Текст книги "Crime of Privilege"

Автор книги: Walter Walker

Соавторы: Walter Walker
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

He peered through his lenses. Did I see how difficult this was?

“Bill quit his job. I don’t know, he may have lost it, but this search for the killer became an obsession with him. Always coming up with some theory or other.”

Mitch stopped talking for a moment. His fingers began to beat on the desk. A rhythmless sound like typewriter keys clacking.

“After a while they all seemed to revolve around the Gregorys. There was a party that didn’t really happen. A pickup at the general store that nobody is quite sure actually took place. You know the kinds of things I’m saying. A horrible thing happens in the Gregorys’ neighborhood and all of a sudden conspiracists are everywhere, feeding the grieving parents information that doesn’t really have any factual basis. All that does is make us have to be extra-careful on our end. Pressure like the kind Bill puts on almost makes you push back harder than you otherwise would. You listen, sure, but after a while you grow pretty skeptical and you just say, okay, show me what you’ve got, but I’m not carrying the water for you just because some right-wing nut who has it in for the Gregorys says one of them was seen talking to a pretty blonde girl on the night Heidi died. Heck, that’s what the Gregorys do. Probably isn’t a pretty blonde girl on Cape Cod who hasn’t been talked to by at least one of the Gregorys.”

He gave a modified laugh. It sounded like a steam heater. His mouth laughed, his chest laughed, his eyebrows stayed put, elevated above his glasses. Like his mustache, they were too dark for his pale skin. The image they presented distracted from his message.

Still, I smiled, because that is what he wanted me to do. Eight years we had barely spoken to each other and now, in a matter of minutes, we were so inextricably intertwined that we could make little in-jokes about our mentors. If things kept improving like this, I might soon get out of the basement. Maybe even get invited to the Pops concert. Sit at a round table and help Mitch look for celebrities.

Hey, there’s Regis Philbin.

4

.

“DON’T WE PAY FOR ALL THE THINGS WE DO, THOUGH?”

Who said that? Hemingway. Lady Brett to Jake Barnes, the protagonist in The Sun Also Rises.

What had she ever done to compare with what I had?

Better yet, is what she said even true? Or is it true for some but not for others? Was Peter Martin paying now that he was a doctor in San Francisco, living in Pacific Heights, attending opening night at the opera in black tie? What about Jamie Gregory, now a Wall Street banker, living in a landmark four-story townhouse in the Village?

The one who really paid was Kendrick, and all she did was get drunk.

Kendrick. Her father. Her mother. And, oh yes, George Becket, living by himself on the Cape, working out of the basement office of a political hack, lying awake at night thinking about how different things might have been.

5

.

CELLO DIMASI WAS SAID TO HAVE BEEN A FINE BASEBALL PLAYER. He went to an obscure college in Connecticut but made it onto the Hyannis Mets in the Cape Cod League, which bills itself with good reason as the premier summer collegiate league in the country. He played two years for the Mets as a catcher who couldn’t hit, had a bad arm, but handled the pitchers well and excelled at blocking the plate. There is a picture on the wall in Muggsy’s showing him upending a guy who stood six-feet-four and went on to play five years for the Baltimore Orioles. The guy is literally flying through the air, and Cello, his head down, his squat body hunched and tilted forward, has both feet planted firmly on the ground.

Cello never fulfilled his dream of signing with the pros, but he made a lot of friends in the area. After college, he ended up on the Barnstable police force, and after twenty years on the job had worked his way through the ranks to the position of chief.

Like Mitch White, Cello had a cadre of supporters, but they were most definitely not the same cadre. Cello’s group were people like “the Macs,” McBeth and McQuaid, people who ran the building trades, put on fishing and golf tournaments, coached youth sports, went to Muggsy’s for breakfast and took their cocktails at Baxter’s on the waterfront during the off-season when the tourists weren’t around.

I knew the chief only in terms of discussing cases. There had been the bicycle-theft incident over which we had been at odds, but for the most part we were able to work things out to our mutual interest. The Kirby Gregory matter might not have had such a positive outcome for her if the Breathalyzer results had not been made questionable by a failure to locate the calibration records of the device. On the other hand, Michael McBeth’s nephew was able to walk with a reckless even though he had spent the night puking his guts out in a Yarmouth jail cell.

The chief greeted me as though I had come to cut another deal.

“Georgie!” he said, calling to me through the bullet-proof window of the utilitarian reception area of police headquarters off Phinney’s Lane. “C’mon back. Maddy, buzz the good counselor through.”

Maddy buzzed, I pushed open a metal-plated door, the chief stuck out his hand, and we shook with the force of a couple of pile-drivers. I had been the victim of Cello’s crushing handshakes in the past, and I knew from my years playing football that you got hurt less when you met force with force. “C’mon back. Take a load off your feet,” he said, for Maddy’s benefit. Maddy, if I was not mistaken, was married to one of the guys who did building inspections for the coastal commission, guys who made sure new construction was not too close to the water or didn’t have too many bathrooms or nonnative plants in the landscaping, guys who could make life miserable for a lot of people if they felt so inclined.

The chief’s office had fake wood paneling and bookshelves that were filled with trophies from youth sports: soccer, swimming, baseball, basketball. I couldn’t imagine the chief or his kids having much to do with basketball, given the fact that the chief was about five-feet-seven and two hundred forty pounds, but you can’t argue with trophies.

He went behind his desk, which was strewn with various objects—a coffee mug, a wrist brace, a woman’s shoe, an aerosol can, a flywheel—but he did not sit down. He was wearing the dark blue uniform of his force, looking like a man ready to spring at the sound of an alarm.

“What do you got?” he asked. He did not do it in an unfriendly way, just a businesslike way. He and I were neither friends nor enemies, although the rules of our engagements required us to appear to others to have a certain camaraderie.

“You still working on the Heidi Telford matter?”

“Heidi Telford,” he repeated. “Anything New? It would be a closed case if it weren’t for that poor bastard. What do you got?”

“Just the poor bastard. He’s kind of glommed on to me now. I told him I’d look into it.”

“What’s to look into?” The chief still hadn’t sat. Neither had I. We were talking across his desk as if it were a stream that could not be forded. “Girl got her head bashed in and then got dumped on the golf course. Thing about that course is, you got a fairway runs right along West Street. You go down that street two, three o’clock in the morning, you’re gonna be the only one there. Stop alongside the road, pull the body out of the backseat, run it out to the fairway. You’re gonna be gone less than a minute and that body’s not gonna be found till dawn.”

“Less than a minute? How much did she weigh?”

The chief squinted at my impertinence. Then he regrouped. He still was not sure why I was there, what I was trying to do. “She wasn’t a big girl. Hundred and ten, hundred fifteen pounds at the most. Maybe less, I don’t remember. And maybe it would have taken a couple of minutes, get her out of the car, across the fairway, into the trees where we found her.” He slung his hand from one side of him to the other. “Point is, other than us guys patrolling the place, you’re just not gonna find any traffic out there at night. Only people live on West Street are rich ones who are so old they fall asleep at nine o’clock at night. What do you got?”

“And what did she get hit with?” I asked.

“Probably a golf club. That’s what the medical examiner figured, anyway.”

“Okay, so correct me if I’m wrong, Chief. The girl’s found on a swanky golf course, her head crushed by a golf club. That doesn’t sound like she got picked up by a transient.”

“Who said she was?”

“Well, what do you think happened?”

Perhaps it was the tone of my question. Perhaps I should have shown more deference to the chief of police. In any event, Cello DiMasi exploded. “How the fuck do I know? If I knew, I’d arrest somebody, don’t you think, Counselor?”

I smiled. I said I was sure he would.

He grumped, like maybe it would be best if I just got my overeducated ass out of his office, out of his police station, took my bleeding heart out to save the colored kids who steal honest people’s bikes.

My smile did not seem to be working. I used to have a good one. Now I get the feeling people regard it as something I just drop over my face, like a page on a flip chart. Still, what do you do when you’re trying to placate someone like the chief? I tried words. “Mitch White thought it might be a good idea if I took a look through the file.”

“Mitch White, huh?” The message was clear: Mitch White, another Ivy League prick like me.

I slowly lifted my hands, palms up, as if there was nothing I could do, Mitch was my boss. Smile, speak, roll over like a dog with my paws in the air.

The chief hitched his belt, made the leather creak. He was not wearing any weapons, but the belt was black and three inches thick, the kind that could hold a gun, a truncheon, a foot-long flashlight. Somehow hitching it, making it creak, passed for a sign of dominance.

“C’mon,” he said, and led me out of the office and down a corridor in which the walls were made of cinder blocks painted light green. We had to walk a good hundred feet and every time we encountered someone, the person would squeeze his back to the wall and say, “Chief,” as we passed. The chief did not acknowledge anyone by name, just nodded as he steamrollered toward our destination, a green door with a wired window at the far end of the corridor.

He grabbed the brass handle, shouted, “Door,” and somebody in an adjoining room buzzed it open. He did not look back, just flung the door wide and let me catch it on my forearm before it slammed shut again.

The department’s file room was virtually a warehouse, with rows of adjustable shelves that looked as if they had been built from an erector set. There was a little desk just inside the door, but nobody was at it. “Clancy!” the chief bellowed, and an ancient cop in a faded uniform that looked nearly as old as he scuttled out from the stacks.

“Right here, Chief.”

Cello DiMasi flung a thumb in my direction, again without looking at me. “This here’s Assistant D.A. Becket. He wants to look at what we got on the Telford case.”

The old man turned to me with an expression of concern. Worry, maybe. Possibly fear. “The Telford case, sure. Right this way.” He made another turn and hurried down one aisle with his shoulders curled forward and his hands splayed in front of him as if he were sweeping for mines. We followed, me first and then the chief, and Clancy took us all the way to the end of the aisle, where he began scanning the shelves, looking over once or twice at the chief as if to tell him not to get excited, the files were right here somewhere.

Like Clancy, I looked at the chief. Unlike with Clancy, the chief did not look back at me. He was still seething over whatever insult he thought I had dealt him. I was in the process of replaying our conversation in my head when Clancy let out a cry of relief and hauled two cardboard boxes from the back of a shelf, where they had been obscured by a whole series of other files. The boxes had the name Telford written on them in black Magic Marker, and the old man dropped them onto the floor in triumph.

The chief looked down, poked them with the rounded toe of his shiny black shoe, and said, “Lemme know if you find anything us dumb cops overlooked.” Then he spun around and left me to do my own digging.

Once the chief was gone, Clancy began fawning over me. He had a nice desk and chair for me, he said. He could bring the boxes to me. He offered me coffee, claimed he had just made a fresh pot. I picked up one of the boxes, nodded to him to pick up the other, and told him all I needed was his desk and chair.

I HAD COME TO the police station with the idea that it was going to take me hours to go through the evidence. It took forty minutes. Then I went back and went through it again, sure that I had missed something.

The contents of one box consisted almost entirely of photographs, pictures of a blonde girl in a sleeveless summer dress sprawled on her stomach under a maple tree just to the side of a meticulously groomed fairway; close-ups of the back of her head, looking not so much crushed as carved open like a melon; close-ups of her face after she had been rolled onto her back, her eyes closed, her features expressionless, somehow unreal, as if she were not a person at all but a model of one. There were scores of shots from the autopsy, including about a dozen of her naked body lying on a metal table, but I chose not to look at them. I was interested mostly in the way she appeared on the golf course.

The dress was of no particular quality that I could discern. It was blue, patterned with what appeared to be little red roselike figures. She wore no shoes and of course no stockings. The photos at the scene did not show whether she was wearing underwear, but in the second box there was a sealed clear plastic bag with a pair of pink-and-white striped bikini briefs. The autopsy report, also in the other box, said she was wearing the briefs but no bra. I went back and looked at the pictures of her lying supine on the coroner’s table. It was hard to tell from that position, but she did not appear to be a woman who could regularly go braless without attracting considerable attention.

I did not need to speculate about her legs. Her knees, just below the kneecaps, showed grass stains.

A good-looking girl, twenty years old, had either been on her knees voluntarily or had been dragged across a lawn. I studied the pictures yet again. There were none of the golf course itself. It was depicted only as the location of the body. One shot was taken from the road, looking through one set of trees, across the fairway to a thicker copse where Heidi’s body lay. Another was taken from just beyond the first set of trees, on the fairway side, showing about one hundred feet of grass. Another was taken at fifty feet from the body, yet another at twenty-five, and then several at ten feet. I could not tell from any of them if there was a drag path.

I had to assume there wasn’t. Surely, if there was evidence that she had been dragged, the police would have recorded it.

What the photos did show was that there had been plenty of foot traffic in the dew-laden grass. I pulled out the police report and read that at 5:45 a.m. on Tuesday, May 26, 1999, a groundskeeper named Rinaldo DaSilva had discovered the body on the sixteenth fairway. He had been driving a golf cart pulling a fantail rake behind it when he had first noticed what he described as “a pile of blue.” He had thought, for some reason, that it was a pool cover that had blown onto the course from somebody’s home and so he had not gone to it right away. When he did realize what it was, he panicked. He got out of his cart and ran to her side but did not touch her, thinking that it would be wrong, inappropriate, something he shouldn’t do. Instead, he stood over, shouting down to her, “Lady! Lady, are you all right? Lady, wake up!” Then he ran to the street, thinking he might see somebody, some friend of hers, somebody who could help him. He admitted he was not thinking very clearly.

He ran back to her, forced himself to kneel down, to part her hair. He had seen that her hair and neck and back of her dress were bloody, but he hadn’t seen where the blood had come from until he separated the tangle of hair and saw what he thought was her brain. Then, he said, he fell over, fell backward onto his hands and did a crab-walk to try to get away from her. He thought he went about fifteen feet before he collapsed. Then he got to his feet and ran to the street again, shouting for help as loud as he could.

A man named Lowell Prentice came out of his house in his bathrobe, demanding to know what was going on. Rinaldo DaSilva pointed to the trees. Prentice followed Rinaldo back to the body, apparently hobbling with considerable difficulty because of some knee condition that required him practically to drag one foot behind him. Once there, he didn’t know what to do, either. The two of them seemed to accomplish little more than trampling whatever evidence might have existed.

According to the medical examiner, Dr. Rajit Pardeep, Heidi had died from intracraneal and intercerebral bleeding after having been struck on the back of the skull by a narrow, dull-bladed metal object. Given the fact that she had been found on a golf course, Dr. Pardeep surmised she had been struck by a golf club. He found no semen in her body cavities, no evidence of sexual molestation. Her stomach contents were thirty-three percent liquid, which he attributed to alcohol, and her blood alcohol level was .12, enough to be intoxicated but not falling-down drunk.

The investigation report was prepared by Detective Howard Landry. I knew him only by name. He worked serious crimes and I didn’t. His presence on the case meant that, at least initially, nobody was trying to sweep this under the rug.

May 26, 1999, he had been called at home at 6:10 a.m. and arrived at the scene at 6:42. Other officers as well as EMTs from the fire department were present, and Heidi Telford had already been pronounced dead. Barnstable police had put up yellow tape to seal off the area, but Landry confirmed my suspicion that irreparable damage had been done in terms of failing to preserve evidence of footsteps or drag paths. He could find no blood spatters on or around the maple tree beneath which the body was found.

He made a preliminary determination that the body had been brought to its resting place from the scene of the killing, and so he checked the roadside for tire marks in the dirt. Whatever was there had been obscured by what he called “first responder” vehicles. Since he did not otherwise identify them, I assumed he meant police patrol cars responding to Mr. Prentice’s 911 call.

In sum, neither Detective Landry nor anyone working with him found any clues on or near the sixteenth fairway of the Wianno Club golf course except the body itself.

Landry’s report traced the events of Heidi’s last day. It was Memorial Day, and she had had her first weekend of work in her summer job as a lifeguard at Dowses Beach in Osterville. She had gotten off work at five, driven home to Hyannis in her Jeep Wrangler, and arrived in particularly good spirits. Her parents attributed that to her really liking her job.

She had spent about an hour and a half doing “the usual things,” according to her parents: ate, showered, changed. At around 7:30 she had gone out, telling her mother she was going to walk down to Main Street, which was only a quarter-mile away. On a summer night, Main Street, Hyannis, is probably the most active stretch of road anyplace on Cape Cod, with the possible exception of Commercial Street in Provincetown. Stores, bars, and restaurants are open, and tourists flood them all, along with the sidewalks and the vehicle travel lanes. Locals tend to stay away from Main Street at such times, but this was the very end of the holiday weekend and most visitors would have gone home.

What the Telfords thought was peculiar—disturbing, even—was that Heidi had not been wearing the blue dress with the red rosettes when she went out. She had been wearing white shorts, white sandals, and a yellow Izod shirt, which, her mother insisted, she never would have worn without a bra. She was a D-cup, her mother said. She wasn’t the kind of girl to show off.

Her mother remembered that she was carrying a rather large purse, a rope or hemp purse with two brown leather handles that you could sling over your shoulder and let ride on your hip. She had not thought anything about it at the time. Afterward, she wondered if her daughter had been carrying the dress inside the purse. But, she said, she couldn’t think why she would do that. She had just finished her sophomore year at Wheaton. All she had to do was tell them if she was going out on a date.

Landry appeared to have done a good job canvassing Main Street. Within two days he had presented her picture at every bar and restaurant. While she was known to some of the waiters, waitresses, hostesses, and even a few of the bartenders, nobody had seen her that night. Landry expressed a lack of surprise. He noted she was twenty years old and not old enough to drink legally, and she had eaten before she went out.

He thought he might have better luck with sales staff and shopkeepers, but his interviews with them had also failed to produce anyone who had seen her at any time after she left her parents’ home.

He met with friends, co-workers, high school classmates, college classmates, former boyfriends, and came up with no one who had any idea why someone would kill Heidi Telford or even want to. The most common response, repeated several times by different people, was that she “was not that kind of girl.” With no clues, no weapon, and not even any rumors to follow, Landry essentially gave up. His report was still labeled “Preliminary,” the file was still labeled “Open,” but the last thing I saw with a date on it read 2000, and there was no sign that anything had been added to it since then.

Whatever the things were that Heidi’s father had been giving to District Attorney White, they had never even made it into the police department’s boxes.