Final Vows

by Karen Kingsbury

  Two months later, on October 24 of that year, Dan broke out of the treatment center and for lack of better ideas robbed another bank. This time he was caught only a few blocks away and sentenced to serve thirty-five years at the state penitentiary in Marion, Illinois. If Dan had been uncomfortable at Leavenworth, he was miserable at Marion. He would later say this about the experience:

  “With ten guys to a cell, if you ever spent the month of August in Kansas, let me tell you something. On the fifth floor of Leavenworth in a steel cage, it’s agony . . . Prison is a devil’s playground where nothing means anything to anybody, except survival. In prison, if you walk down a tier and you look at a guy’s cell, you got a problem, alright? And the problem is . . . the paranoia is so intense in those places that the least little thing that can be thought of as disrespect is a life-threatening situation. In Leavenworth there were guys who’d (get up in the middle of the night) and use a belt to tie the door closed so the officer couldn’t (burn him by) . . . opening the door, throwing gasoline on the guy behind bars and then throw a match. Yeah, Leavenworth was a bad place. But Marion was worse.”

  Marion was built to house inmates that once had been kept at Alcatraz. It was a facility for high flight-risks and custody problems where a thirty-five-year term made Dan something of a goodie-goodie. Most of the men at Marion were serving one or more life terms for crimes like murder, murder for financial gain, or mass murder. In the world of convicted criminals, having Marion, Illinois, as an address meant there was a strong chance of never seeing the streets again.

  At Marion, Dan again convinced inmates that he was involved in organized crime. He crossed paths with one of the nation’s most notorious criminals, Garrett Trapnell, who was serving time at Marion for multiple crimes including hijacking a passenger airliner.

  The two men shared a cell block and, according to Trapnell, spent many hours fantasizing about how they’d get rich when they were released. Of course many of the prisoners, even those serving double and triple life sentences, enjoyed dreaming about life on the outside. But Dan’s fantasies were particularly significant in light of Carol Montecalvo’s murder when Burbank police were still trying to decide how to prove Dan’s guilt.

  The way Trapnell tells it, Dan’s dream was to marry a wallflower, insure her for a large amount of money, and then kill her.

  Chapter 21

  The fact that Dan had threatened Officer McKillop only convinced Brian further that the man belonged behind bars. Now as he and his fellow detectives made their way to the nearby duplex Dan shared with Maree Flores, Brian hoped they would finally find the evidence they needed. Normally it took no more than two detectives to search a suspect’s residence. But for the search Brian planned to conduct, he brought five men, one holding a camera.

  Brian knocked on the first-floor front door and Maree Flores answered, looking both frightened and confused as she pushed her thick black hair away from her face. Brian silently wondered at Dan’s ability to gain the friendship of soft-spoken, kindhearted women like Carol and this woman before him.

  “Dan’s not here,” she said, anticipating the reason for their visit.

  “We have a search warrant,” Brian said flatly, holding up the document. “We’d appreciate it if you’d open his apartment for us.”

  Maree nodded, retrieved a key from a jar in her kitchen, and led the way. Dan was right, she thought. They’re trying to frame him. She opened the door for the officers and then hurried back down the stairs.

  Once inside, Brian motioned the field evidence technician to the front of the group.

  “Okay, start snapping,” he said.

  Brian did not want to make any mistakes in this step of his investigation. If Dan was claiming that officers destroyed his home in the days after Carol’s murder, then he was likely to say the same thing about this search. Brian intended to be one step ahead of him and so had brought Field Evidence Technician Dennis Bradford along to take pictures before and after the search.

  Bradford took pictures for seven minutes in each room of the apartment before Brian gave them permission to start. Brian searched Dan’s bedroom, meticulously sorting through paperback books, linen closets, and dresser drawers. In less than an hour he made his first find. Underneath the right side of Dan’s bed, Brian found a spiral loose-leaf notebook which Dan had apparently used as a journal. As Brian flipped through the pages he felt the blood drain from his face. It was a record of every move Brian had made on the Montecalvo case since he was assigned to it a year earlier. Each entry was specifically detailed with a date, the name of the person interviewed, and the general content of the interview. Early in his investigation Brian had often suspected that Dan was following him. The notebook confirmed his suspicions. Brian carefully placed it inside an evidence bag.

  Early in the afternoon Brian made his second find. It was a receipt for a storage unit in Irwindale, nearly fifty miles south of Burbank. As Brian held the wrinkled piece of paper, he wondered if he had just struck gold.

  The police returned Dan’s belongings and dresser drawers to their original places, and Bradford spent another ten minutes taking photographs.

  “Let’s get over to Irwindale,” Brian said as they made their way down the stairs. By then bullets collected from the murder scene had proven that Carol was killed with a .357 or a .38, and Dan was injured with a .25 caliber handgun. Brian dared hope the guns would be among Dan’s belongings at the storage unit.

  “Now, why would poor, mistreated Dan keep his things in storage so far from Burbank?” one of the detectives muttered quietly. None of them wanted the Flores woman to know they were aware of the storage unit.

  “I think I know why,” Brian mused mockingly, as they reached their police cars. “Danny boy probably has a few items he wouldn’t want anywhere near Burbank.”

  “Now what on earth could those items be?”

  “Just the usual. Two guns—a thirty-eight and a twenty-five.”

  It took four days before the second search warrant was approved. Brian was frustrated about the delay, aware that Dan would now know police had searched his apartment. Even though Dan had no idea that they were about to search his storage unit, he might still get there before they did and dispose of any evidence.

  Finally, on the crisp, sunny morning of January 18, Brian and the same four police officers who had accompanied him on the previous search drove along Interstate 5 to the Orth Van and Storage in Irwindale. Dan’s unit was not very large, but it contained dozens of boxes, each of which had to be searched.

  Less than an hour later Brian opened a cardboard shoe box and found loose bullets scattered among various pieces of paper, matchbooks, and other odds and ends. Carefully Brian began picking the lead slugs from the container and placing them in envelopes marked “Evidence.”

  “Arnie,” one of the detectives said sarcastically. “Seems to me Dan said he didn’t have any guns before Carol died.”

  “Oh, no. Not Danny boy. No guns,” Brian replied. “Just bullets. Part of a personal collection, I’m sure.”

  The police had collected dozens of bullets, although none of them were the size used in a .38 or a .25, when they found a slip of paper that listed the telephone numbers of the Burbank Police Department and St. Joseph’s hospital. It was tucked into a box of belongings that appeared to have come from the top of Dan’s bedroom dresser.

  Under different circumstances those numbers might have seemed insignificant. But considering the fact that Dan might have needed both numbers in the frantic seconds after he and Carol had been shot, the list took on a degree of importance. If, as Brian suspected, Dan had planned Carol’s murder in an attempt to collect her insurance money, he might have thought far enough ahead to leave a list of emergency numbers near his telephone. Brian picked up the piece of paper and placed it in another evidence envelope.

  By mid-afternoon, one of the detectives found a program from the Full Gospel Businessmen’s Fellowship dated No
vember 1, 1983. It listed Dan Montecalvo as the keynote speaker and said this about his background: “Out of the first 39 years of his life, Dan Montecalvo spent 24 in various correctional institutions. Convicted five times for bank robbery, addicted to alcohol, drugs and hate, Dan met the Lord at a Colson Prison Fellowship seminar and his life turned around.”

  Brian read the description over the detective’s shoulder. “Take it,” he said. “They tape those speakers, don’t they?”

  The detective shrugged.

  “Well, if they do, I’d say that’s one speech I’d like to hear.” Brian made a mental note to contact the group when he got back to the office.

  Next, Brian opened a box and stood up smiling.

  “Well, what do you know!” The others joined Brian around the box. On top were several unopened pairs of surgical gloves.

  “Dan spend any time as a surgeon?” Detective Ron Cervenka asked, his voice dry.

  “Gee.” Brian shook his head as Bradford stepped closer to the box and snapped pictures of the gloves. “Not that I can remember.”

  “If he wore gloves, that explains why there was no lead on his hands.”

  “Now, now. Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Brian said, grinning. “He probably wore them in Las Vegas. All that casino money gets so dirty, you know.”

  They had searched nearly every package in the shed when they came upon a box several feet high that had been buried under the rest of Dan’s belongings. One of the detectives opened it.

  “Full of books,” he said.

  Brian walked over and peered into the container. “Take ’em out. Check ’em all.”

  The other detectives began taking out books one at a time, fanning through pages and shaking them for hidden documents. Brian didn’t know if anyone had checked the books the night of the murder, but he didn’t intend to miss anything. After the first few books had been checked, Brian reached into the box and pulled out two miniature statues. He recognized them instantly from pictures he’d studied of the crime scene. They had been in the bookcase in the Montecalvo study—the room where eight hundred dollars had been stolen from the cash box.

  Brian reached into the box again and pulled out a large burgundy hardcover book titled Howard Hughes: The Man, the Myth, the Madness. As soon as he lifted it up, Brian knew something was wrong. The book was lighter than a paperback. He opened it slowly. The other detectives stopped what they were doing and stared at the book in Brian’s hands.

  It was hollow. Someone had cut a rectangular hole into the book’s pages and lined the space with red felt.

  For several seconds no one said a word. Then Brian snapped into motion, drawing his .38 from his waistband and placing it in the hollow space. If the other detectives had been unsure of Brian’s speculations, when they saw how perfectly the .38 fit in the empty book they understood completely. A .357 would not have fit in the space, but evidence experts had determined that Carol was killed with either a .357 or a .38.

  Brian lifted his right hand, holding his thumb and first finger straight out the way a child would if he was pretending to point a gun. The others realized immediately the similarity between the size of Brian’s large fingers and a .25 caliber revolver. Carefully, Brian turned his hand so that his thumb and first finger fit perfectly in the empty space surrounding the .38.

  “Well, boys,” he said knowingly. “I believe we’ve just hit the jackpot.”

  For the next few seconds Brian dared hope the guns might have fallen out of the hollow book and still be at the bottom of the box. They were not. But Brian felt their absence wasn’t an insurmountable problem. After all, the detectives had found bullets after Dan had said he’d had no guns. They had found surgical gloves, and they had found a hollowed-out book with a secret compartment large enough to hide a .38 and a .25—the weapons very likely used in the crime. Combined, these findings were more important than any others so far in the investigation.

  Brian could picture the scenario. Dan takes the money from the cash box earlier in the day and that night Carol discovers the money missing. Before she can accuse him, Dan surprises her in the hallway of their home and points a gun at her. She turns to run as Dan shoots her twice in the back of the neck, splattering blood backward onto his pant legs. He then picks up a second, less deadly gun with his right hand, points it at his back in the fleshy area just over his right hip and shoots. Next Dan pulls the hollow book from the bookcase, opens it, and places the weapons inside. A perfect fit. He slides the book back into place and rushes to the telephone to call 911 and report the emergency.

  The scenario had a distinctive ring of truth.

  Only two details bothered Brian as he gently placed the hollow book in an evidence bag. Why hadn’t anyone discovered it in the initial search immediately after Carol’s death? In crime scene investigation, a basic procedure involved a thorough search of all bookcases and books. And if Dan had disposed of the guns, why hadn’t he gotten rid of the hollowed-out book as well? For an instant, an uncomfortable thought occurred to Brian. Perhaps officers had found the hollow book that March night, discovered it was empty, and returned it to the bookcase.

  Impossible, Brian thought to himself, motioning for Bradford to photograph the book. Must have been overlooked.

  The evidence of Dan’s owning a hollow book with a compartment large enough to hide the exact caliber guns most likely used in the crime was just too damning to be coincidental.

  Later, Brian obtained a transcript of the speech Dan had given to the Full Gospel Businessmen’s Fellowship in 1983. Brian was both horrified and fascinated as several of Dan’s statements caught his attention.

  The first referred to his time immediately after being dismissed from the National Guard. Dan said, “I got my first taste of freedom then but I was arrested by a policeman, and in those days, if you showed me a badge, venom started to drip from my lips. I hated them, you know.”

  Referring to his bank-robbing period, Dan said, “I got myself two pistols, not one pistol, but two pistols. One for each hand. And I went to town. I mean, there wasn’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do.”

  Another statement apparently referred to his alleged involvement with organized crime. Brian’s face grew white and his hands shook as he read Dan’s statement.

  In my Italian neighborhood, there’s three things you want to be: The pope, Frank Sinatra, or the Godfather. The first two jobs were taken so I got myself a black shirt, white tie, pointed shoes, hat and sunglasses. . . .If you kill ’em it’s going to be painless. Not going to be no agony, no hurt or nothing. So you just do it, you know. . . . When they’d find the body, (he’d have) two in the head.

  Chapter 22

  Now that he understood Dan’s bank-robbing background and his pretend involvement with organized crime, Brian felt compelled to learn more about Dan’s relationship with Carol. By late January 1990 Brian felt he had enough information to understand how a loving, compassionate woman like Carol Tronconi could have become involved with someone like Dan Montecalvo.

  On January 18, 1978, Dan Montecalvo was taken away from Garrett Trapnell and his other cellmates at Marion, and transferred to the Federal Correctional Institution at Oxford, Wisconsin. Prison records show that Dan had again become deeply and dangerously involved in prison gambling. At Marion prisoners sometimes made fellow inmates pay for unsettled gambling debts with their lives. When officials at Marion caught wind of the increasing death threats aimed at Dan, they took the initiative and moved him to Oxford.

  Dan saw the move as a fresh start—finally a chance to compile an impressive prison resume. His first move in that direction was to join Oxford’s specialized communication program, designed to equip inmates to better deal with life outside prison. Dan adapted to the program so well that he was selected to teach the concepts to other inmates.

  Dan then found another way to impress the parole board by joining the prison’s Alcoholics Anonymous group. Wanting to seem rehabilitated, Dan eve
ntually became chairman of the group.

  In this role Dan had weekly contact with a man named John who worked with a prison ministries program. John was a Bible-believing Christian who spent fruitless hours trying to convert Dan. As desperate as Dan was to make an impression with the prison officials, he could not bring himself to submit to a God he could not see or understand.

  Dan later said, “My view of religion at that particular time was . . . (you) trudge through this life . . . but you’ll get your reward in Heaven. Who needed that? I liked the banks better, to tell you the truth.”

  Sometimes Dan would fire questions about Christianity at John that he was unable to answer. Finally John felt compelled to try another approach. He referred Dan to someone who had once worked for him during his days as an insurance broker. She was a sweet Christian woman who believed in helping others learn about God and who had enough compassion to care about a man like Dan Montecalvo.

  Her name was Carol Tronconi.

  Carol agreed to write to John’s inmate friend, but long before her first letter, she and her friends began praying for him. They prayed that Dan would have an open heart, an open mind, and an open attitude toward the changing power of Christ’s love. During that time Carol thought a great deal about Dan. She knew about his troubled childhood and figured that was the reason why he resorted to robbing banks as a young man.

  “He never did anything to harm people physically,” John explained to Carol in the weeks before she began writing to Dan. “He’s mixed up and self-destructive. But he’s crying out for help. He just needs a little push.”