by Ray Flynt
“What about the neighbor he was doing the work for? Shouldn’t he have gotten involved?”
“That guy was working during the day. Hernandez did the fence alone.”
Sharon bit her lip while staring intently at the screen. “I’m not finding anything on a Ben McCurdy in the Inquirer. When did this happen?”
Brad consulted his notes. “October 25th.”
“Wow. Almost five months ago.” Her fingers breezed across the keyboard.
“Another public defender handled the case until Hernandez fired him. The court then asked Greer to get involved, and he called me to be his investigator.”
“I found a short article on October 26th. The incident must have happened late for the information to be this incomplete. ‘Police were called to South 13th Street to investigate the death of Bennett McCurdy. When he failed to show up for his shift at Watson Industries, a co-worker visited McCurdy’s home, found the front door unlocked, and eventually his bloodied body in the backyard. Evidence at the scene suggested multiple skull fractures.’ That explains why McCurdy complained about the noise next door. He worked the third shift and was trying to sleep.”
“Makes sense. I wonder how many days Hernandez worked on the fence project.” Brad scribbled a note.
“You might want to check if McCurdy ever made good on his threat and called the police about noise from Hernandez’s power tools. I mean, you could see McCurdy having a motive for killing Hernandez—flimsy as it is—but not the other way around.”
Brad tented his hands on the desk. “Lots more to discuss with Greer. He said we’d meet again after I get through all the discovery materials.”
Sharon held up her finger. “I found another article dated October 27th with more information.” She swiveled the laptop in Brad’s direction so he could read.
Police Hunt Witnesses
Philadelphia police are canvasing residents in the East Passyunk neighborhood hoping to find anyone who may have information regarding the murder of Bennett “Bend” McCurdy, bludgeoned to death with a crowbar.
Brad looked up from the screen. “Interesting, they called him Bend. Unless it’s a typo, never heard that nickname. I thought for sure Greer told me Ben. He must’ve gotten it wrong.”
The medical examiner’s office has ruled the death a homicide. One neighbor reported seeing Mr. McCurdy pick up his mail shortly after 5:45 p.m. “I was walking home from the subway station when Bend came out to get his mail. I waved, and he gave me a thumbs up. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.”
According to police, McCurdy spoke by phone with his brother at 8:30 p.m. on the night of his death.
When he failed to report for his third-shift security officer position, co-workers discovered his body. McKnight-Halliday is handling funeral arrangements. Persons with any information are urged to contact the Philadelphia Police Department. All tips will be treated confidentially.
Brad rotated the laptop back in Sharon’s direction. “Timing is interesting.”
“How so?”
“Presumably, Hernandez was working on the neighbor’s fence during daytime hours. Yet, the article suggests McCurdy was alive as of 8:30 p.m., well after dark at that time of year. I’ll be curious to learn where Hernandez lived in relationship to South 13th.”
Sharon jumped when a hard rap sounded on the door.
“That’ll be discovery.” Brad stood, answered the knock, and signed for a packet of materials addressed to him.
Sharon slapped her palm on the desk. “Ah ha.”
Brad stared at her in rapt attention.
“Think I’ve found the reason for Nick’s passion on this case. Listen to this line from the obituary: ‘Mr. McCurdy retired in 2015, following twenty-eight years as a detective for the Philadelphia Police Department.’ ”
3
In the American system of justice, defendants are presumed innocent, and entitled to review all of the evidence a prosecution has pertaining to a crime, including any which might be considered exculpatory.
Brad began his PI career with the aim of helping crime victims. Over the years, he’d become more ecumenical in selecting clients, occasionally taking on investigative duties for criminal defense attorneys. In turn, he’d reached out to those same attorneys to assist indigent victims needing a well-placed finger on their side of the scale of justice.
For the next hour and a half, Brad and Sharon pored through the packet of information Archie Greer’s office had sent. They divided the discovery documents from the Philadelphia District Attorney’s office, which included police reports, crime scene photos, autopsy results, witness accounts, and a two-page statement made by Mr. Hernandez on Saturday, October 27th.
Brad focused on the statements. It was McCurdy’s neighbor, a man named Lyle Grundin, who first put the finger on Hernandez, supplying the defendant’s contact information to the police. Turns out Hernandez lived with his widowed mother in the Girard Estates area, about a mile from the worksite. The fence was constructed over a three-day period, and he was paid $4,750 for the project, including the purchase of all materials.
Hernandez’s statement to the police, during which he professed no responsibility for bringing harm to McCurdy, nonetheless placed the defendant in the vicinity at the time of the crime. After receiving his payment when Grundin returned home from work that afternoon, Hernandez walked to a nearby Citizens Bank to deposit his check, and then visited Amigo’s Bar on Passyunk Avenue less than two blocks from McCurdy’s row house. In addition, a witness reported that Hernandez’s truck remained parked well into the evening in front of where he’d constructed the fence.
Brad imagined what the row houses would look like: two- and three-story brick-fronted structures, twelve to fifteen feet wide, stretching along both sides of the street.
Brad looked at Sharon. “Finding anything interesting?”
“A couple of items stand out. The medical examiner states death was caused by blunt force trauma to the right parietal skull bone. A crowbar, belonging to McCurdy’s neighbor, was used to strike the fatal blow. Remember that report of the defendant’s DNA found at the scene?”
Brad nodded.
“It came from a Styrofoam container of fish and chips purchased by Hernandez from Ralph’s Diner at the intersection with Snyder, within sight of the victim’s home.”
Brad glanced at the regulator clock on his office wall. “You like fish and chips?”
“Sure.”
“I have an idea where we might get lunch.”
* * *
Brad suggested Sharon wear jeans for their trip to South Philly. He shed his tie and donned a cable knit sweater to look less conspicuous in the working-class neighborhood. He drove his Mercedes, but parked a few blocks away in an angled street space on Passyunk Avenue in front of retail establishments with lots of foot traffic. He hoped it might minimize harm coming to his luxury vehicle.
The parking location gave them an opportunity to walk past Amigo’s Bar and get a better feel for the area. Unfortunately, the bar wouldn’t open until three p.m. and it was just past one. Along Snyder Avenue, a tattoo parlor, small appliance repair shop, and a pizza place shared the block with residential row houses.
Brad pointed toward a collection of leaves clogging a storm drain. “I wonder what the weather was like on the night of the murder.”
Sharon piped up. “Clear and cool. Police reported a full moon and about forty degrees when the body was discovered.”
The defense attorney would want specifics. If it was cool outside that would affect how rapidly McCurdy’s body temperature dropped in the hours following the murder. It influenced the time-of-death window assigned by the medical examiner. Timeline was important. Greer would use any tidbit of information that raised reasonable doubt as to Hernandez’s guilt.
Sharon aimed a finger at a second-story window still displaying a holly wreath nearly three months after Christmas.
Brad paused before crossing South 13th Street, taking in the block
where McCurdy lived and Hernandez once worked. It was a one-way street with traffic heading north and cars parked along both sides. A few barren trees grew in front of the row houses on the East side, where a number of homes had window air conditioning units. South Philadelphia High School occupied the opposite side of the street.
He held the door open for Sharon to enter Ralph’s Diner. A foul odor greeted them, and Sharon grimaced before covering her nose and mouth with her hand. Empty booths lined the walls.
A bearded man in his twenties called out to them from behind a cash register at the end of a lunch counter fronted by wooden stools. “Sorry, we’re closed. We had a sewer backup. I shooed our other customers out, called a plumber, and was about to post a sign on the door.”
At Brad’s suggestion Sharon dashed outside, while he approached the man. “Are you Ralph?”
“That’s my dad. I’m Chuck. I run the place.”
Brad handed Chuck his business card and referenced the murder that had taken place down the block five months earlier. “I understand the accused man ate here, and police found his DNA on a fish and chips take-out container. Do you recall your interaction with him?”
The proprietor scowled and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve been over this a hundred times. The guy came here three days in a row, same thing—fish and chips—I’m too busy to remember anything more.” His phone rang and he answered. From the gist of the conversation a plumber was on the line.
A chalkboard behind the counter detailed a limited menu. In addition to fish, their signature dish, they offered burgers and a variety of sides including coleslaw, mac & cheese, and baked beans, along with deep-fried potato wedges known as chips.
“Quit bitchin’ and get the hell over here.” The man shouted, ending the call.
Brad smiled. “Don’t mean to add to your stress. One more question. Did the man leave tips?”
“Hell no.”
Brad thanked him and headed for the exit.
Sharon waited on the sidewalk. “What did you find out?”
“Hernandez wasn’t a very good tipper.”
Sharon shot him a puzzled glance.
“I once had a waitress for a client who told me that after a couple of visits she could remember a customer’s tipping habits. The manager didn’t have much good to say about Hernandez on that score.”
Sharon arched her brow. “Doesn’t make him a murderer.”
“True. There’s a barbeque place down the block. Wanna stop there for lunch?”
“Nah.” She aimed her thumb over her shoulder. “I kinda lost my appetite in there.”
They turned the corner and walked several doors toward the scene of the crime. They stood near concrete steps leading to the row houses at the heart of the case—the one on the right, in whose backyard the murder took place, and the other where Joaquin “Joe” Hernandez built a fence. The two-story units were mirror images spanned by an elaborate pressed-metal cornice dating from the early-nineteen hundreds. Each had a red brick facing with stone lentils above the windows and doors. McCurdy’s place had a For Sale sign in the window and two lock boxes hanging from the door handle.
“Let’s take a look.” Brad mounted the steps.
“How do we get in?”
“Greer arranged for the real estate company to provide a separate access box. He gave me the combination.” Brad twirled the four cylinders until they read 1025—the date of the murder. The latch sprung open revealing a key.
Moments later they were inside a cramped living room with wooden stairs to the left. Visible through an archway, was an 80s-era kitchen with oak cabinets and mismatched appliance colors. A blind drawn at the front window kept the space dark and as uninviting as a murder scene—which it was.
If Nick knew McCurdy from their days together as police detectives, how much contact had he had with the man? Did Nick ever visit this location?
Sharon sniffed the air. “Smells musty.” She walked around an over-stuffed ottoman. “This place could use staging.”
Brad suppressed a chuckle. TV design shows popularized the idea of eliminating clutter and even renting furniture for contemporary appeal. “Yeah, this looks like early-Salvation Army. The nicest thing here is the flat screen TV.”
“Who inherits?”
“McCurdy died without a will so the court appointed an executor. His daughter will likely receive the proceeds after the estate is settled, from the way Greer explained it.”
Sharon turned in Brad’s direction. “Wife?”
“Divorced twenty years ago. She had custody of their now-adult daughter, who’s been estranged from her father all these years. The wife remarried. Greer discounted inheritance as a motive for McCurdy’s murder.”
They trooped upstairs for a quick tour of two bedrooms, one bath. The real estate agent had barely tried to make McCurdy’s bed. Brad spotted two gray uniforms hanging in the bedroom closet with sewn-on Cheever Security patches.
Sharon rummaged through the drawers in a bedside table. “There’s an unopened box of condoms.”
Either McCurdy had no action, or he frequently replenished his supply and hadn’t gotten into this new box. Brad was tempted to ask Sharon for the sell-by date, but let it go.
The front bedroom had been turned into an office. On the padded vinyl surface of a card table, Brad saw a USB cord along with a faint impression where a laptop once sat. The police must have seized it for their investigation. He made a note to ask Greer of its whereabouts.
The second-floor bathroom, clad in distinctive pink tiles, looked unchanged from the fifties. Water had mostly evaporated in the toilet, and Brad flushed it to prevent unwanted gasses from escaping into the house. Inside the medicine cabinet he found bottles of pain relievers, cough medicine, and vitamins. He noted the names of two prescription medications, Tamsulosin and Pravachol, both prescribed by a Dr. Bukhari. He added the doctor’s phone number into his notebook.
In the kitchen, two real estate agents’ cards lay on a table. Several plates and three coffee cups rested in a wire rack on a Rubbermaid drain board next to the sink.
Sharon gasped.
“What is it?
She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. A roach scurried across the counter. It’s not like I haven’t seen the little buggers before.”
A coating of dust and a plastic jack-o’-lantern with an unopened bag of Hershey’s Miniatures tucked inside underscored how little had changed in the past five months.
Brad opened the door to the basement. “I’ll be right back.”
An aluminum stepladder leaned against the whitewashed stone walls, and in a far corner sat a gas furnace and hot water tank. Next to a washer and dryer, water dripped from a faucet at a utility sink. Perhaps it had been left that way to prevent pipes from freezing. With winter all but behind them, Brad tightened the handle.
He went upstairs and joined Sharon, who had already stepped into the backyard. To his left he spotted the six-foot wooden fence Hernandez had built. On tiptoes, Brad peered into the neighbor’s yard, noting a stone-paved patio with metal furniture and a fire pit. He raised his iPhone above the fence to take a few pictures.
Spotty grass in McCurdy’s yard was punctuated with a lone plastic-webbed lawn chair near the back porch. Sharon stood in front of a four-foot rickety mesh fence at the back of the property.
“You looked at the crime scene photos. Where was the body?”
“Right here.” Sharon pointed at her feet. “The crowbar lay in the grass to McCurdy’s right. The police reported he was hit from behind.”
That evidence, coupled with the blows struck on the right side of McCurdy’s head, suggested a right-handed killer.
Each of the backyards measured approximately twenty-foot deep, which meant forty feet of space separated the row houses on South 13th Street from the ones behind. Next door, a woman watched them warily through her kitchen window. In the opposite direction, access to the yards would have been possible via a narrow walkway
at the back of the fish and chip restaurant.
The property directly behind McCurdy’s place was boarded up, and a large, wooden electric utility spool had functioned as a makeshift backyard table.
Brad glanced at Sharon. “Aside from the body and crowbar, anything else of interest in the photos from that night?”
“Police found the Styrofoam fish and chips container sitting on the lawn chair. But the chair sat in this corner of the yard.” Sharon pointed to her left.
It puzzled Brad how Hernandez’s lunch container ended up, hours later, in McCurdy’s backyard.
Their conversation was interrupted by buzzing from Sharon’s phone. When she answered, her face morphed from excited to anxious and she ended the call quickly.
“That was Warren. They’re ready for me to start tomorrow.”
4
I called Oliver and invited myself to stay at his place, at least until I could sort out my new assignment at Bignell, Watkins, and Clark. It would be easier than commuting from Bryn Mawr. Oliver offered to cook dinner, but since I didn’t know my arrival time I suggested we dine at the bistro around the corner from his apartment.
On the trip back from Bennett McCurdy’s row house Brad stopped at a drugstore so I could pick up a home permanent to re-create tight tresses like those in the new photo ID Warren Tulverson had given me. That afternoon I packed my bag with law-office-appropriate attire, curled my hair—with instant regret—and practiced introducing myself as Sharon Rojo.
It was after 7:30 p.m. before Uber picked me up for the trip into the city.
Oliver lived in a furnished efficiency on South 18th Street, a few blocks from Rittenhouse Square, which was a step up from his spartan quarters when he’d worked at the juvenile probation department in West Chester. Ivy curled around the brick-fronted entry, and empty window planters would soon come alive with spring flowers. I gave an extra tip to the driver, who was kind enough to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk of his car, and entered the stairwell for the climb to the third floor. Oliver had given me a key to his place. When I unlocked the door, I found him sitting in the living room listening to the music of Mike Kennedy, jazz guitarist, emanating from an iPhone docking station via Bluetooth. We’d enjoyed a couple of date nights at Mike’s concerts.
