(Dr. Donald Allen pictured in an article in the Boston Globe, December 1978)
When I was a little kid, sometime around 1992, I started to grow really suspicious of men. Specifically older men. My father was gone, either in jail or one of his famous weeks long( or sometimes months) long benders. My suspicion of men began when a parade of my mothers boyfriends started coming in an out of our 3rd floor apartment located at 440 Ashmont Street in the Dorchester section of Boston. The house was old and beat up, complete with this shit brown paint that chipped everywhere, the stairs that led to the third floor creaked so bad that it was impossible to sneak up on anyone. I would grow to hate the sound of anyone coming up those stairs. To this day, as a much older man, the sound of creaking stairs bothers me. When my oldest boy walks down the stairs at night to go grab a drink or use the bathroom, I often snap out of bed and go admonish him lightly. It’s unfair. What’s a kid to know about his dad’s hang up?
‘‘Dad I am just thirsty!!’’
He’s an innocent kid.
Kids are innocent.
(440 Ashmont Street, Boston, Mass)
My son could never know that the monsters that I faced were not on the television or under my bed. The creeped up my stairs, gave my mother her drugs and then took advantage of me in the worst ways you could possibly imagine. At times, right before school. Vividly, I remember going into school, at lunch period, and eating with my face towards the wall. I would just cry, and I didn’t want people to see it. I was embarrassed and ashamed. That was a theme that would be front and center in my life for decades. Even now, with good success, and a little grey in my beard, I still look in the mirror every morning and have a twinge of shame.
(The author, 1993)
Sometime in my late 20’s, I started to realize the pen was mightier than the sword. I couldn’t face the men who had shattered my psyche and sent me down the long path to destruction. They were nameless and faceless. My abuse was like a dream. No end, no beginning and lots of plot holes. That’s the thing about dreams: They rarely make sense. They are there to exhilarate, or worse, terrify.
I could, however, embarrass and publicly out the beasts that hurt children.
I began by joining every victims group I could on social media, I started attending group therapy sessions and I interviewed 100’s of victims of childhood sexual abuse. I learned the patterns that predators follow. I started to develop profiles in my mind. I would write them down, and compare them to each other. trends started to grow that I would commit to memory forever. Long before my writing career began, I would be in the bowels of some church, in these meetings with my mini tape recorder, interviewing other victims. I started to find myself becoming a serious empath. The stories of these victims were so profoundly sad. Some of them lived on the street, many attempted suicide, and some were successful. I would never again pass by a homeless person and turn my nose up at them. These people were more than likely victims themselves. Walking around in some zombie like trance, full of shame. No ability to hold a job or keep a normal relationship. These kids were born normal and taken advantage of. Their lives, for all intents and purposes, ended when there abuse started. Like a plane that has a cargo shift mid-flight, its bound for a crash landing.
Eventually, the switch flipped in me and I started to realize that I could turn this into some serious subject matter for my writing and I could give a voice to these people. I became energized and focused more than I ever had in my entire existence.
That focus hasn’t waned all these years later. The fire that began in 2008, still burns bright in winter of 2024.
As I prepare for the release of my second book, I do feel a bit accomplished. The 43 kids that went missing from the New England area in the 1970’s have long been forgotten by most people. Mostly known to the people who lived at that time. There stories are so powerful. I know almost all of the families, they invite me into their home like I am a long lost cousin. It’s one of the most special things I have in my life. There’s a small sect of people. Myself, Melanie Perkins, and my good friend Kevin Lenihan being at the forefront of those who continually investigate just how bad the pedophilia was at that time and just how bad it is in America.
I have crisscrossed the country, from Palm Beach to Cook County, Illinois looking for the answers. I think I am light years ahead of where I was when I wrote Monster, the first installment in this journey that released on January 30th, 2022. There is many more answers than questions. I am grateful for that but never satisfied. The quest continues. It will likely never stop.
Here is a little primer on what to expect in the new book that is slated for release at midnight on March 30th.
A comprehensive look at the murder on Billy Sousa, A young Chicago boy who disappeared at a carnival on 87th and Cicero in Chicago on June 20th, 1972. Sousa was likely murdered by Massachusetts pedophile Charles Pierce.
A complete breakdown of NAMBLA (North American Man Boy love Association) Activities in New England, from formation to present day
Unmasking of serial pedophile and alleged child murderer Harold Neal of Warwick, Rhode Island. Neal is the likely murderer of 4-year -old Andrew Amato in Webster, Mass in 1978
Personal stories from my travels over the years tracking down pedophiles from Massachusetts, countrywide.
A long look at present day pedophilia networks, and a breakdown of operation pacifier and playpen. The biggest child abuse busts in world history.
A complete printing of letters between Nathaniel Bar-Jonah and Wayne Chapman.
The telling of the full story of how the New York mafia sold its pornography business down to Providence, which I allege was the genesis of all of these missing children coming across these predators.
Thanks so much for your interest in these cases. Everyday, I get emails from all over the globe asking me about these boys and their families. It warms my heart and feeds my addiction to getting to the truth. To me, it’s all about why it happened and who knew what and when.
There is so much more to know.
That’s what keeps me up at night.
Love ya, mean it.
Dave
I'm not so sure that my interest is in the actual subject matter so much as the sincerity and passion of your gift as an author.