So when Ann finally asked Kathie what it was she saw in her new boyfriend, Kathie smiled and talked about how sweet and kind and sensitive Bobby was.
“And Mom,” said Kathie. “He’s rich.”
When Kathie announced in January 1972 that she was moving with Bobby to Vermont after only two dates, Ann was less than thrilled. Catholics don’t live together, she said; they get married. But Kathie moved anyway, and for the next year she helped Bobby run his health-food store in Rutland, which he named All Good Things.
Bobby liked the rural setting, away from the city and his father’s hand. Kathie enjoyed managing the store. During their free time they would go for long walks in the woods, and long drives through the back roads of Maine and New Hampshire.
When Bobby decided to sell the store in December, they returned to New York and moved into a home in Westchester County that Bobby’s father, Seymour, owned. They didn’t stay there long, deciding to pick up and drive south in Bobby’s Volkswagen bus, traveling through South Carolina and Florida. The young couple would spend their nights at low-budget motels or camping spots, making love in a sleeping bag.
Sometimes Bobby would go out on his own, leaving Kathie alone for hours. She’d ask him where he’d been, but he was usually evasive, saying he just needed some quiet time to himself.
In 1973, after returning to New York, the couple decided to marry, though Ann remembered the “popping of the question” was more like a “let’s try this out.”
The only real commitment Bobby made, aside from saying “I do” was “If it doesn’t work out in three years, we’ll get a divorce.”
Kathie didn’t mind the arrangement. And she didn’t even mind the small, low-key wedding ceremony in Bedford, New York, on April 12, which was Bobby’s birthday. Only Seymour and Ann were present when the couple exchanged their vows before a justice of the peace, the foursome then celebrating at a restaurant in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Kathie didn’t complain when her mother paid for her own meal.
The honeymoon was another motor tour, this time a six-month journey cross-country. Bobby wrote off part of the trip as a business expense, saying he stopped off to examine Durst properties, though the Dursts didn’t own any properties in Middle America. He also confided to Kathie during one of their long daily drives that he didn’t have a Ph.D. in economics from UCLA, as he had claimed. He asked Kathie not to tell anyone, including his family. It would be their secret.
The McCormacks were happy for Kathie. She was young, and she was now wealthy. Her new husband went to work for his father while Kathie attended nursing school in Connecticut. They ate out three, four times a week, usually at fine restaurants, and they traveled often, to the Caribbean, Europe, South America, and Asia.
Despite Kathie’s good fortune and new life, there would be problems in her new marriage, and they centered around her unpredictable, erratic husband.
While Ann McCormack knew her daughter was not happy in her marriage, sister Mary was privy to the deepest, darkest secrets. And now Mary was sitting there, across from her mother, immersed in her own thoughts.
Mary knew things could have been different. That Kathie, like the Irish girl that she was, wanted to have children. But Bobby had made it clear that this wasn’t an option. He didn’t want to be a father, even though for some reason he gave in to Kathie’s desire to investigate the possibility of adoption. It was a whim, he thought, something she’d get out of her system, and he didn’t object when she made an appointment for an interview.
But making the appointment was one thing. Talking during the interview was another, and while driving home after the interview Bobby suggested that Kathie should follow his lead at future meetings. He didn’t like the tone of the conversation and didn’t want to make any kind of commitment. When Kathie disagreed with his suggestion, he poured a water bottle over her head as he was driving.
Kathie said nothing that night, and remained quiet two years later when, in 1976, she learned she was pregnant, telling only her sister Mary.
“Congratulations,” said Mary when informed she’d be an aunt. She gave Kathie a hug and a kiss, but saw that Kathie wasn’t enjoying the moment.
Kathie was dour. Bobby had insisted she have an abortion. He had no idea how Kathie, who used a diaphragm, could have become pregnant. He was angry.
“He said he did not want to be a father and if I have the baby he’ll divorce me,” said Kathie.
There was but one decision, and in March, Kathie sadly terminated her pregnancy. She fell into a deep depression, crying all hours of the day and night.
Mary tried to raise her spirits, but Kathie fell into a deeper funk in May when she learned that her husband of three years was having an affair.
The news came to Kathie in an unusual way. Bobby had announced that he changed their home phone number and the key to the mailbox, claiming he was being threatened at work and was doing this as a precaution. Two days later Kathie happened to pull a book from their bookshelf and some Polaroid pictures fell out. They were photos of their medicine cabinet and bedroom closet. Kathie was puzzled. Why would Bobby take pictures of a closet and cabinet?
Kathie confronted Bobby, who admitted to having an affair. Kathie sat stunned as Bobby explained that he changed the apartment around to give the impression that he was single. When the woman left, he used the photos to place everything back in their normal spaces.
Kathie asked who the woman was, but Bobby would only say she didn’t know her.
Kathie was devastated, and repulsed. Her husband, the man she loved, was using their home for his extramarital dalliances.
Mary didn’t know what to say when Kathie told her the news, crying on her shoulder that spring afternoon. Mary had already developed an opinion of Bobby Durst, and it was less than flattering. He was arrogant and cold and displayed a deep and obvious disdain for Kathie’s relatives, ignoring them at family functions or, if he was in a good mood, barely acknowledging their existence.
Mary told Kathie that perhaps she’d be better off without Bobby, but Kathie didn’t want to hear it.
She was married to a Durst, and it was going to stay that way, even when Kathie claimed to have learned that Bobby was embezzling from his father’s company, as she told Mary during a late night phone call. Kathie’s brother-in-law Douglas told her that Bobby was taking rent checks and depositing them into his own account. Bobby denied this at first, but she later claimed that he admitted to taking some checks on occasion.
“I don’t know what he’s doing,” Kathie said to her sister. “Sometimes I just don’t understand him.”
Mary said nothing. She knew her sister wouldn’t listen to reason. Besides, she was coming out of her funk. And she and Bobby agreed to buy a pretty little stone cottage on Lake Truesdale, in South Salem. It was a bargain, said Kathie. Only $86,500. It would serve as their summer and weekend retreat and Kathie could stay there when attending nursing classes at WCSC in Danbury. Kathie even held out the hope that this would add a new dimension to their relationship. Weekends away, together. It would be like Vermont. They could go for walks, and talk, and take long drives upstate or into Connecticut.
Mary remembered that it seemed to work for a while. A couple of years at least. But after Kathie entered medical school, Bobby became more abusive, first raising his hands, pretending he would swing at Kathie, and then finally, in 1979, smacking her to the ground during a vicious argument.
Kathie tolerated the abuse. She was now a student at the Albert Einstein Medical School, a beneficiary of the Durst Organization’s largesse, and she still very much enjoyed the life Bobby’s money and family made possible. Along with the travel to exotic locations, there were the fabulous parties and formal affairs. At one event, a fund-raiser for New York mayor Ed Koch, Kathie was the queen of the ball, the center of attention, a true trophy wife. She was smart and witty and could carry an in
telligent conversation. Even Seymour looked on approvingly as Kathie, who was to be the first Durst doctor, made her way through the room, smiling and completely engaging.
Her own family was proud of her, never quite imagining that the baby of the family would one day bear the title M.D.
But behind the glitter and glamour and privilege, Kathie’s life was failing. In 1980 she began taking tranquilizers, prescribed by her doctor, to help deal with the stress of living with Bobby, who was now questioning her every purchase and refusing simple requests like spending $200 to fix the air-conditioning on their Volkswagen bug, which Kathie drove to school. And despite the rigorous schedule and pressures of her studies, he even demanded she fulfill her “wife duties,” or chores, on her days off.
Kathie had completely unraveled over the last year, and as the McCormacks sat there in Mary’s apartment, they talked not just about Kathie, but about their frustrations with the police. Mike Struk wasn’t telling them much, if anything, and the McCormacks didn’t know if the police were taking the case seriously, or perhaps had been compromised by the Durst family.
It wasn’t out of the question. The McCormacks weren’t naive. That much was certain after their utterly strange encounter with a man who called Mary and introduced himself as John Vigiani. He said he was a private investigator and offered a unique solution to the case, but needed to deliver his proposal in person.
Jim and Mary agreed to meet Vigiani at a diner on Third Avenue, near Mary’s East Fifty-first Street apartment. Jim and Mary sat on one side of a booth, waiters and waitresses busily walking by, their arms filled with plates. Vigiani appeared, on time. He was surprisingly small, no more than five seven. He had short, dark hair and a nose that protruded out from a thin face. He was very businesslike, wearing a smart, firmly pressed dark gray suit and tie. He appeared to be no more than fifty years old and walked with a noticeable limp.
Vigiani introduced himself and sat on the other side of the table, facing the siblings. He said he was a former employee of a government agency, which he would not identify, and said his limp had resulted from being shot.
Jim and Mary said nothing as Vigiani explained that it was obvious that Bobby Durst knew what had happened to Kathie, and that there was only one person who could reveal that information. Bobby Durst himself.
“I can help you,” said Vigiani. “For ten thousand dollars, arrangements could be made to interrogate Mr. Durst and get the information you desire.”
Jim looked at Vigiani, not quite sure how to respond. Interrogate Bobby? Was this guy kidding?
“Just how are you going to get Bobby to talk to you?” said Jim.
Vigiani folded his hands together and moved forward, closer to Jim and Mary, and spoke softly but clearly.
“Do you know how easy it is to get taken off a street without anyone seeing it happen?”
Mary could feel her stomach turn as she pinched Jim’s leg under the table. They said nothing, but continued to listen as Vigiani described his plan to kidnap Bobby Durst.
“It would involve the use of dogs. Doberman pinschers. They would walk up and gently place their mouths around the wrists and escort a person, in this case Mr. Durst, into a waiting vehicle. Have you ever heard of a technique called the Red Room?”
“No, can’t say that I have,” said Jim.
“Well, by the administration of certain drugs, the person would become disoriented and by the use of a red light a person can become so disoriented as to not be able to tell if they are upside down on a chair or floating in a room. If they are questioned properly, information can be obtained successfully,” said Vigiani.
Jim and Mary didn’t know what to say. Was this guy a crackpot? Was he really suggesting that they pay money to kidnap Bobby Durst?
“Nothing will happen to him,” said Vigiani assuringly. “There will be no trace. He will be returned home, but you’ll have the information you need to find your sister.”
As bizarre as it sounded, Jim thought for what seemed like the longest second, or two, that it could be possible. Nothing else was working, and the police investigation seemed to be going nowhere. Jim let out a deep breath, and his better sense overcame him as he shook his head.
“First of all, we don’t have ten thousand dollars. Second, I’m not going to solve one crime by committing another crime. What you’re suggesting is pretty extreme,” said Jim.
“Extreme circumstances require extreme measures,” said Vigiani.
“Thanks for suggesting this, but I think we’ll pass,” said Jim.
Vigiani unfolded his hands, took a sip of water, rose from his seat, and reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet.
“If you change your mind,” he said, handing Jim a white card with nothing but a phone number on it.
Vigiani left the diner, limping out the door onto Third Avenue.
Jim took his card, ripped it down the middle, and tossed it on the table.
As the family discussed the bizarre meeting, it was agreed that, at the very least, someone was trying to help the McCormacks.
Less could be said of the Durst family.
Bobby had broken off all contact with the McCormacks. The Dursts, as a family, had all but spurned any contact with Kathie’s family. In the six weeks since Kathie disappeared, not one Durst family member, brothers Doug or Tom or sister Wendy, called Jim or Mary or any of the other sisters. And Bobby wouldn’t answer Mary’s questions about why he was throwing Kathie’s stuff out of the East Eighty-sixth Street apartment and the house in South Salem. Even worse, none of the Dursts had reached out to Kathie’s mother. Not even Seymour, the all-powerful real estate mogul, who, with one phone call, could give Mike Struk another twenty or thirty or forty detectives to work on this case. Indeed, with his money, the elder Durst could have hired his own private detectives.
But Seymour remained conspicuously quiet, and as the McCormack family talked more about the Dursts, their anger rose to the surface.
They decided it was time to approach the mogul.
A call went out, the strength to make it fueled in part by alcohol, and a meeting was demanded. Surprisingly, Seymour agreed, and the McCormacks hurried down to Seymour’s town house on West Forty-eighth Street.
They were greeted by a doorman, who brought the group up to the second floor. As they made their way up the steps, Jim noticed that every inch of every wall was covered by a book or photograph. He heard about Seymour’s mythic collection of memorabilia and literature on New York City, and now he was looking at it.
The McCormacks were taken into a room shaped like a railroad car, but extending from the front of the town house to the back. A long, rectangular-shaped wooden table occupied the middle of the room in which the McCormacks were seated.
There were no offers of coffee, or tea, or soda, or even water.
A side door opened and Seymour slowly walked in and took his position at the head of the table. Like his son Bobby, Seymour was a smallish man with a thin, rodentlike face. He offered a weak hello, then sat back as the questions came quickly.
What is happening? Can you do anything? Can the police be pushed to do more? Why won’t Bobby cooperate?
The McCormacks were desperate, and the questions seemed to be coming from every part of the room.
Seymour listened and nodded his head, but said little.
“The police are doing the best that they can,” he said. “We need to be patient.”
“Seymour, please, we know you can help us,” said Mary. “I think Bobby can help us.”
Seymour remained evasive and was becoming increasingly frustrated with the tone of the questions, which now turned into an interrogation.
What is Bobby hiding? He has to know something? Can you hire private detectives?
As the questions continued, a door opened on the other side of the room and in walked Tom Durst, Seymour’
s youngest son. He had just returned from a trip to California and was surprised to see the family of his brother’s wife inside his father’s home.
“What’s going on here?” he said, not even taking a moment to say hello.
Seymour told Tom that the McCormacks had come over to talk about Kathie, and he told them there was little he could do, that the police were doing everything they could.
Tom looked down at the McCormacks.
“Meeting’s over, you’ll have to leave,” he said abruptly.
“Wait a second,” said Jim. “We’re talking to your father. We need his help!”
“I said the meeting is over,” said Tom.
Seymour just shrugged his shoulders and stood up from his chair. The McCormack family quietly exited the room in single file, resigned in the fact that the Durst family had given up on Kathie.
10
Gilberte Najamy continued her Sunday-night garbage runs for seven weeks, swiping Kathie’s medical books, clothes, and other personal effects Bobby had tossed out of the South Salem home.
Each week, Gilberte would take someone along. One night it was Ellen Strauss, who didn’t quite fancy herself as a garbage picker but was nonetheless focused on the task at hand.
Ellen and Gilberte and Eleanor Schwank had spoken almost every day since Kathie was reported missing, discussing various theories, trying to locate clues.
After seven weeks Eleanor was convinced that Kathie had been the victim of foul play. Ellen tended to agree with Eleanor, though she held out the slight hope that Kathie could be alive in some mental institution, the victim of a total breakdown.
Ellen even traveled to Boston to visit the psychiatric ward—Bullfinch 7—at the Massachusetts General Hospital, where she spent two hours checking beds and the hospital computers after getting a tip that Kathie might have been admitted there under a different name.
A Deadly Secret: The Story of Robert Durst Page 9
