Hamilton turned to Will Nebels. “Will, may I ask you to tell the media exactly what you told Mr. Bern.”
Nebels shifted nervously. He looked uncomfortable dressed as he was in a shirt and tie and suit that I was sure they’d put on him just for the occasion. It’s an old defense trick, one I’ve seen hundreds of times in court. Dress up the defendant, cut his hair, make sure he’s clean-shaven, give him a shirt and tie, even if he’s never buttoned a collar in his life. The same was often true for defense witnesses.
“I feel bad,” Nebels began, his voice hoarse. I noticed how thin and pale he was and wondered if he were ill. I only vaguely remembered him. He had done some odd jobs for us, but I remembered him as being pretty beefy.
“It’s something I’ve been living with, and when the writer fellow started talking to me about the case, I knew I had to get it off my chest.”
He then gave the same story that had come over the wires. He had seen Paul Stroebel drive up to the garage-hideout in Rob Westerfield’s car and go into the garage carrying a heavy object. The insinuation, of course, was that the object was the tire jack that had been used to bludgeon Andrea to death, the one that had been found in the trunk of Rob Westerfield’s car.
Then it was Vincent Westerfield’s turn to speak. “For twenty-two years my son has been locked in a prison cell amidst hardened criminals. He has always protested his innocence in this terrible crime. He went to the movies that night. He parked at the service station next door to the cinema where the family cars are routinely serviced and where the key to his car could easily have been duplicated. It had been in the station at least three times in the previous months to have minor dents removed.
“Paul Stroebel was working there that night. The pumps had closed at seven o’clock, but he was servicing a car in the interior service area. Rob spoke to Paul, told him he was leaving his car in the service lot while he was at the film. We know Paul has always denied this account of events, but now we have proof he was lying. While my son was watching that movie, Stroebel took his car, went to what they called the hideout, and killed that girl.”
He drew himself up, and his voice became deeper and louder. “My son is coming up for parole. From what we are led to understand, he will be released from prison. That isn’t good enough. With this newly discovered evidence we will seek a new trial, and we believe that this time Rob will be acquitted. We can only hope that Paul Stroebel, the real killer, will be put on trial and placed behind bars for the rest of his life.”
I was watching the news conference on a television in the little sitting room on the main floor of the Inn. I was so enraged I wanted to throw something at the screen. For Rob Westerfield it was a win-win situation. If he was found guilty again, they couldn’t put him back in prison. He’d already served his sentence. If he was acquitted, the state would never put Paulie Stroebel on trial on the word of an unreliable witness like Will Nebels. Nonetheless, in the eyes of the world, he would be the murderer.
I guess other people had heard about the conference because as soon as I turned it on, they began drifting in. The desk clerk was the first to make a comment. “Paulie Stroebel. Come on, that poor guy wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Well, a lot of people think he did a lot more than hurt a fly,” said one of the waitresses I’d noticed in the dining room. “I wasn’t here when it happened, but I’ve heard a lot of talk. You’d be surprised how many people think Rob Westerfield is innocent.”
The members of the media at the conference were hurling questions at Will Nebels. “Do you realize you could go to prison for breaking, entering, and perjury?” I heard a reporter ask.
“Let me answer that,” Hamilton said. “The statute of limitations has passed. Mr. Nebels is in no danger of incarceration. He has come forward to right a wrong. He had no idea that Andrea Cavanaugh was in the garage that night, nor at the time did he know what had happened to her. Unfortunately, he panicked when he realized that his testimony would put him at the scene of a murder, so he kept quiet.”
“Were you promised any money in exchange for this testimony, Mr. Nebels?” another reporter asked.
Exactly my question, I thought.
Again Hamilton took over. “Absolutely not.”
Will Mr. Nebels get to play himself in the movie? I wondered.
“Has Mr. Nebels made a statement to the district attorney?”
“Not yet. We wanted the fair-minded public to be aware of his statement before there is any spin put on it by the prosecutor. The point is this—it is a terrible thing to say, but if Andrea Cavanaugh had been sexually molested, Rob Westerfield would have been out of prison long ago on DNA evidence. As it stands, it was his very concern that entrapped him. Andrea had begged him to meet her at the hideout. Over the phone she told him that she had agreed to a date with Paul Stroebel only because she thought he was the last person who would provoke jealousy in a young man like Rob Westerfield.
“The fact is that Andrea Cavanaugh was chasing Rob Westerfield. She called him frequently. He didn’t care whom she dated. She was a flirt, boy crazy, a ‘popular’ girl.”
I cringed at the insinuation.
“Rob’s only mistake was to panic when he found Andrea Cavanaugh’s body. He went home, never realizing that he was transporting the murder weapon in his car and that Andrea’s blood was already staining the trunk of that car. That night he put his slacks and shirt and jacket in the washing machine because he was frightened.”
Not too frightened to bleach the color out of them in his effort to get rid of bloodstains, I thought.
The cameras switched to the CNN anchor. “Observing this interview with us from his home in Oldham-on-the-Hudson is retired detective Marcus Longo. Mr. Longo, what do you think of Mr. Nebel’s statement?”
“It is a total fabrication. Robson Westerfield was found guilty of murder because he is guilty of murder. I can understand the anguish of his family, but to try to shift the blame to an innocent, special-needs person is beneath contempt.”
Bravo, I thought. The memory of Detective Longo years ago sitting with me in the dining room, telling me that it was all right to give up Andrea’s secrets, vividly replayed itself in my mind. Longo was about sixty now, a long-faced man with heavy, dark brows and a roman nose. His remaining hair was a salt-and-pepper fringe around his head. But he had an innate dignity that heightened the effect of his obvious scorn for the charade we had just witnessed.
He still lived in Oldham. I decided that at some point I would call him.
The news conference was over, and people began to drift out of the room. The desk clerk, a studious-looking young man who looked as if he was fresh out of college, came over to me. “Is everything okay with your room, Miss Cavanaugh?”
The waitress was passing the sofa where I was sitting. She turned and looked at me sharply, and I knew she wanted to ask if I was any relation to the young girl who was murdered in the Westerfield case.
It was the first indication that I would have to give up the personal anonymity I craved if I stayed in Oldham.
So be it, I thought. This is something I have to do.
13
MRS. HILMER STILL lived in the same house down the street from ours. There were four other houses now separating it from the home we had lived in for those few years. It was obvious that the people who now owned ours had fulfilled Mother’s dream for it. It had been expanded on both sides and in the back. It had always been a good-sized farmhouse, but now it was a truly lovely dwelling, substantial yet graceful, with gleaming white clapboard and dark green shutters.
I slowed the car as I drove past, and then, because on this quiet Sunday morning I didn’t think anyone would notice, I stopped.
The trees had grown of course. It had been a warm autumn in the Northeast this year, and even though it was now downright chilly, there was still an abundance of gold and crimson leaves shimmering on the branches.
The living room of our house had obviously been expanded. What about
the dining room? I wondered. For an instant I was standing there, holding in my arms the box of silver—or was it silverplate—as Andrea carefully arranged the place settings. “Today Lord Malcolm Bigbottom will be our guest.”
Mrs. Hilmer had been watching for me. The minute I got out of the car, the front door opened. A moment later I felt her fierce hug. She had always been a small woman, cozily plump with a motherly face and vivacious brown eyes. Now her medium-brown hair was completely silver, and there were lines around her eyes and mouth. But basically she was as I remembered her. For years she sent Mother a Christmas card with a long note, and Mother, who never sent cards, would write back, putting a good face on our newest move and saying how well I was doing in school.
I had written to let her know when Mother died and received a warm and comforting note. I did not send her word when I moved to Atlanta, so I imagine any holiday cards or notes she might have sent were returned. The post office doesn’t forward mail for too long these days.
“Ellie, you’re so tall,” she said now with something between a smile and a laugh. “You were such a little bit of a thing.”
“It happened somewhere between my junior and senior years in high school,” I told her.
There was coffee perking on the stove and blueberry muffins fresh from the oven. At my insistence we stayed in the kitchen and sat at the banquette. For a few minutes she told me about her family. I had hardly known her son and daughter. Both had been married when we moved to Oldham. “Eight grandchildren,” she said proudly. “Unfortunately, none of them live around here, but I still get to see a lot of them.” I knew she’d been widowed for many years. “The kids tell me this place is too big for me, but it’s home and I love it. When I can’t get around anymore, I’ll sell it, I guess, but not now.”
Briefly I told her a little about my job, and then we began to talk about the reason I was back in Oldham. “Ellie, since the day Rob was led out of the courtroom in handcuffs and shackles, the Westerfields have been insisting that he’s innocent and have been fighting to get him released. They’ve got a lot of people convinced of it, too.” Her expression became troubled. “Ellie, having said that, I’ve got to admit something. I’m beginning to wonder myself if Rob Westerfield wasn’t convicted partly because of his reputation as a troublemaker. Everybody thought of him as a bad kid and was only too ready to believe the worst about him.”
She had seen the press conference. “There’s one thing I believe in that speech Will Nebels made,” she said flatly, “and that’s that he’d go into old Mrs. Westerfield’s house to look for money to steal. Was he there that night? It is possible. On one hand, I wonder what they’re giving him to tell that story, and on the other, I think how Paulie went to pieces in class when they announced that Andrea was dead. I watched that teacher testify in court. You never saw a more reluctant witness. You could tell how protective she was of Paulie, but she had to admit that she thought when he ran out of the classroom that he had said, ‘I didn’t think she was dead.’ ”
“How is Paulie Stroebel now?” I asked.
“Actually, he’s been doing very well. For ten or twelve years after the trial he was terribly reticent. He knew that some people believed he had killed Andrea, and that just about destroyed him. He started working in the deli with his mother and father, and from what I understand stayed very much to himself. But since his father died and he’s had to take on more and more responsibility, he’s really kind of blossomed. I hope this story of Will Nebels’s doesn’t unravel him now.”
“If Rob Westerfield gets a new trial and is acquitted, it will be as though Paulie has been found guilty,” I said.
“Would they arrest him, put him on trial?”
“I’m not a lawyer, but I doubt it. Will Nebels’s new testimony might be enough to get Rob Westerfield a new trial and an acquittal, but he’d never be considered credible enough to convict Paulie Stroebel. But the damage will be done, and Paulie will be another Westerfield victim.”
“Maybe, maybe not. That’s what makes it so hard.” Mrs. Hilmer hesitated, then went on. “Ellie, that fellow who’s writing a book about the case came to see me. Somebody had told him I was close to your family.”
I sensed a warning in her words. “What’s he like?”
“Polite. Asked a lot of questions. I was careful of every word that passed my lips. But I’m telling you right now that Bern has a point of view, and he’s going to make the facts fit it. He asked if the reason your father was so strict with Andrea was that she would sneak off to meet a lot of different boys.”
“That’s not true.”
“He’s going to make it seem as if it was true.”
“Yes, she had a crush on Rob Westerfield, but at the end she was afraid of him, too.” It was something I hadn’t expected to say, but when I did, I realized it was true. “And I was afraid for her,” I whispered. “He was so angry at her because of Paulie.”
“Ellie, I was in your house. I was there when you testified in court. You never said that you or Andrea were afraid of Rob Westerfield.”
Was she implying that I might be creating a dishonest memory to justify my childhood testimony? But then she added, “Ellie, be careful. That writer suggested to me that you were an emotionally unstable child. It’s something he’s going to imply in his book.”
So that’s the tack he’s going to take, I thought: Andrea was a tramp, I was emotionally unstable, and Paulie Stroebel is a killer. If I hadn’t been sure of it before, I knew now that I had my job cut out for me.
“Rob Westerfield may get out of prison, Mrs. Hilmer,” I said, and then I added firmly, “but by the time I finish investigating and writing about every dirty detail of his rotten life, no one will want to walk down the block with him, day or night. And if he gets a second trial, no jury will acquit him.”
14
ON MONDAY MORNING at ten o’clock I had my meeting in Albany with Martin Brand, who was on the staff of the parole board. He was a tired-looking man of about sixty, with pouches under his eyes and a thick head of gray hair that was overdue for attention from his barber. He had opened the top button of his shirt and pulled the knot of his tie down a few inches. His florid complexion suggested a problem with high blood pressure.
There was no doubt that he had heard many versions of my protest a thousand times over the years.
“Ms. Cavanaugh, Westerfield has been turned down for parole twice. This time it’s my guess the decision will be to let him out.”
“He’s a recidivist.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“You can’t be sure that he’s not.”
“He was offered parole two years ago if he’d admit to killing your sister, accept responsibility for the crime, and express remorse. He didn’t take the offer.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Brand. He had too much to lose by being truthful. He knew you couldn’t hold him much longer.”
He shrugged. “I forgot that you’re an investigative reporter.”
“I’m also the sister of the fifteen-year-old girl who didn’t get a chance to have a sweet-sixteen party.”
The world-weary expression left his eyes for a moment. “Ms. Cavanaugh, I have little doubt that Rob Westerfield is guilty, but I think you have to resign yourself to the fact that he’s served his time and that, after a couple of incidents during the first years, he’s behaved himself.”
I would love to have known what those couple of incidents were, but I was sure Martin Brand was not going to share them with me.
“Something else,” he went on. “Even if he is guilty, it was a crime of passion directed at your sister, and the odds of him repeating this kind of crime are almost nil. We have the statistics. Incidents of recidivism decline after age thirty and almost vanish after age forty.”
“And there are people who are born without a conscience and once they are uncaged become walking time bombs.”
I pushed the chair back and got up. Brand stood up, too. “Ms. Cavanaug
h, here’s a piece of unwelcome advice. I get the feeling you’ve lived with the memory of your sister’s brutal murder all your life. But you can’t bring her back, and you can’t keep Rob Westerfield in prison any longer. And if he goes for a new trial and is acquitted, that’s the way it is. You’re a young woman. Go home to Atlanta and try to put this tragedy behind you.”
“That’s good advice, Mr. Brand, and I’ll probably take it someday,” I said. “But not now.”
15
THREE YEARS AGO, after I’d written a series of articles about Jason Lambert, a serial killer in Atlanta, I received a call from Maggie Reynolds, a New York book editor I’d met on a crime panel. She offered me a contract to convert the articles into a book.
Lambert was a Ted Bundy—type killer. He’d hang around campuses, passing himself off as a student, and then trick young women into getting into his car. Like Bundy’s victims, those girls simply disappeared. Fortunately, he hadn’t had time to dispose of his last victim when he was captured. He’s in prison in Georgia now with 149 years left to serve on his sentence and no chance of parole.
The book did surprisingly well, even clinging for a few weeks to the bottom of The New York Times bestseller list. I called Maggie after I left Brand’s office. After describing the case and the investigative track I intended to pursue, she readily agreed to give me a contract for a book about Andrea’s murder, a book that I promised her would conclusively prove Rob Westerfield’s guilt.
“There’s a lot of hype about the one Jake Bern is writing,” Maggie told me. “I’d like to go toe-to-toe on it with a book from you. Bern broke his contract with us after we spent a fortune on publicity on his last book, trying to build him up.”
I figured the project would take about three months of intensive research and writing, and then if Rob Westerfield succeeded in getting a new trial, several months beyond that. The inn would be too confining and too expensive to stay in over the long haul, so I asked Mrs. Hilmer if she knew of any rental apartments in the area. She waved my suggestion away, insisting that I stay in the guest apartment over her garage.