← Nightmares
Nightmares
Party
00:30:15
James Rackover looked like someone who had it all. He had style, status, and a last name that carried weight. But the truth behind the image was darker. When a man goes missing after a night in Manhattan, investigators start to uncover the kind of...
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- [00:01]
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It's 3:30am the wind is blowing in Oceanport, New Jersey. It's cold and damp. Detective Castro shines his flashlight behind the old flower shop. He's not alone. A cadaver dog is with him, sniffing through a patch of overgrown bush, circling a spot that doesn't look like much to Castro. But the dog catches the scent of death. The dog stops. Its nose is glued to the ground. Its posture is rigid. A bark cuts the silence. Just one, but that's all it takes. Castro steps forward. There's something weird about this dirt. It's looser, darker. He crouches down and brushes some away, waves off the others and leans in closer. Then he sees it. A hand. Pale, half covered, fingers curled, like it had something to say before everything went dark. They start digging, and it's worse than anyone imagined. A body is burned, wrapped and buried. It's not even hidden well. It wasn't meant to be found, but still it's not hidden well enough. And just like that, what started as a missing persons report becomes something else entirely. Welcome to Sword and Scale Nightmares. True crime for bedtime or nightmare begins now.
- [02:58]
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26 year old Joey Communale loved New York City. He didn't live there, but to him it felt like home. With his degrees in legal studies and business, he was sure he'd be moving there permanently one day. Joey came in from Stamford most weekends and hit the clubs. He knew some of the doormen and he was likable. He made friends fast, but knowing about New York and how it works are two different things. It's the kind of place that makes big promises. It tells you that if you work hard, dress right and meet the right people, you can be whoever you want. For some, that promise is enough to pack a suitcase and start all over. But city life moves fast. People talk and walk fast and make decisions even faster. No one cares where you came from, only where you're going and how useful you might be to them along the way. It helps if you have money, or at least know how to look like you do. But even that's not always good enough. Joey worked sales at his dad's security company. He had an easy smile, a laid back personality and a great sense of humor. The kind of guy who made friends with you in line at a club and remembered your birthday six months later. November 12, 2016 was no different. That night he and a few friends ended up at Gilded Lily in the Meatpacking District. Inside was wall to wall energy, bass thumping, lights flashing, bottles moving. By 3am the party was heading onto the sidewalk in droves. Outside, the air felt cooler. The crowd separated into the stayers and the goers as it does. Joey's gonna stay. He's still down for more. His friend is chatting with a group of women, but they're all about to head home. Across the street is another group, a couple of guys and several women he doesn't know, but the conversation is lively over there and the girls are cute and seem fun. He's tired of waiting on his friend and wants to see if anyone else is going to keep partying before everyone leaves. Come on, he tells his friend. Let's go. They jog across the street, but then slow down as they walk past Larry's group, just enough to get a read on the vibe. That's how it works. You don't just jump into someone else's night. You ease in with a smile, a comment, something low key. One of the guys nods and Joey uses it. Hey, what's up? And he works his way in. That's how Joey meets Larry De Leon and Max Gemma. Larry is loud, all Jersey bravado and confidence. Joey knows the type of Max hangs back. He's a watcher, quieter. Everyone's buzzing and everyone's half buzzed. And then Larry throws it out there after party. My boy's place. His dad's a big time jeweler. It's a penthouse with insane views. Well, that sounds too good to pass up. Joey's friend waits for a cab home while his group of new acquaintances splits into two cabs. Joey climbs in with one of the girls. She leans in, whispering just in case, and snaps a blurry picture of Larry, texting it to her friends with his name and the address of where they're going. The Grand Sutton. Then they're off.
- [08:16]
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- [08:46]
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- [09:15]
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- [09:59]
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They pull up outside the apartment building, a 1980s high rise just off Sutton Place. Joey's surprised it's not as flashy as the one guy made it seem. It kind of blends in with the other buildings on the street. He's impressed when they get to the door, though, and the doorman opens it for them. I could live here, he thinks. It's nice enough and private. There's even a concierge inside. The elevator doesn't go to a penthouse. It stops at the fourth floor, apartment 4C. For a second, Joey is hesitant and wonders what the hell he's doing there. Then the door opens. A shirtless guy in jeans greets them like he's Hugh Hefner, minus the smoking jacket. James Rackover, he says, smiling. His chest is out and his charm is blinding. In his mind, Joey is chuckling. He's seen this type Before. Sometimes annoying, but mostly a lot of fun. It wasn't the penthouse, but it looked the part. He styled it accordingly. The walls were a chocolate brown suede. Art deco liqueur. Posters hung in exactly the right places. Louis Vuitton trunks sat at the foot of the bed, but not for travel. For display. Cashmere throws were draped across furniture that barely looked used. It was more like a showroom than a living space. Apartment 4C had one bedroom, a clean layout, and windows facing the Queensborough Bridge and the river. It was the kind of place where you brought people to impress them. You know, dim lighting, expensive whiskey, dark opulence. Everything, and I mean everything, was meant to impress. And James made sure it did. Joey is half listening while James repeatedly refers to his dad, the Jeweler to the Stars. James leans into the rich kid theme hard. He brings up his father again and again and shows off a framed picture of himself with his father. Then he grabs one of the girl's hands, spots a ring on her finger and says, my dad can help clean that for you. What a charmer. Finally, Joey is glad when one of the girls says, okay, James, we get it. Your dad's a jeweler. But see, Jeffrey Rackover wasn't actually his father. And James wasn't an innocent kid looking for a dad. The truth is, he may have been looking for something more like a Sugar Daddy. In 2013, James Rackover was James Bowdoin. He met the Jeweler to the Stars through mutual friends. At a dinner, Jeffrey Rackover boasted about clients like Oprah Winfrey, Jennifer Lopez, and Donald Trump, even helping Trump pick out his engagement ring for Melania. Jeffrey was a bachelor and everyone knew who he was. You could always spot him at benefits and black tie events. James was younger, physically fit, and had a magnetic quality he couldn't quite explain. Something about him caught Jeffrey's attention. What started as a mentorship evolved into something more. Within months, James was living in Jeffrey's apartment at the Grand Sutton, in his own room. This was James first stable housing in years. You see, James had a darker side and a long rap sheet of crimes and arrests. But Jeffrey either didn't know or didn't care. So much so that he took James under his wing and gave him his last name. James Bowdoin was now James Rackover. They were a family now, like some sort of twisted version of father and son, or maybe daddy and sugar daddy. Who knows? Not judging. You go ahead and do that on your own. Anyway, the point is that James found the key to life he wanted. He was Living large now. By 2015, he had his own apartment in the same building, Apartment 4C, where the whole scene was about to go down. So everyone pours into the apartment. Larry and Max try to seem unimpressed, but the girls take in the ambiance with looks of awe. James puts on a party song from the past to set the mood. Genuine's pony again. Joey smirks in his mind and thinks of course he puts on that song. Then James brings out a large round mirror, almost like a serving tray. But the only thing he was serving was lines of coke. Larry pulls out his pocket knife casually, as if it were second nature. He uses it to pop open beers and scoop up little bumps of coke, offering them around. He seems to love that knife. It's almost always in his hand, ready to perform some action, even just to point at someone or something. He never puts it down. Everyone is talking and laughing and the girls are dancing. The guys start to pose and brag about who can do more push ups. For some reason they strip to their boxers to show off their abs. This is getting a little ridiculous, Joey thinks as he hangs back near the window, sipping his drink, watching the scene play out. But he's still having fun. And he kept having fun until he didn't. As the sun peaked above the skyline, the energy in the apartment started to change. The drinks were running low, the fun was wearing off and the women were ready to go. Something wasn't quite right, but no one said it out loud. They all headed downstairs. Joey and Larry walked the women to their Uber, smiling, polite, maybe still riding a little high. Then they turned around and went back upstairs. Now it was just four men in apartment 4C. Joey, James, Larry, Max. The music stopped, the laughter faded. Now it was dim and quiet. No one was really a stranger anymore, but they weren't friends either. It was just awkward. Like what are you all still doing here? Something is about to go very wrong. Max is stretched out on the couch, half wrapped in a blanket. He watches as Joey stands by the table. James leans into the kitchen, sipping from a glass. Larry's pacing a little. He's still wired, still looking for something to do. Joey doesn't look uncomfortable. He's just watching and maybe trying to decide when to make his exit. Max thinks to himself, he's probably wondering the same thing I am. Will there be any more coke? Can I get one more beer or should I just go? But Max is too comfortable right now to go anywhere. James disappears, says he's running upstairs to his dad's place to get A few more beers. Jeffrey Rackover lives on the 32nd floor. James knows the code. He moves through the building like he owns it. Downstairs, Larry's antsy. He still has his knife out, popping it open and spinning it in his hand. The blade taps against the bottle as he talks, gestures and jokes. It's not threatening, but it's constant, like the knife's part of him, like it's his personality. Max's eyes are closed. He's not asleep, just in that in between state, drifting, half listening, too tired to join in. He vaguely hears James come back and then listens as he sets the mirrored tray on the table where Larry and Joey are sitting. He rolls over and hears mumbling. But now it's getting louder and has a competitive edge. James and Larry are probably back at it, he thinks, their egos on display, sizing each other up with stories, jokes and subtle one upping. He hears them competing with each other like it's a contest to see who runs the show, who gets more girls, who's the man? He drifts in and out of hazy half sleep. He partly awakens to James bragging that he's the only one who contributed anything to the party. After all, it's his place, his and his dad's drinks and drugs. That's when Joey says, yeah, hey, James brought the coke. I brought the smokes. Larry, what did you bring to the table? It's not said harshly, as far as Max can tell, but it lands wrong. Now Max is mostly awake but pretending to be asleep. He's expecting Larry to pop off, but Larry freezes, just for a second. Then he starts laughing, like a character in a mafia movie about to shift. The tension creeps in slowly but pervasively, like a rubber band pulling back, getting ready to snap. And that's when Max hears it. He's not sure how long he's been out. The couch is warm, too warm. The blanket is heavy. Someone must have covered him. He hears voices. Larry. Definitely James. Maybe the tone's changed. It's not banter anymore. A thud cuts through the room. Not loud, but almost sharp, like something fell, or someone. Nax doesn't open his eyes right away. His head is thick, buzzing. The cocaine's edge is long gone. He's actually kind of afraid. It's weirdly quiet. No voices. He blinks, adjusts his eyes. From the couch he can see Joey, just a little bit slumped maybe. It's hard to tell. Then another thud and the floor shakes. More sounds, like a scuffle. Then something is being dragged. This Isn't good. He thinks. I don't think I want to know what's going on. Max sits up, but not all the way. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move. He just listens. Until he starts to ask a question. He only gets the first two words out and is met with Larry screaming at him, get your shit and get out. So he does. The communales expected a call that Sunday. They always did. It was their thing. Fantasy football lineups, game day plans, are you coming over for taco salad, pizza and beer, things like that. But this time, nothing. No call, no text. Just silence. By Monday morning, Joey's dad had already filed a missing persons report. And by mid morning he was in Manhattan, standing inside the 17th Precinct asking detectives to take him seriously. So they pulled surveillance from the Grand Sutton. And there it was at 6:44am Saturday, Joey smiling, walking back into the building with Larry De Leon. He never walked out. The next day, Joey's dad spotted a building porter rolling out trash. He stopped him, urged detectives to check the bags. That question changed everything. Inside were blood soaked towels, bleach stained rags and Joey's clothes, his broken gold chain, his wallet. It was sloppy, a frantic attempt to erase what couldn't be undone. And if Joey's dad hadn't shown up when he did, it would have all been gone by night. Detectives moved fast. They brought in James, Larry and Max. All three lied. Max said he left early, which he technically did, but not without hearing a fight. Larry claimed Joey walked out for cigarettes and never came back. James pretended he barely knew him, but pressure breaks people and Larry was first to fold. That night he met with detectives. He admitted there was a stupid fight. What it all came down to was an argument over who had contributed the most to the party. And Joey pointed out that Larry had not provided anything which pissed him off. He broke down and cried before finally telling detectives where to look for Joey's body. With tears running down his face, he said he didn't mean to kill him, that he had just snapped. Then he told him where to go. Foreign.
- [25:00]
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- [26:53]
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Joey hadn't seen it coming. One second he's leaning over the table in mid sentence. The next, Larry's fist lands on the side of his head. He stumbles, but Larry picks him up before he can steady himself and slams him to the floor. His vision blurs. The room is spinning. There's shouting, fast movement, too much all at once. Before he can sit up, a weight is on top of him, pinning him down. He tries to push back, but his arms don't respond. They're too slow, too heavy. His brain is firing, but his body won't keep up. Just before he passes out, he hears James say, that's what you get for messing with my boy. And then, searing pain. I can't breathe, he thinks, gasping for air and gurgling on his blood. Blow after blow lands across his face, his chest, in his ribs. He doesn't know who's hitting him, Larry, James or both. He doesn't know much at this point, only that he's sure he's about to die. He's fading fast, but he knows he's being dragged. Everything tilts. He feels cold, and he's on something icy and hard. It's a tub. Little did he know, James and Larry weren't done with them. The fight wasn't a scuffle. It was a beating over nothing, over who brought more to a party. How dumb is that? Larry's first hit on Joey was so hard that Joey crumpled. He was barely conscious when it escalated. According to statements, James stepped in next. He straddled Joey's chest And started slamming his head against the hardwood floor over and over. Larry had already stabbed Joey once. A superficial wound, but something switched in James. Like a trigger to his old days. He was in a frenzy. He grabbed Larry's knife and stabbed him more than 14 times, all over his chest and neck. Joey was dying and no one called for help. Instead, they dragged him to the bathroom and tried to take him apart, piece by piece with a kitchen knife. But they couldn't get through the bone. So they gave up. They took all his clothes, jewelry, watch and a wallet. They wrapped him in plastic and a comforter, poured bleach all over him, the tubs, the walls. Then they threw all the blood stained clothes down the trash chute. And then, just before nighttime, they opened the door. They waited until the sidewalk below was clear. And they hoisted Joey's body over the sill and dropped it four stories down the pavement like he was nothing. There was no scream. No one looked up. Just a final thud on the pavement and the crackling of bones. And then silence. By the time anyone realized what had happened, Joey was long gone. At around 3:30am, detectives and a cadaver dog arrived at a wooden lot behind a flower shop in Oceanport, N.J. 15 yards off the floor, in a shallow grave, they found Joey Communale. He'd been burned. Gasoline was poured over his body in an attempt to destroy evidence, but it didn't work. Police tied the timeline to a black Mercedes registered to Jeffrey Rackover. Surveillance showed James and Larry loading something into the trunk that night, and cell phone pings backed up the drive to New Jersey. James Rackover, born James Bowdoin, was no stranger to police back in Florida. Before the name change, his rap sheet stretched out for years. Trespassing, burglary, strong arm robbery, drug possession. One time he cut off his ankle monitor and went on a run for months. He had eight mugshots by the time he was 20. He served time in prison, and when he got out, he found the perfect shelter. Under the wing of Jeffrey Rackover, jeweler to the stars, in the very place people go to start over. New York City. But designer clothes and Dorman can erase a record. You could change your name and your story, but not who you really are. In the months that followed, James Rackover was charged with second degree murder. Larry took a plea deal, 23 years for manslaughter. Max Gemma served four months for hindering prosecution. In court, Joey's father sat through everything. Every graphic photo, every lie. When the autopsy was shown with 15 stab wounds, defensive injuries and burn marks, he had to leave the room. James is now serving 28 years to life. Larry is upstate appealing his sentence. Max is home and Jeffrey Rackover disappeared quietly. The others at the party that night got to move on with their lives. But Joey Communali didn't get that chance. He's buried in Connecticut. His dad still visits his grave every single day. If you enjoyed the show, please consider joining plus@swardandscale.com plus but if you can't, consider leaving us a positive review on your preferred listening platform. Sweet dreams and good night.
- [34:15]
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- [34:40]
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