Teach Me to Kill

by Stephen Sawicki

  The captain talked to her for a bit, then sat her down in his car for some follow-up questions.

  Jackson was division commander, a supervisor, so he seldom allowed himself to wade in too deeply into an investigation. Still, he tried to touch base with the players in the bigger cases, so he at least had a feel for the people he was reading about in the reports.

  He started with asking Pam how she was holding up and then moved to more personal matters. Don’t be insulted, he said, but these questions have to be asked: Was Greg having an affair? Were you? Did you have any money problems? Drug problems?

  Point by point, Pam said no.

  Like Pelletier, Jackson wondered why this young woman did not cry more. “Her husband hadn’t been dead for twenty-four hours yet,” he said, “and generally if you’ve got a victim and you start talking about their husband they’ll break down. There were a couple tears, but she did not seem overly remorseful.”

  At the time, though, that bothered Jackson less than the widow’s reaction when he made the routine suggestion that she please refrain from talking to the media. As a courtesy, she was being informed about the investigation, but to release any details now could be harmful later, he said.

  “She got very defensive about the press,” Jackson remembered. “She said, ‘Don’t talk bad about them, I’m one of them too.’ That struck me as odd.”

  After all, Pam was not quite “one of them.” She had majored in communications at Florida State University, from which she had graduated a couple of years earlier, and had dreamed of following in the footsteps of Barbara Walters. Instead, she had taken the media center position in Hampton, married Greg, and settled down.

  In her job she wrote press releases and ran around to the schools, taking pictures and writing newsletter features about kids designing toothpick bridges and the like. She also purchased media equipment and now and then held workshops for the students in how to use it.

  Jackson was taken aback but quickly wrote her reaction off. “My thought was that this woman was showing grief in a little bit of a strange way,” he said. “But people do.”

  Late that afternoon the state police finished their work on the crime scene and Jackson allowed Pam, Greg’s father, and Pam’s mother inside to choose the clothes for Greg’s funeral as well as to pick up some odds and ends.

  A towel was placed over the large bloodstain where Greg’s head had been so the family would be spared. When Pam came in she stunned the cops by walking right on top of it. Not much later she lit into Jackson because he had come in from the rear doors and accidentally closed them on the drapes. Then she starting complaining about the black fingerprint dust on the sofa.

  “Who’s going to clean this up?” she demanded.

  Bewildered, the cops said nothing.

  Upstairs in the master bedroom she started selecting Greg’s clothes. Over the years that Jackson had been there, Derry saw twelve to fifteen homicides, and as a result he had seen his share of grief-stricken families. Usually they lingered when going through their loved ones’ belongings as they tried to select just the right items for the deceased to wear, a favorite tie perhaps or a shirt that brought back memories.

  Pam hardly hesitated. “It was open the drawer and grab a shirt,” remembered Jackson. “First one on the top. It was like, ‘OK, give me some underwear, give me some socks, give me a shirt.’ Which struck me as somewhat strange. The other cops on the scene were picking up on it too. After she left you’d look at each other and you’d kind of raise an eyebrow.”

  Bill Smart looked at what Pam was selecting. He remembered stopping her because nothing matched and told her he would select the clothes. That done, they went to leave. Then Pam stepped outside and broke down.

  ◆◆◆

  The crime scene investigation was finally completed. The cops had canvassed most of the neighborhood. And very little was perfectly clear.

  Only one neighbor remembered anything being out of the ordinary the night before. Paul Dacier in 4D had noticed Gregory Smart coming home at around nine and then heard a “pitter patter” of what he thought were feet scuffling across the floor as well as two thuds separated by a few minutes. Both sounded like the door slamming.

  Only slightly more enlightening was the crime scene itself. A good bet was that whoever did this had come in through either the French doors in back or the bulkhead that led to the cellar. Both were unlocked and seemed not to have been forced open.

  Most likely the escape was through the back. A glass-topped table was slightly imbedded in the wall near the rear doors, as if someone had slammed into it while fleeing.

  That morning the chief medical examiner, Dr. Roger Fossum, performed the autopsy and ruled that Gregory Smart had been shot once in the head. The bullet, which was medium caliber, had entered from the top of his skull, slightly left of center, and ricocheted within. Smart surely died instantly.

  Yet the autopsy only revealed the cause of death, not the way he died. That was another mystery.

  Fossum noted that the wound was not clean but torn, a telltale sign that the gun had been extremely close, maybe even touching Smart’s head when it was fired.

  But other characteristics of such a shooting were missing: No substantial gunpowder residue could be found on Smart’s scalp. And lead fragments were recovered from the skin near the wound. That meant the bullet probably had started fragmenting before it struck Smart’s skull. And, of less significance, no blood from the bullet’s impact had spattered on the wall–or anywhere for that matter–near the body.

  Nothing was certain, but the best explanation was that something–even an object as soft as a pillow or a towel–had been placed between the gun barrel and Gregory Smart’s head. But what? And why? Was it an attempt to muffle the sound? Or was it something more sinister?

  Equally baffling was the blue towel–Pam had told police she thought she saw a blue pillow–that had been found slightly under Smart’s head and covering most of the wound on top. It apparently came from the upstairs bathroom. And it made the investigators wonder: Had the killer had a change of heart and tried to help the victim after shooting him? Or was the murderer a neatness freak of some kind, someone who either consciously or unconsciously wanted to avoid bloodying the carpet?

  A white paper towel, again inexplicably, had been on the floor just to the right of the body. One had been found under Smart’s legs as well.

  The condo itself clearly looked as if it had been burglarized. The things near the door appeared to have been set there for quick removal, and it seemed as if Greg’s arrival had interrupted matters.

  The place had also been torn apart. But upstairs it was neater. Things did not seem to have been strewn about as haphazardly, so there was talk that perhaps two people–one being more fastidious than the other—had been present.

  And missing was a black pillow from one of two sets of color-coordinated pink, blue, and black pillows on one of the couches. It only followed that the criminals had emptied the stuffing and used the pillowcase to carry whatever they stole.

  Something, though, was just not right about the scene. When Greg Smart’s body had been removed about 4:30 that morning, the state police found a three-diamond gold ring that had been beneath him as well as his keys and wallet, which had been between his legs. If he had had any cash, it was gone now, but his credit cards remained.

  Indeed, it looked as if Smart had interrupted a burglary and paid for it with his life.

  Yet that theory had its problems. For one, it made little sense to rob a high-density condominium at night, especially since most of the people who lived there were gone during the day but were usually home in the evening. The gun also seemed out of place, considering that most small-time thieves do not pack firearms. And one would think that a professional robber would want the credit cards and the diamond ring. After all, those items could be quickly turned over for cash. But they had been left.

  Someone had said that Greg gambled now and then. He and h
is parents and friends had often gone to Atlantic City to take in the casinos and the nightlife. Maybe Greg crossed the wrong people somewhere along the line.

  Drug involvement was also a possibility. Certainly some of the neighbors were convinced that a drug deal had gone sour and that Smart paid the price. After all, they reasoned, a number of loud parties had taken place at unit 4E in the past year, and all kinds of people – long haired and strangely dressed – were always over. A neighbor had even gone to the condo association about the noise.

  For the police, narcotics were as good a guess as any. So when a marijuana cigarette had been discovered during the search of Greg’s pickup truck, the state police brought in two German shepherds, Magnum and Wolf, to sniff around the condo and the neighborhood for narcotics or any other evidence the police may have missed. The dogs found nothing.

  ◆◆◆

  Murder always plays well with the media in the Granite State, largely because it happens more seldom there than in Massachusetts and Boston in particular. Derry is also located such that it is saturated by regular coverage not only from its own twice-weekly newspaper but also the dailies out of Manchester, Nashua, and Lawrence, Massachusetts. The state’s ABC affiliate, WMUR-Channel 9 in Manchester, also kept regular tabs on happenings in Derry.

  So when a twenty-four-year-old life insurance salesman took a slug in the head in his rented upscale condominium, news editors all around knew they had a good story. The morning after, the local reporters descended on Derry, chasing down anyone who knew anything about the killing or the victim. WMUR’s Bill Spencer even did a live report from in front of the condo at noon.

  Rumors about Greg’s involvement in the drug trade were rampant, but were proving difficult to pin down. One of the anchors at channel 9 said on the air that narcotics could have been the motive for the shooting, but most of the media played it safer. Some papers quoted the police as saying this did not appear to be a haphazard attack or a burglary gone awry, but most simply reported that it was too early to say.

  Why Smart was killed was a mystery, but the pathos was obvious. Married six days shy of a year, he had been an up-and-comer, co-winner of the rookie salesman-of-the-year award at MetLife, seemingly without enemies. “Shooting victim called all-around American boy,” read the headline in the Lawrence Eagle-Tribune.

  Deeper levels of melancholy were to be discovered as well. There was, for one, the aspect of the newlywed wife having found the body. And the reporters also learned about the special relationship Greg had with his father, with whom he worked at Met Life.

  “He would give you the shirt off his back,” co-worker Bruce Dube told the Union Leader out of Manchester. “That’s why this is so confusing. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Paul Breault, the manager at Greg’s office, told the Nashua Telegraph: “Gregory was always ready to help anybody. He had an excellent sense of humor and was always laughing. He did his best to make everyone smile. He was very much in love with his wife and was very close to his father.”

  The Derry News got ahold of the widow’s parents: “Pamela Smart’s father, John Wojas, of Windham, said his daughter was sad, but bearing up well. ‘She keeps asking who will hug me and tell me they love me,’ he said. ‘She’s holding up OK, but now she’s brokenhearted.’”

  Out on the New Hampshire seacoast, the story earned only a few inches in Foster’s Daily Democrat. This, after all, was not a story that mattered to people who lived so far from Derry. The only reason it got reported at all was that the victim happened to be married to someone who worked in the school system in Hampton.

  “George Smart,” was how the paper identified the dead man, “the husband of media center director Pamela Smart.”

  ◆◆◆

  Greg Smart had been dead about a day and a half, and Bill Spencer, thirty at the time, had just come into work. The son of a former Miss America contestant and a Lincoln Continental salesman, Spencer had the ideal genetic makeup for a television reporter. A native of Detroit, he had started his career with stations in Texas, first in Midland and then in Odessa. He had been one of the first reporters on the scene when little Jessica McClure fell into a well and the rescue efforts mesmerized the nation.

  Now in New Hampshire at channel 9, Spencer had won a reputation as an aggressive reporter. At times, though, his hot pursuit of even the most basic stories irritated local police departments. Particularly bothersome was Spencer’s penchant for shouting questions and shoving microphones in suspects’ faces when they were being transported in handcuffs to or from court. To many, Spencer was playing big-city reporter in a venue that called for a gentler approach.

  Today for Spencer it was back to the Gregory Smart murder. Having done his basic reporting the day before, he was planning to make an attempt to interview the widow. All things considered, her grief would undoubtedly be severe. This was not a mission Spencer was savoring.

  Just before he got to his seat, someone called to him. “Hey, guess what, Bill, Pamela Smart’s on the phone,” he said.

  “Yeah, right,” Spencer said with a laugh. “Wouldn’t that be great.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Figuring he was the target of a newsroom prank, Spencer thought he would play along. He picked up the phone and said hello, but rather than the laughter he expected, Spencer heard a small and quick female voice.

  “Hello, Bill?” he heard. “This is Pam Smart.”

  She was calling, she said, because of all the talk that Greg’s killing was drug related. She wanted Spencer to know that that was preposterous. She told him that the police were not telling the public what had really happened inside the condo that night. She would like to talk.

  That afternoon, not long before Pam was to leave for Greg’s wake, she met with Spencer outside her parents’ house in Windham. She said she thought it would be inappropriate to be formally interviewed on camera, so soon after Greg’s death, but she did allow the cameraman to get some footage of her without sound.

  As is standard practice, the police were releasing no details about the crime scene, in order to prevent the killer from covering his trail later. Now, here was the widow, about to go to a wake, perfectly made up, wearing a fuchsia dress (the color, she would later say, that Greg liked best on her), and telling a TV reporter that she was certain Greg had interrupted a burglary. Drugs, she said, had nothing to do with it.

  The house had been ransacked, she said, the stereo speakers placed by the door, and her jewelry was missing.

  “I just want the truth to be known,” Pam told Spencer.

  ◆◆◆

  Greg Smart’s wake was broken up into two parts, one in the afternoon and the other in the evening. As friends entered the Peabody Funeral Home in Londonderry for the afternoon session, they were startled to see Greg’s father in the hallway arguing feverishly with Pam’s parents.

  “This is my son,” Bill Smart was saying emphatically, “And I want the casket open!”

  “But Pam wants it closed,” said Linda Wojas. “Pam won’t go in there if it’s open!”

  This had not been the first clash between the two willful families since Greg’s death. The parents had already exchanged words over what Greg would wear, the site of the wake, and in which town Greg would be buried. Bill Smart and Pam had also disagreed about the gray metal casket Pam had selected.

  Then, at the funeral home, Pam had announced that she wanted a closed casket during the wake. Bill Smart, grief stricken and angry because he felt the Wojases were trying to run the show, and simply wanting what he wanted, said no. The coffin would be open, he had said. Pam did not go to war over the issue. She said she would just stay out of the viewing room and they could shut the coffin when she came in.

  Now, just as the wake was beginning, the families were back at it. That is, until almost everyone around could hear Bill Smart’s voice starting to boom.

  “John, you were in that room with me and we agreed on this casket being open,” he said to Pam’s fathe
r. “And it’s going to stay open!”

  Bill Smart turned to Pam’s mother before stepping outside to calm down. “Don’t close that casket!”

  So it went, with Pam out in the hallway greeting the visitors – again crying one minute and collected the next – and the Smart family openly venting their anguish, at times not budging from before the coffin for as long as a half hour, while friends were forced to wait to pay their respects.

  Dozens of mourners, young and old, made their way in, embracing Pam and the family, offering their condolences and pouring out their grief. (Pam would later joke with friends that she was glad when the wake was over because everybody had been hugging her and she spent half the time with people’s armpits in her face.)

  “You guys think of a good saying for the headstone,” Pam would say every now and then to friends. “See if you guys can think of something so that Greg will be remembered.”

  The dead man would not soon be forgotten. The numerous people who passed along their sympathies, in person and from a distance, seemed to guarantee that. Dozens of flower arrangements, even one from the Trump Plaza in Atlantic City, where Greg and his dad had loved to gamble, were overflowing the room.

  A sign in the funeral parlor that day also told mourners that a memorial fund had been established in Greg’s name. The cause was not medical research or any of the usual charities one would expect. This one was to buy equipment for a mass media course that was to start the following fall at Winnacunnet High School. The class, in fact, had been approved at the school board meeting the very night Greg was murdered.

  Its teacher, of course, was to be Pamela. “I’ll know that Greg is part of my day, every day,” she said to a reporter a few days later. “He’ll touch the lives of every person who goes through that course in some way. It’ll be like a piece of him being there. For me it was important to find something positive out of this tragedy.”