Assistant Prosecutor Artie Schulman and Mike Wilson walked together into Prosecutor Matt Koenig’s office. They informed him that a fingerprint on the golf club had been matched to Jamie Chapman.
“He admitted picking it up and putting it on a chair by the pool,” Mike said.
“But we also have Alan Crowley’s prints on the weapon. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, we do. We know Alan lied, but later Chapman told us that he saw Crowley talk to the victim and leave the property before anything happened to her.”
“I understand Chapman is intellectually impaired. Do you believe the information he provided is credible?” Koenig asked.
Mike sighed. “For the most part, yes. He understood my questions. His memory was clear about going into the pool with the victim. He remembered and quickly provided the clothing he had on that night. His perception was that the victim was asleep in the pool. Of course, that suggests that Kerry Dowling was dead when he arrived on the scene. But he also said that when he asked Kerry to wake up, she said, ‘I can’t.’ If that’s literally true, she was still alive.”
“Could she have been in the pool, injured, when she said, ‘I can’t’?”
“No. She had sustained a massive traumatic blow to the back of the head. She would have lost consciousness immediately, before she even hit the water.”
“All right. So what is your gut regarding Jamie Chapman?”
“His answers amounted to mixed signals. I asked him if he hit Kerry, and he said no. He said that ‘Big Guy’ hurt Kerry, and his father called him Big Guy. I tried to pin him down on whether there was another Big Guy at the scene, but I just couldn’t get a clear answer. So whether he saw somebody else do it or did it himself, I just don’t know.”
“So where does that leave us with Alan Crowley, who this office arrested?”
Mike answered, “One thing Jamie was specific about is that he saw Alan Crowley hug the victim and then leave.”
Artie, almost sounding defensive, spoke. “Boss, almost everything pointed to Alan Crowley, and that is why we recommended that you approve his arrest. The latest developments give us great concern as to whether or not he was the killer.”
The chagrin on Matt Koenig’s face was evident, as the enormity of the arrest of possibly the wrong person sunk in.
“What we need to do is find out everything we can about Jamie Chapman,” Artie said. “School records, behavior incidents. Any signs of violence. As a special ed student, he would have had an IEP, an individual education plan. Let’s get that, see what it says and talk to the teachers he had along the way.”
Koenig said, “You know that will require another court order.”
“I know,” Artie said.
“And you know Chapman’s lawyer could fight us every step of the way. But you know, ironically, he might agree to let us have these records if he thinks they will help his client.”
“All right,” Artie said, “I’ll get in touch with Greg Barber and see what his position is.”
65
The morning following the court hearing and the press firestorm, Artie Schulman, Matt Koenig and Mike met again. The three men knew that they had come to an impasse.
The once almost ironclad case against Alan Crowley was collapsing. Jamie Chapman, while probably not the killer, could not be completely ruled out. He had spoken about a Big Guy hurting Kerry, and they didn’t know if he was referring to himself or someone else. Both Crowley and Chapman had attorneys who had directed that there would be no more interviews of their clients.
And the nagging loose end about the driver who had changed Kerry’s flat tire still lingered.
Koenig was correct in his prediction that Greg Barber would not oppose their receiving copies of Jamie’s school records. Barber had just gone through the set he had received from Jamie’s schools. He had his secretary copy and deliver them to the Prosecutor’s Office.
The records showed, as they’d expected, a young man with severe cognitive impairment. They also revealed a history in school of being compliant and friendly, and with no hint of violence or aggressive behavior.
They all agreed that they were not at the point of requesting to a court that the criminal complaint against Alan Crowley be dismissed. Matt Koenig somberly added that he would contact Lester Parker and tell him that he would agree that the electronic bracelet be removed and the travel restrictions outside New Jersey be lifted. He knew this wouldn’t placate Parker for long, but he would tell him that’s as far as he was willing to go now.
Koenig ended the meeting by saying, “I know we’re all doing our utmost to solve this case. We just have to take the heat that comes with it.”
66
It had been two and a half weeks since Kerry’s death. A sad sense of finality was settling in. Aline made an effort to be home most nights by six-thirty. She wanted to be there to have a glass of wine with her mother. She believed that their chats brightened Fran’s spirits. But tonight when she came in, it was obvious that her mother was having a very dark day. Her eyes were swollen. She was sitting in the living room sifting through a family photo album.
When Fran saw her come in, she looked up but left the book open. “Do you remember how Kerry broke her ankle when she was eleven? I kept warning and warning her. She was a good ice skater. But she couldn’t do those twirls the way she wanted to. But she always kept on trying.”
“I remember,” Aline said. “I was never any good at ice skating.”
“No, you weren’t,” her mother agreed. “You were always the great student. Kerry was the great athlete.”
“I think it’s time for a glass of wine,” Aline suggested as she lifted the photo album off her mother’s lap.
Fran closed her eyes. “I guess so,” she said indifferently.
Aline went to the kitchen and called out, “Something smells really delicious in here.”
“It’s veal parmigiana. I thought it would taste good for a change.”
Aline did not have to be reminded that veal parmigiana had been Kerry’s favorite. She came back with the two glasses of wine and turned on several more lights. “Brighten the corner where you are,” she said.
“I’m surprised you know that song. It’s an old gospel favorite.”
“Mom, I don’t know the song. I do know that every time you turn on a light, you say that.”
Fran smiled a real smile. “I guess I do.” Then she added, “Aline, I don’t know what your father and I would have done if you had stayed in London.”
“I would have come straight home.”
“I know you would have. Now let’s change the subject. How was school today?”
“I told you how all the seniors are fixated on which colleges to apply to. When it comes to writing the essays, some of them have a natural ability. They can effortlessly tell a story. For others, every word on the page is a struggle.”
The sound of the front door opening announced Steve’s arrival. He walked into the living room, looked at their glasses of wine and said, “I guess it’s five o’clock somewhere in the world.”
He leaned over and put his arms around Fran. “How are you doing?”
“Today was rough. I was out running errands and drove past the high school. The girls’ soccer team was practicing. It got me thinking.”
“I know. I make it a point to not drive past the high school. Is there any wine left, or did you two drink it all?”
“I’ll get you one, Dad,” Aline said.
When Aline was in the kitchen, the doorbell rang.
“Are we expecting anyone?” Steve asked as he got up.
“No,” Fran told him.
As Aline walked back into the living room with her father’s glass of wine, Steve came into the room with Scott Kimball at his side. What is he doing here? Aline asked herself.
“Hi, Scott. This is a surprise. You’ve obviously met my father. This is my mother, Fran. Mom, this is Scott Kimball.”
“I know who he is,” Fran sa
id. “Scott was Kerry’s lacrosse coach.”
“Scott, anything to drink?” Steve asked.
“I’ll join you folks in a white wine, if that’s okay.”
“Take that one,” Steve said, pointing to the glass in Aline’s hand. “I’ll get myself another.”
“Do sit down,” Fran said.
And why not take your shoes off? Aline thought.
“So Scott,” Aline asked, “what brings you over?”
“Aline, I tried to phone you. I guess your phone was off. This afternoon a friend of mine called me. He’s heartbroken. He has two tickets for Hamilton tomorrow night, but he has to leave in the morning on a business emergency and gave them to me. I was hoping you might be free.”
“Oh, Aline, how wonderful,” Fran said. “Your father and I have been dying to see that show.”
Aline wondered if there was any way she could persuade Scott to give the tickets to her parents. She hesitated, trying to find a way to say no.
Fran answered for her. “Oh, Aline, of course you’ll go. Everyone raves about that show.”
Steve said, “Scott, that is so nice of you.”
Aline really did want to see Hamilton. She just didn’t like the idea of spending a third evening with Scott Kimball. She really resented the fact that he had just walked in. Before she could answer, her mother said, “Scott, do you like veal parmigiana?”
“I love veal parmigiana, but I don’t want to intrude.”
“Anyone who comes bearing two tickets to Hamilton certainly is not intruding,” Steve said heartily. “Right, Aline?”
There was nothing she could do but say, “Of course not.”
• • •
Scott was seated in the chair opposite her, where Kerry used to sit.
At dinner he brought up the subject of his family. “I was raised in Nebraska. My mother and father are still there. So are my grandparents. I spend all the holidays with them. But as I mentioned to Aline, I love to travel. Most summers I’m on the road.”
“We go on a river cruise once a year with friends,” Fran said. “I thoroughly enjoy them. Last year it was the Danube. The year before that the Seine.”
“A river cruise is next on my list,” Scott said. “Which line did you use?”
Aline was quiet through dinner. Next thing you know he’ll say he has two tickets to a river cruise, she thought. Plan on inviting somebody else.
Over coffee she wondered why she resented Scott so much. She had not intended to go out with him a second time, but she had to admit she had enjoyed herself. She appreciated how concerned he was about Valerie.
Aline did not want to be manipulated into a dating situation. She would finish dinner tonight, go to Hamilton tomorrow and then that would be it. Period.
Then the thought of Mike came into her mind. If he had come in with those tickets, she would have been delighted to say yes.
She knew she was right when the next night, after seeing Hamilton, Scott drove her home, and walked her to the door. As she fished her key from her purse, he suddenly put his arms around her and kissed her. “I’m falling in love with you, Aline,” he said. “Make that ‘have fallen’ in love with you.”
She broke away from the embrace and put her key in the lock, turned it and opened the door. “Do us both a favor. Don’t,” she said emphatically, as she stepped in and closed the door behind her.
67
Mike was barely in his office when Investigator Sam Hines knocked on the half-opened door. “Mike, I think I might have something on that tow truck driver we’re looking for.”
Mike waved him in, pointing to a chair opposite his desk. “What have you got?”
“It’s a bit of a fluke I found this, because I wasn’t even looking for it. I’ve been researching drivers who work for the tow truck companies that have permits to operate in local municipalities. So far, nothing interesting has turned up. But these companies aren’t the only ones that own tow trucks. Junkyards typically have one to retrieve wrecks.”
“That makes sense.”
“So that’s what made this arrest report from the Lodi Police Department so interesting.” Hall began summarizing. “Twenty-four-year-old Edward Dietz was arrested three hours ago and charged with possession of cocaine and drug paraphernalia. He was stopped on Route 17 for speeding and passing on the right. The tow truck he was driving was registered to Ferranda Brothers, an auto salvage company in Moonachie.
“Here’s where it gets interesting. I’m reading about this guy they arrested and my phone rings. It’s Patrolman Sandy Fitchet from the Lodi police force. Fitchet was aware of the BOLO we put out on the tow truck driver.” Mike knew that BOLO was shorthand for “Be On the Look Out” for. “Fitchet said they’ve been holding this guy while doing an outstanding warrants check, and he has several. Failure to appear in court for a traffic infraction, he’s behind in child support, and he had an assault charge against him dropped three months ago, for trying to kiss a woman he had helped in the Woodbury Commons mall parking lot when her car wouldn’t start.”
“Why was it dropped?”
“The victim was from out of state. She didn’t show up to testify.”
“How old was the victim?”
“Seventeen.”
“So he likes hitting on young women. He offers to help them, and then he tries to take advantage. Nice work, Sam. I want to have a talk with our Good Samaritan right now.”
“I had a feeling you would,” Hines said. “Fitchet is at the station waiting for you. Dietz is still in their holding cell.”
• • •
As Mike inched along on Route 17 South, he was fervently hoping that this tow truck driver would be the one who had the encounter with Kerry. On the other hand he could only imagine the field day the press would have if it was revealed that the Prosecutor’s Office had a third independent suspect in the Dowling murder. Don’t get ahead of yourself, he thought. Odds are this isn’t the guy we’re looking for.
When he finally arrived at the Lodi police station, the desk sergeant pointed him to a room where Patrolman Sandy Fitchet was seated at a table. Several clear plastic bags were on top of it. One contained a wallet, a pocketknife and keychain. Another was stuffed with papers.
As it turned out, Patrolman Fitchet was Patrolwoman Fitchet. She stood up, extended her hand and introduced herself. Mike guessed Fitchet was in her mid- to late twenties.
She briefed Mike on the circumstances under which she had pulled over and arrested Dietz. “I’m just starting to go through his personal effects,” she said as she spilled the contents of one of the bags out on the table.
“That is one really fat wallet,” Mike observed. “Do you mind if I go through it?”
“Be my guest,” Sandy said as she started to open another bag filled with papers.
“What are all those?” Mike asked, referring to the bag in front of Sandy.
“This stuff was in his truck. The crack pipe was resting on top of it. Just want to see if there’s anything interesting.”
“Obviously you searched his truck. How did you get a warrant so quickly?”
“Didn’t need one. It’s not Dietz’s truck. It’s registered to Ferranda Brothers. I spoke to the owner. After assuring me that anything I find in the truck doesn’t belong to him, he gave me permission to search.”
“What is your impression of Dietz?”
“I’m right in the middle of reading him his rights while I’m arresting him, and this jerk starts telling me how beautiful I am. What a creep.”
Mike smiled as he listened. Dietz’s wallet was so thick Mike wondered if it would fit in his back pocket. He began taking out pieces of paper and sorting them into piles. Wendy’s, Dunkin’ Donuts and McDonald’s receipts. Gas and ShopRite receipts. A traffic summons from two weeks ago. A receipt from a motorcycle repair shop. Several business cards, including one from a doctor and two from attorneys. Mike knew one of the lawyers, whose office was in East Rutherford.
His atten
tion was suddenly riveted by a torn envelope with a phone number scribbled on it.
Sandy must have noticed his expression change. “Mike, what is it?”
Without answering, he pulled his notebook from his pocket and flipped the pages. He glanced back at the number on the torn envelope. A grim smile came over his face.
“Pay dirt,” he said. “The number on this piece of paper that came from Dietz’s wallet is the cell phone number of Kerry Dowling. He’s the guy we’ve been looking for.”
“Mike, when you question Dietz, mind if I watch from the other room?”
“Not at all.”
• • •
While waiting in another meeting room for Dietz to be brought in, Mike phoned Artie Schulman. The assistant prosecutor insisted Mike call him immediately after he questioned Dietz.
The door opened, and Sandy Fitchet had her hand on Dietz’s elbow as she escorted him into the room. He was wearing faded, greasy blue jeans and scuffed work boots. His oil-stained gray T-shirt had a small tear by the right shoulder and the logo of an engine company on the front. His hands were cuffed in front of him. His bare arms showed the telltale welts of recent needle marks. He settled into the folding chair opposite Mike.
Dietz was about five-foot-ten with a crew cut. Despite the fact that he was unshaven and the darkness under his eyes, his features were handsome.
“Mr. Dietz, my name is Mike Wilson. I’m a detective with the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office.”
“My name is Eddie Dietz, but you probably already know that. It’s an honor to meet you, Detective,” he said sarcastically.
“Okay, Eddie, I don’t want to take up too much of your valuable time, so let’s cut to the chase. Let me begin by saying I have zero interest in your recent speeding ticket, your drug arrest, your outstanding warrants and your overdue child support. I hope I didn’t leave anything out. I’m here to talk about one of my cases involving a young woman. Do you know a Kerry Dowling?”
Dietz paused for a moment. “No, that name doesn’t ring a bell.”