Actually, Perry doesn’t notice the stranger so much as feel him lingering. No one notices except Perry, who’s watching his friends, Adam Marczak and Alex Taylor, play a game of eight ball. No one really notices when the stranger puts his drink down and coolly walks to the other end of the bar, positioning himself near the popcorn machine adjacent to the pool table. Then they stop eyeing him after all, they think, who are they to judge? A few minutes later, Daggett pours the man another he’s part of the scenery now, albeit an incongruous part. The regulars and the bartender whisper about him, about what he’s doing here, about his clothes and his sexuality. Daggett goes back to his conversation while the man drinks alone. The stranger pays with a crumpled $10 bill, sliding it across the bar’s worn top. The birth date reads “10-19-1982.” Daggett hands it back and mixes the drink: $3.40 worth of rum on ice.
He orders a Captain on the rocks and, when asked for ID, pulls a loose Massachusetts driver’s license from his right front pocket. “Nah, this is where I want to be,” the man says.
“It’s one of the gay bars,” Daggett says, answering the stranger’s unusual question. Only one-the man in the hoodie-is new to the joint. Tonight, a random Wednesday in early February, there are maybe 20 people here. It was the first time that ever happened to Perry at a bar. Earlier, when Perry walked in, Daggett greeted him by name. But what Puzzles lacks in aesthetics, it makes up for in atmosphere. There is a rectangular bar, a pool table, and pinball and popcorn machines. Inside, the floor is a checkerboard of white and black tiles and the walls are painted lilac.
Above it are two levels of apartments wrapped in banana-yellow siding. The bar melts easily into New Bedford’s postindustrial landscape-iron bars guard the front door and windows. He began hitting Puzzles, since it was close to home.ĭespite the sign proclaiming it “the hottest nightclub in town,” Puzzles is more of a quiet, half-lit corner pub, a place where Perry and his pals can down beers and feel comfortable. The 53-year-old paramedic is a large man-205 pounds, about 6-foot-2, with a Fu Manchu mustache and brown, messy hair rimming his balding head-and he decided to stop hiding. He’d known for some time he was gay, even if he couldn’t fully come out to the world. For a long while, even though he lives near New Bedford, Perry went out only in Boston or Providence, places where people wouldn’t recognize or remember his face. Or maybe he’s new to the scene and unsure of himself.įrom across the room, Perry ponders the same thing. Daggett wonders if the guy is straight, if he wandered in here by accident. The question, even more than the man’s cloaked appearance, strikes Daggett as odd-asking if this is the gay bar. His eyes are hazel and not wholly unpleasant, though his gaze is vacant. The stranger is about 200 pounds with a pudgy oval face. He’s about the same height as Daggett (5-foot-6), but thicker than the 26-year-old bartender. Daggett, the bartender, goes to greet him while Perry sips a cold Bud. The stranger, little more than a silhouette, walks around to the right side of the bar. He is clad in baggy black jeans and a baggy black sweatshirt, and his hood is pulled up, shrouding much of his slightly bowed head.
The shadowy figure in the entranceway commands their full attention. When the door to Puzzles Lounge swings open about a half hour before midnight, Phillip Daggett and Bob Perry stop talking. But in retracing the killer’s steps it becomes clear how senseless the violence was-and how terrifying it remains for the survivors. A gruesome attack on the unsuspecting patrons of a New Bedford gay bar led to a nationwide manhunt and, ultimately, three deaths.