“He’d show up and work for a couple of days, and then I wouldn’t see him again for a while.”
Now all of those conversations and seemingly baseless remarks of “You better pay me, or else” would be looked at under a microscope. Anything Charlie had ever said to or about Buzz, especially over the past week or so, would come into question now that Buzz had been murdered.
When Charlie returned to work on Tuesday, March 15, he called the Westbrook state police barracks and informed them that two detectives had been looking for him in connection with Buzz’s murder.
Dispatch informed him that someone would be out to see him soon.
An hour later, at 9:55 A.M., Reggie Wardell and John Turner showed up. When they walked in, Charlie was behind the counter, flipping through an auto parts manual looking for an item.
“Hold on,” Charlie said when he looked up and saw who it was. “Let’s go outside. I’ve got customers here. This is private.”
As the three men walked outside, Charlie’s employees looked on with curiosity. They knew what was going on and recognized that Charlie had been acting a bit strange the past few days: nervous, fidgety, not himself.
Leaning against a fence out in the yard, Wardell began the interview.
“Can you tell us about Buzz Clinton?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Start with how you heard about his murder.”
“Well, Ray Myers, an older customer of mine, told one of my employees last Saturday that I was considered a suspect in the murder. I should add that Kevin Myers, Ray Myers’s son, used to work here, but he’s been excused for using cocaine and stealing.”
Charlie then explained that when he returned from New York, he called the Westbrook barracks first thing in the morning. He then spoke of his relationship with Kim and the kids; how they used to come into Blonders with Buzz and sometimes hang out in the office while Buzz was out on the road working. Charlie said he liked Kim. “She was quiet, friendly. Buzz loved her.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I gave him a transmission for his tow truck about a month ago. He never paid me. He said he was going to open up a shop called Finishing Touch, cleaning cars, bodywork. Whatever work he could get.”
“Did you ever go down there?”
“Nope.”
As Wardell and Turner continued their questioning, Charlie noticed a change in their approach and demeanor. It had gone from a relaxed cadence, just talking back and forth, to more of a hostile, Joe Friday–like interrogation. Charlie didn’t want any part of the good cop/bad cop routine. As he saw it, he had nothing to hide.
It became apparent to Wardell and Turner that on some days Buzz would treat Charlie like the long-lost big brother he’d never had, and on others he would avoid Charlie like the plague.
“How did you meet him?”
“Buzz just walked in off the street and asked for some work. So I gave it to him.”
It was about a year and a half ago, Charlie explained.
“What about money—he owed you money?”
“Buzz’s parents had thrown him and Kim out of their house, and Buzz needed money,” Charlie said. “He also needed some parts for his tow truck. I gave them to him. I told him to pay me back when he got it.”
Wardell explained that it was possible that Buzz had been trying to sell his tow truck on the night he was killed. Charlie said the tow truck had broken down last summer. Since then, he really hadn’t seen Buzz much. When Charlie became worried about the money, he said he called Big Jim’s Junk Yard in Essex. He’d heard that Buzz was doing some work for Big Jim.
Then the subject moved to Charlie himself. Wardell and Turner wanted to know if he hung around area bars.
“I’m a reformed substance abuser—I don’t hang around bars!”
“What about Buzz?”
“Buzz, as far as I know, was involved with dope through association.”
“Let’s talk about last Thursday night, Charlie.”
Customers had been coming and going as the three men stood and talked outside. Curious and snoopy, every once in a while, one of Charlie’s employees would look out through the blinds in the window to try to get a handle on what was being said. Charlie was beginning to feel like a lab rat, he later recalled. The questions were getting uncomfortable.
“I drove by Exit 72 at about…I was traveling, I believe, east bound, at about eight-thirty, maybe eight forty-five. The entrance ramp was closed.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“My therapist’s office in Southington.” Southington, north of New Haven, was about an hour’s drive from Blonders.
“What time did you leave for Southington?”
“I worked all day Thursday. I went home after work, maybe five. Changed my shirt. And left. I stopped at Shell in town to get gas and—”
“What is your therapist’s name?”
“As I was saying, I bought a bag of peanuts at the Shell station.”
“The name, Charlie?”
“Henry Schliser. My appointment was at six. I left his office about seven.”
If Charlie was telling the truth, he really didn’t have time to kill Buzz. Christine and Steven Roy had found Buzz’s body at about 7:30 P.M. No one knew the exact time of death as of yet, but by all accounts, it was between 6:30 and 7:30 P.M.
“Where did you go after you left your therapist’s?”
“I stopped in Old Saybrook to attend a recovery meeting, but then changed my mind, and went home to talk to my wife about what had happened during my therapy session.”
Before they asked, Charlie thought he’d better own up to something that might be important.
“I own five rifles and a thirty-eight-caliber handgun,” he said.
Silence.
Not much was known about the crime, but investigators were certain that Buzz had been killed with a .38. More important, though, was that they believed he had not only been killed by someone he knew, but by the hand of an expert shot—like a hunter or marksman.
“Where are the weapons?”
“My handgun is at home. My rifles are in my office.”
“Would any of your employees know anything about Buzz?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“We need a list of names. We also need a list of names of the people at your recovery meeting, people who can back up the fact that you were there. They may need to sign statements….”
“No way. Recovery is all about anonymity. I can’t do that.”
It was getting to the point where Charlie felt as if he had already said too much.
“I have to get back to work.”
“We may be back to talk to you, Charlie,” Wardell warned.
As they started to walk away, Charlie said, “Let me ask you something, Detectives. Did Buzz have his tow truck with him when he was killed?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“What car was he driving?”
“His car. The Firebird.”
“I don’t buy the tow truck scenario,” Charlie said. “If Buzz was going to sell his truck, I know him well enough to know that he would have had the truck with him.”
It had been a long morning for Charlie Snyder. He had been asked questions he thought were way out of line and had given answers, he now thought, that maybe he shouldn’t have. After all, the ED-MCS didn’t have a warrant.
At 4:45 P.M. that same day, Wardell and Turner returned to Blonders. Charlie walked them outside again.
“What do you want now?”
“Had you spoken to Buzz over the phone lately?”
“No. I told you I hadn’t seen him in a while.”
“Tell us again why you didn’t go to that recovery meeting?”
“Listen, I’m cooperating with you guys. Don’t push it.”
“We need to know who was at the meeting, Charlie.”
“It’s none of your fucking business who was at that meeting.”
&nbs
p; “Listen, we just—”
“No,” Charlie interrupted, “you listen to me. If you want me to talk to you, you had better change your fucking tone with me. There’s nothing that says I have to talk to you. I have an alibi. It’s locked. Do your fucking jobs.”
Charlie felt that if they had gone out and done their jobs, they would have exonerated him by now. It was a matter of doing the footwork. Charlie Snyder had no patience for lazy people, especially lazy cops, he said later. What was more, he was overwhelmed that he had told them about his guns, yet they dropped the subject as quick as they brought it up. Charlie didn’t know Buzz had been killed with a .38. Still, he wondered why they hadn’t come back with a warrant for his guns. Or even ask to smell the chambers.
Chapter 7
The ED-MCS held an 8:00 A.M. informal meeting every day. It was a time for detectives to get together before the workday began and discuss cases. Toss out ideas. Brainstorm. Confer about cases as a unit. “Gossip chat.” What each detective thought about a particular witness. Evidence. Hunches. Gut feelings. They were a team. They respected one another’s opinions. No idea was a bad idea. Homicide is an irrational act, and cops have to think irrationally to solve a case. The 8:00 A.M. meetings were a time for that. No two crimes were ever the same; no two criminals were alike.
“How did we know,” Reggie Wardell said later, “that Buzz didn’t just piss someone off on the highway, and that guy decided to take out his anger by shooting him? We had to keep an open mind. It seemed that everyone we spoke to early on opened another door.”
The two most prominent suspects were Charlie Snyder and Rob Ferguson. And by March 15, each witness that detectives had spoken to seemed to bolster further the theory that one of the two had killed Buzz.
Marty Graham spoke to another former employee of Blonders who had some negative things to say about Charlie. It turned out that it wasn’t Buzz who had called the DEP on Charlie, but a guy named Brad Riggs, who claimed that Charlie not only had threatened his family when he found out he had made the DEP call, but also said he thought Buzz owed Charlie a lot more money than people were saying.
Kim Clinton, when she was reinterviewed on March 15, put Rob Ferguson’s feet closer to the fire by saying that Rob had called Buzz back in February looking for his rent money, and when Kim said that Buzz wasn’t around, Rob told her that “he will have more fucking problems unless he calls me back.” Then she indicated that she was positive someone had called on the night Buzz was murdered and wanted information about a “Toyota” or “Mustang” that Buzz had had for sale. There was even the chance, she said, that Buzz had gone off to meet the person who had called so he could show him the cars.
Buzz’s body had been released by the medical examiner’s office on March 16. The Clintons, nearly a week after Buzz had been killed, could finally put him to rest. Dee Clinton had already said good-bye to her son on the day he was murdered. The funeral, she later said, was just a way to say good-bye to his body.
Dee and her family were, of course, devastated by the loss. In many ways, Buzz had been the center of the Clinton family. Now he was gone. Just like that: one minute he was here; the next he wasn’t.
Interviewed by a local newspaper, Dee told a reporter that Buzz had visited her on the day of his murder only moments before he was killed. She claimed his “mood was upbeat” when he walked out of the house. He was especially happy, Dee noted, “about his wife’s pregnancy and a new job he was due to begin at a Groton convalescent home.
“Everything was wonderful. He was thrilled. His life was fine.”
On March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, as a slight rain fell and a cool breeze blew umbrellas out of people’s hands, a service was held at the Clintons’ parish, Christ the King Roman Catholic Church.
Earlier that morning, Cynthia Carpenter had called with some rather disturbing news. Dick had been in an accident. His car had slid off the road. Dick escaped without serious injury, but his car was totaled and he was shaken up a bit. Cynthia said she’d watch the children while Dee and the rest of the Clintons buried Buzz. On the surface, it seemed like a noble gesture.
Before family and friends headed off to the cemetery, near the end of the short church ceremony, Dee stood up and read from a eulogy she had spent days composing. Buck Clinton had been a staple on the wrestling circuit in state for years. He coached high-school wrestling and held on to a passion for the sport. When the Clintons showed up at the wake the previous night, it was a comforting feeling to see that Buck’s entire wrestling team, wearing their wrestling jackets, had been bused in to support the family.
Garbed in a black dress, Dee first addressed the crowd by stating that she was the person who likely knew Buzz best. A spiritual woman, Dee closed her opening by saying, “I believe God picks out special children to send to us so we can learn something.”
Attendees, drying eyes and whimpering softly, were captivated by Dee’s remarkable strength and candid demeanor. When she spoke, it was easy to tell where Buzz had gotten his strong disposition. Dee was a powerful person, not afraid of anyone. She was going to speak her mind today—regardless of what anyone thought.
This was Buzz’s day.
“I don’t think there is one person who has crossed Buzz’s path who doesn’t have a story to tell about him,” Dee said.
Some people nodded. Others broke into half smiles through their anguish.
“God has carried me over some bumpy roads, and He has granted my family with more miracles than we probably deserve.”
People who knew Dee weren’t shocked by her display of gratitude. She had always been a person who never took anything for granted. Here was a woman who had just lost a son to the hand of a violent murderer, and she was speaking of how lucky she and her family were. Her strength was astonishing.
Years ago, it was discovered that Suzanne, Dee’s middle child, had a bone tumor. The prayers from friends and family, Dee explained, had apparently helped “make another miracle possible.” Suzanne beat it. She was fine now. “Buzz would have given his life to save his sister,” Dee recalled later. “He was overwhelmed by Suzanne’s pain.”
Buzz had married and divorced before he met Kim. His first wife, Lisa, had bore him a son, Michael.
“The marriage ended,” Dee explained to the crowd, “but not our relationship—and Lisa is wonderful [for] letting us share in the joy of Michael.”
She second-guessed herself for having scolded Buzz for getting Kim pregnant shortly before he was killed.
“I read him the riot act,” she said somberly, looking down at her notes. When she looked back up, she revealed, “Now I wish I [had] kept my mouth shut.”
Then she tilted her hat to Kim, her daughter-in-law, a woman with whom she had just begun to bond. Since Buzz’s death, Kim had moved back into the Clintons’ house. Dee promised to build her a home of her own on a part of their fifty acres. There would be insurance money from a policy Dee had on Buzz. Dee wanted to be sure her grandchildren were taken care of with the money.
“Kim was his strength, giving him the will and desire to change his life. A quiet and gentle woman with unbelievable courage, whom I thank for loving my son.”
Dee finished by saying that she had confidence that Buzz was “in God’s presence and light…. I have to say good-bye to our son.” She ended with “…we’ll miss you.”
When the Clintons returned home after Buzz’s funeral, reminders of him were everywhere. His clothes were still hanging around the house. His shoes and sneakers lay in the hallway. His hat hung on the rack by the door. His smell lingered in the air, on his clothes. His favorite chair was empty. Indeed, everything was still the same as it had been on March 9, but Buzz was gone. It was as if he’d gone off to work, or gone out for the night…and just hadn’t come home yet.
Later, Dee Clinton, standing in her driveway next to a stone wall that Buzz had built years ago, remembered him.
“I can still see the sweat rolling off his back as he lifted each ston
e and placed it carefully next to one he had just put down. The sun was shining that day on his back. The glare. I can still see him….”
There was a tree to the left of the driveway that Buzz had planted. When he put it in the ground, it was about the size of a houseplant. Now it stood fifteen feet tall. It was a subtle reminder to Dee that life still went on, even though part of her world had been shattered.
Throughout the weekend of March 19 and 20, detectives laid out a plan for the next few days. It included visits to several of Buzz’s former friends, his ex-wife and a number of people he’d worked with throughout the years. Something was missing. Someone had it out for Buzz. There wasn’t really much more to it than that. The hard part was tracking down that one nugget of information that would eventually open up the floodgates.
Before detectives began interviewing people, they decided to visit Dee again. Some time had passed. Maybe she could remember something significant?
The basic premise of the second interview was to find out what she “thought,” Dee later speculated. They wanted to know how she felt about who murdered her son, and if she had any idea who it could have been.
Dee was adamant this time. She suspected that the Carpenters had had something to do with Buzz’s death. She didn’t believe anymore that a state trooper was responsible. It was after Buzz’s funeral, Dee said, that she began to develop her suspicions. When Cynthia brought the kids back after the funeral, Dee had said, “Thank you. You’ve been so kind to my family.”
Cynthia, befuddled and a bit disconcerted, said, “No, I haven’t.”
That was when Dee began to have a feeling of “discontent.” Something, she thought, was askew.
“I told those detectives when they came back,” Dee later recalled, “about the signs. They were there, especially since the last time I had spoken to them.”
Dee was referring to Dick Carpenter’s accident on the day of Buzz’s funeral and the fact that he had also lost a fight with his chain saw some days later when he fell off a ladder and cut off one of his fingers.
Lethal Guardian Page 6
