😨 The Monster With a Badge 👮‍♂️: Inside the Twisted Double Life of the Cop Who Terrorized His Own Town 🔦

Bloomington, Illinois — a quiet Midwestern town halfway between Chicago and St. Louis, known for its universities, culture, and small-town warmth. But beneath the calm surface, a monster was lurking. A man sworn to protect the public was secretly hunting it.

For years, women in Bloomington lived in fear.

They awoke in the middle of the night to find a man in a ski mask standing over them, armed with a flashlight, duct tape, and zip ties. He moved with precision — not the frantic chaos of a burglar, but the cold, steady hand of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Christy Hasty, 25, remembers waking up to a blinding light in her eyes.

“I thought I was dreaming,” she recalled. “Then he was on top of me. His hands were on my mouth. He said, ‘Don’t scream. I don’t want to hurt you.’ But I knew that wasn’t true.”

He bound her wrists, covered her eyes and mouth with duct tape, and threatened to shoot her if she made a sound. When she heard his clothes rustling, her fear turned to dread.

“That’s when I knew,” she whispered. “He wasn’t just going to rob me. He was going to rape me.”

For nearly an hour, she endured hell. When it was over, he ordered her into the bathroom and told her to wash herself — a chilling move meant to destroy evidence. Then he disappeared, taking her bedsheets and blankets with him.

Christy called 911, trembling, barely able to breathe. Investigators quickly realized the attacker was no amateur.

He had methodically removed evidence, used zip ties and duct tape, and knew exactly how to avoid leaving DNA. Someone like that had training — or experience.

And this wasn’t the first time.

Months earlier, another woman, 19-year-old Allison Major, had been attacked under nearly identical circumstances.

Same ski mask. Same flashlight. Same calm, cold voice. “He had a pre-tied rope around my neck,” she said. “He told me he’d been watching me.”

Police now feared what every small-town community dreads — a serial predator was among them.

Detectives scoured the area. They looked for ex-cons, maintenance workers, or anyone who might have access to women’s apartments.

But every lead went cold. Then, one name surfaced: Carter Ellison, a petty thief arrested for burglary and check fraud.

When officers searched his home, they found duct tape, zip ties, chloroform, and women’s shoes. It was enough to make him a person of interest.

But when FBI analysts examined his computer, they noticed something strange — his online habits didn’t match the attacker’s profile. Ellison’s fantasies were dark, but different.

Then, the attacks stopped.

For nearly a year, Bloomington was quiet. Survivors tried to rebuild their lives. Christy lived in fear, sleeping no more than an hour a night. But in 2005, the nightmare returned.

This time, the victim was 27-year-old Sarah Calm, a soon-to-be bride. She awoke to a man pointing a gun at her head. He knew her parents’ names, her sister’s face, her gym schedule. He even recited her parents’ address. “If you scream,” he told her, “I’ll kill them all.”

For three hours, Sarah endured the attack. But she never gave up. “If he lets me live,” she thought, “it’ll be the biggest mistake of his life.”

He made her bathe, took her sheets, and vanished — just like before.

FBI profilers reviewed the evidence and came to a chilling conclusion: the rapist wasn’t a stranger or drifter.

He was organized, educated, confident — and possibly in law enforcement. Someone with access to police knowledge. Someone who could stalk women without being noticed.

And they were right.

The break came unexpectedly in June 2006. A woman called 911, terrified that someone was prowling around her house. A patrol officer arrived and caught a man hiding in the shadows.

“Stop! Police!” he shouted.

The man turned around.

It was Sergeant Jeff Pilo — a decorated 17-year veteran of the Bloomington Police Department.

Pilo claimed he was “looking for a house for his mother-in-law.” It was 3 a.m. He was dressed in black. He was standing exactly where the prowler had been seen. The officer let him go — but something didn’t sit right.

When investigators reviewed Pilo’s background, everything lined up.

He was about 5’11”, blue-eyed, stocky, recently lost weight — and eerily matched the victims’ descriptions.

Even worse, digital records showed that Pilo had personally run the license plates of two of the rape victims — weeks before their attacks.

That wasn’t coincidence.

Detectives dug deeper. Pilo’s time logs showed that during the assaults, he was conveniently off duty. But he was on duty during victim interviews — even signing one of their police reports himself.

Sarah later recalled the rage she felt. “He raped me, then went to work and signed my report,” she said. “He looked me in the eye as a cop. I can’t describe how disgusting that is.”

In July 2006, investigators searched Pilo’s home. In his garage, they found a “rape kit”: duct tape, zip ties, a ski mask, and a rope. On his computer were searches for “uniform rape” — a fantasy involving assault by men in authority.

When the victims saw Pilo’s photo in a lineup, they didn’t hesitate. “That’s him,” Christy said. “I’ll never forget those eyes.”

FBI forensic experts later found black polyester fibers from Pilo’s ski mask embedded in the duct tape used on Christy. That was the final piece of evidence they needed.

In May 2008, Sergeant Jeff Pilo went on trial for 35 charges — including 25 counts of aggravated criminal sexual assault. He denied everything. “I didn’t do anything to anyone,” he told detectives. “Period.”

But the evidence spoke louder than his badge.

After five weeks, a jury convicted him on all counts. The judge sentenced him to 440 years in prison.

For the survivors, it was both vindication and heartbreak.

“He stole my peace for years,” Sarah said. “But now, he’ll never hurt anyone again.”

And for the Bloomington Police Department, it was a wound that cut deep. The man they once called “Officer of the Year” had become their darkest disgrace — a predator hiding behind a badge.

As one detective put it, “We protect people from monsters. But this time, the monster was one of us.”