In the working-class enclave of West Brighton, where tidy rowhouses line Cary Avenue and the salty tang of the harbor lingers in the air, a family’s unraveling had been playing out in hushed tones and hurried 911 dispatches for years. But on October 6, 2025, those warnings erupted into unimaginable horror when 45-year-old Anthony Casalaspro was found decapitated in a bathtub, allegedly at the hands of his girlfriend’s 19-year-old son, Damien Hurstel. Sources reveal that police had responded to at least five domestic violence calls at the home since 2021, painting a picture of escalating tensions that no one could contain—until it was too late. As Staten Island mourns a man remembered as a jovial sanitation worker with big retirement dreams, questions swirl about missed opportunities to intervene in a household teetering on the brink.

The nightmare unfolded around 4:30 p.m. on a crisp fall Monday, when Hurstel’s 16-year-old sister returned from school to a scene straight out of a slasher film. Blood streaked the walls and floors of the modest two-story residence at 380 Cary Ave., leading her to the upstairs bathroom where Casalaspro lay partially submerged in the tub, his head nearly severed by multiple stab wounds to the neck. A kitchen knife remained embedded in his body, and sources say Hurstel had attempted to further mutilate the corpse with a hacksaw before his sister stumbled upon the carnage. “I did something bad,” the teen reportedly told her calmly, directing her to retreat to her room as he dialed 911 himself. Officers from the NYPD’s 120th Precinct arrived minutes later, cuffing Hurstel—who was splattered in blood from head to toe—without incident.

By Tuesday morning, the 19-year-old high school graduate faced charges of second-degree murder and criminal possession of a weapon in Staten Island Criminal Court. Wheeled out of the precinct in a Tyvek suit for medical evaluation, his face still crusted with dried blood, Hurstel allegedly confessed in chilling detail to detectives: He had bludgeoned Casalaspro over the head with a meat tenderizer out of morbid curiosity—”I wanted to know what it was like to kill someone”—before stabbing him repeatedly and planning to dissolve the remains in a blender, starting with the brain, to flush down the toilet. The motive, sources say, stemmed from a volatile mix of resentment and untreated mental health struggles; Hurstel, diagnosed with schizophrenia, had been sporadically compliant with his medications in the weeks leading up to the attack. His mother was out running errands at the time, returning to a home she had desperately tried to stabilize for years.

What makes this tragedy all the more haunting is the trail of distress signals ignored—or at least unheeded—over four years. Police sources confirm five domestic incident reports at the Cary Avenue address, all listing Casalaspro as the alleged aggressor, called in by his girlfriend. The first, in 2021, described a drunken Casalaspro breaking household items while armed with a gun, prompting officers to remove him temporarily. Subsequent calls painted a pattern of alcohol-fueled volatility: arguments escalating into property damage, physical altercations, and threats that left the family on edge. In one 2022 incident, neighbors recalled hearing screams as Casalaspro allegedly shattered a window during a heated dispute. The most recent, in August 2023, was particularly alarming: Sources say Casalaspro, intoxicated, returned to the home after being ordered out, slapped Hurstel, and attempted to attack his mother, leading to another frantic 911 plea. Despite these red flags, no arrests were made in connection with the domestics, and social services interventions appear limited, according to preliminary reviews.

Casalaspro’s ex-wife, Valerie, who divorced him amicably in 2019 after 12 years of marriage, was blindsided by the revelations. Speaking to the New York Daily News from her home in Concord, she painted a portrait of a man who, despite his flaws, sought redemption in his later years. “He was never violent with me or the kids,” she insisted, noting his pride in attending Hurstel’s high school graduation just months earlier—a gesture of goodwill in a blended family fraught with friction. Casalaspro, a lifelong Staten Islander, had retired from the Department of Sanitation in recent months due to progressive vision loss that ended his career as a truck mechanic. “He had big plans,” Valerie said, her voice cracking. “A house in Florida, golfing, time with the kids. I talked to him two weeks ago—he sounded happy.” The couple shared two children, now 10 and 13, who are staying with relatives as the family navigates the dual blow of their father’s death and the ensuing media storm.

Yet, Valerie acknowledged the strains in Casalaspro’s relationship with Hurstel. “He told me the kid was hard to handle—defiant, not respecting boundaries,” she shared. The teen’s resistance to the proposed Florida move—uprooting his life from Staten Island friends and routines—added fuel to the fire, sources say. Casalaspro’s own history compounded the volatility: A criminal record dating back to 2000 included drug charges, weapon possession, and assaults, though he had stayed clean in recent years, focusing on his sanitation job and family. Colleagues at the DSNY garage in Travis remembered him as “one of the greats”—a fixer of jammed hydraulics and teller of dad jokes during grueling shifts. “Tony could make you laugh on the worst days,” said union rep Carlos Mendoza. “This don’t make sense.”

The Cary Avenue home, unremarkable from the outside with its chain-link fence and faded siding, had long whispered of troubles to those who listened. Neighbors described occasional shouts piercing the night, broken glass crunching underfoot, and the girlfriend—whose name has not been released—fleeing to a relative’s with her children in tow after blowups. One resident recalled a 2022 episode where the woman arrived at her door with a broken leg, claiming a fall amid Casalaspro’s presence, though no charges followed. “You could feel the tension building,” the neighbor told SILive.com anonymously. “But who intervenes in someone else’s mess?” The block, a mix of Italian-American holdouts and young families, rallied post-tragedy with casseroles and condolences, but the undercurrent of “we knew something was off” hangs heavy.

As the Richmond County District Attorney’s Office builds its case—expecting a not-guilty plea possibly invoking mental health defenses—experts decry the systemic gaps exposed here. Dr. Elena Vasquez, a forensic psychologist at Richmond University Medical Center, notes that Staten Island’s domestic violence calls rose 15% borough-wide since 2020, often involving alcohol and blended families. “These aren’t isolated flare-ups; they’re symptoms of untreated trauma,” she said. “Mandatory counseling after the second call could have rerouted this family—med evals for the son, rehab referrals for the partner.” The NYPD’s domestic violence unit, stretched thin with 1,200 annual reports island-wide, relies on victim cooperation for escalation, a barrier when fear or love keeps reports vague.

Advocacy groups like the Staten Island Family Justice Center are seizing the moment, pushing for expanded resources: 24/7 hotlines, on-site mental health screenings, and follow-up visits post-call. “This house was a ticking bomb,” said director Lisa Marco. “We need to defuse them before they explode.” Borough President Vito Fossella echoed the call at a Wednesday presser: “Five visits and no lifeline? That’s on us—all of us.” A GoFundMe for Casalaspro’s children has surged past $30,000, fueled by DSNY brothers who staged a truck procession down Cary Avenue, horns blaring in salute.

For Hurstel’s family, the fallout is a labyrinth of grief and stigma. His mother, shielded by authorities, has sought therapy through victim services, while his sister grapples with PTSD from the discovery. “Go to your room”—Hurstel’s last words to her before sirens—replay in nightmares, sources say. The teen, remanded without bail, faces up to 25 years; his public defender hints at an insanity defense, citing the schizophrenia diagnosis his mother flagged to police.

Valerie Casalaspro, sifting through photos of her ex at barbecues and beach days, clings to the good. “He was a dad who taught the kids to fish, fix flats—flaws and all, he tried,” she said. Their children, wide-eyed at a relative’s kitchen table, ask when “the bad dream ends.” A memorial Mass is set for October 12 at St. Peter’s Episcopal, where Casalaspro once shoveled elderly neighbors’ walks.

This decapitation, born from a cauldron of booze, brain chemistry, and buried grudges, lays bare the perils of proximity without protection. West Brighton, with its ferries to Manhattan and Friday fish fries, confronts a monster not in the shadows, but in the familiarity of home. As forensics teams pack up and families fracture, the echo of those unanswered calls demands action: more ears, more hands, more hope before the next dial turns deadly. For Anthony, the great, it’s a legacy etched in loss—and a borough’s vow to listen louder next time.