He knew this was going to be his last shot at convincing Hayes to go to a grand jury. Only this time he had the phone records, and the statement from Flo Jones that Bobby had known that his wife was gone before he even filed his report to the police. And, as before, he had the interviews with the friends, Kathie’s family, her professors from medical school, the itinerary, and the boot receipt. He felt confident, more than he had at any other time during the investigation.
As he presented his new evidence to Hayes, Struk was forceful.
“He tells me he’s in Connecticut, but he’s down in south Jersey. Someplace called Ship Bottom. The one and only time any collect calls are made to his office from Ship Bottom is February second. And the calls are made in front of a Laundromat, where he washes an expensive coat. Do we have to guess why?” said Struk. “The next day he buys a new pair of boots and tells his secretary that his wife is gone.”
Hayes listened intently.
“Are you certain it was Bobby down in Jersey?” said Hayes.
“Who else could it be? That’s his MO: he makes collect calls to his office.”
“Did you confiscate the coat?”
“No, but I saw it, along with Kathie’s sister and another woman.”
“And you saw it entering the apartment illegally, right? You didn’t have a warrant. The sister let you in and you tiptoed around the place, right?”
Struk said nothing when Hayes lectured him again on double jeopardy and the simple fact that the Durst family would defend Bobby with the biggest legal guns in New York.
Struk argued that he believed the evidence was more than circumstantial, it was overwhelming, enough to convince a jury. But again, just like the last meeting, Roger Hayes smiled, and Struk knew what was coming.
“I would agree that the evidence is compelling, and I’m talking about the actual evidence you can use in this case. But you know why we can’t go forward,” said Hayes. “You have to give me more.”
Struk didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He knew it was over. He’d spent nearly a year investigating the disappearance of Kathie Durst, and he had everything but Kathie Durst.
In the end, he realized he didn’t have a case.
As Struk rose slowly from his chair, Hayes extended his hand.
“Mike, you fought the good fight, my friend. You know how these things work. Maybe something will turn up.”
Struk reached over, grabbing Hayes’s hand.
“Mark my words, this isn’t over,” said Struk. “One day, years from now, we’ll catch some guy doing something and he’s going to want to cut a deal. And he’s going to tell us that he knows something about what happened to the rich guy’s wife.”
13
The smallish man with the laundry bag said nothing as he walked by a group of people standing in the foyer of the four-story house at 18 North Allen Street.
He looked like they did, poor, disheveled, lost—wearing old, crumpled clothing that covered old, tired bodies. They formed a circle, trying to scrounge up nine dollars to buy a pizza, which would serve as their dinner. If they were really lucky, they’d have enough change left over to buy a bottle of soda. As they pulled out pieces of paper and lint from their pockets and counted whatever loose coins they could find, the man with the laundry bag walked up to his room. The room was small, just a bed, a kitchen, and bathroom. The price was $300 per month. Fourteen other rooms like this were sectioned off in the old mansion in Albany, New York, which served as a home—temporary or otherwise—for transients and other lost souls.
Some had jobs with meager salaries. Others were mired in a haze of drugs and alcohol, collecting a monthly check from the state. All had barely enough money to pay their rent, eat every now and then, and maintain a steady supply of cigarettes.
Some of the people living here stayed for years, others only a week or two. Most arrived without a destination, looking only for a cheap place to sleep. The landlord was a lady named Pearl who had been born during the Roosevelt administration—the Teddy Roosevelt administration. She had to be around ninety years old, yet was as sharp as a woman thirty years her junior. She knew how to quickly size up prospective tenants, making sure they had the first month’s rent, cash or money order, and had them sign a lease, which didn’t really matter because she knew most of them would be long gone in a matter of weeks.
As long as she collected that first month’s rent, she was fine.
When the man with the laundry bag arrived two days earlier in the old rental car, he paid his rent in cash. Pearl eyeballed him up and down. He appeared quiet and unassuming. He kept his hair short, wore an old T-shirt, and upon close contact, Pearl could detect a faint smell of marijuana on his breath. That didn’t bother Pearl, who had a decidedly different opinion if she smelled Scotch or Ripple. When Pearl accepted his cash she noticed his hands. Unlike the other residents, these hands were smooth, clean. He wasn’t a laborer, that much was certain. She watched as he walked up the stairs to the second floor and to his room, which he entered, dropping his laundry bag on the bed. He remained there for only a few minutes, washing his face and brushing his teeth. He then headed back outside, past a man sitting on the second-floor landing with a radio in his lap, listening to a Yankees baseball game. Don Mattingly had just hit a home run, and the man lit up a Marlboro in celebration.
As he walked out of the house, by the people in the foyer, the man could see they were counting their change. It was the end of the month. For some of them, it was another day or two before the next check came. He stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill, handing it over to a woman who was standing with the group.
Now they had their dinner money. With the change and few dollar bills they managed to scrounge, they even had enough for a soda and salad.
They were all grateful, each offering a heartfelt thank-you.
“Would you like to eat with us?” said one of the men in the group.
The man smiled back.
“Maybe later,” he said, the words coming out in a slow drawl. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again later.”
He walked outside, and faded into the darkness.
—
Joe Becerra sat behind the wheel of his idling unmarked police cruiser, fumbling through papers that lay scattered on the passenger seat, looking for the one sheet that had a description of the South Salem home that had once been owned by Robert and Kathie Durst.
Becerra knew the house was here, on this block, but there had been no addresses back in 1982, and he didn’t want to attract attention by knocking randomly on doors.
Frustrated, he gave up searching for his written sheet, closed the folder, and peered through the car window. Becerra had spent two weeks studying the Kathie Durst file, absorbing each interview and concluding early on that Kathie Durst hadn’t just vanished. His curiosity had brought him here, to Hoyt Street, and he was now searching for a stone facade.
To his right were the older lakeside homes, which were small, some quaint, with backyard decks that extended down onto piers that stretched out onto the still waters of Lake Truesdale. On the other side of the street were several large Colonial homes, some of which were new. Christmas decorations adorned a few of the homes, while others displayed menorahs in celebration of Hanukkah.
The block ended in a cul-de-sac. To its right Becerra noticed what appeared to be a stone wall. The house behind the wall was the second from the end, its stone facade covered by dormant shrubbery.
Becerra drove slowly down the block, stopping in front of the stone wall. He stepped out of his car and walked toward the front door. He pressed his hand over his tie, making sure it was straight against his crisp white shirt and freshly pressed dark suit, and knocked on the thick, wooden door.
A young woman answered, and Becerra identified himself, showing his badge, apologizing for the intrusion and stati
ng that he was searching for a house once owned by Robert and Kathie Durst.
“This is it,” said the woman, who identified herself as Gabrielle Colquitt.
She was young, maybe thirtyish, thought Becerra. He explained that Mrs. Durst had disappeared long ago and he was researching her case. He didn’t want to tell her too much, but Colquitt said she knew about the missing woman. Becerra eagerly accepted the invitation to come inside, where Colquitt offered him a soda. They sat down on her sofa.
“The neighbors told me about Kathie Durst after I bought the house. I thought that was over with,” said Colquitt.
“Well, it was. Sort of,” Becerra said. “We received some new information and I wanted to come here and see the house.”
Becerra tried to stay focused on Colquitt but couldn’t stop himself from looking around, catching glimpses of the kitchen, dining room, and living room. There was a bedroom toward the rear, past the stairs that led down to a bedroom and a mudroom.
Colquitt said she had never met Robert Durst, having bought the house in 1994 for $400,000 from the previous owners, Carmen and David Garceau.
The Garceaus, said Colquitt, bought the house from Durst in 1990.
“It’s funny. They told me that when they bought the house there wasn’t a stick of furniture here except for a cot downstairs in front of the crawl space. Seems Mr. Durst was sleeping down there. But I don’t know what you would find here. I’m sure the police searched the house back in 1982,” said Colquitt.
Becerra put his glass down, his mind racing to find a way to soften the news he was about to deliver.
“Actually, they didn’t,” he blurted. “That’s why I’m here. You see, Mr. Durst reported his wife missing in Manhattan, and the police there had several eyewitnesses who placed his wife in the city before she disappeared. So they never thought it important to search up here.”
“Excuse me?” said Colquitt, jumping to her feet. “I thought this was all done with, that they searched the house and the property. I was told the police were up here.”
“A couple of troopers did come inside the house, but they never searched it.”
“And I’m guessing you’re here to get my permission to do just that,” said Colquitt, standing, her arms crossed against her chest. “Do you really think you’ll find anything? I mean, it’s what, almost eighteen years?”
Becerra paused for a moment, unsure what to say next.
Colquitt then rushed her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, my God, you don’t think her body is here, do you?”
Becerra stood up. He wanted to be forthright, but he didn’t want to scare her.
“Listen, I don’t know what we would find, if anything, but with your permission, I’d like to look in the house, on the property and in the lake. It will take some time—months. I’d have to wait until spring to search the property and lake. I’ll try not to inconvenience you. But in the end we’ll clear any doubts that something may have happened inside this house.”
Colquitt appreciated Becerra’s honesty, and to his surprise she didn’t hesitate in agreeing to the search. She even promised not to tell the neighbors about Becerra’s visit or the investigation.
—
The White Plains office of Westchester County district attorney Jeanine Pirro was large and intimidating, a rectangular room filled with upholstered furniture, an oversized conference table, Oriental rugs, and photos of the beautiful district attorney with former President George Bush, Henry Kissinger, and New York Cardinal John J. O’Connor.
Pirro had decorated the office herself after winning her first term in 1993, and it resembled the office of a partner at a top New York law firm, not someone on the public payroll.
Joe Becerra was led into the office by a secretary and took a seat at the table that filled the center of the spacious room. He sat with one of Pirro’s assistants, John O’Donnell, a senior investigator in charge of homicide investigations.
Becerra had a good relationship with Pirro, who was Westchester County’s first female district attorney, having bulldozed her way through the male-dominated ranks of local politics. She was smart, resourceful, well-spoken, and possessed the kind of dark-haired, brown-eyed beauty that melted men in their shoes.
At forty-seven years of age, she looked at least ten years younger, thanks to a daily regimen that included an intense workout at 6 A.M. The hard work had paid off in many ways, and her glamorous appearance earned her inclusion in People magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful People of 1997.”
Added to her package was her husband, Al, a well-known real estate attorney and influential Republican Party insider, a major fund-raiser and good friend of New York governor George Pataki. Her husband’s wide influence had helped Pirro win her first bid for office in 1993, and he’d been there again for an easy reelection campaign in 1997. During her tenure in office she developed a reputation as a no-nonsense prosecutor who pioneered the first domestic violence unit in the county and placed greater importance on hate and environmental crimes. Pirro’s conviction rate, at 97 percent, was by far the highest in Westchester County history.
She was also known as the district attorney who never met a television camera she didn’t like. Pirro had an insatiable thirst for press coverage and self-promotion, courting the local and national media and appearing frequently as a guest commentator on programs like Nightline, Geraldo, and Larry King Live.
As an assistant district attorney, she was known to have walked over a few of her fellow assistants—and the DA himself—in order to shine the media lights on her cases. She served as a Westchester County court judge prior to her election as district attorney. After taking office, she let it be known throughout all of law enforcement that she, and she alone, would speak to the press. Many considered her arrogant, interested only in her own gain, to the point where she would take personal credit for high-profile cases, leaving the police who actually solved the crime cursing on the sidelines. Her own assistant district attorneys, 118 of them, walked the halls in fear, hoping they would never anger their boss.
It was also no secret that Pirro was politically ambitious and eyed bigger and better things. She’d once been a Republican candidate for lieutenant governor, and following her reelection victory in 1997, she was considered a prime candidate to replace Democratic senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan when he retired in 2000.
Pirro was a political star and would have thrown her hat into the Republican primary ring against New York mayor Rudy Giuliani, who was also eyeing the seat, if it hadn’t been for the problems encountered by her husband, who was contesting very public and embarrassing allegations of income-tax evasion.
In early 1999, U.S. attorney Mary Jo White alleged in a sixty-six-count indictment that Al Pirro had fudged his federal income taxes from 1988 to 1997, hiding $1 million in income.
He allegedly did so by claiming assorted personal expenses as business deductions, including his Ferrari and his wife’s Mercedes-Benz. He also claimed Caribbean vacations, furnishings for a Florida vacation home, and a Mercedes for his mother-in-law, along with cigars and fine wines, as business expenses.
What made things even more interesting was that Al had the kind of political and social connections most lawyers could only dream about. He was considered the number one real estate attorney in Westchester County and lobbied for the likes of Donald Trump, New York City’s self-proclaimed master builder. Al Pirro easily moved projects along through the labyrinth of local zoning and municipal regulations, even controversial projects such as the new $100-million mall in White Plains. If you wanted to build in Westchester County, you turned to one man, Al Pirro. His wide influence extended deep into Republican political circles. He was a major party fund-raiser, the man future governors, senators, and even presidential hopefuls turned to for help to fill their coffers.
The couple enjoyed their standing in Westchester County and lived acc
ordingly in a $1.7-million home in Harrison, an upscale community, with Pirro contributing her $136,700 salary to pay the house bills.
Jeanine Pirro herself wasn’t named in the indictment, even though she had signed many of the joint returns. She said she trusted her husband, and claimed that the charges were politically motivated, given that there was a Democrat, Bill Clinton, serving as president.
There was a strong feeling among Pirro’s supporters that if a Republican had been serving in the White House, the U.S. attorney would never have filed the charges.
Unfortunately for Pirro, that wasn’t the case. And it wasn’t the first time her husband had been in trouble.
In 1986 Pirro withdrew as a candidate for lieutenant governor of New York following questions about her husband’s dealings with a waste-disposal company that allegedly had ties to the mob. In 1995, after successfully defending himself against charges that he offered a $5,000 bribe to a local planning official to support a planned entertainment center, Al Pirro found himself the defendant in a paternity suit. The plaintiff, Jessica Marciano of Indiana, claimed that she and Al had a torrid three-month affair seventeen years earlier when both were working on a condominium project in Florida. The affair led to the birth of a daughter. Al denied the claim for three years, until a court-ordered DNA test in 1998 determined that Al was indeed the father of the now sixteen-year-old girl.
To his wife’s embarrassment, Al publicly acknowledged that the girl was his daughter and announced that he had placed $10,000 in a trust fund. That didn’t assuage Marciano, who was looking for more zeroes, claiming past child support.
The recent charges by the U.S. attorney alleging income-tax fraud only added to DA Pirro’s woes, and with her husband’s trial approaching, she had other things on her mind when she entered her office to sit down with Joe Becerra.
Pirro walked over to one end of the table, her legs exposed up past the knee, thanks to a fine-fitting business suit. Becerra had to continually remind himself that he was talking to the district attorney and hoping to gain her blessing to reopen the Kathie Durst investigation.
A Deadly Secret: The Story of Robert Durst Page 13
