Serial Killer, Hadden Clark, I [Patrick Tyrrell] know him.-By Patrick Tyrrell © 2024

“Hadden Clark is currently serving two congruent 30-year prison sentences at the Eastern Correctional Institution in Westover, Maryland.

However, the serial killer is now eligible for parole.

“If you’re comfortable with this guy living in your basement or renting a room from you, then put him out on parole,” Retired F.B.I. special agent Lou Luciano has said.

Let me tell you something, Hadden has an actual mental illness, not like a lot of those other people. Even if they don’t let him out on parole, he will get out of prison in about five years—so some ‘accident’ better not befall Hadden Clark as he is finishing out his prison term—The law says he will get out. America is a country of laws.

Hadden is a good person, who has a real mental illness.

1)     The first time I met Hadden Clark, I was with a guy named Stefan Erickson and some other people, on the first floor of a townhouse in Falls Church, Virginia. A guy who suffered from leukemia and whose hair had fallen out due to chemo-therapy, “just wanted to party” so his friends were holding him upside down by his feet, and he was taking “inverted keg hits” from a beer bong--which is sad.

As this was going on, Hadden Clark was seated at a kitchen table. He was holding his arms outstretched like Jesus Christ on the Cross and he was going on, in a high-pitched, shrill voice, he was shrieking, “Hadden, this is your mother calling! Hadden, Hadden, this is your mother!”

I overheard a conversation between Hadden and a relatively short kid with brown hair and a 1980s haircut who was also seated at the brown kitchen table, there. I think the table had an artificial tablecloth that was green on one side with little imprints on top and white on the back.

Hadden was saying something like this to the other guy seated who was seated next to him at the table:

“Come on. . . you were there, we buried that old lady on Long Island together.” [and I’m not sure if it was Long Island Hadden said but I think it was somewhere in New York or Vermont or Connecticut, would be my guess].

And the other guy was saying something along the lines of, “Hadden, you promised! You said you would never tell anyone about that, how could you?” looking nervous.

They were bickering about it, and I may not have been the only one who overheard them. I have -- like -- a photographic memory. No . . . I didn’t forget this time either.

2) The second time I met Hadden Clark will be a little difficult for many people to understand or believe.

It was June 1992.

Me and two of my friends were celebrating the high school year being over by driving to Ocean City, Maryland; to the beach, in my 1990 Ford Fiesta (worst car ever).

It was well after nightfall on our way back from there, and I pulled over at a rest area because I was too drunk to drive. Me and my two friends sat there in a corner of the Maryland State Rest Area in my car. We were drinking cold bumpers (40 oz.), of Miller High Life beer.

After a little while, I noticed a police-involved commotion taking place in a different part of the rest area.

So--being drunk--I told my friends to wait in my car.

They were cool as shit, those two. I also went to Queens, New York with those same two guys on a different road trip --That time in my 1982 Blue Chevy Malibu, which was my next car after my girlfriend, The Sun and The Moon girl Princess of The North Woods intentionally wrecked my Ford Fiesta, in a 4-way intersection wanting to go out in a "Blaze of Glory" right after this trip to Ocean City. (No one got hurt, and V knows it's all good ❤V❤ (love).

I ran along, through the tall grass and I peered at what must have been 8 to 12 Maryland State Trooper patrol cars with blue and red lights flashing.

The cruisers were parked at a good distance from -- but surrounding it -- a white sportscar that was a 1980s make and model. I think it was a Pontiac Firebird--The cops were terrified of whoever was in the car.

I later thought to myself, “The police were acting like a wild tiger or a lion might jump out of that car at them.”

So, being drunk, and liking adventure--check out what I did--I ran towards the car, surrounded by the Maryland State Police, and I jumped into it.

 I sort of recall jumping into the driver’s side, but it might have been the shotgun side of the car, which would make more sense.

Sitting next to me in his car was none other than Hadden. He was not famous. The army had dismissed him for having paranoid schizophrenia a few years earlier.

I pressed a nob and turned the stereo-radio on in his car. It was Ozzy Osbourne’s, “Crazy Train,” on radio station 98 Rock, 89.9 Baltimore, Maryland FM station.

A police officer strolled by the side of the white Trans am we were in, perhaps whistling, and he dropped a C.B., or a walkie talkie into my open window. It landed on my lap.

Hadden gave me instructions on what to say to the police over the C.B. “Oh, hello officer, we’re just listening to a little Ozzy,” I told them. . . “Yeah, listening to tunes. . .we’re jamming out to Ozzy Osbourne.”

Hadden was laughing.

“Tell ‘em you have 10,000 knives in your stomach,” Hadden told me, and crouched in his seat laughing.

“I have 10,000 knives in my stomach,” I told them on the C.B.

In not too long, the police on the C.B., and I convinced Hadden to step outside of his car and give himself up peacefully. I was worried they would arrest me for drunk driving, but they didn’t, and they said I could drive.

I staggered back to where my 1990 Ford Fiesta car was, where my two friends were sipping the Miller High Life 40 oz. ice cold bumpers in my car., and I got behinfd the wheel worrying I would get in an accident because I was so drunk.

“You guys are not going to believe what just happened to me," I told my friends.

I don’t think I even made much of an effort to get across to my friends what I had just did (done).

I drove us back to Northern Virginia arriving there some time before dawn in a drizzly rain.

I remember how peaceful the warm, early summer pre-dawn streets were that June 1992 morning. As I rolled back through D.C., and the D.C. area in the early morning fog and light misty light rain rained down. Hardly any cars were on the road.

Now what gives? That was June 1992, and,

I mean it, Hadden better not get killed in prison where he is, and where he will be released from in a handful of years.

Hadden Clark is the poorest of the poor, he is one of the ones Jesus was talking about in the Bible in the Beatitudes.

Hadden had been taken into custody in Maryland at that Maryland Highway Rest Area I have just described. That was June 1992.

Hadden Clark is currently serving two consecutive 30-year sentences at the Eastern Correctional Institution in Westover, Maryland. 

Two of the three murders he was convicted of happened in Bethesda, Maryland in October of 1992 -- 4 months after the rest-area incident.

I deduce, then, that the justice system of The State of Maryland let Hadden Clark out after I observed him being arrested at that Maryland rest area in June 1992, my junior year in high school.

(I don’t know what of this is known to the general public, and what is not, by the way).

3)          The third time I saw Hadden was yesterday -- October 27, 2024.

I was fishing in a swamp yesterday with loud music playing for hours in part to keep copperhead snakes at bay, they don’t like vibrations.

I had spent most of the preceding 24-hours in that swamp, only returning to my house to sleep or eat.

It is about a two-hour drive from “Eastern Correctional Institution” in Westover, Maryland where Hadden Clark is being housed to there, I just looked that up.

I had, in recent days, been telling my Hadden Clark stories like I am telling now on paper, because, among other reasons, I have nothing to hide.

So, after spending many hours in the marsh the night before and returning in the morning after sleeping at my house; I was there for many more hours, loud music cranking on the Bose Revolve II Plus speakers that I had hung on trees.

Just to give you some context, the night before, from my marsh encampment, I had shouted a few times in the empty forest things like, “No, we will not be having a summit of the killers!” Which is true, there will be none.

So, Sunday morning, October 27th, 2024, and what did I see come into those tidal basin wetlands?

None other than a 20 or so contingent of Maryland Correctional Facility employees with navy blue uniforms all entering the Virginia forest.

They didn’t see me; they could only hear my speakers blaring music from where I was hiding out, deeper in the Northern Virginia marsh than they cared to venture.

I saw them all walk into the forest.

They stayed near the edge of the trees for about one minute, pretending to make sure the forest looked 'secure' or something (20 of them doing so) before they all stepped back out, back onto the bike trail that is there, most of them with their hands in their pockets.

Then, a sole prisoner came walking into the marsh, picking up trash. He didn’t get back near me either and he didn’t see me either, but I could see him, and he could hear me. It was my old paranoid-schizophrenic pal Hadden Clark again.

I said something unimportant to him, as the music played on. He stood there for about five minutes--just standing there blinking--before pulling out a tool on a stick for picking up garbage which he used to remove a plastic bag from a tree.

Then he also walked out of the forest to where the Maryland State workers were waiting for him.

He had come about halfway back to where I was, whereas the correctional facility employees in the blue uniforms had only walked a few feet in.

About an half an hour later, I was still in the same Virginia marshlands when I said in my best Roman emperor voice (or something like that), “You have 20 correctional facility employees guarding one prisoner? Is that what you do?”

I didn’t know Hadden Clark was still nearby where they probably had him picking up trash at the next spot I suppose.

When Hadden heard me say that about the 20 to one ratio of correctional facility workers to him, he shouted through some trees, “Hey, Shut the Fuck Up!”  in his semi-shrill, high-pitched voice that I recognized.

Hadden Clark was badly messed with by his mother, she made him dress like a girl and made fun of him and his father also abused him, then he developed paranoid schizophrenia as a young adult, in his early twenties he got discharged from the army for it.\

The law says Hadden Clark gets out when his two congruent 30-year prison sentences run out, and that is what will happen. America is a country of laws, which is very good. Rule of Law is far better than rule of men and women.

I know Hadden Clark has a heart, which is more than I can say about a lot of Northern Virginian, D.C. area people who wear coats and ties and have less respect for human life than Hadden Clark has.  That Northern Virginia and Washington D.C. dinner-party-crowd of 'hobnobbing hobnobbers' insulate themselves from real people and the real world and they don’t care if real people die or are murdered, which I always think in God’s eyes is the same as if they killed the people with their own hands like Hadden Clark’s illness made him do.

Some of the rich Washington D.C. bourgeoisie I have met delight in the fact that women who were the victims of sexploitation and human trafficking died young. I have met Hadden Clark personally three times and I know he has a lot more love in his heart than the bourgeoise dinner-parties-are-fun-and-cool-crowd-set of Washington D.C.

If Clark plays his cards right, he will get to go to Heaven as well as get out of prison. The Washington D.C. area suit and tie wearing individuals who delight in the ending of human lives and silently approve of murders of human beings whom they don’t know but look down on--Their entrance at The Pearly Gates is far from guaranteed, I’d think.

Here are two of serial murderer Hadden Clark’s victims, who were killed by Hadden's illness, which was exacerbated and made violent by Hadden's Godless parents whose hatred and lack of love, and evil incarnate, turned Hadden Clark and also his brother, Bradfield Clark, into serial killers. Below the pictures of the two victims is a song by Taj Mahal, called "Bourgeoisie Town:" about Washington D.C.:

Michele Dorr was just six years old when she vanished from her backyard on May 31, 1986 (Investigation Discovery)

Laura Houghteling, a Harvard grad, was killed in October 1992 (Investigation Discovery)