Free The Devil I Know: My Haunting Journey with Ronnie DeFeo and the True Story ofthe Amityville Murders by Jackie Barrett

either fourteen or fifteen, and I met this girl in the Village; her name was Wanda. She was attractive; she had, you know, it was a front, they try to lure people. She had an all-red Ford Galaxie convertible. Brand-new, with white interior and white top. And sure enough, she tried to recruit me.”
    “Recruit you for what?”
    “She told me she was a priestess, and they worshipped the devil. I was already familiar with Lucifer—I went to Catholic school all my life. Supposed to be twelve years, but it was thirteen and a half, they held me back one. So I knew about religion. She wanted me to go to Ohio with her. She said, ‘I practice here, too.’ I said, ‘Practice?’ ”
    “Did you know what she was talking about?”
    “How the hell would I know what she’s talking about? Like I said, I learned that shit all through school, but that ain’t the same as meeting a girl who says she’s a priestess. She said, ‘Tomorrow night there’s gonna be a meeting here, and you’re gonna come with me. Then we’re gonna go to Ohio.’ I said, ‘You’re not gonna use me as a human sacrifice.’ ‘Ha ha ha,’ she says. ‘We don’t do that.’ ”
    “Were you scared?”
    “I don’t know; I mean, she was pretty good-looking.”
    “She was good-looking, so you weren’t scared?”
    “Blonde, nice build, about five-seven. And she was up there, in her thirties, maybe. She had a carload of people.”
    “So you went?”
    “I went to the first meeting. The local one.”
    “Where was this?”
    “Down by the Meatpacking District, Tenth, near the Hudson.”
    I knew the area he was referring to, where, at night, a lot of the buildings turn into underground clubs. I also knew that it was an area where people had often gone missing. Many of the buildings there look shut down or boarded up. But after dark—long after—the place comes to life. Although maybe that isn’t exactly the right way to say it, given the reason for a lot of these meetings.
    “We drove. I took one of the cars.”
    “One of whose cars?”
    “My father would let me use a bunch of different cars from the dealership, and they were all 100 percent good shape, didn’t have to worry about breaking down or anything. Except I was a little nervous because the one I took had New York plates, which I figured would be strike one to the people we met if [we] went to Ohio. People outside of New York don’t always like New Yorkers, you know what I mean?”
    “I certainly do.”
    “And I had two antennas right next to each other, on the right front fender. One was a power antenna, went upand down electronically; the other one was solid-mass stainless steel, thirty inches, for my FM radio. That would probably be strike two, ’cause it made the car look like a cop car. And then I had a PBA badge in my wallet.”
    “The gold one?” I had one of those myself. A PBA—Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association—badge is a card, an honorary one, indicating that the holder is part of the broader family of law enforcement, or at least that he or she is tight with someone on the force.
    “Yeah, the gold one.”
    “How did you get a PBA badge?”
    “My dad knew a lot of cops. Anyway, when we got there, I opened my wallet and they saw the PBA badge, and now they think I’m a cop. But I told them, ‘Look, the cops ain’t any friends of mine, and I ain’t one. You can search me or the car if you want.’ They did, and then they convinced themselves I was okay. They opened the door and let me in, and this guy named Wayne greets me. Right away he starts talking Satan this and Satan that. Behind him, there are people holding flares burning at both ends. It was a real circus.”
    “But you wanted to stay?” My question went ignored. As so often happened, Ronnie was caught up in the momentum of his own words.
    “They were for real. They all had black gowns with hoods. Every one of them. They gave me one to wear. Everybody looks the same. There’s a reason for that, so