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Old 09-17-2006, 01:39 AM
Gary Dee Gary Dee is offline
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Lightbulb A serial killer’s only survivor: The Connecticut River Valley killings

Eighteen years have passed since Jane Boroski sped through the New Hampshire night, pregnant, covered in blood and stab wounds, alive.
Boroski didn’t know it then, but she may have been a serial killer’s only survivor.


Now speaking publicly for the first time in years, she thinks she knows who attacked her that night: Michael Nicholaou,



a traumatized Vietnam veteran who later killed his wife and stepdaughter in Tampa.

“I am totally convinced,” she said.


Before the attack on Boroski outside a market in August 1988, New England police were investigating the gruesome slayings of at least six young women, all dumped disheveled along the wooded borderlands of Vermont and New Hampshire. The cases became known as the Connecticut River Valley killings.


Over the years, people approached Boroski with theories and suspects. She discounted them all until July, when she met St. Petersburg private investigator Lynn-Marie Carty and reviewed circumstantial evidence Carty collected during her own nine-month investigation into the killings.


Boroski looked at photographs of Nicholaou. In one, she saw something familiar. She says she is “99 percent sure” he was the attacker.

Authorities in New Hampshire are testing evidence to link Nicholaou to the Connecticut River Valley murders. They’ve found nothing so far and don’t expect answers for three to four months.

Nicholaou (pronounced NICK-allow) shot to death his most recent wife, Aileen, and stepdaughter in West Tampa on New Year’s Eve before he shot himself in the mouth. Aileen Nicholaou may not have been the first lover in his life to meet such an end. In 1988, the mother of two of Nicholaou’s children, who had talked of leaving him, vanished from Holyoke, Mass., four months after Boroski was attacked. The woman, Michelle Ashley, was never found.


Carty was hired five years ago to find Ashley, whose family thinks Nicholaou killed her.


After Carty learned of the Tampa murders, she renewed her investigation of Ashley’s disappearance. In researching 1988 New England murders, she learned of the Connecticut River Valley killings, documented in a book called The Shadow of Death by Philip E. Ginsburg.


Carty found coincidences. Several victims were nurses. She remembered hearing that Nicholaou’s first wife was a nurse and that his mother worked at a hospital. The killer knew the area. Ashley’s family lived in the heart of the Connecticut River Valley. Nicholaou had visited a hospital where one of the victims worked within a few months of her death.


The private detective, who specializes in family reunions, assembled a time line by February and persuaded New Hampshire authorities to look at Nicholaou.


The St. Petersburg Times reported in June that New Hampshire State Police detective Steve Rowland considered Nicholaou a “strong suspect” and would test his DNA and fingerprints against evidence in the murders.

Rowland has since referred calls to his supervisors.

Lt. Mark Mudgett of the State Police major crimes unit called Nicholaou a “person of interest,” just one of many leads.

After the Times report circulated through the bucolic Connecticut River Valley, Nicholaou’s ex-girlfriends contacted Carty with more tips.
Aileen Nicholaou’s Tampa relatives gave Carty access to Nicholaou’s belongings.


She found needles and lidocaine, a common anesthetic. She found computers containing sadomasochistic pornography.


Nicholaou’s psychiatric records from a stay at a Miami veterans hospital say he felt “guilt over being involved in killing civilians during his Vietnam combat duty” and could become “violent when threatened.”


Nicholaou was tried along with seven other soldiers for strafing civilians. The charges were dropped.


Medical records show Nicholaou reported chronic nightmares and daytime intrusive images about his combat experiences.


“He says that he wakes up in the middle of the night and he sees the face of some of these people which he would just kill randomly from the helicopter level,” Dr. Alberto Penalver wrote in the 1996 report. “He sees their face and the expression of helplessness that they had.”


Carty flew to meet Boroski this summer, bringing angel trinkets for her and her daughter. Boroski had met few people connected to the murders, and few had shown her the compassion Carty had, she said.Carty also contacted the sister of Barbara Agnew, a nurse murdered in Vermont in 1987.Anna Agnew, a Maryland social worker, felt as if her sister was killed all over again when the Nicholaou story broke. Barbara Agnew’s death shattered her family, she said.


Agnew keeps notebooks of news clippings and new facts she learns about the investigation.


“I actually have been able to get a little more action-oriented, and I find that it’s a little less sad,” she said.


Agnew, too, grew convinced of a link between Nicholaou and the New England killings.


“I’m confident he’s responsible for at least some of these,” she said.

She called Vermont authorities and is frustrated by the apparent low priority of her sister’s case. “To me, it’s not like a cold case,” Agnew said. “It’s a current case with current events, and it needs time and attention.”

Jeffery A. Strelzin, chief of homicide for the New Hampshire Attorney General’s Office, said it takes time to complete forensic testing on cold cases. The New Hampshire State Police have no cold case squad.
Detectives work on them as time allows.

The state crime lab has tested some of the evidence but has found nothing to rule him in or out yet, Strelzin said.


Strelzin said Boroski’s belief that it was Nicholaou “doesn’t make a difference investigatively.”


“The goal is, for her and other victims, to get them some answers,” he said.


Florida Department of Law Enforcement spokeswoman Trena Reddick said that in the best of situations it takes a couple of weeks to run DNA tests.

But variables like the volume of evidence, a backlog and weathered samples complicate the process.

Former Tampa homicide detective Leonard Terrido, who was the chief deputy involved in the Ted Bundy serial murder investigation in Leon County, says the priority is lower because the suspect is dead.


“An innocent man is not sitting in prison. The guy is not going to escape,” Terrido said. “If you’ve got a whole bunch of cases you have to evaluate — a dead man? We’ll get to it when we get to it.”


Boroski still wears the scars of her stabbing 18 years ago. A night shift worker at a factory, she has always feared her attacker was still alive, still watching her. She longs for closure.

“It’s got to be him,” she said. “It’s just got to be.”

http://www.sptimes.com/2006/09/16/Ta..._sees_ch.shtml

Quote:
WO1 Michael "Nick" A Nicholaou was a VHPA member who died after his tour in Vietnam on 12/31/05 at the age of 56 from Murdered his wife, her daughter then committed suicide.

Lutz, FL
Flight Class 69-7
Date of Birth 08/04/1949
Served in the U.S. Army
Served in Vietnam with 335 AHC in 69-71
Call sign(s) in Vietnam COWBOY/FALCON

This information was provided by Obituary

More detail on this person: His bullets cut families' hope for answers When Michael Nicholaou shot his wife, her daughter, then himself in Tampa, say police, he left mysteries. By ALEXANDRA ZAYAS Published January 8, 2006 TAMPA - To the Cowboys of the Army's 335th Assault Helicopter Company, Michael Nicholaou was frozen in time as "Nick the Greek," a fearless 20-year-old gunship commander who flew through 57 bullets to save a comrade's life.

He earned medals that included two Purple Hearts, two Silver Stars and two Bronze Stars. Then, in October 1970, he and seven others were accused of strafing civilians on a reconnaissance mission in the Mekong Delta. The soldiers languished in a stockade in South Vietnam for six months until the Army dropped murder and attempted murder charges. Nicholaou left Vietnam, feeling bitter and betrayed, but Vietnam never left Nicholaou. He hired a lawyer to sue the Army.

He spent his life both fleeing the war and clinging to it, glory days captured on news reels and shared by fellow Cowboys at reunions. He became obsessed with telling his story and found a teacher he hoped would write it. Decades blurred into a roaring whirlwind of paranoia, failed jobs, criminal charges, disconnected phone numbers and dysfunctional relationships. The noise ceased when the bullets did, a week ago in Tampa. Nicholaou had a Massachusetts detective on his trail over the 1988 disappearance of former wife Michelle.

Georgia police had questions, too, after his latest wife, Aileen, claimed he and his son ran her over with a Jeep last month, breaking her shoulder. Wearing a black leather trench coat, hiding guns inside a guitar case, Nicholaou, 56, appeared at Aileen's childhood home on Walnut Street in West Tampa, where she was recovering.

After an hourlong police standoff, Nicholaou, 56, lay dead. With him, police say, he took Aileen, 45, and her 20-year-old daughter, Terrin Bowman. And he took the answers to so many questions. * * * Whispered gossip from family members surrounded his childhood in New Jersey. Nicholaou told people his mother molested him and his father beat him.

He was always finding substitute father figures - a high school buddy's dad, a superior soldier, his father-in-law. He was a portrait of teen bravado. He rode a motorcycle to Farmingdale High School in Long Island, where friends cheered him at wrestling matches. Afterward, they would take their girlfriends to a local hamburger joint. It was Nicholaou who came up with the idea of dropping a rooster into the women's bathroom and skipping out on a check, said Mark D'Angelo, a lifelong friend. "Okay," he remembers Nicholaou saying, "when the girls start screaming ..." He craved adventure.

In the Army he could fly Huey helicopters with no college degree. He boasted about stealing a helicopter while in boot camp and leaving it on a roof. After boot camp, the stories slowed. At a welcome home party, Nicholaou said he wasn't allowed to talk about Vietnam. "To get Silver Stars, you had to be a really good warrior, and we realized what he was and what he did," D'Angelo said.

"Not that we held him up as a hero. It was a rude awakening to us that this guy did some really good military stuff." They lost touch. D'Angelo went into the insurance business. Nicholaou worked jobs in restaurants and on construction sites. He always seemed to be moving.

Charlottesville, Va. Richmond, Va. Holyoke, Mass. Fort Lauderdale. Great Bend, Kansas. Tampa. Dade City. Houston. Lutz. Hiawassee, Ga. With Michelle Nicholaou, he fathered two children; his next wife, Aileen, already had Terrin. Over the years, people confused him with a Virginia cousin by the same name, causing problems for the cousin. There were unpaid fines. A hit-and-run crash. "Bring back my daughter," cussed and screamed Michelle Nicholaou when she thought cousin Nicholaou was her husband. That was 1986, the year their first child was born.

* * * Michelle Marie Ashley had met Nicholaou in New York. They married in the mid 1980s, and she went from being a bubbly young woman to a paranoid wife, her family said. "He ran her life," said her aunt, Linda Glamuzina. "It was like taking over another person."

When Nicholaou and Michelle visited the Glamuzinas in Louisiana, he wore skimpy shorts Glamuzina found indecent. He brought a stash from his Charlottesville, Va., porn shop. Disgusted, Glamuzina threw it in the Mississippi River. "There was something scary about him," Glamuzina said. Michelle thought so, too, her family said.

In December 1988, relatives entered the Nicholaou apartment in Holyoke and discovered it deserted. Michelle's baby diaries were there. There was food left behind. But no people. Family hadn't seen Michelle, or her toddler Joy and baby Nicholas, in a month. Just days after the family vanished, Michael Nicholaou met up with a female acquaintance in Charlottesville. The kids were dirty and hungry, and he stole the woman's brand new car, the woman later told Michelle's aunt. There were calls to police, but nothing panned out. Michelle's family hired a private investigator.

Her mother, Rose Young, told the investigator something Michelle had once said. "If I'm ever missing, he killed me, and you need to track him down and find the kids.

" * * * Michael D'Angelo and his son Mark bumped into Nicholaou when he was working at Pete's Restaurant in Boca Raton in 1992. He told them Michelle was dead, Michael D'Angelo said. He had told other people that she ran off with a Cuban drug dealer. Nicholaou later visited D'Angelo and his wife at their home. Joy, then a mature 6-year-old, told them she brewed her dad coffee every morning.

Nicholas, 4, asked D'Angelo if he could be his grandfather. Their sneakers were worn, and they looked hungry. They had been living in Nicholaou's car, Nicholaou later admitted in a letter to D'Angelo. Nicholaou wanted D'Angelo to help write a book about Vietnam. In 1996, Nicholaou wrote from an in-patient unit of the post traumatic stress disorder clinic at a Miami veteran's hospital. He had been under treatment for a year.

He complained that the military had left him with "isolation and avoidance behaviors" that kept him from flying, yet he drew just $338 a month in disability benefits. "Not too many commercial qualified pilots are afraid of heights and give up careers in aviation to become bums," he wrote. He said he left Fort Lauderdale because the state wanted his kids. He called them his "sole reason for living."

Once, in 1997, he and his kids stayed with a friend in Dade City. Nicholas, then 9, got into a fight with the boy next door. Nicholaou later pleaded no contest to torching the neighbor's car and got three years probation. It was October 2001 when the private investigator, Lynn-Marie Carty of St. Petersburg, tracked down Nicholaou, living with Aileen in Tampa, and called. "How did you find me?" she remembers him asking.

He said he had the kids, and they were fine. Carty asked about Michelle. "She's a slut," he said. "She was doing drugs at the time. She ran off, and she just abandoned the kids." The next day, his phone number was disconnected. Holyoke police detective Kevin Boyle, in an interview last year with a Boston television station, said, "The factors surrounding this case are suspicious, and Michael's actions are suspect." Boyle did not return a telephone call from the Times.

* * * Relatives describe Aileen Nicholaou as a bola de humo, a Cuban fireball who charmed every man she met. Her only flaw, her sister Adnery Almirola recalled, was that she had poor judgment. Aileen and Michael connected eight years ago through a newspaper personals ad. Two weeks later, Nicholaou and his kids moved into Aileen's Tampa home.

When relatives visited, Joy sat on Aileen's lap and called her "mom." "They were love-starved, it seemed," Almirola said. Nicholaou seemed charismatic. He called Aileen's father, Arnaldo Toranzo, papi as he helped him cook Christmas Eve dinners. About four years ago, they married in a Las Vegas wedding chapel. In the wedding photo, their faces are superimposed over other people's bodies.

Then, in September 2004, a family friend discovered an online news story about Michelle Nicholaou's disappearance. Aileen had no idea. Nicholaou convinced her Michelle had run off, but her family suspected he had killed her. Four weeks ago, after a heated argument with Aileen in their Hiawassee, Ga., home, Nicholaou and his son got in their Jeep to leave. According to a Towns County Sheriff's Office report, Aileen approached the Jeep. She needed Nicholaou's military sticker to get on base to buy groceries. She told deputies Nicholaou threatened her with a pistol and told Nicholas to step on the gas.

The Jeep hit Aileen and the two men took off. Through a family spokesman, Nicholas denied doing anything wrong. Towns County has a warrant for his arrest, confirmed Tampa Police spokesman Joe Durkin. Nicholas' attorney, Allison Perry, did not return a Times call. Tampa relatives learned Aileen was recovering in a hospital, and brought her to her father's Walnut Street home.

Her daughter Terrin brought magazines to her bedside. Terrin Bowman, 20, had a firm handshake and a flirtatious wink. She had a job waiting tables but was so bright she had taken college courses as a 16-year-old. "She wanted to fly to the moon," said her cousin Shawn Lhota, 21. Terrin had friends across the world she met while backpacking through Europe. Her friend Lorena Bledsoe recalls Terrin's favorite quote: "The purpose of living is to prepare for dying."

About 3 a.m. Dec. 31, a friend saw Terrin heading home to her aunt's house in Town 'N Country. Relatives, after talking with police, think that Nicholaou held Terrin hostage in her bedroom for at least five hours as her aunt and uncle slept. Cigarette ashes peppered Terrin's typically tidy room, along with marijuana residue, pills and fiberglass tape, relatives said.

They think Nicholaou used Terrin to get access to the West Tampa home where Aileen was staying. Just after noon, when Aileen's sister, Audrey Leon, opened the door on Walnut Street, Terrin rushed in and hugged her tightly. "I could tell she was scared," Leon said. Leon remembers what happened next: Nicholaou stepped into view. "You didn't think you were ever going to see me again," Nicholaou announced, entering the house.

He approached Aileen in the dining room. "What are you doing with a gun?" Aileen asked him. Leon told him to get out. "No, no, no," Nicholaou responded. "I'm going to shoot myself over your mother's grave." The sisters had struggled with their mother's recent death.

As Leon scrambled to get her two children out of the home, call her father and call police, Nicholaou, Aileen and Terrin walked toward a bedroom. "Alina (Aileen) tells me really calmly, she goes "Look, we're going to go to papi's room to talk, okay?' I'm like "Terrin, Terrin, come here.' She wouldn't budge. She went in there. She wouldn't come out.

Either he had her afraid or she didn't want to leave her mom," Leon said. Leon greeted police in the driveway. When an officer announced herself and walked toward the bedroom, Nicholaou pointed a rifle at her. Aileen threw herself at the door, closing it.

Outside the door, police and family heard the gunshots. In the room, they found Aileen and Terrin, both shot in the head. Terrin, fatally wounded, was lying on her mother's body. Terrin died the next day. Her mother was already gone. Police said Nicholaou shot them before turning a gun on himself.

* * * In Massachusetts, Michelle's sister Tammy Patla hopes for a reunion with Nicholas and Joy. She also hopes for more. That the answer to Michelle's disappearance didn't die with Michael Nicholaou.

TURNBRIDGE, Vt. -- Half a dozen unsolved murders in Vermont and New Hampshire that are decades old may soon be solved, thanks to a private investigator from Florida.

Five years ago, Lynn-Marie Carty was asked to find Michelle Ashley, of Tunbridge.

Ashley had been missing since 1988 and, at the time, she was married to Michael Nicholaou.

"They said she went missing off the face of the Earth in 1988, and right before she went missing she told her mother, 'If I ever go missing, Mom, please look for Michael and save the children,'" Cary said.

Ashley's body has never been found.

Also in the early to mid-80s, six other women in the Upper Valley disappeared. Almost all of their bodies were found within a 30-mile radius of Claremont, N.H.

Carty thinks the deaths might be linked to Nicholaou, who killed himself, his wife and his stepdaughter on New Year's Eve in Florida.

"I found out that the man has been through a lot of trauma and fit the profile of somebody who would commit crimes like this," Cary said.

John Philpin, a retired psychologist and author from Reading, studied thse cases 20 years ago. He said he was asked by the New Hampshire State Police to develop a psychological profile of the killer.

"The biggest piece of evidence came from the medical examiner who looked at bones of some of the victims and was able to determine that they'd all be stabbed. So, we know from that that we were looking for someone who worked with a knife," Philpin said.

According to Philpin, Nicholaou fit the profile he created two decades ago because he never had a fixed address and frequently made trips to the area where the bodies were found.

"The connection of him to the area is what the main interest is. That, and given all of the characteristics, the habits that he did and would've done in the area," he said.

Carty and Philpin agree that Nicholaou needs to be ruled in or out as a suspect in the deaths.

"I think it's a blessing that these families can get the answers that they've deserved for decades and thru the diligent work of the police department, that will happen," Carty said.

"As far as Nicholaou, if it turns out that he's the person who is involved, (there's) no question he's a serial killer," Philpin said.

Forensic tests will reveal whether Nicholaou was involved in any of the murders from the Upper Valley.

The tests should be complete by the end of the summer.

----------------------------------------------------------

A murder-suicide in Florida five months ago has rekindled interest in a series of unsolved murders in the 1980s along the Connecticut River Valley that separates New Hampshire and Vermont.

The Florida deaths on New Year's Eve 2005 caught the attention of a private investigator in St. Petersburg because she recognized the name of the killer, Michael Nicholaou, who shot his estranged wife and stepdaughter before killing himself.

The St. Petersburg Times reported yesterday that the investigator, along with a retired Vermont criminal profiler and a New Hampshire cold case detective, have been piecing together Nicholaou's life. DNA test results that could be ready by the end of the summer may complete a puzzle and solve six murders that have baffled investigators in the two states for two decades.

Lynn-Marie Carty was startled on New Year's Day as she read a news story about the murder-suicide in Tampa, because she knew of Michael Nicholaou (pronounced NICK-allow). Five years earlier, a Vermont mother hired Carty to find a daughter, Michelle Ashley, who had two babies with Nicholaou, then disappeared in 1988.

Carty said the mother suspected Nicholaou, based on something her daughter once said: "If I'm ever missing, he killed me, and you need to track him down and find the kids."

After a few minutes at the computer in 2001, Carty found a phone number for Nicholaou.
As she recounted it for the newspaper, Carty called the number and asked about Michelle. At first, Nicholaou denied knowing her, Carty said, but when she pressed, Nicholaou said Michelle was a slut who was doing drugs and had run off, abandoning the kids.

Carty asked about the children, Nick and Joy. He had them, he said. They were fine. The conversation was short, and when Carty called back the next day, Nicholaou's phone was disconnected.

Carty tracked down Nick Nicholaou on the phone and told him she didn't think their mother had abandoned them. He and his sister had always thought otherwise. Nick cried as he described their hard life, being dragged around by a father still traumatized by his duty in Vietnam.

In Vietnam, Michael Nicholaou flew helicopters for the 335th Aviation Company, called the Cowboys. The Times interviewed a dozen Cowboys, who recalled Nicholaou as a brave and duty-bound man with a dark side. A least once he left camp on his own, carrying only a knife and seeking hand-to-hand combat with the enemy. It became a legend in the company.

Back at home, friends noticed evidence of posttraumatic stress disorder, a mental illness for which he later sought treatment in Miami and Tampa.

Michelle's family thought Nicholaou was creepy, too quiet during visits to Vermont, where Michelle's mother and grandmother lived. He and Michelle had an apartment in Holyoke, Mass., about 110 miles down Interstate 91.

Once, Carty said, Michelle told her mother she feared Nicholaou and planned to leave him after her sister's November 1988 wedding.

In December 1988, her mother went to the couple's Holyoke apartment. The Christmas tree was up, presents unopened. The refrigerator was full of spoiled food.

In the years that followed, Nicholaou, with kids in tow, visited his mother in Virginia, friends in Florida and Army buddies across the country. He told some people Michelle had run off with a drug dealer. He told others she was dead.

A few days after reading that Nicholaou had killed his latest wife, Carty punched words into Google.com: New England. 1988. Murder.

She clicked on the story of a pregnant New Hampshire woman who was the sole survivor of a series of attacks known as the Connecticut River Valley murders.

The remains of at least six other young women had been dumped beside back roads along Interstate 91 in a stretch that straddled Vermont and New Hampshire. A killer had slit throats and stabbed victims repeatedly in the lower abdomen.

The dead included Mary Elizabeth Critchley, a hitchhiker; Bernice Courtemanche, a 17-year-old nurse's aide; Ellen Fried, a nurse; Eva Morse, a single mother; Lynda Moore, a housewife; and Barbara Agnew, another nurse. Only Jane Boroski survived.

Noticing that several victims were nurses, Carty remembered hearing that Nicholaou's first wife was a nurse and that his mother worked at a hospital. She later learned that Michelle and Nicholaou had been at a Hanover hospital on Thanksgiving, 1986. A nurse from the hospital disappeared two months later.

She also learned the killer used a martial arts grip on the surviving woman. Nicholaou had a black belt in karate. Relatives remembered Nicholaou taking Christmas gifts out of a station wagon with wood-paneled sides in the mid-1980s. The surviving victim had told the police her attacker drove a wood-paneled Jeep Wagoneer.

At the time of the murders, fear crept into the area. Security guards shuttled nurses to their cars. Boyfriends armed girlfriends with guns. People locked their doors.

"It was the worst thing that ever happened in this area," said Carla Hawkins, sitting on a stool at McGee's, a bar in Claremont. Her family took in one of the victim's daughters.

"I was freaked out about it," she told the Times. "Still am."

Carty learned that the last attack was only four months before Michelle and Nicholaou disappeared from the area.

Carty read online about John Philpin, a criminal psychologist who, in the 1980s, helped the police profile the serial killer. She called Philpin in Felchville, Vt., and told him what she knew about Nicholaou.

Philpin agreed Nicholaou could be the killer.

"This is the first, I'd call it major, lead in three or four years," Philpin told the Times.

In February, Carty called the New Hampshire State Police and spoke with Detective Steve Rowland. Rowland usually hears from family members of the victims who are seeking updates, or from people who want to share theories about the killer.

But Lynn-Marie Carty had more. It was the first time Rowland had heard of Michael Nicholaou, and Carty's information revived the investigation. She also suggested the police might try to match Nicholaou's DNA with evidence from the crime scenes.

By April, authorities considered Nicholaou one of their three strongest suspects, Rowland said.

The other two are still alive. The police can't check their DNA without probable cause. That's not the case with Nicholaou.

"His profile fits the profile of somebody that would commit this type of crime," Rowland said. "There's no question about that."

Rowland now has Nicholaou's fingerprints, and he's working to get DNA from the medical examiner in Florida. The forensics lab that tests DNA is backed up with current homicide cases, Rowland said, so he doesn't expect an answer until late in the summer.

But he told the newspaper he wouldn't be surprised if the results point to Nicholaou.

Last edited by Gary Dee : 09-17-2006 at 02:05 AM.
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