LETTER FROM SERIAL KILLER, ARTHUR SHAWCROSS

Arthur John Shawcross (June 6, 1945 – November 10, 2008), also known as the Genesee River Killer, was an American serial killer active in Rochester, New York. His first known murders were in 1972 when he killed a young boy and a girl in his hometown of Watertown, New York. Under the terms of a plea bargain, Shawcross was allowed to plead guilty to one charge of manslaughter, for which he served 12 years of a 25-year sentence. He killed most of his victims in 1988 and 1989 after being paroled early which led to criticism of the justice system. A food service worker, Shawcross trawled the streets of Rochester in his girlfriend's 1984 sky blue Dodge Omni (later using her blue-grey 1987 Chevy Celebrity), looking for prostitutes to abduct. Shawcross was noted to have had XYY syndrome. He died in Albany, New York in 2008. Michael H. Stone, professor of psychiatry at Columbia University, and an authority on violent behavior, identified Shawcross as "one of the most egregious examples of the unwarranted release of a prisoner" in his book, The Anatomy of Evil.

TRANSCRIBED LETTER FROM ARTHUR SHAWCROSS

I've always been asked, "What is it like being the daughter of a serial killer?" The only thing I can say is, "He is my father, and I love and support him." Life can deal you a full deck of cards but, it is up to us to deal the first hand. My father is Arthur J. Shawcross. My father and I reunited in 2002 after I was told of the true identity of who my father was. It was only then that I knew who this man was that I decided to reach out to him. I wrote dad a letter and told him who I was and if it were possible if I could come and visit him at Sullivan Correctional Facility in Fallsburg, New York. When I finally arrived at Sullivan, I was so very nervous to be face to face with a man who had notoriety as the serial killer who had killed 2 children and 11 women. How can I sit down with a man who had committed these acts? The answer is simple, he is my father and I could not hate a person who was my own flesh and blood. During the 4 hours that I sat with my father, I had learned all about him as a person and not the killer. My father served in the Vietnam War, was raised in Maine and had the most disturbing childhood that I had ever heard come from. My father was not a believer of God and felt that God was some out of reach notion that has never entered his life. I am not a real religious person but, I did believe in my faith. I never pushed religion on my father but, after some time we truly believed that God did do things to bring us both together. My children were finally introduced to their grandfather and the idea that he was serving a lifetime sentence did not cross my children's minds. My father wrote to his grandchildren, sent drawings and most of all instilled in all of them words of wisdom that only a grandfather can give. My children loved and adored their grandfather. They looked up to him and asked him for advice that he gladly gave to them and with lots of love. Three years ago my husband had a terrible accident and was in a coma for 26 days and in total was in the hospital for nearly 47 days. The doctors said that my husband would not make it and if he did, he would never be the same again. My husband has a massive head injury. With a heavy heart I wrote to my father. My father wrote to me every single day and had an inmate or two write to me to give me the moral support that I so very much needed. My children and I not only gained a father/grandfather but, an extended family. Most people would say, "Are you crazy? Writing to a stone-cold killer and other criminals. Exposing your children to these incarcerated men." I did not care what they thought. They were my friends and dad was my father. If it weren't for dad and these men, I would  never  have gotten through the trauma of what had happen to my husband and my family. My father and I were devoted to each other and I was so proud to be his daughter. Over the next few years, many letters and visits have bonded us together. There was never a harsh word between us and dad and I worked together on his personal memoirs. When I read the pages that he had sent to me, I was beginning to see that my father had a tough life. His family had turned their backs on my father and despite how strong my father was, he was a human being who was dealt a really bad card in life. As I read the words over and over again, I felt his pain. We discussed this through many letters and in person and I came to understand that my father was not born a killer but, a person who was unloved and misguided through years of systematic abuse that no one cared to protect him from. Our lives were parallel in many respects. I grew up without the knowledge of who my father was and I always felt that I had never belonged. I was the result of some sort of wicked curse. I guess my father had felt the same way when he was growing up in his family. I often get questions like, "Do you have the same instincts as your father?" referring to his crimes. Do I get offended? The answer is, no I don't. Do I have the same lust for blood and human flesh? I mean, these questions people do often ask me about. I have never judged my father in any way shape or form as to me he was my Dad.