by Gil Hogg
A few days later, Cavallo telephoned again, saying that the County pathologist had reported that Chadwin died from drowning, although he had heavy cranial bruising, which could have caused unconsciousness, before immersion. The pathologist was clear that these injuries could not have been received in the tide. Cavallo’s tone underlined this finding heavily.
“Chadwin also had lacerations to his hands, knees and the soles of his feet, caused before immersion, which were inflicted by broken glass; fragments of glass were found in his feet,” Cavallo said. “Do you want to comment on this?”
“No.”
He made a date, a day later, to come to the house. “More questions, Mrs Stamford,” he said, ominously.
I had some misgivings about the meeting, but I told Greg, who offered to be present, that I could deal with it alone. When Cavallo called at the house, I was still on sick leave. He had Beckman with him. He seemed relaxed, more smartly dressed, and on top of his task. He refused the offer of coffee, and stood in the hall, with Beckman. I sensed, then, that this was a formal moment, a bad moment for me.
“Mrs Stamford, I’m going to caution you on suspicion of being involved in the murder of Dwight Chadwin. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you, and you’re entitled to have a lawyer present.”
Beckman waved a small tape recorder, and gave a much more wordy version of the caution, asking me if I understood.
“I understand. I’m prepared to talk, if you wish,” I said, hoping – vainly, I suppose – that I could bail myself out.
I could see that these two men were at the point in their work where they got an adrenalin rush. They were alert, slightly flushed. They watched me like two wolves ready to attack and feed.
“We know that the latest fingerprints on the steering wheel of Chadwin’s Jaguar car are yours. Whether you travelled in the car with Chadwin or alone, you parked it in the garage. Why would you drive and park a stalker’s car?”
“OK, I parked it. I wanted it out of the way until the police came, because I didn’t want to have to explain to anybody why it was there.”
“Who is anybody?”
“Any nosy people like the Kutashs.”
“Mrs Kutash remembers seeing the car keys in the lake house, and asking you about them.”
“I told you she was nosy.”
“But if this terrible assault on you was going on, why not tell, and get help?”
“I wanted the police, not her.”
“But why, when Mrs Kutash’s presence could protect you?”
“Because Chadwin was an acquaintance of hers. She’d have insisted on his release, and he would have got away with his assault on me.”
Cavallo paused to consider this, and then changed the subject.
“So Chadwin’s keys were, as Mrs Kutash says, in the house, and that means Chadwin was in the house?”
“Yes.”
“And you lied about this …why?”
“I didn’t want Kutash – or Rovnik – in my face. I wanted the police.”
“In fact, what Mrs Kutash saw, the broken glass in the hall, means that a violent scene had already taken place between you and Chadwin?”
“Yes, apart from what happened on the jetty.”
“You could have put Chadwin’s unconscious body on a sheet, dragged it down the path to the jetty, and pushed it into the water, couldn’t you?”
“I doubt I’d have been strong enough. I’ve told you the truth about that. He chased me on to the jetty!”
“Mrs Stamford, we have two different blood groups on the broken glass. One is Chadwin’s, and we believe the other is yours. The fact is, you were drinking with Chadwin before his death.”
The Westchester spectre of drink was materialising again. “I never killed him!”
15
Greg and I decided that we would stick to our plan to leave our jobs, and leave Cedar Hills, despite the fact that Chadwin himself was now no longer a threat. The anxieties generated around his death had a lot to do with that decision. The possibility that I would be prosecuted for murder seemed to be increased by newspaper publicity, at least in my mind. The first newspaper and TV reports linked the possible drowning with me. There were only two characters in the drama – Chadwin and me. A man missing, presumed drowned, at a lonely lakeside house occupied by me. These were suspicious circumstances, made all the more interesting by Chadwin’s wealthy and distinguished family. The obvious inference was that we were having an affair.
When the facts moved on to the discovery of a drowned man, who had probably been beaten unconscious before drowning, the spectre of murder hovered over every report. And this was boosted by the revelation, only a matter of a couple of days after my written statement to Cavallo, of the Westchester Court story. A stooge in the police department leaked it. Jed Willard my lawyer was philosophical about this development.
“It’s too good a story to wind up in police records, Loren,” he said, “and some bum has sold it to the press for a few bucks.”
A local tragedy with sexual overtones was propelled into a state-wide cause celebre. Sex Attacker Haunts Victim, Fatal Meeting Between Victim and Attacker were the style of lurid headlines. A repellent patina of glamour was added, and guaranteed wide coverage, because the Chadwin family were politically connected in New York State. Eve Chadwin’s family had similar distinctions. Even Grace’s mental illness, and Duane Schultz’s violent death were used to add titillation.
It was a time when I felt I couldn’t hold my head up in the face of people’s stares, and I was tempted to get my doctor to give me a medical certificate to say I was suffering from stress, and couldn’t attend the office. But I didn’t. I went to work.
After the papers and media had been burning for a week, the human resources boss at Ulex hauled me into her office. Jane Dodds was effusive in a sickly way.
“I know you’re going through a difficult time, Loren. Would you like to stand down for a time? I’ve spoken with Jack Driscoll and it’s okay by him. Paid leave, of course,” she smarmed, like a children’s nurse doling out candy.
It made me mad. I was an embarrassment at Ulex. They wanted me out of sight. I knew all the tricks. They’d block me coming back for a time, and then say they were reorganising and I was redundant. I’d be well paid, but effectively fired.
“No, I want to work, thanks.”
“We’re trying to be generous and sympathetic here, Loren.”
“Well, that’s very nice, Jane, but I want to work.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, considering I guess whether she could press me any further.
“That’s fine,” she said finally, “you just carry on.”
The problem with the staff – as opposed to the narrow minded management – was an understandable one. They had a thirst to know the grisly details. I didn’t socialise with any of them, or go to the canteen. I went only to the most necessary meetings. I worked hard in my office, and cleared my backlog. I faced looks that were partly compassionate, and partly uncomprehending. I felt as though I was inside an illuminated glass bubble. I was insulated from those around me, unable to communicate – what could I say? – and under searching examination.
Greg kept up my courage by saying that the media interest would wane after a few days, but neither of us spoke the unspeakable: that the media were constrained by the possibility that I might be charged with murder, and couldn’t be tried publicly – yet.
Greg was chosen for the job in Buffalo, a genuine career move, and I thought the management of Ulex gave a collective sigh of relief when I gave notice, shortly after, that I was leaving. It was hard for them to pretend that nothing much had happened. I received a whole sheaf of sympathetic letters, and a lot of hugs, from colleagues. Whether I was going to be tried or not, I now had a vivid past which made me stand out beyond the quiet, relatively colourless finance executive that I should have been, was previously, and was expected to be. My background was an area of covert interest, and comment, and
speculation, and my necessary contact with senior executives in other companies made my history more obtrusive. When the flush of publicity had gone, my past would still be there, sexually radiant, like a peacock’s tail or a baboon’s ass behind me. It would last as long as this generation of staff speculated about their bosses over the coffee machine in the corridor.
“That’s Loren Stamford. A guy raped her when she was in her teens, and was found dead in the lake beside her house fifteen years later.”
It was hardly necessary to say more. It was ugly. It was unfair, but it was a fact. The only possible way to mitigate this was by retreating.
The weeks while we tidied up our affairs for the move to Buffalo were therefore full of raw embarrassment and shame for me. The police investigation hung over my head. It was not personal shame about anything I had done, but the shame of being unfairly stigmatised by other people. Even the parents at Mt. Vernon school, whom we met on car-runs, and at functions at the school, began to avoid me.
On a Saturday morning at seven-thirty, the telephone rang. We were in bed. The kids were charging around the house with Grace. Greg took the call.
“It’s Sergeant Beckman,” Greg said, handing the phone to me, flexing his jaw anxiously.
I felt the usual chill I had before these calls. I could hear the sounds from the police precinct at the other end, raucous voices, boots clumping on the floor, radio messages crackling. I was part of these machinations.
“Mrs Stamford?” Beckman said tonelessly, “I want to tell you that our advice from the DA’s office, received yesterday, is that …” and here he hesitated cruelly.
“Can you hear me, Mrs Stamford?”
“Yes,” I choked.
Greg had paled, and he put his arm around my shoulders.
“On the evidence we presently have, and I stress that Mrs Stamford, on the evidence we presently have, it is not proposed to bring any charges. You will have to give evidence at the inquest into the death.”
“Thank you for telling me…” I replied, giving Greg a thumbs up sign.
Beckman’s words brought an unbelievable glow of ease, words I had almost given up real hope of hearing.
“We’ll need a further statement for the inquest.”
“I’ll let you know my new address.”
I knew that Beckman and Cavallo really believed I murdered Chadwin, and they weren’t going to let me forget it. They didn’t seem to count what I’d been through. Murder was merely murder to them. They wanted the threat of a future murder trial to hang over me. That was as much punishment as they could give. But my heart was innocent, and I knew there could be no more evidence.
I put the phone down, and rolled over toward my husband. I put my arms round him, and kissed him. He pulled back my head, searching me.
“You know, Loren, all I’ve heard from you is jagged bits and pieces…I know what’s in the statement that you made for Jed, but I don’t know what you felt, and thought at the time…”
I made sure that Grace could occupy the children for another hour. Then I fetched two cups of coffee from the kitchen, and we settled ourselves with a couple of pillows, propped up against the bedhead. The whole story had been something I shied away from whenever I could. Tell him everything. Just do it! I said to myself.
“It all started about fifteen years ago,” I said to Greg, taking his hand. “I was nineteen, living with Grace and my father in Tarrytown, Westchester County. It was a Saturday afternoon in June. Grace and I were out walking. We were on a street where there are a lot of factories, deserted on a Saturday. A car passed, a chromed up old red and white Chevrolet, with two guys in it. The car stopped. The guys wanted to pick us up. They didn’t manhandle us into the car, but because there weren’t any people around, they kidded some, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They kinda hustled us into the car, although we didn’t really want to go. As I found out later, one of the guys was named Duane Schultz, and the other…”
Later in the morning, Jed Willard my lawyer, called me.
As soon as I heard his voice, I said, “Oh Jed, I was going to call you Monday morning. Thanks for giving me my life back!”
“Ah! You’ve heard. Great. The DA called me. I know him.”
“What did he say? Beckman just gave me the message.”
“Well… you’re sure you want to hear?”
“After what I’ve been through, I’m armour-plated.”
“He said he had two very experienced police officers who knew a murder when they saw it. He thought the state had cogent circumstantial evidence of first degree murder, but they didn’t have a witness to contradict you. Kutash and Rovnik are bit players. He said that although you would be shown to be a liar, the jury would be understanding about a decent – and attractive – wife, and you would get the sympathy vote…”
“Sympathy, Jed? Aren’t I worthy of belief? What about the facts? You’re the one who was insistent about telling the whole truth.”
“What I said about telling the truth, as you know it, goes one hundred percent, but when it comes to the hearing, there are few absolute facts, only conflicting stories about what happened, told by different people.”
“Funny, that’s more or less what the attorney at Westchester said, years ago. He said something like, ‘No can do reality.’ Well, Jed if it hadn’t been for you…”
“Loren, an innocent person can’t get any closer to a charge of premeditated murder than you have…”
16
My story is pretty much as I have told it – and as it appeared in my statement to the police. I say, pretty much. The inquest, which Jed Willard steered me through produced lurid publicity. For the first time, the public had the details of what happened, but at least it was an uncontradicted version of my story. And it led to a verdict of death by misadventure. I moved with Greg, the children and Grace to Buffalo, and we made a fresh start. We sold the Park Drive property, and ‘Pine Hill’ without any problems, and the new house was in a quiet area, and very comfortable. Greg was buoyant about his new opportunities. Grace had settled down after the agony. The children coped easily at their new school. I got a place in a bank (with a glowing reference from Excel, to give them credit), and in a couple of years, I expected my career as a finance executive would be back on track. I was, as Jed Willard said, very lucky to get away without being charged. I didn’t think I would ever be indicted now, because there couldn’t be any new evidence that could come forward. Everything happened between Chadwin and me. My word against his, and he wasn’t here.
In the course of my story, I may have appeared to be a sap, more acted on than acting. But that isn’t quite me. I’m more flinty than that. I know that this doesn’t tally with the fact that I tried to commit suicide when I came back from ‘Pine Hill’. Suicide seems like an act of complete weakness, and only somebody who knew all the facts (not Greg or Jed Willard or Lieutenant Cavallo) would be able to get that in proportion. Nobody knows all the facts except me, and I suppose Chadwin, but he doesn’t count now. I’m tougher than I appear. Being brought up in Tarrytown, my experience with my father, the rape, and the Westchester court toughened me underneath in a way probably even Greg doesn’t appreciate.
When I had had time to get over the shock of seeing Chadwin again, and realise that he was going to threaten everything I had worked for, and my little family, I couldn’t let him get away with it. In my heart I determined I would fight. That wasn’t a simple declaration I made to myself or to Greg. It was a deeply private decision, forged in white heat. It didn’t mean I was going to stand up to Chadwin publicly; it did mean that I was going to use every wile and every nerve to beat him, and if in the extreme it came to a physical confrontation, yes, I planned to fight until I dropped – or Chadwin killed me. If events had moved at a slower pace, and as a family we were able to leave town as we planned, I guess this resolve would be abandoned, because our problem would be solved – but events didn’t turn out that way.
I honestly did everythi
ng I could to swerve Chadwin aside, to persuade him not to pursue me, but I saw it was hopeless. He said, when he was at ‘Pine Hill’, that the police wouldn’t take any notice of his assault, because I had invited him. Well, the truth is, I did invite him. This is one of those significant little facts which I omitted from my story, and would deny utterly and forever to Greg, Jed Willard and Lieutenant Cavallo. I cast Chadwin as a stalker in my story to the police, which he undoubtedly was, but he was not a stalker in going to ‘Pine Hill’.
I realised when I was in Jed Willard’s office on the first occasion that he wouldn’t let me say one thing, and tell the police something different. So, as I spelled out this story to him, for my police statement, I had to decide whether there was anything I couldn’t tell him. I heeded his warning not to get tangled in the legal mowing machine, but I heeded even more Attorney Bronstein’s remark – which Willard echoed later – that there is no reality about a crime, only evidence of a past event. In this case, my incontestable story that I never invited Chadwin to ‘Pine Hill’. And there were a few other events where I thought my evidence had to be preferred to ‘reality’.
I planned to have a confrontation with Chadwin at ‘Pine Hill’ in which reason and decency would ‘free’ us both to go our separate ways, or we would clash with incalculable results. If we were to clash violently, I intended to win. I suppose that means I contemplated killing Chadwin – murder if necessary, but it wasn’t an issue that came to the surface of my mind at the time as such. I chose the baseball bat as my weapon, and it was not in the hall alcove, but handy in a corner of the bedroom, behind a dresser (just a little deviation from reality). I also knew that if we got to the stage of violence, that it could only be approached by pretending to submit. I had to get Chadwin in an unguarded position. All that happened.
Of course I had no idea of the events which might occur to frustrate my plans. The appearance of the Kutashs and Rovnik at the wrong times led me into a quagmire of small lies, which heightened the likelihood that I would be prosecuted. Their intervention was very dangerous for me.
