A father read the taunting letters aloud in court — but the killer's name was still a secret

The father's voice filled the Bronx courtroom, reading words that were never meant for him.

They were letters addressed to a newspaper columnist, signed "Son of Sam."

Michael Lauria read them aloud, the taunts of a stranger who had killed his daughter.

Donna Lauria was the first victim, shot on July 29, 1976, in the Bronx.

Her companion was wounded that night; Donna did not survive.

The letters were evidence, a key piece linking the scattered shootings to one perpetrator.

They were proof that the attacks were not random, not separate, not the work of different hands.

They were also a voice, and the voice was still anonymous.

The letters did not name their author.

The public knew the fear — the name "Son of Sam" was already a headline, a terror, a nightly warning.

But the man behind the words was a secret.

Michael Lauria stood in that courtroom and read the mockery aloud.

He read the words of the person who had taken his daughter.

He read them so the court would hear, so the record would hold, so the taunt would not vanish.

At that moment, the killer's identity was not established.

It was not known to the public.

It was not known to the families.

The letters were documented. The voice was documented. The signature was documented.

The name was not.

That would require an arrest, a confession, a later date.

For now, there was only a father, a courtroom, and words that had been written to hurt.

She was gone. The letters remained.

THE FIRST SHOTS

July 29, 1976.

A car parked in the Bronx.

Donna Lauria was twenty years old, a nurse’s aide, sitting with a friend.

The gunman approached and fired through the window.

Donna Lauria was killed.

Her companion, Jody Valenti, was wounded.

That was the first attack.

It would be a year before the shots stopped.

The Lauria family did not know who had done this.

No one did.

Michael Lauria, Donna’s father, spoke publicly about his grief.

He spoke about the frustration.

His daughter was gone, and the police had nothing to give him.

Not a name.

Not a reason.

The attacks continued.

They spanned Queens, the Bronx, and Brooklyn.

The targets were young men and women, often sitting in parked cars.

Young people, stopped at night, in ordinary places.

The randomness was the terror.

Police initially struggled to connect the shootings.

The boroughs were separate.

The months stretched.

A killing in January, a killing in March, two killings in April.

Each scene was handled, logged, investigated.

But the connection was not made.