I've Got My Eyes on You

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Where do we go from there?”

  “That is the problem. In my interviews of the party guests, a number of them who spent time outside in the backyard either admitted to using the practice green or gave me the names of boys who were taking turns putting.”

  “So we have a lot of kids who actually handled the murder weapon?”

  “Correct. Of the eight males who I can identify as having handled the putter, not a single one has a criminal record.”

  “And therefore we don’t have their prints on file?”

  “Even though most of the students who were at the party consented to be interviewed, I’m pretty sure we’ll get a lot of resistance if we ask them to give fingerprints.”

  Artie nodded. “We can’t ask a judge to compel them to give us their prints because they aren’t suspects.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you been able to pin down the time of death?” Artie asked.

  “The medical examiner’s report didn’t give us much help there. The pool water was eighty-five degrees. In water that warm, body tissue degrades quickly. The latest we know she was alive was eleven-ten P.M. on Saturday, when she sent her last text. The family found her in the water at eleven-fifteen A.M. on Sunday. So the maximum amount of time she was in the water is about twelve hours.”

  “So she could have been killed at four in the morning?”

  “Yes, but that’s highly unlikely. Alan Crowley in his statement said she was going to clean up outside and then go to bed. Her text to him says the same thing. I was at the property. In another ten minutes she could have finished cleaning the backyard.”

  “So there’s no evidence to suggest that she might have gone to bed and then Crowley forced her to come back outside?”

  “No, there isn’t. But there is evidence that she never went to bed that night. We checked her room. Her bed was made.”

  “That doesn’t tell us much. For all we know, she went to sleep on the couch.”

  “Agreed. But the autopsy showed that at the time of her death she still had her contact lenses in.”

  “People forget to take them out, particularly if they’ve been drinking.”

  “I spoke to the victim’s sister. According to her, Kerry never would have forgotten. One time she left them in overnight and got a serious eye infection. She was religious about taking them out before going to sleep.”

  “So what time do you think the murder took place?”

  “Between eleven-ten, when she sent her last text, and about ten minutes later, when she would have finished cleaning the backyard.”

  “Precisely the time Crowley came back to the house.”

  “Artie, I believe that subject to interviewing Crowley’s friends who were at Nellie’s and confirming that they lied, we have more than enough to arrest Alan Crowley. He was at the party. He was jealous. He sent angry text messages to her. Phone records show that he went back to the home to see her after the party and lied about it. He asked his friends to lie. His fingerprints are on the murder weapon. He denied having touched it the night of the party.”

  “Where are we on this Good Samaritan flat tire changer?”

  “Kerry’s friend said Kerry told her that after she picked up the beer, he was aggressive and tried to kiss her. But a couple of her friends say she was a flirt. Maybe she was exaggerating. She was a very pretty young woman. As of today, we’ve made almost no progress in trying to find him.”

  “I wish we could have nailed that down, but everything really seems to point to Crowley.”

  “And we can’t talk to Crowley any further because Lester Parker won’t allow us.”

  “All right. Get back to me after you question his three friends. How soon can you talk to them?”

  Wilson checked his whiteboard. “One of them is taking a term off. Two of them are in college locally and have agreed to come back. They’re coming in to talk to me this afternoon.”

  31

  Bobby, Stan and Rich each received the phone call they dreaded. Detective Mike Wilson told them that the information they had given when they first spoke to him was very important to the investigation. He wanted them to come down to Hackensack and give formal statements. All three had agreed to go to the Prosecutor’s Office together at 4:30 that afternoon.

  Mike took them into the interrogation room. Normally he interviewed witnesses separately, but he thought it would be more effective to challenge the three of them together. All of them had sweating palms as they sat in the three chairs on one side of the conference table. He turned the video camera on.

  Mike began gently. “Alan is your friend, right? You played baseball together.”

  They all nodded.

  “It is very natural for friends to want to help a friend that might be in trouble. I’ve done it myself. I’m convinced that is what each of you did the last time I spoke to you. Well, things are different today. I know a lot more about what happened that night and who was where at what time. So I’m going to ask you questions. This is your chance to put things right. If you lie to me today, you will be charged with false swearing and obstruction of justice.” Mike paused. “And possibly accessory to murder. Now, let’s get started.”

  Words tumbled out of the mouths of all three of them. “Alan left Nellie’s before we did. We didn’t know we’d be in trouble. When Alan phoned, he sounded so scared. The minute we lied for him, we knew we were making a mistake.”

  Mike said, “Okay, hold on. What time did Alan leave Nellie’s?”

  Desperate to be exact, the three of them agreed it was about eleven-fifteen.

  Mike asked, “Did he say anything about where he was going?”

  Stan answered, “Kerry had sent him a text telling him not to come over until tomorrow. But he said he wanted to straighten things out that night.”

  Mike said, “So it was your impression that he was leaving Nellie’s and going directly to Kerry’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “When Alan joined you at Nellie’s, can you tell me if he had been drinking?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then all three nodded.

  “A little? A lot? How much?”

  “He was kinda drunk when he got to Nellie’s, but after he had the pizza and soda, he was pretty okay,” Rich said.

  The three affirmed that they were together at Stan’s pool that Sunday afternoon when Alan phoned and asked them to lie for him.

  “I thank you for coming here today. You did the right thing by telling us the truth.”

  Watching them leave, Mike thought that nobody had ever been happier to get out of here than these three.

  He went back to his office and called Artie. They agreed that it was time to arrest Alan Crowley.

  32

  June and Doug Crowley felt somewhat relieved after their meeting with Lester Parker. They drove directly home with Alan. When they were inside, June went into the den and settled there with a satisfied sigh. Doug and Alan followed her in.

  “Lester Parker may be expensive, but I believe he’s worth it,” June observed. Her expression changed. “Fran Dowling is telling everyone that you killed Kerry,” she said, looking at Alan. “I’m going to have Parker write a stiff letter to her saying that we are going to sue her if she continues her malicious defamation.”

  “I agree,” Doug said heartily.

  They both looked at Alan, expecting his approval.

  “Mom, Dad, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  Oh my God, he’s going to tell us he killed her, June thought, her blood running cold.

  “I wasn’t honest with you or the detective in Hackensack about where I was after I left the party. I did go to Nellie’s, but on my way home, I went to Kerry’s house.”

  “Alan, don’t tell us you killed her,” June begged.

  A suddenly white-faced Doug gripped the arms of the chair, preparing for the worst.

  “I killed her? That’s what you two have believed all along!” Alan snapped. “Here�
�s what really happened. I went back to make up with Kerry and help her clean up. We spoke for a few minutes. She told me she was tired and going to bed, she said she would get up early in the morning to clean up. I kissed her good night and came straight home.”

  “Then why did you lie to the detective?” Doug asked.

  “Because I knew it would look bad for me. We had a fight at the party and everybody saw it. I sent her some nasty text messages which I’m sure the cops know about. If I admitted going back to her house, I was afraid how that would look.”

  “Alan,” June said, “you know your father and I are behind you no matter what.”

  “No matter what! What does that mean? You’re behind me even if I killed her?” Alan stood up. “Well you might as well know I not only lied to the detective. I asked my friends to lie and say I was at Nellie’s with them when I was really at Kerry’s.”

  Doug and June were too stunned to react. Alan looked at his mother. “You better not send that letter to Mrs. Dowling,” he said bitterly, and stalked out of the room.

  33

  Brenda was in the kitchen when she heard raised voices coming from the den. Knowing every inch of the house and blessed with exceptionally good hearing, she knew exactly where to go when she wanted to listen to Crowley conversations. She tiptoed from the kitchen down the hall and ducked into the small bathroom next to the den. She brought a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Windex in case she had to look busy.

  The words “He lied to the detective” swirled around in her brain. Always sympathetic to Alan because of the Crowleys’ demands on him, she began to wonder. Why would he have lied to the cops? There’s no way he would hurt Kerry.

  She couldn’t wait to get over to talk to Marge after she finished preparing dinner for the Crowleys.

  She was glad to see Marge’s car as she drove up her street. When Marge answered the door and invited her in, she pointed up the stairs. “Brenda, Jamie’s having a really bad day. He’s been crying because he misses Kerry,” she said, her tone weary.

  “Oh, Marge, I’m so sorry.”

  “It happens every few days. He misses her so much. I think losing Kerry is bringing back his sadness from when Jack died.”

  “Of course, he misses Kerry and his father,” Brenda said sympathetically. “But wait till you hear the latest.”

  She waited until they were seated at the kitchen table and Marge had put on the kettle for a cup of tea. “Marge,” Brenda began, “you won’t believe me when I tell you what Alan told the Crowleys!”

  34

  At six-forty-five the next morning, Fran and Steve were awakened by the ringing of the bedside phone. Fran groped for it and sat up straight. It was Mike Wilson telling her that they were on their way to arrest Alan Crowley for Kerry’s murder. He would be brought to the Bergen County Jail in Hackensack today and would be arraigned in the next couple days. The arraignment before the judge would be open to the public, and the Dowlings could attend.

  Mike added, “Mrs. Dowling, we’ll be there in a few minutes. Do not share this information until I’ve called you back to confirm that Alan was at his house and is in our custody.”

  Fran replaced the phone and said, “Steve, fantastic news! It’s just as I’ve been saying. Alan Crowley is being arrested today for killing Kerry.”

  Fifteen minutes later, June and Doug Crowley were startled awake by persistent pounding on their front door and the ringing of the doorbell. Instinctively suspecting that the reason for the abrupt intrusion was going to be a problem, June grabbed her robe and raced downstairs.

  She yanked open the door and saw two men in plainclothes side by side with a uniformed policeman. She had no way of knowing that another uniformed officer was in the backyard to guard against the possibility that Alan would try to escape.

  “Ma’am, I’m Detective Wilson from the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office. We have a warrant for the arrest of Alan Crowley and a search warrant for the premises,” he told her. “Is he here at this time?”

  “My son is represented by counsel, by Lester Parker. Have you spoken to him?”

  “Your son has the right to speak to his attorney later. We are here now to arrest him.”

  Without being asked, Wilson pushed open the door and stepped past June Crowley into the house. His fellow detective and the officer followed him.

  By this time Doug and Alan were tumbling down the stairs in time to hear the word “arrest.” Alan gripped his father’s arm as the words sank in. He was dressed in only a T-shirt and boxers.

  He looked at Mike Wilson. “Can I at least get dressed?”

  Wilson answered Alan’s question. “Yes, you can get dressed. We’ll follow you to your room.”

  He and the other detective climbed the stairs behind Alan and walked down the hallway to his room. Two partially packed suitcases were on the floor by the window. Next to them was an unzipped Nike sports bag with several wooden bats and two baseball gloves inside.

  “Are you going someplace, Alan?” Mike asked, although he already knew the answer.

  “I’m leaving for college the day after tomorrow,” Alan said. “Can I still go?”

  “Let’s see how today goes,” Mike said matter-of-factly.

  He watched as Alan went into his closet and pulled out jeans and a pair of running shoes.

  “Sorry, Alan. No shoelaces, no belt and no jewelry.”

  • • •

  In her bedroom June was frantically dialing Lester Parker’s office. Filled with frustration at being connected to a recording, she shrieked, “This is June Crowley. The police are here with a warrant for Alan’s arrest. Call me on my cell phone at once.” She reached into her closet and grabbed a running suit.

  Doug was quickly pulling on a pair of pants and shirt. They managed to be back downstairs as Alan, a detective on each side of him, was walking out the front door toward the waiting cars.

  “Where are you taking him?” June shouted. She gasped as she noticed for the first time that Alan’s hands were cuffed behind his back.

  Mike answered, “To the Bergen County Jail in Hackensack.”

  June saw two of her neighbors standing in their driveways observing the scene that was unfolding before them.

  “Can one of us ride with Alan?” she yelled to Mike Wilson.

  “No, but you can follow us to the jail.”

  June jogged to catch up to them. She grabbed Alan’s arm as Wilson was opening the back door of his unmarked car. “Alan, I phoned Lester Parker. He’s going to get right back to me. Remember what he told you. Don’t answer any questions unless he is with you.”

  There were tears in Alan’s eyes. Before he had a chance to answer her, he felt Wilson’s hand on his head firmly forcing it down as he slid through the opened door. There was a wire grill separating the front and back seats.

  June maintained eye contact with Alan for as long as she could as the car began to slowly back down her driveway. As she watched Wilson drive away, her normally steely resolve melted. “My baby, oh my God, my baby,” she sobbed as Doug put his arm around her and helped her toward his car.

  • • •

  After turning off Hollywood Avenue, the detective’s car accelerated onto Route 17. The traffic was moving quickly as they were a little ahead of the worst part of the morning rush.

  A bewildered Alan tried to make sense of what was going on around him. Only days ago, he had ridden in this same car with Detective Wilson, to Hackensack. But on the earlier trip he had been in the front seat and was not wearing handcuffs. He found himself hoping that this was one long nightmare. When he woke up, he would go to Kerry’s house, make up with her and hurry home to mow the lawn. And finish organizing what he would bring to college. It didn’t work. This was real.

  Wilson and the other detective made no attempt to speak to him. He could hear them talking about the monstrously long home run the Yankees’ Aaron Judge had hit the previous evening. He had seen it. For them this is just another day at the offi
ce, he thought. For me, my life is over.

  Processing at the jail was a blur. The bright flashes as he was photographed straight on and in profile. Being fingerprinted again. Answering a barrage of questions.

  Alan was taken into a windowless room. His handcuffs were removed. He was given a bag and told to take off his clothes and put them in it. He assumed it would be okay to keep his underwear on. He was told to put on an orange jumpsuit that was on the counter in front of him.

  After changing, he was taken to a community holding cell. About a dozen people were there. There were benches along the walls of the room and one in the center. Toward the back of the cell on the right, in full view of all, was a stainless steel toilet. No one was sitting on the bench closest to it. Alan took a seat on a bench near the cell door.

  About half the people in the cell appeared to be around his age or a little older. One prisoner sitting by himself in the corner smelled to high heaven. Everybody was sitting, most with their heads down. There were a few conversations going on. A loudmouth was sharing his experiences with someone who had never been arrested. Alan heard another one explaining the difference between jail and prison. “If you incarcerated for up to 364 days, you in jail; 365 days or more, you in prison.”

  Alan had not eaten breakfast and was very hungry. He made eye contact with a middle-aged man on the bench opposite him. “Is food something you ask for, or do they bring it when they’re ready?”

  The man smiled. “They just bring it, but believe me, it’s nothing you’d ask for.”

  There was no clock that he could see, and watches weren’t permitted. After what he thought was several hours, a guard began unlocking the cell door. Behind the guard was an older man pushing a cart with numerous paper bags on the top tray. Alan was handed a brown paper bag. Inside was something wrapped in wax paper. He put it on his lap and opened it. The thickness of the stale roll covered the two slices of baloney deep inside. He assumed the gooey white substance was mayonnaise.