Felony Murder

by Joseph T. Klempner

  Dean explained what he needed Alan to do. Although Alan had openly questioned Dean’s sanity more than once during the course of the evening, he seemed to immediately grasp the seriousness of the situation. He listened attentively and didn’t interrupt. He’d do whatever Dean wanted him to do, no questions asked.

  “Get it?” Dean asked, when he was finished outlining his instructions.

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  * * *

  Rather than sleeping, they killed time by reminiscing. More than anyone else Dean knew, Alan was generally on the same page as Dean, and often on the very same line. They tended to view the rest of the world with the same blend of righteous indignation and bemused tolerance. Not that any of that was terribly surprising: In addition to their physical resemblance and the fact that they shared the same set of parents and many of their early experiences, they’d known each other for all of Alan’s life and most of Dean’s.

  Sometime past midnight, Dean shaved. First his face, then his legs. Alan shook his head slowly as he watched. “Boy, Mom and Dad are going to have trouble adjusting to this,” he said.

  “Shut up,” Dean said.

  Around two in the morning, they grew weary of talking, but not ready for sleep. Dean turned on the TV and flicked the dial before settling on Mean Streets, with Robert De Niro and Harvey Keitel looking like a couple of twenty-year-olds. The pulse of the rock ‘n’ roll score only added to their heightened levels of adrenaline as they imitated the Ronettes singing “Be My Baby.” But Dean, having napped earlier in the day, figured there’d be plenty of time to sleep in a day or two.

  Had anyone happened to be watching the front door of Dean’s apartment building late that Saturday night and into the following Sunday - and indeed at one point there were no fewer than six men doing precisely that - he might have noted his observations much in the manner as they were entered in the surveillance log of Det. Robert Gervaise, aka Bobby McGrane. Portions of that log would later become important evidence in several different investigations, one of which was directed at the quality of performance of the surveillance field team itself.

  0800 Units 1, 2, and 3 on duty outside subject Dean Abernathy’s West End Ave premises. Advised by Central that subject is inside.

  1136 White Female, possible prostitute, enters building.

  0502 White Male recognized to be subject Abernathy exits premises & proceeds on foot to vehicle. 19?? blue Jeep. Enters vehicle.

  0514 Subject Abernathy departs in vehicle. Unit 1 (Dets Grant and Snyder) follow in Dept. Auto 2274. Unit 2 (P.O.s Lee and Ciccini) follow in Dept. Auto 13551.

  529 Unit 1 advises subject Abernathy entering Lincoln Tunnel to NJ. Units 1 and 2 continuing moving surveillance on subject.

  0608 Unit 1 advises subject Abernathy has exited vehicle at 50 Rock Road, Upper Montclair, NJ, and entered premises.

  0615 Central advises location is reported to be residence of subject Abernathy parents.

  530 Units 1 and 2 remain on subject Abernathy in Upper Montclair. Unit 3 (Dets Gervaise and Timmerman) remains on fixed surveillance at subject Abernathy’s West End Ave residence. (Note overtime since no meal taken.)

  0542 Unit 3 observes Hispanic male newspaper carrier arrive and enter building with newspapers.

  0551 Newspaper carrier exits without papers. Central advises no need to follow.

  0715 Possible tenant (MW) exits West End Ave premises. Central advises no need to follow.

  0729 2nd possible tenant (MW) exits. Central advises no need to follow.

  0808 3rd and 4th possible tenants (MW & FW) exit. Central advises no need to follow.

  0848 FW exits. Unit 3 recognizes this FW to be same possible prostitute who entered Sat. night, now looking a little worse for the wear! Hails and enters cab. Central advises no need to follow.

  The surveillance log entries would continue for another thirty hours, recording numerous arrivals and departures at the West End Avenue address. But during all that time, there would be no further notations indicating any sightings of Dean Abernathy, either by Units 1 and 2 at the Upper Montclair residence of his parents, or by Unit 3 at the West End Avenue apartment building. In fact, shortly before midnight Sunday, Units 1 and 2 would note that the last lights inside the Upper Montclair house had just been turned off, an observation that would prompt them to report proudly to Central that they had just “put the subject to bed.”

  “Good work, men,” would come the appreciative reply. “Stay on the house all night just in case he makes a move.”

  “Ten-four, Central,” Unit 1 would answer back. “Don’t worry, we’re right on top of Mister Bigshot Lawyer.”

  Mister Bigshot Lawyer settled into the backseat of the cab, adjusting his skirt to cover his legs. They itched and had tiny scabs where he’d nicked them the night before.

  “Where to, miss?” the driver asked him. Apparently his disguise was not quite so effective up close.

  “Just take me down to Thirtieth Street,” Dean said, deciding there was no need to disguise his voice. He was reasonably confident that the cab hadn’t been followed, but to be on the safe side he would get out and check before hailing another cab. Dean knew from his own observations that, several hours earlier, two cars containing two men each had pulled out and followed Alan in the Jeep. Dean’s instructions to Alan had been to take his pursuers for a little ride to the Upper Montclair home of their parents. There a bit of pressure on a remote-control device would open the garage door and permit Alan to pull the Jeep inside, closing the door behind him and entering the house through an inside doorway. Once inside, Alan was to remain there for at least forty-eight hours, during which time, it was safe to say, his presence could be expected to continue to occupy the attention of at least four members of the surveillance team, while at the same time reducing the attention level of any members remaining outside Dean’s apartment building to nearly zero.

  “Wouldn’t you do better on Forty-second?” the cabbie asked him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Thirtieth Street’s for straight hookers, sweetie. The drag queens usually stick to Times Square.”

  In the backseat of the second cab, Dean changed outfits, from drag to jeans and sweatshirt. Twice the driver came perilously close to totaling the cab, so intent was he on watching Dean’s transformation in his rearview mirror that he ran several red lights and almost rear-ended a Trailways bus. Somehow, they managed to arrive at their destination, the Lower East Side apartment building where David Leung lived.

  Upstairs, David ushered Dean into his apartment. Somewhat warily, he eyed the dress and heels bunched in Dean’s arms and the heavy bag slung over his shoulder.

  “And here I thought I knew you.”

  “Very cute,” Dean said, unloading everything into a pile on the floor.

  “Don’t tell me. You’ve figured out some new and different way to get us both killed?”

  “Something like that,” Dean smiled.

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Good,” Dean said, collapsing into the only chair in sight. “The less you know, the better.”

  Dean wrote out a shopping list for David, who read it over in amazement but left without asking questions. Dean flicked on David’s television, but it was too late for the Sunday-morning panel shows, and not yet time for any sports events. Unless you counted golf or bowling, which Dean didn’t. He settled for a cable news channel, in time to catch a summary of local events, including an item that testimony would be beginning Monday morning in the “Wilson case,” where an “ex-con” was being tried for the mugging murder of the former New York City Police Commissioner.

  He smiled at the reminder that it would never be the “Spadafino case.” He guessed there was a lesson of sorts to be learned there. Want to become a celebrity murderer, you better pick unknown victims. Then you had a fighting chance to grab your little piece of immortality, to have your case remembered under your own name, like a Ted Bundy or a David Berkowitz
or a Joel Rifkin. Make the mistake of picking a famous target and it would always be the Lindbergh kidnapping or the Martin Luther King assassination. In Joey Spadafino’s case, it already seemed it would always be the Wilson murder.

  It was late in the afternoon when David returned with the items Dean had sent him out for. David watched as Dean added them to those he had brought to the apartment, and seemed about ready to comment when Dean silenced him.

  “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?” David asked.

  “Yes, actually,” Dean said. “About midnight tonight, you can drive me to Hoboken.”

  “Clams?”

  “Not exactly.”

  David drove them through the Holland Tunnel to Hoboken. Then, with Dean wearing sunglasses and a bandanna tied over his head, they located Dawson Street and took a quick run past number 555. It was a nondescript seven-story red-brick office building in a commercial district. Dean noted that the building was centrally air-conditioned, with vents set into the brickwork; that the mortar joints separating the bricks were slightly recessed; and that there were masonry ledges that extended out from the building line both above and below each window.

  A soft rain began to fall shortly after one in the morning, just enough to cause David to turn on the windshield wipers. The black pavement turned shiny and reflected streaks of light, and the tires made a comforting hissing sound on it. For Dean, the change in the weather was both good news and bad. The rain would make his job both more dangerous and less so: more so because of the poorer traction it would produce, and less so because of a phenomenon well known to every cat burglar who ever lived - people have a natural tendancy to avoid looking upward in rain.

  It was just before two in the morning when David finally dropped Dean off at the corner of Dawson and Second Streets in Hoboken. Dean waited until David was out of sight before beginning the three-block walk that would take him back to 555 Dawson Street. He would have made a somewhat curious sight to anyone happening to notice him, in his red-and-gray suede ankle boots with their exaggerated black soles, toes, and sides, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and something looking remarkably like a long boat hook in his hand. Only there was no one around to notice him.

  He reached Fifth Street, where the 500 numbers began. He spotted 555, the middle of a row of three seven-story buildings. Although there were hallway lights that dimly illuminated some of the stairwells, none of the windows was brightly enough lit to suggest any activity within. While 555 contained a number of large office windows, there was only a single vertical row of smaller frosted windows that would correspond to bathrooms. Dean stared at the one on the top floor for a few minutes. Then he circled around to the alley behind the buildings.

  He crouched down and opened his duffel bag. He found his harness on top, and he stepped into it and fastened it. He placed his coiled rope over one shoulder and across his body; over that, and in the opposite direction, he slipped a sling containing lengths of webbing to which were fitted carabiners and various sizes of Shooks. Taking the boat hook in one hand, he moved to one of the buildings adjacent to 555 to begin the climb of his life.

  It had been raining lightly for several hours, and the first thing Dean did was to test the building wall. He placed the sole of one climbing shoe against it and tried to slide his foot up and down. The sole came free with moderate pressure, telling him that he could expect little help in the way of friction on his ascent.

  He wanted to spend as little time as necessary at street level, so he quickly settled on a route that would lead him up between windows on one of the outer buildings.

  He shoved the boat hook down his back, underneath the rope and sling, in order to free both of his hands for climbing. Then, using the ritualistic language of the climber as talisman rather than communication, he whispered the word climbing to himself and grasped the top edge of a brick above him.

  The first dozen feet or so were easy enough. Dean took advantage of the masonry that surrounded the back doorway, using it for handholds while wedging the sides of his shoes into the joints that separated the rows of bricks. At fifteen feet, he encountered his first problem. Standing on the cornice above the door, he was unable to find a handhold within reach that would permit him to continue higher. The nearest solid feature above him was a window ledge four or five feet higher, but it was far enough above him that it would require an all-out lunge and appeared to slope downward slightly, promising a poor handhold in the wet conditions. If he lunged for it and missed - or was lucky enough to grab it only to have his fingers slip off it - the result would be a fall all the way to the pavement below, since Dean was free-climbing, with no one belaying him to catch him in case of a fall.

  Dean strained his eyes toward the window above him, squinting to keep the rain from obscuring his vision. He visually followed a line up from the lower corner of the glass until he saw what he was looking for, two-thirds of the way up the window frame: a restraining eye for a window washer’s safety belt. Reaching behind him, he lifted the boat hook loose, got a good grip on its handle, and extended it upward toward his target. When the metal hook reached the eye, he probed it gently until he felt the hook drop into the opening. Then he tested the arrangement by applying some weight against it. He was careful not to use too much weight, knowing that the aluminum hook could easily straighten or the plastic handle slip off the pole. Instead, he held the boat hook in his right hand and used it tentatively, as an extension of his arm, while climbing toward the eye with his free left hand and both of his feet. As he neared the eye, he gradually slid his hand up higher on the pole, until he was able to release it altogether and place his hand over its hooked end, which was still safely threaded through the safety eye. He took a deep breath, the first one he’d been conscious of since starting from the bottom.

  Once he was secured at the edge of the window ledge, Dean unhooked the boat hook, replaced it at his back, and free-climbed to the top of the window. There he repeated the process he’d used earlier, withdrawing the boat hook from behind him, hooking it to the safety eye of the next window above, and climbing to where his hook had found the safety eye.

  So this was “buildering,” thought Dean, remembering the first time he had heard the term and smiled at its clever derivation from the name “bouldering,” given to the practice of scrambling over the largest of rocks. Its enthusiasts hailed it as the ultimate in urban climbing, while its critics faulted its repetitiveness: While Nature throws an always-varying series of challenges at those who tackle her heights, a building presents the same problem repeated over and over again, from bottom to top. But it was that very sameness that now enabled Dean to continue upward. Having once solved the problem, he found that the problem simply repeated itself at each window, and he realized that the headline grabbers who scaled tall buildings were less true climbers than competent problem solvers with an overdose of ambition and endurance.

  As he continued upward, Dean pretended that he was climbing one of the World Trade Towers. He got into the rhythm of using the boat hook, storing it behind his back, climbing without it, and retrieving it once again when he needed it. And the climb to the top might have been an uninterrupted exercise in repetition had he not got careless.

  Climbing accidents, Dean had once read, rarely occur at the crux move of an ascent. At such times, the climber is fully concentrating on his craft and summoning all of his abilities, both mental and physical, to pull him through a perceived test of his outer limits. Instead, acccidents almost invariably happen at that moment when the climber least expects them - when the very ease of the pitch has caused him to lower his guard and allow his thoughts to wander.

  In Dean’s case, it might have been his fantasy of scaling one of the Twin Towers. It might have been the relative ease with which he’d climbed from ground level to the second, third, and fourth floors, or the sense of automatic pilot that took over as he reached the fifth, sixth, and seventh. What
ever it was, when it struck, it struck loud and clear.

  Standing on the top of the seventh-floor window, with only the overhang of the roof above him, Dean reached behind him for the boat hook, knowing it would be a simple matter to extend it upward, hook it over the edge of the roof itself, and climb the seven or eight feet above him to the top. He withdrew the boat hook, which he’d stored hook-upward on his back as before so it couldn’t slide off his back. In clearing it from his back and bringing it alongside him, he rotated it downward, so that the hook portion ended up beneath him, as before. But whereas on each previous occasion Dean had been careful to swing the pole 180 degrees to get the hook end above him before pressing the shaft against the building and securing it there with one knee while he changed his grip on it, now he simply used the pressure of his hand against the building to hold the pole there while he rotated that same hand. In an unforgiving instant, the smooth shaft somehow eluded his grasp and slipped away from him.

  There was a second or two of silence, followed by a clanging sound from the pavement below.

  Dean froze in panic, his first fear being discovery from the noise. He knew he had no quick move he could make, a fact that resigned him to waiting motionless, sixty-five feet above street level, to see if anyone would come out to investigate. He decided to wait five to ten minutes, compromised on seven. He began counting slowly, silently, figuring he’d give it to 400. He thought the counting would serve to occupy him and eliminate any thoughts of falling, but it somehow failed to prevent him from shivering, which - he tried to rationalize - could easily be the result of either the wetness of his clothing or the fatigue brought on by the climb itself.

  He counted off an extra minute to be sure no one was responding to the noise, and another minute after that for good measure. Then he told himself he was stalling and needed to get to work.

  A climber stuck on a wall faces a dilemma. He knows it’s a mistake to make a move beyond his capability. At the same time, the longer he stays put, the greater his fatigue becomes and he runs the risk of becoming so tired that he can no longer successfully accomplish a move he might have been able to do when first he found himself in trouble.