section of her skull. Her jaw had to be rebuilt. And when she came out of it, the night of November 14th into the 15th was simply gone, not fuzzy, absent. In December of 2004, she gave videotaped testimony to the grand  jury. She did not identify her son. She never has.

 She later published a letter in the Albany Times Union asking police to go find Peter’s real killer. Christopher was told by phone. He has always said a reporter reached him first, that he dropped the  phone, and that he called Bethlehem police himself. An uncle drove him to Albany Medical Center. By his own account, he burst into  tears at his mother’s bedside and went down onto the floor.

 Others in that hospital, saw something different. Joe Catalano, a former youth minister who came to the hospital specifically to comfort him, later testified that Christopher’s behavior struck him as strange, and that when he was asked whether he had observed grief in the young man, his answer was none whatsoever. Christopher then sat down voluntarily with investigators for roughly 6 hours.

 He denied everything repeatedly and emphatically. He told them he would never do anything like that, not to his parents whom he loved. He was not arrested. he would not be arrested for nearly a year. He went to his father’s funeral at St. Frances Deale in Ludenville where hundreds of people from the Albany legal community filled the pews for a man half of them had worked beside.

 He stood among them and when police asked the obvious follow-up where he had been that night, he gave them an alibi that was easy to check. He said he had fallen asleep on a couch in a lounge in his dorm. The alibi went first. Fraternity brothers and dorm residents were interviewed about the couch in the lounge. The account did not hold.

 Nobody could place him asleep there through the night. The story that was supposed to cover roughly 10 hours covered nothing. But breaking an alibi is not the same as proving where a man was. And this is where the Porco investigation became an exercise in institutional frustration. Bethlehem is a small suburban department.

 Terrence Kinland, who would eventually defend Christopher, mocked it in open court as an agency whose main occupation was chasing skateboarders away from the convenience store,  adding for the jury’s benefit that this was not the FBI. The department’s response to that criticism was to hand the case to everyone.

 District Attorney David Source later said the investigation ultimately drew in 22 separate police and security agencies across the country. Detectives flew to San Diego over a laptop. Investigators pulled  toll records, campus surveillance footage, phone company logs, alarm panel data, eBay transaction histories, bank records, and the physical evidence, the part that decides most murder cases, refused to arrive.

There was no blood in the yellow jeep. None on the seats, none in the footwells, none in the cargo area. There was no blood on any item of Christopher’s clothing. There were no fingerprints on the axe. There was no DNA placing him inside that bedroom. In a scene with that much blood, a man struck 16 times in the head.

 A woman struck three times, a trail through every room downstairs, investigators recovered nothing biological, connecting the suspect to the house he had grown up in. And of course, the fact that he had grown up there meant that even if they had found his fingerprints on a doorframe, it would have proven only that he had once lived at his own address.

 That is the peculiar problem of a family murder. The suspect’s traces are supposed to be there. Meanwhile, the defense had a piece of evidence pointing away. An unidentified fingerprint was recovered from the telephone junction box in the backyard, inches from where the line had been cut at 4:54 in the morning. It did not belong to Christopher Porco.

 It has never been matched to anyone. The other theories got their turn, and the first one was almost too tidy. Peter Porco had a relative, a great uncle named Frank Porco. Frank Porco was a convicted member of the Banano crime family, a man with a record involving lone sharking and extortion. His nickname, which no defense attorney could have invented without being accused of overreaching, was Frankie the fireman.

 The murder weapon was a fireman’s axe. The suggestion hung in the air for months. A message killing, a retaliation reaching sideways into a respectable branch of the family, delivered with a signature. It was the kind of theory that a jury would remember. Police checked it and it disintegrated. Frank Porco was in prison, and he was in prison because he had refused to cooperate with authorities, which is close to the opposite of a man the organization needed to send warnings on behalf of.

There was no connection between his world and a law clerk’s split level in Delmare. Then there was the courthouse angle. Peter had spent his career in family court and appellet work. Custody battles, neglect cases, decisions that ruined people. Investigators identified a man who had lost a custody matter Peter had been involved with and who had reportedly threatened him.

 He was interviewed. He had an alibi. He was cleared. Every plausible outsider was checked and eliminated. What remained was a house that had been opened with a code, emptied of nothing,  and staged badly. So, the case was rebuilt out of pieces that individually meant almost nothing. A yellow jeep on a campus security camera at 10:30 at night.

 A toll collector in Rochester who remembered oversized tires. a toll collector in Albany who remembered a young man driving too fast into her lane at 1:51 a.m. A neighbor on his way to work at 4:00 a.m. who saw a Jeep in the driveway. An alarm log showing a master code entered at 2:14. A phone line severed at 4:54.

 A smashed keypad that had smashed the wrong component. An easy pass transponder lying loose on the floor of a vehicle whose owner had every reason to want no digital record of that highway. and an absence of blood that the prosecution turned into an asset. Because Christopher worked at a veterinary hospital, his employer, the veterinarian John Kierney, testified about what that job actually involves.

Surgical cleanup, disinfection, protocol. A 21-year-old who spent his shifts sterilizing a room after a procedure is a 21-year-old who has been trained professionally in removing biological material from surfaces. Three explanations were offered to the jury for the missing blood. He may have gotten very little on him.

 He had hours inside the house to change and he knew how to clean. Delmare, in the meantime, had stopped feeling like Delmare. A hamlet whose police blotter ran on loitering complaints had absorbed an axe murder with no forced entry and no arrest. Neighbors installed alarms. People locked doors they had left open for 20 years.

 And the persistent rumor, the one that circulated in the Albany courthouse where Peter’s chair sat empty and in the school district where Joan had worked, was the one nobody wanted to be the first to say. The grand jury convened in late November 2004. The indictment did not come until November 2005, a full year, to charge a son. The trial could not be held in Albany County.

 Peter Porco had worked in that courthouse. Every judge on the local bench was recused and the coverage in the capital region had been saturating for 2 years. The proceedings were moved roughly a 100 miles south to go in Orange County before acting judge Jeffrey G. Barry. Chief Assistant District Attorney Michael McDermott led the prosecution with ADA David Rossi.

Terrence Kindan and his law partner Lorie Shanks defended. Jury selection began in late June 2006. Testimony ran about 7 weeks and  drew more than 80 witnesses. The forged community college transcripts were kept out. Barry ruled them too prejuditial. And then Joan Porco took the stand for the defense.

 She sat in front of the jury with the visible architecture of the attack still on her face, the eye, the reconstructed jaw, the missing section of skull, and told them her son did not do this. She described the boy she had raised. She said she had no memory of that night, no memory of any nod, and no belief in the theory the state had spent two years assembling.

 The prosecution did not attack her. There was no way to. Their position was simply that the most damaged witness in the room was the least reliable one about the only thing that mattered. Jonathan Porco testified as well. The Times Union described his manner toward his brother as icy and their relationship as strained. On August 10th, 2006, the jury began deliberating at 10:25 in the morning.

 At 4:12 that afternoon, they sent out a note. Under 6 hours, guilty of murder in the second degree and attempted murder in the second degree. Christopher showed nothing. He later said Lorie Shanks had advised him to keep his face still. Joan was not in the courtroom. She was waiting at a hotel in Gan. Jurors afterwards said they had set the nod aside entirely and convicted on the timeline.

 On December 12th, 2006, Barry imposed the maximum on each count, 25 years to life for the murder, 25 to life for the attempted murder consecutive. Reported variously as 50 years to life, and as 46 years to life under the state’s sentencing arithmetic. The judge said he feared very much that what happened in those early morning hours was something that could happen again.

The appeals ran their course. In March 2010, the appellet division agreed that the nod should never have been admitted. It was not a spontaneous utterance, but an answer to direct probing questions and affirmed the conviction anyway as harmless error. The court of appeals affirmed in October 2011.

 The Supreme Court declined the case in 2012. In 2013, Lifetime aired a film about him. He sued to stop it from prison. The court sided with the network. The litigation dragged until 2022 when it finally ended. In January 2023, new attorneys filed a motion to vacate the conviction, arguing the prosecution’s timeline was not merely wrong, but physically impossible.

 That trial council had been ineffective, that evidence had been withheld, and that a juror should never have been seated. They also asked for mitochondrial DNA testing of material recovered from the alarm keypad. As of 2026, that motion has not been decided. Christopher Porco is held at Clinton Correctional Facility.

 He maintains, as he always has, that he was asleep on a couch in Rochester. He becomes eligible for parole in December 202. The check was still on the counter, written in the last hour of Peter Porco’s life by a man whose brain had already been opened in handwriting  that had not yet learned it was dying.

 Money moving toward his son, the same direction it had always moved. $60,000 alive, 1.1 million dead. That was the arithmetic somebody did at a desk in Rochester. And the number that came back was wrong in every way a number can be wrong. Because what it actually purchased was a father buried in November. A mother who lost an eye, a portion of her skull in the entire night.

 A brother who stopped speaking to him. 50 years in a cell 300 m north of Delmare. And a woman who still says he didn’t do it. About the only night of her life she cannot remember. If you are finished watching, you’re a real fan of true crime. Subscribe to the channel. Turn on notifications and give it a like. See you in the next video.