How I Built My Career on a Lie
Part 2 of 4: The confession of a journalist who became a serial killer's confidant
I’ve been a journalist for eight years. In that time, I’ve broken stories about political corruption, corporate fraud, and organized crime operations that most reporters wouldn’t touch. I built a reputation for aggressive investigation and for connecting dots other people missed.
That reputation died when the Philadelphia Observer suspended me for alleged connections to the Marcuccio crime family.
But the truth is, my reputation should have died weeks earlier—when I started writing about the Dollmaker.
Because everything I wrote about him was wrong.
The Strike Connection
It started in September when the PhilWaste strike began. Philadelphia’s waste management system ground to a halt. Garbage piled up on street corners. Union workers picketed. The Marcuccio family, suspected to have had a significant role in several waste management contracts in South Philly, suddenly became very interesting to every journalist in the city.
Then the bodies started appearing.
Sofia Cavallaro. Found in March in the Schuylkill River, posed carefully, face enhanced with chalk in what investigators described as “Renaissance-style artwork.” A theater student from Texas, visiting Philadelphia on spring break. At the time, it seemed like an isolated incident. Random violence in a city that saw too much of it.
Rebecca Chen. Attacked in late September. PhilWaste vice president. She escaped, told police her attacker used chloroform and mentioned something about “creating beauty.”
Maria Santos. Early October. Community organizer who’d been vocal about the strike’s impact on low-income neighborhoods. Found in an empty lot, chalk application around her eyes, positioned like a sculpture.
The pattern seemed obvious. Two victims directly connected to the waste management industry. A third—Sofia—who in retrospect could be explained as an early attempt, a practice run before the killer refined his methods and focused his targeting.
The strike had started in September. The attacks escalated in September. The Marcuccio family controlled the territory where the bodies appeared.
I connected the dots.
My First Articles
“Dollmaker Murders Follow Mob Territory Lines”
The serial killer Philadelphia police have dubbed “the Dollmaker” appears to be selecting victims within specific geographic boundaries that correspond to suspected Marcuccio family operations. Sofia Cavallaro was found in the Schuylkill River near areas long associated with waste management facilities. Rebecca Chen, who survived an attack, worked for PhilWaste—a company whose union disputes have allegedly involved organized crime mediation...
“Strike Violence Escalates: Are Dollmaker Murders Sending a Message?”
As the PhilWaste strike continues, a disturbing pattern has emerged. The most recent Dollmaker victims have documented connections to the waste management industry. Maria Santos, whose body was discovered this week, had been organizing community resistance to the strike’s impact. Sources close to the investigation suggest the elaborate staging of victims may be intended as warnings to those who oppose organized crime interests in the dispute...
“The Art of Intimidation: How the Dollmaker Serves Mob Interests”
The chalk application technique used by the serial killer known as the Dollmaker bears hallmarks of theatrical staging designed for maximum psychological impact. Former FBI profiler Marcus Webb suggests the careful positioning of bodies and Renaissance-style facial enhancement could be “signature work” intended to establish territorial control. “This isn’t random violence,” Webb told the Observer. “This is someone making a statement about power and ownership...”
I wrote six articles in three weeks. Each one drew tighter connections between the murders and the Marcuccio family. Each one built a narrative that seemed ironclad.
The Observer’s readership spiked. My editor called me into his office to congratulate me. Other news outlets started citing my work.
I was wrong about everything.
The Woman Who Destroyed Me
Patricia Moreno started at the Philadelphia Observer the same year I did. We weren’t friends—journalism doesn’t really allow for friendship when you’re competing for bylines and editor attention—but we were colleagues. Professional. Cordial.
She was ambitious. Driven. The kind of reporter who’d spend twelve hours chasing a source, then hit CorePower Yoga for a ninety-minute session before doing it all again the next day. Everything was a competition with Patricia. Everything was about advancing.
I should have seen it coming.
“Underground Poker Operation in Atlantic City Tied to Philadelphia Crime Family” - Philadelphia Inquirer
An illegal high-stakes poker operation running out of Giordano’s Restaurant in Atlantic City has been connected to the Marcuccio crime family of Philadelphia, according to sources familiar with the investigation. The operation, which has allegedly been running for more than three years, attracts players from across the tri-state area with buy-ins reaching $50,000.
The restaurant, owned by Vincent Giordano—whose cousin Anthony Giordano has documented ties to Philadelphia organized crime—operates the poker games in a private room behind the main dining area. Security is reportedly handled by associates of the Vitale family, a suspected Marcuccio affiliate.
Games run Thursday and Saturday nights, with participants including local business owners, attorneys, and at least one journalist. Regular attendees reportedly include Observer reporter Will Ryland, who has been covering organized crime activities in Philadelphia for the past two months.
The Atlantic City Police Department declined to comment on whether the operation is under active investigation...
That was it. One sentence. Paragraph six. “Regular attendees reportedly include Observer reporter Will Ryland.”
She didn’t lead with it. Didn’t make it the story. Just dropped my name in the middle like another detail about the operation, then kept writing about poker stakes and security procedures and Giordano family connections.
It was brilliant, really. If she’d led with my name—”Observer Reporter Caught in Mob Poker Ring”—it would have looked like a hit piece. Burying me in paragraph six made it look like journalism. Like she’d stumbled across my involvement while investigating something bigger.
I’ve never been to Giordano’s Restaurant. Never played in any poker game. Never even been to Atlantic City in the last two years.
But by noon that day, it didn’t matter.
The Suspension
My editor called me mid-morning. His voice was flat. Professional. The kind of tone that means the decision’s already been made.
“We need to talk about Patricia’s article.”
“It’s bullshit. I’ve never—”
“I believe you. But it doesn’t matter what I believe. We have to investigate.”
“Investigate what? There’s nothing to investigate.”
“Will, you’ve been writing about organized crime for two months. About the Marcuccio family specifically. If there’s any possibility—any hint—that you’re compromised, we can’t have you on that beat.”
“I’m not compromised.”
“Then the investigation will prove that. But until it does, you’re suspended.”
I asked how long. He said he didn’t know. I asked if I could keep writing other stories. He said no. I asked if Patricia would take over my coverage.
“She’s already working on a Dollmaker follow-up,” he said.
I hung up.
The Turning Point
I spent that afternoon drunk, angry, and staring at my phone. Patricia was writing about the Dollmaker. Taking over my beat. Building her career on the wreckage of mine.
Then the Dollmaker called.
After that conversation—after he gave me details about Sofia’s blue dress and Rebecca’s bruised rib and Maria’s chalk work—I sat in my apartment and realized something.
I had something no other journalist in Philadelphia possessed: direct contact with a serial killer.
And I was letting it die because I’d been fired.
Somewhere between the second and third bourbon, I made a decision. If traditional journalism wouldn’t have me, I’d do it myself. I’d launch an independent publication. Write about the Dollmaker without editorial oversight, without corporate interests, without anyone telling me what I could or couldn’t say.
I’d tell the truth. Even if it destroyed what was left of my reputation.
Even if it meant admitting I’d been wrong.
The Launch
A contact reached out two days later. Suggested the Philadelphia Post might be interested in running a story about my suspension and what came next. They were.
“Disgraced Reporter Launches Independent Platform After Suspension” - Philadelphia Post
Former Philadelphia Observer journalist Will Ryland has launched an independent publication following his suspension over alleged connections to organized crime. The publication, titled “Exposure: The Ryland Files,” will focus on investigative reporting with an emphasis on the ongoing Dollmaker serial murder case.
“I spent eight years building credibility in traditional journalism,” Ryland said in a statement. “That credibility is gone. But the stories remain. And the truth matters more than my career.”
Ryland’s suspension followed a Philadelphia Observer report linking him to an illegal poker operation with ties to the Marcuccio crime family. Ryland has denied the allegations...
Looking back, I should have questioned why the Post ran that story. Why they gave space to a suspended journalist launching what amounted to a blog. The placement was fortuitous. Almost too fortuitous.
But desperation doesn’t ask inconvenient questions.
And I was desperate.
The First Issue
Exposure: The Ryland Files launched two days later. My first post was simple:
“I was wrong about the Dollmaker. He’s not connected to organized crime. He’s not sending messages about the strike. He’s killing women for reasons that have nothing to do with mob territory or union disputes. I know this because he told me.”
I had forty-three subscribers that first day. Most of them were probably hate-reading, waiting to watch me crash and burn.
I didn’t care.
I was writing again. On my own terms. With my own voice.
What I didn’t realize—what I couldn’t have known—was that I wasn’t writing for those forty-three subscribers.
I was writing for an audience of one.
The Dollmaker was reading every word. Studying my work. Learning from it.
And he was about to show me exactly what that meant.
Next: “The Woman Who Destroyed Me”