On the day of Maria’s funeral, more than seventy people filled the pews of the sanctuary, surrounded by marble columns, frescoes and murals. Rudolfo Cruz clutched the back of the pew before him—the pressure of his grief-strengthened grip turning his fingertips white.
Reverend Erno Diaz officiated over the service. He spoke of Maria’s becoming, in her short life, the embodiment of the American dream. “She came from the Philippines to make it in New York. And, of course, with her brains, with her determination, and also with her courage—she made it.”
Maria’s older sister, Tes, delivered the eulogy, first addressing her words to her sister: “You were a very big dreamer. You were not afraid to move out of your comfort zone—away from your family, away from the life you had always known—to face challenges, hurdle obstacles, do whatever it takes to make your dreams come true.
“I guess, because honesty was second nature to you, you expected the same from others. But, my dear sister, I think you expected too much, because not everybody you trusted were trustworthy after all.”
To the gathered mourners, Tes said, “Pipay was a very special person. She left a legacy that nothing in this world is more important than to treasure one’s family.”
As the casket was carried out of the church, Rudolfo wailed, and his son, Jun, rested his hands on his father’s shoulders—in shared grief and in the hope of granting comfort. Rebecca de los Angeles, Maria’s aunt, embraced her sister Irenea, as she sobbed out her sorrow over the loss of her daughter.
Maria’s body slid into the hearse. Family members patted the wood of her coffin, shouting, “I love you. I love you.”
“It’s the saddest moment of my life,” Rudolfo said.
After the service, Maria’s body was cremated—her remains hermetically sealed in a heavy bronze urn. Her family flew her ashes back to the Philippines on Saturday, February 28.
Days of continuous wake followed her arrival in her native land. Hundreds of Maria’s relatives and friends attended, offering words of consolation and hugs of empathy. Then, Maria was laid to rest in a serene mausoleum with white granite floors at the Manila Memorial Park in Paranaque City on the outskirts of Manila.
Her parents visited her every day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AS WITH OTHER TRAGIC DEATHS IN THE INTERNET AGE, CHAT rooms exploded with messages from anyone with even marginal awareness of Dean Faiello or Maria Cruz. A resident of Forest Hill wrote:
My partner who is a glutton for gossip is following this story avidly. We live about two blocks from the compound where Maria Jeritza lived. The lady that cleaned house for us up until August of last year also cleaned the guest house that Dean Faiello, the fake plastic surgeon lived in. She has since moved to Ohio but I wonder if she knows anything. She was always telling stories.
Another voice chimed in,
Hey, that guy goes to my gym. His locker was a few over from mine. Haven’t seen him for several months. Now I know why. Black boxer briefs, by the way.
Some Internet users came to Dean’s defense:
Dean was not a scheming plotting murderer; however the path that he took was very much crooked. If anyone saw the movie Sunset Boulevard, Dean could have played the part of Gloria Swanson to a tee. His crumbling Elwood Avenue home was a reflection of his personal/social aspirations. Unfortunately, Dean’s use of drugs, alcohol and his greed have extinguished the wonderful life of Maria Cruz and the energy invested by her loving family
Another made this comment:
Dean’s life went out of control, but he is no sadistic murderer. The fact that he called people to try to save her indicates that he panicked when things started to go awry. The man would not kill a bug, let alone a human, on purpose. He told someone the only time he was happy was when he was taking drugs. What a sad commentary on what could have been a beautiful life. Where will it go from here? I and many others hope his punishment leaves him enough time to make something of his life.
In response to these compassionate opinions, another writer expressed outrage.
Are you people crazy? Dean killed someone, was practicing illegally and then tried to cover up this poor girl’s death! I have no empathy for him or anyone else like him. To top off everything he’s done, he fled the country in hopes of not having to take responsibility for his actions! Get a grip!
Others on line remembered Maria.
I’m stepping back into the blogosphere for a quick break and am greeted with sad news. The remains of Maria Cruz who went missing last April seem to have been found. Maria Cruz was friends with women I worked with at my old job, and her poster was all over Midtown Manhattan last spring. I hope that knowing what happened to her, though the answer to the questions is tragic, is some comfort to them.
Another posted:
I met Maria while I was working at Barclay’s on a contract. I just remember her as cute and smiling a lot. I wanted to ask her out someday but never did. She was always nice to people. I saw her uncle putting up posters in my neighborhood and I immediately recognized her—it was the first time I made the choice to pray for someone’s safety who wasn’t a family member. I just remember this sweet girl who wouldn’t hurt a fly.
JEANE MACINTOSH OF THE NEW YORK POST GOT A TIP THAT Dean Faiello had sent emails to friends from Costa Rica. She called the attorney general’s office, but officials would not confirm Dean’s presence there—nor would they deny it. And that was good enough for her.
Since she spoke no Spanish, Jeane grabbed Bolivar Arellano, a photographer with a high degree of fluency in the language, and wasted no time in getting to Costa Rica. She arrived on February 20, just two days after the discovery of Maria’s body. Jeane was the first U.S. journalist investigating the case to touch down in San Jose.
Her first stop was the United States Embassy. “We haven’t started looking for Dean Faiello,” they said. “We don’t have a warrant yet.”
“We have pictures of him,” Jeane said, flashing an array of shots of Dean from her coverage of his illegal practice of medicine charge back in 2002. “The D.A. told us they are going to issue a warrant.”
“You have pictures?”
Jeane nodded. They asked her to keep in touch.
Next Jean and Bolivar paid a visit to Marco Badilla, head of immigration for Costa Rica. “We can’t start looking for him until your government asks us to,” he said. “We are eager to help, but we don’t even have the basic information.”
Jeane provided Marco with copies of her pictures of Dean in exchange for a copy of Dean’s passport and his entry documents. Then the intrepid duo attempted to set up a meeting with Interpol. They were given directions to a nighttime rendezvous point, a dark spot by the railroad tracks lit only by the glimmer of a nearby McDonald’s. Again they were told, “We can’t look until we’re asked.”
Jeane and Bolivar hit the banks in San Jose, chasing down a rumor that Dean had recently received funds from the States via electronic transfer. At Banco Popular, tellers recognized Dean’s photo right away. They directed Jeane to an Internet café in the town square.
“Yes,” the woman at the café said in Spanish as Bolivar translated for Jeane. “He is here two, three times a week. He usually sits in this chair,” she said placing her hand on the back of a seat in front of a computer. “You can wait for him here.”
Jeane and Bolivar staked out the Internet café by day and prowled the clubs in the gay section of San Jose each night. At Pucho’s, a woman recognized his picture and said, “I hired him as a go-go dancer.”
“A go-go dancer?” Jeane asked, poking her finger at Dean’s picture. “Are you sure? This guy’s forty years old.”
“Yes. He danced here for about a week. But I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
Jeane ran with the go-go dancer story. Local Costa Rican reporters followed up with the club’s owner. He denied that Dean ever worked at Pucho’s. He swore no one there had ever seen Dean. He was going to sue the New York Post, he said.
Je
ane got a tip from Costa Rican authorities that Dean had moved to the coast. She put a plane and pilot on stand-by in case she and Bolivar needed to make a spur-of-the-moment flight west.
Following up on the tip, Jeane called Marco Badilla, who confirmed the story, but did not have a precise location. “We are expecting a warrant any time now,” he said.
She called the district attorney’s office in Manhattan, telling them what she knew and what she planned to do. “But we don’t want to impede an investigation. What do you want us to do?”
They asked her to sit tight, saying that Dean would be arrested the next day. Jeane didn’t have much choice. No one was telling her where along the 630 miles of Pacific coast Dean was staying—in fact, no one seemed to know with any certainty. One story placed him near the water, living with a woman in a house in a small village. Other tales placed him at an assortment of coastal resorts.
NEW YORK LAW ENFORCEMENT MADE PLANS TO SEND INVESTIgators down to Costa Rica. Paperwork and formality slowed their progress. Prosecutors could not issue an arrest warrant for the murder of Maria Cruz until the medical examiner provided an autopsy report with his determination of the cause and manner of death. They could, though, issue a warrant for bail-jumping—and they did. That charge did not possess sufficient weight to make Dean eligible for extradition, but they thought it would be enough to place him behind bars in Costa Rica until additional charges could be filed.
While waiting for the prosecutor’s office to take action, Detective Joe Della Rocca searched the apartment at 151 West 16th Street, where Maria lost her life. He found a laser machine, a box of syringes and an assortment of medications.
Investigators Brian Ford and Joe Buffolino of the state attorney general’s office boarded a plane bound for Costa Rica on February 25—one week after Maria’s body was found. That evening, Jeane and Bolivar entered the lobby of the Holiday Inn on their way out of the hotel. They saw Ford and Buffolino checking in. Something’s coming down soon, Jeane thought.
The reporter and photographer headed out to the airport the next morning to confirm with their pilot that a flight was imminent. As they arrived, they saw Detectives Joe Della Rocca and Bob Jennings of the New York Police Department disembarking from a plane. Following them were a gaggle of reporters from New York.
After meeting with the pilot, Jeane and Bolivar headed straight back to their hotel. They discovered that nearly everyone they saw at the airport was now checking in to the Holiday Inn. With the arrival of the investigators from New York, the once-cooperative Costa Rican authorities clammed up. Her local sources went as dry as a desert.
The authorities expressed their frustration to the investigators from New York. They did not understand why the information and photos of Faiello were not sent to them sooner. They could have commenced the search days earlier if they had been better informed of the situation.
In no time, though, they ferreted out an important detail. The passport Dean used to enter the country had not been shown at any exit point. Dean was, in all likelihood, still within the borders of Costa Rica. His three-month visa had expired in December. He could easily be picked up and held on a visa violation while other charges were investigated.
Together the two governments issued an all points bulletin. Newspapers published in English and in Spanish splashed Dean’s face across the country. Financial specialists tracked Dean’s credit card usage. The net tightened as the unsuspecting Dean lounged by the pool. Diplomatic security special agents assigned to the United States Embassy in San Jose coordinated the search efforts of the various Costa Rican law enforcement agencies, and kept the New York authorities informed of developments.
At Villas Playa Samara, one of the resort security guards approached hotel manager Max Navarro with a newspaper. “Look, Max. Look at this. We have a criminal here in the hotel.”
Those were not the words anyone in charge of a tropical getaway ever wanted to hear. Max stared at the photograph, hoping his employee was wrong. But he could not deny the evidence. On the front page he saw the unmistakable image of the customer staying in the three-bedroom villa—the man who loved to eat red snapper and always gave the bartenders good tips. It was not a good day for Max—and it was about to become an even worse one for Dean Faiello.
Max picked up the phone and called his wife at their home in the resort. “Don’t leave the house. Lock the doors. We have a murderer here.” After seeing to his family, Max performed his obligation as a law-abiding citizen—he called the police.
But Max’s duty was not yet complete. Dean Faiello was still, after all, a guest at his resort. He called prominent criminal attorney Moises Vincenzi and said, “I have a guy here at the Villa who is going to need a lawyer right away.”
Vincenzi hopped on a plane and flew straight to the airport nearest the resort.
With Max’s call to the police, the Costa Rican immigration agency was notified. Special Officer Roger Morales and a handful of his colleagues rushed to Villas Playa Samara. They found Dean stretched out on a poolside chaise with an icy Corona in his hand—and attorney Moises Vincenzi at his side.
When Dean saw the approaching force of immigration police, one Interpol agent and six officers of Organismo de Investigacion Judicial—the highest ranking of the six branches of the Costa Rican police force—the vacationing fugitive jumped to his feet. He raised both hands up in the air, saying, “Take it easy. No problem.”
Morales pulled out his handcuffs. Dean asked if he could change out of his bathing suit and slug back one last big glass of vodka. He was escorted to his villa to change into street clothes—but no one was serving any drinks.
Vincenzi insisted, to authorities and to the media, that Dean was nothing more than a tourist, and had no idea that police were looking for him.
The Department of Foreign Affairs wasted no time in voicing their pleasure at Dean Faiello’s capture. “I praise the police authorities involved in the arrest of the suspect responsible for Cruz’s death,” Secretary Delia Domingo Albert said. “Let us hope that this will result in justice being served for Cruz’s family. I have instructed Ambassador Albert Del Rosario in Washington to keep us informed on the case and to provide assistance to Cruz’s family should they require it.”
Understandably, the Cruz family expressed their feelings in far less diplomatic language. Irenea Cruz said, “He is crazy, mentally sick. It’s inhumane what he did. My daughter was murdered. Why did he do this? I want the death penalty.”
Rudolfo said, “When I saw him on TV during his arrest, I got so mad that my body started shaking.” Then he echoed his wife’s sentiments. “We want the death penalty! He deserves capital punishment. If I could speak to him face-to-face, I would tell him to go to hell—that’s the best place for him. Why did he kill my daughter? How could he do it?”
Although their words expressed anger, their spirits were somewhat soothed by the arrest. Since the discovery of their daughter’s body a week ago, they could hardly rest. Now, they felt some relief from their pain; and with that small measure of peace, sleep came at last.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
JEANE’S CELL PHONE CHIRPED. IT WAS MARCO BADILLA. “They picked him up. They’re going to bring him to jail in San Jose.”
“When?” Jeane asked.
“They said very late—under the cover of the night.”
“It sure would be nice to get pictures, Marco,” Jeane said. Then she explained the concept of the traditional perp walk in the United States.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Marco said.
Whatever he did, it worked. Police loaded Dean Faiello into a red police pick-up truck at the Villa. His official escort, Marco Badilla, transported him down the primitive system of roads that led to San Jose. Dean’s lawyer Moises Vincenzi flew back to the capital to await his client’s arrival.
Director Badilla delivered Dean to authorities in San Jose at 7:30 that night. He parked on Main Street so Dean had to make a handcuffed walk, giving reporters
plenty of opportunity for photographs and video footage.
Outside the jail, MacIntosh found that she was no longer the lone reporter in Costa Rica covering Dean’s case. A crowd of fifty international news people—predominately New York–area print and broadcast journalists—surrounded the path from the vehicle to the immigration jail, shooting video, snapping still shots and peppering the air with questions.
In the crowd, Dean spotted Investigator Brian Ford. “Hi, Brian. Nice to see a familiar face.” The line sounded as if it belonged to Leonardo DiCaprio’s character as he greeted Tom Hanks in Catch Me If You Can—one of Dean’s favorite films.
Attorney Vincenzi arrived at the immigration jail with a sack from Burger King containing a hamburger and a Coke. To the media, he repeated that Dean was nothing more than a tourist who had no idea that the police were looking for him. Vincenzi then took the meal inside to his client.
After Dean finished eating, the two men entered an interrogation room with Ford and Buffolino from the New York state attorney general’s office and Detectives Della Rocca and Jennings from the Homicide Unit at the New York Police Department. Dean greeted Brian and Joe by their first names and asked how they were doing. He was his usual charming self. Despite their natural reluctance, the investigators found Dean quite likeable. Brian Ford later said, “For a murder suspect, he’s really a nice guy.”
In addition to posing questions that Dean’s lawyer would not let him answer, the four men tried to persuade Dean not to fight extradition. They argued for the better conditions and better food in American prisons. Dean was obstinate in his desire to stay in Costa Rica. Then they dangled the possibility of visits from his sister Debra as bait. That argument resonated with Dean. “Let me sleep on it,” he said.
Dean spent most of that night in the immigration jail crying. He was too distressed to notice how lucky he was. The other forty-nine inhabitants of the prison were crowded into one large cage, containing only six bunks. Dean had a cell to himself.
Under the Knife Page 16
