#12: From Anonymous to Infamous - The Red Light Bandit Story

Full Episode Transcript

São Paulo, October 3, 1966. The upscale neighborhood of Sumaré slept under a moonless sky. Known for its tree-lined streets and quiet affluence, it was a place where families rarely locked their doors—a haven in a city teeming with life. But on this night, the darkness held something new. Something predatory.

At 2:17 AM, nineteen-year-old Walter Bedran stirred in his bedroom. A student with a promising future, Walter had no way of knowing the rustle in his backyard was not a stray animal. It was a man. A man who moved like smoke, armed with a revolver and a flashlight fitted with a red lens—a detail that would soon etch itself into the city’s nightmares.

The intruder had perfected his ritual: cut the power, scale the fence, vanish into the shadows. His targets? Mansions and middle-class homes alike. But this night was different. Walter, driven by curiosity or courage, stepped outside. A single gunshot fractured the silence. The bullet struck his skull before he could utter a word. By the time his body hit the ground, the killer was gone—leaving no trace but a crimson glow fading into the void.

Police would later call it a botched robbery. A tragic accident. But Walter’s death was no accident. It was the opening act of a five-year reign of terror. The press dubbed him O Bandido da Luz Vermelha—the Red Light Bandit. A chameleon who posed as a musician by day, wearing flamboyant hats and scarves, while by night, he became a specter: the ‘Incendiary Bandit’ setting fires to distract victims, the ‘Masked Bandit’ stealing jewels, the ‘Monkey Bandit’ prying open windows with a car jack. Yet his signature remained the red light—a tool bought from a department store called Mappin, now a beacon of dread.

Over 77 robberies. Four murders. Seven attempted killings. And a city paralyzed by a question: Who was he? For years, his fingerprints lingered on windows, his disguises fooled neighbors, and his vanity mocked investigators. Until one slip—a single print left on a mansion’s glass—unraveled everything.

But on that October night in 1966, Walter Bedran’s death was just the beginning. A beginning that would birth a legend… and a fear that stained São Paulo’s streets red.

Early Life and Background

João Acácio Pereira da Costa was born on June 24, 1942, in Joinville, a city nestled in the southern Brazilian state of Santa Catarina. The second son of a working-class family, João entered the world under ordinary circumstances. But his early life would be far from ordinary. Before he reached the age of five, he was orphaned. The exact circumstances of his parents' deaths remain vague—no definitive records or family accounts offer clarity. What is known is that both parents were gone by the time João was four. The loss left him and his older brother, Joaquim Tavares Pereira, alone and vulnerable at a time when they were most in need of stability and protection.

Following this profound disruption, the boys were taken in by a maternal uncle. The intention, at least in theory, was to provide a stable home and the support of extended family. But what they encountered instead, according to João’s later testimony, was a household steeped in cruelty and abuse. João would later claim that the arrangement was exploitative from the outset.

Under this uncle’s care, João and Joaquim were allegedly subjected to forced labor. In exchange for food and shelter, they were made to work long hours performing domestic chores and manual tasks beyond their years. João described it not as a childhood but as a form of servitude—one where affection and safety were replaced by strict control, physical punishment, and emotional neglect.

As João later recounted, the abuse wasn’t limited to forced labor. He accused his guardian of administering frequent beatings and engaging in psychological torment, creating an environment defined by fear and instability. Perhaps most disturbingly, João alleged that the abuse also included sexual violence. He said he was repeatedly assaulted by his uncle, though the exact nature of the assaults remains undisclosed in the public record. The allegations were denied by the uncle—a common occurrence in intra-familial abuse cases where the power dynamics are skewed and the victims often lack support.

What João endured during these formative years cannot be easily quantified. But it is clear that he saw escape as the only option. In his early adolescence, João ran away from home. He left behind the structure of a deeply flawed household and stepped into the equally uncertain life of a street youth.

—

Life on the streets of Joinville offered little in the way of comfort or opportunity. João Acácio, still just a teenager, was now tasked with surviving on his own. With no education, no family support, and no financial resources, he turned to theft.

At first, his crimes were small. He shoplifted clothing, food, and accessories—items that met both immediate needs and, increasingly, personal desires. According to later reports, João was particularly drawn to stylish clothing and colorful garments. It suggested more than just a need to keep warm—it hinted at a deepening preoccupation with self-image. Even in these early days, vanity was emerging as a central theme in João’s identity.

While still a teenager, João tried to support himself through legitimate work. He found occasional employment shining shoes and held two short-lived jobs in dry cleaning shops. But the wages were low, and the work unsteady. By then, João’s name was already known to local police. He was frequently picked up for theft and was said to be on the radar of officers in Joinville. As pressure from authorities increased, so too did the instability of his daily life.

It was during this chaotic period that João experienced another trauma. He claimed that he was sexually assaulted by a group of older boys—rivals who viewed him as competition on the streets. The specifics of the incident were never made public, but João would later refer to the experience as deeply humiliating and psychologically destabilizing. For a boy already burdened with a history of alleged sexual abuse, this second violation appears to have left him more isolated and volatile.

By his mid-teens, João Acácio had decided that Joinville held nothing for him. He needed to start over—somewhere farther from his past, somewhere where no one knew his name. He left Santa Catarina and made his way to the state of São Paulo, eventually settling in the coastal city of Santos, more than 500 kilometers from Joinville. It was in Santos that João would begin constructing a double life—one that would allow him to vanish in plain sight.

Modus Operandi and Notoriety

By the 1960s, São Paulo had become the symbol of Brazil’s industrial boom—and its social contradictions. In just a few decades, the city had transformed from a regional commercial center into a sprawling metropolis of concrete, steel, and noise. The economy was growing, factories were operating around the clock, and the downtown skyline was filling with office towers and new housing for the upper class. At the same time, the population was exploding. Migrants arrived daily, mostly from the northeast, fleeing drought and rural poverty in search of work and stability. But what they found instead were the edges of a city already stretched to its limit.

Public housing couldn’t keep up with demand, and the state was slow to respond. The result was a city with two faces. On one side, the image of progress: the wealthy in their modernist homes, shopping in air-conditioned department stores, sending their children to private schools. On the other, a growing underclass pushed to the peripheries, building precarious homes with whatever materials they could find, often without running water, sewage, or electricity. These areas became known as favelas, though not always officially designated as such. Residents spent hours commuting on crowded buses to industrial zones in neighborhoods like Mooca, Brás, and Ipiranga. A missed shift could mean a lost job. A sick child could throw an entire family into crisis.

The police operated differently depending on where you lived. In the wealthier neighborhoods, officers were there to protect. In the poor ones, they were a constant presence, more likely to arrest than assist. In the wake of the 1964 military coup, this dynamic intensified. The dictatorship imposed a hard line on all forms of dissent. Political parties were dismantled, unions were infiltrated, newspapers were censored, and arrests without charge became common. But the repression didn’t only target political activists. It reached the slums, the jobless, the petty criminals, and anyone who looked out of place in the “wrong” part of town.

It was in this city that João Acácio Pereira da Costa tried to find his place coming from Joinville in the southern state of Santa Catarina where he spent most of his childhood in state institutions—first shelters, then correctional facilities. He never really had a home, a family, or any kind of long-term support. By the time he arrived in São Paulo in his late teens, he was used to moving alone. The city didn’t offer much. With no diploma, no connections, and a police record that followed him, João drifted through low-paying, short-term jobs—often under the table, rarely stable. He never stayed anywhere long. São Paulo could swallow a person like that without anyone noticing.

But João wasn’t invisible to everyone. By the mid-1960s, he entered the police radar when he began to commit a series of increasingly bold robberies. They occurred in middle- and upper-class neighborhoods, and that made them news. His movements between cities—particularly between São Paulo and the coastal region of Baixada Santista—gave him temporary cover, but the attention was building.

Baixada Santista, especially Santos, played a crucial role in Brazil’s economy. The port of Santos was the largest in Latin America, and its output was essential to the country’s exports—coffee, sugar, industrial goods. But like São Paulo, the city bore the signs of inequality. Much of the port wealth never reached the workers who made it run. Many lived in overcrowded cortiços or on the hillsides surrounding the port area. Labor unrest had been common in the early 1960s, especially among dockworkers. After the coup, union activity was suppressed. Surveillance increased, arrests were frequent, and the line between political and common crime became indistinguishable. The state didn’t make distinctions when it came to who was considered dangerous.

In Santos, João Acácio took on a new identity as Roberto da Silva and told those around him that he was the son of farmers from the countryside—a quiet, well-mannered young man who lived alone and kept to himself. He dressed fashionably, took care of his appearance, and gave no reason for neighbors to suspect that anything was amiss. Behind this façade, however, João was actively cultivating a new method of survival—one far more dangerous and methodical than the petty thefts of his youth.

From Santos, João would travel to the city of São Paulo, where he carried out burglaries. Then he would return to the safety and anonymity of his apartment by the coast. This back-and-forth allowed him to operate under the radar, committing crimes in one city while maintaining a clean image in another. The strategy was calculated and effective. For a time, it allowed him to evade police and avoid suspicion altogether.

Santos and its neighboring towns—São Vicente, Guarujá, Cubatão—were also places where people went to disappear. Tourists from São Paulo filled the beaches on weekends, but during the week, these cities were slower, quieter, easier to blend into. João used that to his advantage. He kept his distance from others, changed addresses, and rarely stayed anywhere long enough to draw suspicion. He wasn’t part of a criminal network. He moved alone, relying on instinct and anonymity.

But São Paulo was changing again. By the late 1960s, crime—and especially the image of crime—was becoming central to public discourse. The press, though censored, still ran sensational headlines about violence, theft, and urban decay. The middle class, fearful of losing what it had, demanded stronger policing. Politicians responded by expanding the powers of security forces. Surveillance increased, and police were encouraged to act aggressively, particularly in cases involving property crime. The assumption was that the social order could be preserved by force. In practice, it meant more arrests, more disappearances, and more violence, particularly in poor communities.

João’s crimes fit into this narrative. He became useful—not just as a target for law enforcement, but as a symbol. His story, or at least the version that filtered through newspapers and police statements, reinforced a broader argument: that order was under threat and that extraordinary measures were justified. But behind that story was a man who had been shaped by the very institutions now hunting him. He had grown up under state care, been released into poverty, and found that the only way to survive was to remain untraceable. His crimes weren’t political in the traditional sense, but his existence—his refusal to disappear quietly—was treated as a challenge to the order the regime was trying to build.

—

This period of João’s life revealed a new layer of his personality: one marked by deception, manipulation, and theatrical flair. He began to lean into eccentric behaviors. He became obsessed with the color red, reportedly decorating his apartment entirely in crimson tones—walls, furniture, even personal items. According to João, the color red represented a demonic force, a spiritual symbol that resonated with his darker impulses. Whether this was a genuine belief or a cultivated piece of psychological theater is unclear.

João also idolized Roberto Carlos, the charismatic pop star at the center of Brazil’s Jovem Guarda movement. He copied the singer’s look, donning flashy clothes and stylish accessories. The image he crafted was carefully curated: outwardly modern, quietly confident, and seemingly benign. But beneath the polished exterior was a man growing more dangerous, more erratic, and more theatrical.

This period of calm concealment would not last. Soon, João’s crimes would escalate—both in scale and brutality. The quiet young man with the neat apartment and farmer’s son story would vanish, giving way to one of Brazil’s most infamous criminals: The Red Light Bandit.

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O Bandido da Luz Vermelha—The Red Light Bandit—earned his nickname through a chilling signature: during his nighttime home invasions, he carried a flashlight fitted with a red lens. The eerie glow it cast became the defining symbol of his crimes. In the dead of night, between the hours of 2 and 4 AM, João Acácio Pereira da Costa crept through the wealthiest neighborhoods of São Paulo. For over five years, he targeted the mansions of the affluent, exploiting both the darkness and the complacency of his victims.

His approach was systematic. Upon arriving at a property, he would disable the building’s electricity, plunging it into complete darkness. He wore a handkerchief over his face to obscure his identity, and moved through homes in near silence, the only light coming from the soft red beam of his flashlight—an item reportedly purchased from Mappin, a now-defunct department store in São Paulo.

But this was no ordinary thief. João Acácio wasn't content with simple break-ins or quick escapes. He seemed to thrive on control—on performance.

He turned his criminal activity into something closer to a theatrical production. Over time, he adopted multiple criminal personas, each with a distinct style and function, designed to confuse law enforcement and create the illusion that a team of perpetrators was at work.

Among these alter egos was the “incendiary bandit,” who set fire to hallways to incite panic and chaos. There was the “masked bandit,” a more conventional figure used during jewel heists, and the “monkey bandit,” who employed a car jack—a tool informally known in brazil as “macaco”, or “monkey”— to pry open windows and doors, showcasing an unusual mix of ingenuity and patience. His final identity—the one that ultimately stuck—was the Red Light Bandit, a figure designed to intimidate, to dominate, and above all, to be remembered.

João Acácio’s need for recognition bled into every aspect of his life. He was flamboyant, narcissistic, and theatrical even outside his crimes. He dressed in bright colors, donned elaborate hats, and was frequently seen wearing cowboy-style scarves. These choices weren’t just for flair—they served as part of his constructed persona. He wanted to be seen, even if no one suspected what he really was.

During the robberies, his psychological tactics were as calculated as his logistics. In many cases, victims would be woken not by sound or struggle, but by the red beam of a flashlight shining directly into their eyes—a disorienting, surreal experience. He would then threaten them with a 38 caliber revolver, sometimes speaking, sometimes silent, often demanding valuables while maintaining total control of the room.

In the beginning, his crimes were largely non-violent. He subdued residents, stole jewelry, and left without causing physical harm. But even then, there were unsettling undercurrents. In one case, he left a note destined to a female resident that was asleep which read: “My dear, a society woman should not sleep without clothes. The next time I come back here, I want to find you dressed. signed. The Red Light Bandit”

Small, cryptic details like this hinted at something darker behind the theatrics—something sadistic.

He reportedly broken into this same residence six months later to find the woman now fully clothed.

As time passed, João Acácio's violence escalated. What had started as a calculated string of robberies began to include rape and murder. The Red Light Bandit had grown bolder—and far more dangerous. His crimes spread fear throughout São Paulo. Newspaper headlines warned of a criminal who not only evaded capture but seemed to enjoy the spectacle of his own legend. The red light, once a tool of stealth, had become a symbol of terror.

This shift—from cat burglar to violent predator—marked the beginning of the end. The man who had once hidden behind masks and aliases was now too visible, too brazen to avoid scrutiny.

He was first arrested in São Paulo in 1966 for receiving stolen jewelry and booked under the false identity with the name Roberto da Silva. The police had no idea they had The Red Light Bandit in custody and released him just a few days later, when he resumed the routine of robberies.

—

On the evening of October 3, 1966, a private residence in the Sumaré neighborhood of São Paulo became the scene of a brutal confrontation. João Acácio Pereira da Costa, already known to authorities and the public for a series of bold burglaries targeting wealthier neighborhoods, had once again broken into a home. His method was familiar: gaining entry through poorly secured doors or windows, moving quietly through the property, and taking valuables before disappearing into the night. But this time, things didn’t go as planned.

Inside the residence was Walter Bedran, a 19-year-old university student. Walter, who lived there with his family, was home that evening. At some point, he became aware of the presence of an intruder on the property—likely through a sound or movement in the backyard. Rather than calling for help or retreating, Walter decided to confront the intruder directly. He attempted to surprise the man who had just entered his family’s yard.

Confronted unexpectedly, João Acácio reacted without hesitation. He drew his firearm and fired. The bullet struck Walter Bedran in the head, killing him almost instantly. The entire encounter was over in moments. One shot, one life ended.

This was not a killing committed in the course of a struggle. There was no scuffle, no drawn-out confrontation. According to João Acácio’s later statements, Walter’s attempt to surprise him was the sole trigger for the shooting. The teenager had stepped outside to investigate and was met with immediate, lethal violence.

This murder marked a shift in João Acácio’s crimes. Up until that point, his break-ins had been characterized by stealth, not confrontation. He would later identify Walter Bedran as his first homicide victim.

The pattern of violence did not stop there. Just ten days later, on October 13, 1966, João Acácio struck again—this time in the Bela Vista district of São Paulo. The victim was José Enéas da Costa, a 23-year-old laborer. The two men encountered each other inside a local bar, a place where neighborhood workers often gathered after long shifts.

What happened inside the bar was not entirely clear. Accounts of the incident are limited, but what is known is that a confrontation took place. It may have started as an argument, or perhaps José recognized João Acácio from prior incidents or suspected something was wrong. Whatever the reason, a fight broke out between the two men. At some point during the altercation, João Acácio killed José Enéas da Costa.

Unlike his previous murder, this killing was more chaotic—public, and possibly unplanned. It demonstrated a growing brazenness and volatility in João Acácio’s behavior. Where once he had operated in shadows, he was now willing to use lethal force in public places.

The next known murder occurred several months later, on June 7, 1967, in the upscale Jardim América neighborhood. This time, João Acácio targeted the home of Jean von Christian de Száraspatak, an industrialist of Hungarian descent. João had entered the property with the intent to rob it. But unlike many of his previous targets, this resident fought back.

Száraspatak resisted the intruder. Whether he was armed at the outset or managed to retrieve a weapon during the encounter is unclear, but what followed was a shootout inside the house. A direct exchange of gunfire between the homeowner and the armed burglar unfolded in close quarters.

During this exchange, Jean von Christian de Száraspatak was shot. The injuries he sustained were fatal. He died that night inside his own home.

This incident was significant not only for its violence but for the fact that it represented a clear escalation. João Acácio was no longer merely a thief who killed when surprised. He was now prepared to engage in armed confrontation if met with resistance. His crimes were no longer confined to theft—they had evolved into calculated acts where murder was a possible outcome from the start.

One month later, on July 6, 1967, João Acácio made another attempt to break into a high-value property—this time in the Ipiranga district of São Paulo. The residence in question was a mansion, likely chosen because of its appearance of wealth. But it wasn’t empty.

On duty that evening was José Fortunato, a private security guard—or vigia—responsible for watching over the house during the night hours. As João Acácio attempted to gain access, Fortunato intervened. Whether he confronted João at the entrance, spotted him moving through the grounds, or attempted to physically detain him isn’t described in the surviving reports. What is known is that Fortunato acted decisively to stop the intruder.

João Acácio responded the way he increasingly had been: with deadly force. In the confrontation that followed, he killed José Fortunato. The exact sequence of events remains unclear, and there is little surviving detail about whether the guard was armed or if a struggle took place. But the result was the same: João Acácio escaped, and another man was dead.

Four murders in nine months. Each killing marked by a mix of opportunity, resistance, and a willingness to escalate. The crimes of João Acácio Pereira da Costa had taken a darker turn, shifting from theft to targeted violence. And São Paulo—already tense from a rise in violent crime—was beginning to notice.

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Accusations of sexual violence were one of the most disturbing aspects of the criminal profile built around João Acácio Pereira da Costa. These allegations surfaced repeatedly in connection with the series of nighttime home invasions he carried out in São Paulo’s wealthier neighborhoods during the 1960s. According to newspaper Folha de São Paulo, João Acácio was held responsible for a string of robberies, murders, and rapes.

Contemporary press coverage routinely included references to sexual assaults occurring during these burglaries. Notícias Populares, a tabloid known for its sensational tone, published a serialized account of João Acácio’s life and crimes between late 1967 and early 1968. These reports played a key role in shaping public perception of the so-called “Red Light Bandit,” emphasizing not just the violence of the robberies but the disturbing patterns of sexual aggression that accompanied them. Some accounts even described him kissing women’s hands after stealing their valuables—acts that read as gestures of mockery or humiliation rather than misplaced gallantry.

Within the prison system, crimes of sexual violence such as rape are subject to formal legal evaluation and psychiatric assessment. Luciane Neitzel Friedrich’s dissertation, “Forms of Control and Individualization of the Prisoner”, examines how the Brazilian penal system applies criminological exams to assess prisoners and guide decisions on sentencing, parole, or rehabilitation. These evaluations consider various aspects of the individual’s criminal history, psychological profile, and behavior in custody. While João Acácio’s personal assessments are not quoted in detail in the text, Friedrich’s research does describe examples of such examinations in cases involving Article 213 of the Penal Code, which pertains to rape. One case study involves a prisoner who admitted to the crime but described the incident as an isolated event, showing visible discomfort and anxiety when discussing it. The example shows how the system documented and classified acts of sexual violence, even if the internal emotional or psychological dimensions varied from case to case.

Taken together, the rape allegations against João Acácio were supported by a combination of police records, press coverage, and institutional assessments. They were not isolated claims, but part of a larger narrative that surrounded his name.

His notorious nickname stemmed directly from his distinctive method of operation: the consistent use of a flashlight fitted with a red lens during his assaults. This particular flashlight was not merely a tool for navigating the dark interiors of the homes he targeted but a central element of his identity.

His criminal pattern was deliberate and repetitive. This act of illumination, coupled with the threat of violence, served as a chillingly effective form of intimidation. Beyond the immediate fear instilled by his method, João Acácio demonstrated a fascination with the moniker itself, which was notably a reference to the American criminal Caryl Chessman. Chessman, also known as the "Red Light Bandit" in the United States, reportedly used a red light during his crimes and was executed for rape and kidnapping. João Acácio was reportedly impressed by Chessman's story and made the conscious decision to adopt the identity, specifically incorporating a similar red flashlight into his own criminal repertoire. He also adopted a style of dress designed to project a certain image, imitating film bandits by wearing dark suits, felt hats, and a red scarf to cover his face, often carrying two revolvers.

This carefully curated image extended beyond his crime scenes. He would sometimes wear wigs and pose as a musician, carrying a stolen guitar.

The media played a significant role in shaping João Acácio's image and contributing to his notoriety. The press quickly seized upon the distinctive detail of the red flashlight and his terrifying methods, bestowing upon him the memorable nickname that captured the public imagination. This press attention, combined with his personality which was noted as being prone to fame and liking notoriety, resulted in his elevation in the public consciousness. He became widely known in São Paulo and across Brazil as the new public enemy number one, a status directly linked to the way his actions and persona were constructed and presented by the media.

Beyond his criminal actions, João Acácio spent the money acquired from his robberies on women and nightclubs. His activities took place across the São Paulo region, including luxury homes and the Baixada Santista area, and he also engaged in car thefts and dismantling in Rio de Janeiro.

Police Investigation and Capture

For several years, the identity of the Red Light Bandit remained unknown. He struck without warning and vanished without trace. What began as a pattern of calculated burglaries escalated into something far more dangerous—armed robbery, sexual assault, and eventually, murder.

Between 1960 and 1967, the man behind that nickname targeted wealthy households in upscale neighborhoods.

It wasn’t just the robberies that alarmed the public. It was the precision. The self-assurance. The way he entered and left undetected. Despite the frequency of the crimes and the distinct pattern in how they were carried out, the man’s identity remained a mystery for nearly six years. The São Paulo State Police pursued dozens of leads, collected statements from traumatized victims, and cross-referenced criminal records, but no name emerged. There were no fingerprints at most scenes. No eyewitnesses who had seen his face clearly. He seemed to vanish as easily as he appeared.

As his crimes escalated, so did public fear. Residents in affluent neighborhoods hired private security. Panic set in across São Paulo. Newspapers reported each new attack with increasing urgency, fueling outrage over the inability of law enforcement to stop him. Editorials criticized the police response, pointing to the pattern of crimes as evidence that the city was under siege. And yet, the red light continued to appear in homes across the city.

The case took a major turn when investigators recovered a partial fingerprint from the window of a mansion that had recently been targeted. The print was entered into police records and eventually matched to Roberto da Silva, João Acácio’s alias that first entered the system on his first arrest for receiving stolen goods, he also had a criminal record for armed robbery. The match gave police the breakthrough they had been waiting for.

Further investigation revealed that João Acácio had fled São Paulo and was living under an assumed name in Curitiba, in the neighboring state of Paraná. He had adopted the false identity Roberto da Silva in what appears to have been a deliberate move to avoid capture once he sensed the police closing in. Authorities moved quickly. On either August 7 or 8, 1967—sources vary on the exact date—police located and arrested João Acácio in Curitiba. He was 22 years old.

News of the arrest spread immediately. On August 8, the newspaper Jornal da Tarde ran a stark and memorable front page. It featured a photograph of João Acácio’s handcuffed wrists and the headline “Here is the bandit”. For São Paulo’s residents, it marked the end of years spent living under the threat of the red light.

During police interrogation, João Acácio reportedly confessed to several of the most serious crimes linked to the Red Light Bandit. He admitted to killing four men:

• Walter Bedran, a 19-year-old student, was shot in the head on October 3, 1966, after attempting to confront him during a break-in at his family’s home in Sumaré.

• José Enéas da Costa, a 23-year-old laborer, was killed ten days later in a bar in the Bela Vista neighborhood. Witnesses described a fight between the two men that ended in José being fatally shot.

• Jean von Christian de Száraspatak, an industrialist, was shot and killed on June 7, 1967, during a home invasion in Jardim América. He had resisted the robbery and exchanged gunfire with the intruder before being fatally wounded.

• José Fortunato, a security guard stationed at a mansion in Ipiranga, was shot dead on July 6, 1967, as he attempted to prevent João Acácio from entering the property.

These were just the homicides he confessed to.

The case dominated national headlines for weeks. Brazilians across the country were gripped by the details of João Acácio’s crimes, and his image quickly became one of the most recognizable in the press. For São Paulo’s population, especially its wealthier residents, his arrest brought a profound sense of relief.

But it also left behind questions—about how one man had evaded capture for so long, and how the police had failed to stop him before the killings began. The fingerprint had cracked the case, but many wondered why it had taken so many years for such evidence to emerge.

Trial, Conviction, and Imprisonment

The years-long reign of terror attributed to the "Red Light Bandit" came to an end. Now, with one man in custody, law enforcement could finally begin to connect the crimes, establish timelines, and build a formal case attributing the string of brutal home invasions and murders to a single individual.

The psychological effect of his presence was as impactful as the crimes themselves. In many cases, he confronted residents directly, threatening or assaulting them before escaping with stolen valuables. These break-ins were not just burglaries—they were acts of control and domination, carried out with escalating violence.

Once in custody, João Acácio faced a broad array of charges. The prosecution built its case on a long list of home invasions, assaults, and homicides, many of which had remained unsolved for years. As the evidence was compiled and testimonies gathered, the scale of his activity became apparent. Multiple sources agree that he was ultimately convicted of four murders, seven attempted homicides, and 77 robberies. Some reports cite a total of 88 proven crimes, including variations in the classification of certain offenses, such as latrocínios—robberies that ended in death.

Investigators also believed that he may have committed more than 100 rapes, though these figures were difficult to confirm, as few victims came forward or filed formal complaints. In many of those cases, the stigma, trauma, and fear of retaliation likely prevented survivors from seeking justice.

During his initial interrogation, João Acácio confessed to four specific killings. These incidents form the most violent chapter of his criminal record and aligned with forensic evidence and witness statements, cementing the prosecution’s case.

The court sentenced João Acácio to a total of 351 years, 9 months, and 3 days in prison—a sentence that reflected not only the number of crimes but their severity. Under Brazilian law at the time, however, the maximum term an individual could serve was 30 years. Regardless of the official sentence length, this cap meant that João Acácio would eventually return to society. Still, the formal sentence served as a symbolic end to one of the most notorious criminal episodes in the city’s history.

While incarcerated, João Acácio Pereira da Costa quickly acquired a "legion of fans". These individuals sent him letters, especially women, admitting to being in love with him and what they call his robin hood attitude about his robbery targets being the wealthy.

Sources describe these fans as "passionate about him", and he reportedly received many of these letters. The volume of correspondence was reportedly so significant that "it was enough to write a book about it".

This fan mail indicates that despite his criminal activities, his notoriety, amplified by the press attention he received, led to him gaining followers and admirers during his time in prison.

—

João Acácio entered the prison system under heavy sentence and intense media scrutiny. For the majority of the public, his incarceration marked the end of a nightmare. But his time behind bars revealed a different kind of descent—this time, psychological. Over the three decades he spent in custody, João Acácio would cycle through multiple facilities, endure prolonged isolation, and exhibit signs of serious mental illness.

He was held at various institutions, including the São Paulo State Penitentiary, better known as Carandiru, and the Taubaté Custody and Treatment Facility in the outskirts of the state that specialized in psychiatric care. These transfers suggest changes in his status—either due to shifts in behavior or in response to his psychological condition. The movement between standard prisons and treatment-oriented institutions became a pattern over the years.

Throughout his imprisonment, João Acácio reportedly had little to no contact with family. Very few visits were recorded, and the absence of external support likely contributed to his emotional and mental decline. In Brazil’s prison system, family visits often serve as a crucial lifeline, helping inmates maintain a connection to society and providing some measure of emotional stability. For João Acácio, that lifeline was largely absent.

Psychological deterioration became a defining feature of his later years in prison. Reports describe frequent psychotic episodes which led to his placement in a judicial psychiatric hospital. While incarcerated, he underwent a series of criminological evaluations conducted by psychologists and social workers. These assessments were standard in the Brazilian system, designed to gather information on an inmate’s psychological state, social background, and behavior in custody. The goal was to inform decisions related to treatment, sentence progression, or eligibility for transfer.

Two key psychiatric reports—one conducted shortly after his arrest and another closer to the end of his sentence—were later analyzed by Claudio Cohen, a psychiatrist and professor at University of São Paulo. Cohen concluded that João Acácio likely suffered from a borderline personality disorder, marked by emotional instability, difficulty maintaining a coherent identity, and behaviors that often mirrored those of the people around him. Although he sometimes presented with symptoms resembling schizophrenia, his actions—especially during his crime spree—showed a high degree of planning and control. This contrast made his case difficult to classify. One evaluation, conducted six years into his sentence, noted the presence of mental health issues but stopped short of offering a clear diagnosis.

The concept of semi-imputability—a legal status where an individual is considered partially responsible for their actions due to psychological conditions—applied to João Acácio. In theory, this status should have meant closer psychiatric supervision and treatment. In practice, it placed him in a grey area. He was deemed unfit for regular incarceration but not fully exempt from legal responsibility. The system struggled with how to handle such cases. Psychiatric evaluations often recommended extended treatment, but judges were not bound to follow those suggestions, and many did not.

The final years of João Acácio’s sentence were marked by growing instability. Institutional records reveal conflicting approaches—transfers between prisons and psychiatric hospitals, inconsistent diagnoses, and a lack of consistent care. The man who had once terrorized a city became a forgotten figure behind bars, deteriorating both mentally and physically. His thirty-year incarceration closed a chapter not only on his criminal career, but on a justice system ill-equipped to manage individuals with severe mental illness. João Acácio Pereira da Costa lived out his sentence in a cycle of confinement, psychiatric crises, and isolation—far from the headlines that once made him infamous.

Release and Death

After serving exactly 30 years of his 351-year, 9-month, and 3-day sentence, João Acácio Pereira da Costa became eligible for release and this process was far from routine. The State Public Prosecutor’s Office immediately moved to block it, citing serious concerns about his mental condition and his potential danger to the public.

On August 23, 1997, João Acácio was quietly transferred to the Taubaté Custody and Treatment Facility. Two days later, on August 25, the vice-president of the São Paulo Court of Justice issued a decision to temporarily suspend his release. But the order came too late—he was no longer in a standard correctional facility.

On the night of August 26, supported by an alleged hunger strike staged by prisoners at the São Paulo State Penitentiary, João Acácio walked free. The hunger strike, if true, would have marked a rare act of solidarity in a prison system where order was often maintained through violence and fear.

He returned to Joinville, the city of his childhood, where his story had begun decades earlier. What greeted him was not a warm welcome but a difficult, confused attempt at reintegration. He was in poor health and deeply changed. Reports described him as emaciated and toothless, having lost eleven teeth. He had spent the last three decades inside institutions with few, if any, consistent mental health services. Diagnosed with psychiatric disorders but never fully treated, his behavior was erratic and unpredictable. He’d wake up in the middle of the night, draped in a blanket and walk to the airport to watch planes taking off.

Locals recalled his peculiar attachment to the color red—he dressed in red shirts and red pants, as if clinging to the old nickname the press had given him**.** He signed autographs with the word “Autograph” scribbled without irony or flair. Despite his condition, or perhaps because of it, he attracted attention. His face still appeared in newspapers. He gave interviews. When asked about the crimes of his past, he expressed delight, not shame. Remorse was entirely absent.

His family tried to help. At first, his brother gave him shelter. Later, his nephews stepped in. Eventually, he ended up with his uncle, José Pereira da Costa, who had once cared for him as a boy. That too fell apart. Tensions rose, and João Acácio left. His life outside of prison was turning out to be as unstable as his life inside it.

Professionals had long struggled to define his condition. There were discussions within the Santa Catarina Prosecutor’s Office about forcibly admitting him into a psychiatric facility. Medical reports had flagged him as dangerous, but they lacked a clear diagnosis. Though disorganized and erratic in some ways, João Acácio still retained a sharp mind when it came to planning crimes. He was a man divided between illness and intent.

Brazil’s legal and correctional systems were not equipped to handle someone like him. There were few resources available for high-risk ex-prisoners suffering from long-term mental illness. In many ways, João Acácio had been released into a vacuum.

And his freedom would only last four months.

—

The exact number of days varies slightly depending on the source. Some claim four months and twenty days as a free man; others say it was closer to six months. But the outcome was the same. On January 5, 1998, João Acácio Pereira da Costa was dead.

The killing occurred in Joinville, in the Cubatão district, near Vigorelli Beach, a small, somewhat isolated fishing village. By then, João Acácio had been living under the roof of a local fisherman named Nelson Pinzegher, who had reportedly offered him food and shelter.

The exact details of what happened that day vary slightly between reports. Some claim the two men got into a fight in a bar. Others say it happened inside the house itself. According to Pinzegher’s account, tensions had been rising. He said João Acácio had harassed his 80-year-old mother, and made sexual advances toward his wife. On the day of the killing, João Acácio allegedly grabbed a knife and threatened the family.

Pinzegher claimed he acted out of fear. He went for his 12-gauge shotgun and fired a single shot, hitting João Acácio just below the left eye. It was a close-range blast. João Acácio collapsed. No one called an ambulance. According to the coroner’s report, he did not die instantly. His death was slow and painful, the result of internal bleeding.

Questions lingered. Some reporters described inconsistencies in witness statements. An exhumation was carried out, but it failed to provide clarity. Whether the act was truly one of self-defense or something else remained up for debate.

The legal process moved forward. Pinzegher was arrested and charged with homicide. The case was handled by the Joinville court, and dragged on for years.

In November 2004, nearly seven years later, Nelson Pinzegher was acquitted. The court accepted his claim of self-defense and dismissed the charges. The man who had offered a roof to Brazil’s most notorious thief walked free, legally cleared of any wrongdoing.

João Acácio’s final chapter closed not with a courtroom verdict or a return to prison, but with a shotgun blast in a remote fishing village.

A man who had once terrified the elite of São Paulo—whose crimes had made headlines and whose name became synonymous with a very specific kind of criminal mythology—died quietly, anonymously, on the floor of a borrowed house. His host pulled the trigger. The courts let him go.

There would be no more autographs.

Legacy and Cultural Impact

João Acácio Pereira da Costa was a name that evoked fear, fascination, and an uneasy sense of spectacle in Brazil during the 1960s. His crimes captured headlines and imaginations with an intensity that few criminals in Brazilian history have matched. His notoriety stemmed not only from the violence of his actions but from the deliberate, almost theatrical way he presented himself. What set him apart was not just what he did, but how he did it.

The red light wasn’t the only way he drew attention to himself. His crimes had a flair that felt more like performance than desperation and the press fed off that energy. Tabloid newspapers, especially Notícias Populares, treated his crimes like serialized fiction. They ran a detailed, 57-part series chronicling his background, behavior, and criminal acts. Each article added to the growing legend. He was called São Paulo’s own “Zorro,” a phantom figure cloaked in red shadows.

The contrast between his crimes and the limitations of the penal system only added to public outrage—and fascination.

That fascination wasn’t limited to the news cycle. Just a year after his arrest in 1967, his story leapt from the headlines to the movie screen. In 1968, filmmaker Rogério Sganzerla—just 21 years old at the time—released The Red Light Bandit, a film inspired directly by João Acácio’s life. Sganzerla didn’t aim to tell a straightforward true-crime story. Instead, he constructed a fragmented, chaotic narrative that mirrored the disorder of the times. Brazil was under a military dictatorship, and the film reflected that instability. He blended genres—part western, part cop movie, part slapstick comedy, part science fiction—and infused the work with irony, self-reference, and pastiche. The result was a landmark of “Marginal Cinema”, a movement that rejected state-sanctioned aesthetics and embraced the disjointed realities of Brazil’s social and political climate.

Sganzerla called his film “a western about the Third World,” and it was as much a critique of the country’s institutions as it was a portrait of a criminal. The character based on João Acácio was a cipher, a figure molded by violence, spectacle, and systemic failure. The film won several awards at the Brasília Film Festival that same year, including Best Film, Best Director, Best Editing, and Best Costume. Its reputation only grew over time. In 2015, it was ranked the sixth greatest Brazilian film of all time by the brazilian Film Critics Association. In 2010, over four decades after the original’s release, a sequel—Light in the Darkness: The Return of the Red Light Bandit—was released, co-directed by Ícaro Martins and Helena Ignez, Sganzerla’s widow. It offered a postmodern continuation of the myth, further blurring the line between fact and fiction.

The Red Light Bandit wasn’t just a cinematic character. His life became the subject of books, songs, and public speculation. Journalist Gonçalo Junior published Infamous — The Story of Red Light, the Bandit Who Terrorized São Paulo, a detailed account that traced his early years, his descent into crime, and the public narrative that followed. Musicians picked up the thread. The brazilian rock band “Ira” released a song titled "Rubro Zorro" on their 1988 album Psicoacústica, using lyrics pulled directly from Sganzerla’s film. Horrorcore artist Patrick Horla also referenced him in the song “O bandido da lupa vermelha.” These cultural responses didn’t just keep the story alive—they reinterpreted it for new audiences, turning the Red Light Bandit into a kind of folkloric antihero, a symbol that could be used, questioned, and reimagined.

Still, behind the myth was a real person, obsessed with how he looked. The press would later fixate on this element of vanity, using it to frame him as someone who saw himself as more than just a thief—someone who styled himself as a character to be remembered.

Upon his release in the late 1990s, he gave interviews to the press. What emerged was deeply unsettling. He expressed pride in his crimes. He seemed to enjoy recounting what he had done. There was no apology, no visible remorse. His demeanor suggested that the role he had built for himself—the Red Light Bandit—had never left him.

Experts noted the difficulty in diagnosing individuals who commit violent crimes of this scale. Sometimes there is no singular trauma or diagnosis that can explain it. Sometimes the motive is simply that someone stood in the wrong place at the wrong time. In João Acácio’s case, the closest the public came to understanding him were his own words—and they offered little comfort.

The details of his final days were far less sensational than the rest of his life, but the legend he left behind continued to ripple through Brazilian culture. He remains one of the most iconic figures in the country’s criminal history—not just because of what he did, but because of how thoroughly he was absorbed into a nation’s imagination. Through the headlines, the films, the songs, and the interviews, the Red Light Bandit became a story Brazil couldn’t stop telling.