Two guards escort the murderer into the visitors room. She's a skinny 51-year-old mother wearing rimless glasses and a bright orange jumpsuit that's way too baggy for her scrawny body. Her hands are cuffed tightly behind her back. Her feet are bound with a short, shiny chain.
The guards lead her to a seat on a long bench. They remove her handcuffs. They do not remove the leg irons. They aren't taking any chances. They don't want her to run away. Not again. Not for a fifth time.
Theresa Grosso has broken out of this prison--the Maryland Correctional Institution for Women in Jessup--four times. She has sawed through bars, shinnied down ropes made of bedsheets, scrambled over barbed wire fences--anything to get free. After her last escape, in 1979, she remained on the lam for 19 years. Last December, the FBI, acting on a tip, nabbed her in Florida.
Since then, she's been in solitary confinement in a cell that is locked inside a cage in the prison's maximum security unit. For six months, as punishment for escaping, she was not permitted to make any phone calls or see any visitors. She was allowed to write letters, and she has written dozens of them in a neat girlish script, letters full of frightening anecdotes, spiritual musings and an occasional wry remark illustrated with a little drawing of a winking female face. The letters tell a story that has all the elements of a Hollywood epic: After a horrendous childhood, a girl becomes a stripper, then kills a man in a senseless, drunken rage. She escapes from prison, falls in love, bears a child and raises him while on the run.
It's a story with sex, violence, love and, in a perverse way, family values. It's a true story, too. Certainly large portions of it can be verified. Across America, there are a lot of people who swear that Theresa Grosso is exactly what she claims to be--a gentle, loving, spiritual woman, a devoted mother and, except for a lingering fondness for marijuana, a law-abiding citizen. Two people claim she saved their lives. Even the guy who helped the FBI catch her says she's "a nice lady" who should be set free.
Surviving relatives of the man she killed back in 1969--who presumably have a different view of Grosso--could not be located for comment.
Now, her six months of extra punishment are over and she's allowed to see visitors. But only when her ankles are chained and she's garbed in that garishly conspicuous jumpsuit.
"They have me categorized as an escape threat," she says. She smiles and shrugs. "I guess I can understand that."
Running From the Beginning
Theresa Grosso was hiding even before she was born.
The obstetrician delivered her twin sister, Billie, and was leaving the room when the nurse said, "Doctor, you've got another baby here."
Margaret Keene was shocked. She wasn't expecting twins that day in April 1948. The little surprise was a scrawny thing, born without fingernails or eyebrows, whisked to an incubator to keep her alive. She named her Bertha Theresa Keene.
Not long after that, Margaret Keene was hospitalized with tuberculosis. Her two older children went to live with relatives while the twins spent over three years with a friend's family. There, Bertha began a lifetime of running away: Her foster mom had to tie her to a clothesline to keep her from scampering off.
When their mother was released from the hospital, the kids came home, living first in a housing project in Baltimore, then a suburban house in Pasadena, Md. Their father, Edmund Keene, now dead, was an alcoholic who worked in a brewery. He ruled his house like a drunken dictator, his children recall, enforcing his whims by whipping them with his old Navy belt.
And when Bertha was about 6 or 7, he began summoning her to his room and forcing her to commit sex acts. One of her sisters, who asks not to be identified, says that she, too, was sexually abused. Margaret Keene now says she believes her children's claims, but back when it was happening, she ignored her daughter's plea for help: "She had a good imagination and I didn't pay any attention to her."
Bertha was always in trouble. She fought with her mother. She beat up her twin sister. She disrupted her classes. And she kept running away. Early in her teens, she was sent to a reform school called the Montrose School for Girls. She hated it and she ran from there, too, escaping three times. Unable to hold her, Montrose sent Bertha to a mental institution called Crownsville State Hospital, and she escaped from there, too.
At Crownsville, she was tranquilized with Thorazine and impregnated by an attendant. "I never saw my baby after he was born," she wrote in one letter. "He was taken from me--I signed some papers and was returned to Montrose."
While she was in Crownsville she met a stripper named Roxanne who'd been busted for indecent exposure and sent to the hospital to dry out. Roxanne was in her twenties, and full of exciting tales of adventures as an exotic dancer on the Block in Baltimore.
"I was awestruck," Grosso wrote, "not only with the sophistication and glamour she talked about--but I was also allowed to have visits with the people that came to see her almost daily--and we sat sipping vodka and soda (they'd snuck it in to us). I was being recruited and I was on cloud nine!"
When Bertha was released from Montrose shortly before her 18th birthday, Roxanne helped her get a job at the Two O'Clock Club, the Baltimore strip joint run by the legendary Blaze Starr, the stripper who'd carried on a famous affair with Louisiana Gov. Earl Long. Bertha started out as a "sitter"--a girl who hangs around, looking pretty and hustling guys into buying her champagne. Fresh-faced and doe-eyed, with long black hair, she was soon up on stage, dancing. She loved it.
"The 2 O'Clock was the club!" she wrote. "It wasn't raunchy or vulgar like the other ones. Blaze Starr had class and that's the way the club was run. We wore gowns--outfits--and cocktail dresses. I was becoming popular--because I was young, had class, wasn't prostituting--and was a good dancer."
One day, Bertha went home to see her sister Billie, who'd just gotten out of the Navy, and ended up in a fistfight with her mother, who called the cops. They busted Bertha for assault.
She jettisoned her given name and started calling herself Theresa Grosso--the surname borrowed from a boyfriend. She moved into the Baltimore apartment that Roxanne shared with an elderly sugar daddy. This was the late '60s and she started experimenting with drugs. LSD was her favorite. She liked it better than booze, which made her nasty. She took at least 100 acid trips, maybe 200.
On Friday, Sept. 27, 1969, she and Roxanne dropped some acid in Pittsburgh, where they'd gone to do some freelance dancing. They started drinking heavily, too, and Grosso called her sister and asked her to pick them up at the airport in Baltimore.
"They were messed up when they got off the plane," Billie Keene recalls.
And they weren't through yet. Billie stopped at a carryout for some beer, which they drank in the car while smoking a joint. They stopped for drinks in one bar and then drove to another, a Baltimore club called Judge's Musical Lounge.
They stumbled out of Billie's car and staggered toward Judge's. The bouncer, a slim, handsome 29-year-old named Melvin Luckart, stopped them at the door. He told them they were too drunk to get in. Billie begged to use the ladies' room--the beer was having its inevitable effect--and Luckart relented. In the ladies room, Billie spotted a gun in Grosso's purse.
"I'm going to shoot him," Grosso told her.
Billie didn't believe it. She walked outside. She was stepping into the street, she says, when she heard gunshots behind her.
Grosso shot Luckart three times in the chest at point-blank range--a senseless, unprovoked killing that left Luckart's young bride a widow and his 3-month-old daughter fatherless.
Billie grabbed her sister by the arm and yanked her toward the car. Once again, Theresa Grosso was running away.
Convicted, but Not Convinced
The cops caught them the next morning.
Billie testified against her twin at the trial. Grosso testified, too, claiming she couldn't remember anything that happened that night. The jury was not moved; neither was the judge. Grosso was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison. She was 22.
She still maintains that she remembers nothing about the shooting or the other events of that night. For years, she says, she thought Billie had killed Luckart and pinned the blame on her.
"Not being aware that I did it--or remembering any of the incident, I never really took full responsibility for my actions," she wrote. "I was so caught up in my own 'feeling sorry for myself' drama, I never once connected to the harm I had done by taking a man's life! So I started planning my escape."
Her first escape came in February of 1971. Grosso and another inmate climbed the fence, crawled over the barbed wire and took off into the woods. They hitchhiked to Washington, hooked up with a stripper friend and partied for 10 days until the cops showed up.
She ran again in April of 1972. "Me and another girl hit the fence . . . and somehow got separated in the woods. It was dark and we never did find each other! I made it to the road and the man that gave me the ride took me to his apartment--and I was caught the next day when they kicked in his door."
She escaped again in March of 1976, hitchhiked to Baltimore, borrowed money from a friend and grabbed the first bus out of town. It was headed for West Palm Beach, Fla.
This time, she stayed free for 16 months and met the man she calls "my friend, comrade, confidant and love for over 20 years."
Short and Sweet
When Bill Palm first saw Theresa Grosso, she was running away.
It was around 11 o'clock on a rainy night. He was on his way to his job as an air traffic controller at the West Palm Beach airport. He stopped for a traffic light and saw a woman jump out of a van.
"I could see this girl running like hell," he recalls. "I could hear them yelling from the van: 'Get her, grab her!' I rolled my window down and said, 'Need a ride?' And she jumped right in."
She'd been in West Palm for a couple of weeks, staying in a rented room. That night, she'd been partying and the guys with the van offered her a ride home. When they started getting rowdy, she bailed out. And Palm rode to her rescue like the hero in some corny fairy tale.
She rode to work with him. It was the graveyard shift and there wasn't much air traffic to control, so they talked all night.
"I liked him immediately," she says.
"I think it was love at first sight," he says.
He was 36, a handsome bachelor with a house and a houseboat and a Triumph and an Audi. He wooed her with wine and candlelight dinners. "He was a perfect gentleman," she says.
Within a couple of weeks, she told him her secret. He wasn't sure he believed her and he was too much in love to care. She moved onto his houseboat in Palm Beach. "We used to get dressed up in our best clothes," he says, "and walk around Palm Beach pretending that we belonged there."
They decided to get married. She was so happy that she called her parents and invited them to the wedding.
Not long after that, FBI agents came to the marina where Palm's boat was docked and busted Theresa Grosso.
Her parents had turned her in, she says. "The FBI agents told me, 'You made a mistake. You called your mother and father.' "
"I never turned her in," says Margaret Keene. "I don't know where she gets the idea that I turned her in."
FBI spokesman Peter Gulotta won't reveal who dropped the dime on Grosso. But in 1991 an FBI source told Cosmopolitan magazine that Grosso's parents had provided information leading to her capture.
After the happiest 16 months of her life, she was back in prison again.
Unexpected Change of Plans
Bill Palm tried to forget Theresa Grosso but he couldn't do it.
At work one day the stress of air traffic controlling got to him and he broke down, sobbing uncontrollably at his desk. He was given a medical retirement and he went to the Florida Keys for a while, hoping to start a new life without Grosso. But he couldn't stop thinking about her, and soon he moved to Jessup so he could visit her as often as possible. He lived there almost a year--until Aug. 30, 1979, the day she made her fourth escape.
That was a bad period for prison security in Maryland--more than 30 inmates, male and female, busted out that month. Grosso was in solitary confinement but she managed to get a hacksaw blade and some wire cutters--from another inmate, she claims. She sawed through the bars on her window, then cut through the metal mesh. She and another inmate tied bedsheets into ropes, climbed to the ground, then scaled two fences.
Atop the second fence, Grosso got caught on the barbed wire and sliced up pretty badly, she says, but the other inmate climbed up and pulled her free. Then they sprinted for the woods.
"I got poison ivy so bad my eyes were swollen shut," she says.
Palm says he did not aid in the escape, but admits that he knew she was planning to run.
Back in Florida, they lived on a sailboat in the Keys and pondered their next move. At first, the plan was for Palm to teach Grosso how to sail, then kiss her goodbye as she headed to the Bahamas without him.
But something happened: She got pregnant.
"That was the real turning point," she says.
She never even considered abortion. She thought this baby was meant to be: In reform school, they'd taken her baby away from her, and now, thanks to her escape, she was getting a second chance. She wanted a healthy child who would grow up safe and loved and happy, everything she felt she had never been. She stopped smoking. She stopped drinking. She stopped eating meat and foods with chemical additives. She started reading books on natural foods and New Age spirituality.
"I became completely dedicated to radiating love to the spirit/child that was growing within me," she wrote.
Figuring that the feds would be searching for them on the coast, Grosso and Palm moved inland, to Gainesville. There, on Sept. 16, 1980, their son was born, delivered by a midwife in a natural birthing center. They named him Richard--Richard Leno because Grosso had obtained a fake ID under the name Patricia Leno.
She made a vow--"to be the best that I could be to honor the life I was in charge of." But she was also filled with the terrible fear that would push her on for the next 18 years--that they'd be caught, that she and Bill would be sent to prison, that Richard, her beautiful baby, would be taken away and put in the kind of institutions she'd spent her youth escaping.
So they kept moving.
Two Stops Along the Way
Working at a U-Haul office in Gainesville, Palm "borrowed" a truck one night. They stuffed their belongings into it and headed west.
They visited friends, bummed money, did odd jobs. In Dothan, Ala., in 1982, Grosso was caught shoplifting grapes but she bailed herself out before the feds identified her fingerprints. It was the only time in her 19-year odyssey that she got busted.
They kept moving--Atlanta, Tennessee, Kansas City, Tucson, Colorado, Oregon.
When Palm's parents, who'd moved into his house, sent him $10,000, he bought a station wagon and dropped the "borrowed" U-Haul in the parking lot of a casino in Vegas.
They'd been moving steadily for nearly a year when they settled down in a place Grosso learned about in one of the New Age books she was forever reading--a commune in southern New Mexico called City of the Sun, where a few dozen people were living close to the land.
They rented a trailer there and Grosso fit right in. She grew organic vegetables and soon she was running the community greenhouse, raising herbs and vegetables and whipping up carrot juice drinks that she sold or simply gave away. To earn money, Palm cut firewood in the mountains to sell in the city.
She loved the place. "I was living the life I'd always wanted to live," she says. "And I was meeting spiritual sisters who were enlightened and I was growing."
One of those "spiritual sisters" was Helen Webber, now 69, who has run a B&B in the City of the Sun for 25 years. Webber was fond of the young mother she knew as Sheila: "She was an asset to the community. Her heart is very large. She always gave more than she received in any situation I saw her in."
They lived there for two years and then Palm insisted that they keep moving.
They headed west. Introducing themselves as David and Sheila Guest, they talked their way into a job as caretakers on a ranch near Bisbee, Ariz. Grosso did housework and took care of the owners, an elderly brother and sister. Palm did the heavier work outside, baling hay, fixing roofs and fences.
They stayed for three years and made many friends. Neighbors remember "Sheila" as a zealous vegetarian, an organic gardener and a devoted mother to Richard, who was 3 years old when they arrived and 5 or 6 when they left.
"She was pretty, tall, lithe and graceful," recalls Mary Frances Clinton, a niece of the ranch's owners. "She had a spirit of generosity about her."
"Sheila impressed me from the beginning as a loving, caring, spiritual person," says Carole Cox, 61, a retired government worker from Los Angeles, who lived a couple of miles away.
Cox's grandchildren frequently played with Richard and the two women became friends. One day, she says, Sheila came to visit and found Cox collapsed after working too long in the desert sun. Sheila bathed her with cold cloths and ice water until Cox was revived.
"I believe she saved my life," Cox says.
Again, Palm insisted that they move on, so one day Sheila walked over to Cox's house to say they were leaving. She gave Cox a houseplant, an umbrella tree. "I'd like you to have it," she said.
Cox still has it, a cherished memento of a friend she never heard from again.
"I thought about her so often," she says, "missed her so much and always wondered whatever happened to her."
Facing Up to the Truth
From their shack on an overgrown coffee farm on a mountain in Hawaii, they could see the woman running up the path toward them, sobbing.
She was Grosso's friend and Richard, who was then 11, watched her coming, wondering what was wrong.
"She's in tears and she sees my mom," he recalls, "and she says, 'I'm glad you're still here' and she hugs her and says, 'I know. You're Theresa Grosso and William Palm. I saw you on "America's Most Wanted." ' "
Richard was stunned. "America's Most Wanted" had aired several shows on Grosso but he didn't know that. He didn't even know they were fugitives.
His mother's face went white and she sat down and told him the whole story: Over 20 years ago, high on LSD, she'd killed a man and escaped from prison and met his dad. And the FBI was chasing her, so they had to move, right now.
Richard was incensed that he had been deceived his whole life. But his first reaction was to gobble down a whole pot of pasta while his mom and dad furiously stuffed everything they owned into their van. "I was completely in shock," he says. "I'd never even been spanked by my mother. I found it hard to comprehend that she was on the run from the FBI for murder."
They hid out in a remote area and for months his parents stayed out of sight, sending him out to sell the jewelry Grosso made and buy food.
By then, they'd been in Hawaii more than four years. It was the perfect place for a family of fugitives--warm, beautiful and full of people escaping their past. They lived out of their blue Chevy van, moving from beach to beach, selling Grosso's jewelry, or driving up the mountains to find work picking coffee beans.
"You can make good money if you're a good coffee picker," Palm says. Growers paid up to 50 cents a pound, and among the three of them they could pick several hundred pounds a day. "Hawaii is known for its pot," Palm says, "and we'd go up there in the van, turn the music up, take a couple tokes and pick a tree clean."
"They worked hard for us for a few years," says Mike Craig, owner of an organic coffee farm near Kona. It was tough to find people willing to work, he says, but the couple he knew as Dave and Rose Guest were industrious and he trusted them enough to leave them in charge when he went on vacation. "They were good, honest people."
Gifford Beavins, who ran another coffee farm in the area, was also impressed with Dave and Rose. When he met them, they were living in a primitive "coffee shack"--an old wooden house with no electricity or running water--but they had managed to maintain a kind of dignity. They were smart and funny and very devoted to Richard.
"Rose had a kind of queenly way about her--but without any ego," he says. "Dave was a guy who was quick to start cursing the world, and she would quiet him down."
He wondered why they were there. "These people seemed too good for this existence," he says. "I knew there was some mystery there that I wasn't getting."
Beavins and the "Guests" and a few other families got together to home-school their kids. Beavins taught art, Palm taught math and science and Grosso, who had never made it through the eighth grade, taught reading.
Richard never went to a conventional school. In fact, his paranoid parents rarely let him out of their sight. He studied with them, worked with them, played with them. "I had a better childhood than most kids," he says. "I got to spend a lot of time with my parents."
But his parents didn't want him to live like a fugitive forever. As he grew into his teens, they knew he needed to be liberated. But that could not happen as long as his mother was around. So they crafted a plan: Grosso would move away. Eventually, Palm would turn himself in. And then Richard could begin to lead a normal life. It was an agonizing decision for Grosso--for the sake of her son, she had to leave him--and his father--perhaps forever.
So Grosso moved to another part of Hawaii and took a job as a live-in housekeeper for a rich woman. Lonely after a few months, she began seeing another man.
"It devasted Bill and Richard," she says.
One day, she arrived at her employer's home to find two police cars parked in the driveway. She fled and called the employer from a pay phone, she says. The woman told her that she'd been looking for something in Grosso's room and found a bag containing a small amount of pot and four IDs--all with different names--so she called the cops.
Now, Grosso figured, the feds would be closing in. She hooked up with her new boyfriend and they fled to another island in Hawaii. They lived there for a while, she says, until he got drunk one night and beat her up. "My mouth was busted," she wrote, "my nose appeared broken--my ribs were fractured and I was beaten pretty bad."
She got a ride to a shelter for battered women but when she overheard the people who ran the place talking about calling the cops, she climbed out a window and fled.
She called Palm. He and Richard met her at the airport. She kissed Richard goodbye--not knowing when she'd see her 15-year-old son again. Then Richard left to stay with friends, and she and Palm flew to Las Vegas. There, Palm borrowed money from a friend and he and Grosso caught a bus for Deming, N.M.--the closest they could get to the City of the Sun, where she figured she'd be safe. From Deming, she'd have to hitchhike. She made a sign. He stood watching as a car stopped to pick her up. "As I got in," she wrote, "I saw Bill crying and waving goodbye."
Palm went back to Hawaii and turned himself in. The FBI held him for a day and then let him go. After all those years on the lam, it turned out that nobody was interested in prosecuting him.
A Terrible Mistake
When Grosso arrived at Helen Webber's house at the City of the Sun, she still bore the marks of the beating.
"She was one hurtin' child," Webber recalls. "She had been beaten up and she needed a place to heal."
She stayed with Webber for a few months and then, in 1996, she moved on to Gainesville, hooking up with a friend she'd known when she gave birth to Richard 16 years earlier.
That summer, her friend introduced her to David Swanson, then 54, a well-to-do real-estate investor who was struggling to recover from the pain of watching his wife die of cancer in his arms about a month earlier. He hired Grosso as a cook and housekeeper.
"She saved my life," he says.
He was depressed and suicidal. He'd stopped eating and lost nearly 30 pounds. He wanted to die. "I was sitting there thinking about shooting myself and she sat down and put her arms around me and rocked me in her arms while I cried like a baby. And that's the first time I felt that there was somebody out there who had some compassion for me. That's what turned me around."
She whipped up vegetarian meals and Swanson started eating again. She planted a garden and talked him into helping her tend it. Slowly their relationship turned romantic. He knew she was a convicted killer but he didn't care. She'd saved his life.
"We were very much in love," she wrote.
They planned to get married in April of 1999. But then Grosso made a terrible mistake.
Walking in the woods near Swanson's country house outside Gainesville, she met Jay Herron, a 48-year-old truck driver who was recovering from a stroke. They struck up a casual conversation and went on their way. But they were both avid walkers and they frequently met on the hiking trails and they became friends. A couple of times, they even shared a joint as they gazed at birds feeding on the lake.
"She was just a goofy old hippie girl," Herron says.
And one day she told him her story. All of it--the murder, the escape, her real name, everything.
"I didn't believe her," he says.
He asked Swanson, who reluctantly confirmed that it was true. Then Herron told his son, who called the FBI. And the FBI contacted Herron. They asked him to help lure her into a public place so they could arrest her. He didn't feel he could refuse. He told them she might want to buy some marijuana. So they set up a fake dope deal.
That day, Dec. 1, 1998, Herron drove Grosso to a gas station near his house. They met an undercover cop who produced a pound of pot. Herron was inspecting it when another cop stuck a gun in their faces and busted them.
Grosso was fingerprinted, identified and locked up. Herron was sent home.
"My first response was: I wanted to get as drunk as possible," Herron says. "I was so disgusted with myself." He drank 12 beers but that wasn't enough. He went out and bought another 12 and drank them, too.
"The remorse was unbearable," he says. "She was a human being. She was goofy but she wasn't bad. I feel as if I've taken the woman's life."
End of the Line
"I believed I would never get caught," Theresa Grosso says, sitting in the prison visitors room with a rueful smile on her face. "I believed that God had me on the right path. I believed I had a shield around me as long as I did good things for people and continued my spiritual growth."
Now, at 51, she's back in prison, serving a life sentence for murder. Lifers are eligible for parole after serving 15 years; between escapes, she has done about nine. She'll also have to serve the year she got for her third escape. And now she faces 10 additional years for the fourth.
On Tuesday, she'll be back in court for a sentencing hearing on the escape charge. Her lawyer will submit more than a dozen affidavits from people who knew her on the outside. David Swanson will be there to testify that she saved his life. Bill Palm and Richard will also be there to plead for mercy.
After Palm turned himself in, he got a sizable lump-sum check for all the retirement pay he missed during his 16 years on the lam. Now he and Richard live in Arizona. Palm is hoping to start a candymaking business. Richard, now 18, is thinking about going to college, maybe in Maryland, so he can visit his mom in prison.
She's likely to spend a long time there. She has no plans for a fifth escape. It would be impossible, she says. The prison has too much high-tech security now, not to mention the razor wire that has replaced the barbed wire atop the fences she used to climb.
"With barbed wire, you'd get cut up but you could do it," she says. "With the razor wire, you'd be shredded."
She spends 23 hours a day alone in her 9-by-12-foot cell. She is permitted an hour of exercise--but only with those leg irons on, which tends to put a damper on things. She spends her days writing letters, reading New Age literature, doing yoga. She has plenty of time to ponder her past.
"The hardest thing I go through is that I took a life," she says. "That's still the hardest thing. I wish it never happened. All the other things I've done wrong in life, you can kind of say you learn from them but this . . . " She pauses and sighs. "I pray about that all the time. It's a hard situation to live with."
If she'd never broken out, she might have been paroled by now, but she doesn't regret escaping. "I don't regret it at all," she says. "I wouldn't have had Richard. I wouldn't have had the life I had for 19 years. If I had stayed here for those 19 years, I would never have touched base with the good inside of me."
The visiting hour is nearly over. A guard calls out: "Two minutes!"
"I wish all my time went by this fast," she jokes.
What, she is asked, would she say to those who feel she's getting just what she deserves for killing a human being?
"I'd say everybody deserves a chance to grow," she says. "I can't undo what I've done but I can do a lot of good in life. . . . Look at the 19 years. I never hurt anybody. All I did was help people."
"Do you think you'll ever get out?"
"Yes!" she says, smiling. "I believe in miracles."
As the guards approach, she stands up. The chains on her ankles scrape along the floor. She puts her hands behind her back, ready for the handcuffs. "See, I'm already assuming the position," she says, laughing.
CAPTION: Theresa Grosso's recent mug shots, above, and as her photo appeared on "America's Most Wanted."
CAPTION: David Swanson, Theresa Grosso's most recent lover. He knew she was an escaped killer, but he credited her with saving his life, so he didn't care. Below, Grosso's most faithful companion, Bill Palm, and their son Richard, who was conceived and born while she was on the lam.
CAPTION: Theresa Grosso after her fourth, and last, capture.