Final Vows

  She had no reason to question Carol’s description of Dan’s past. Never had she heard Carol complain about the way Dan treated her. If his drinking and gambling represented a troublesome challenge, his love and devotion during sober moments more than made up for it. At least that was what Carol had always said.

  Now Annette felt complete pity for the man. If sometimes his behavior, his concern about the police investigation, didn’t seem appropriate for a man whose wife had just been killed, Annette decided it was because he was still in shock. She allowed him to confide in her, to share his paranoid fears.

  “Those police are downright preposterous,” she would say. “Please tell me if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “That means a lot to me.” Dan hitched up his pants and humbly looked downward, moving his toe in tight circles on the ground. “I don’t know what I’d do without friends like you. You’re a blessing, Annette.”

  By the end of April, one month after Carol’s murder, it became apparent to those who knew him that Dan Montecalvo was not holding up well under the pressure of being the primary suspect in the murder of his wife. He was becoming increasingly paranoid about the Burbank police, complaining to Annette that they were following him, framing him, and perhaps even trying to kill him. Concerned about his ability to handle these feelings and convinced by Annette and others that he needed help, Dan began seeing a psychiatrist in late April.

  The professional counselor prescribed Valium for Dan’s anxiety but the medication apparently did little to ease his fears. Less than a month later Annette was having lunch with him at the Hamburger Hamlet in Burbank when she caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a revolver tucked in his waistband.

  Annette tilted her pretty red head as she set her hamburger back down on her plate. “Dan? Is that a gun?” she asked with concern.

  A momentary flicker of surprise crossed Dan’s face and then disappeared. “What?” He cleared his throat.

  “Right there,” she said, pointing to Dan’s waist and sounding more than slightly concerned. “It looked like a gun.”

  Dan moved aside his jacket, exposing the black handle of what appeared to be a revolver.

  “This?” Dan lowered his voice and leaned across the table so Annette could hear him. “I need it.” He reached down and lifted his pants leg to show a small white-handled automatic pistol tucked inside his sock. “This one, too. I need ’em both.”

  Annette laughed nervously. “Whatever for, Dan?”

  “The police hate me, Annette. They’re after me. I need to be ready, need to protect myself. You never know what’ll happen.”

  Annette nodded and shrugged her shoulders, appearing to dismiss the subject. Many people kept guns for protection, but she had never been one of them. Too often guns killed the wrong people. After all, Carol had died from gunshot wounds. As Dan changed the topic of conversation, Annette was troubled by his reasons for carrying the weapons. One did not need to carry guns for protection against the very people who were paid to keep one safe. Dan was a victim, not a wanted criminal. Yet, here he was, in broad daylight, eating in a family hamburger joint, carrying not one, but two guns for protection against the police.

  Perhaps not ready to draw any conclusions, Annette decided to believe Dan and tried to dismiss the incident. He must be in shock, she reasoned. But as the minutes passed by, she felt her stomach tightening. When they stood to leave, Annette realized she had left most of her lunch untouched.

  When Dan got home that night, back to the house where his wife had been shot and killed, he carefully placed the guns in his bedroom dresser drawer.

  They’re coming at me from everywhere, he thought.

  He glanced around his house. “I gotta get outta here,” he mumbled.

  For the next ninety minutes he began performing a task that had by then become routine. He moved meticulously from room to room, carefully checking every inch of the house for taping devices or signs that police had been in his home. When he got to the spot in the hallway where Carol had bled to death, Dan stepped gingerly around it. He had taken scissors and removed the spot the day he moved back into the home. But even with the carpet gone, he never stepped directly on the spot.

  Finally, in the bedroom, he found proof of police activity. A piece of paper that had been next to his telephone now sat across the room on a dresser. Dan took out a notebook and jotted down his observation.

  They’re closing in, he thought.

  Several weeks later Dan’s friend, Jack McKenzie, had an experience similar to Annette’s. Jack and his wife had known Carol from church and after her death they had invited Dan to live with them while he recuperated. Before becoming a Christian in the late 1970s, Jack had been addicted to drugs. Now that he was completely clean, he empathized with people who were unhappy and did what he could to help them. During his three-week stay, Dan and Jack became friends and for months afterward the two men continued to get together.

  Since Jack collected guns and frequently participated in shooting contests, police first suspected him of assisting Dan in the murder of his wife. Eventually they dropped this idea because their evidence suggested no one had left the house after the shootings. For that reason early on in the investigation police were convinced Dan worked alone.

  As for Jack, he believed Dan was innocent for one reason alone—the location of his gunshot wound. Dan knew as much about guns as Jack did, only Dan had gained his knowledge in prison. No one with any understanding of guns would shoot himself in the waist. There were a hundred different ways a bullet could exit the body from that point, including several paths that might send the bullet straight out the top of the head. After listening to Dan talk about his background, Jack had decided he was a sleazy, self-destructive gambler-alcoholic. But he was convinced he didn’t kill Carol.

  One afternoon after Jack and Dan had gone to a movie matinee, Jack noticed Dan was carrying a gun.

  “What in God’s name are you doing with that?” Jack was not one to mince words.

  Tiny beads of sweat broke out on Dan’s forehead as he ran his fingers through his short, slicked-back hair. “I carry two. I need ’em, Jack. The cops are after me. You know that.”

  Jack couldn’t believe his ears. “What do you think? They’re going to shoot you? Like some cheap gangster movie?” He leaned closer to Dan. “Dan, if they want you, they’ll arrest you.”

  Dan shook his head nervously. “No, no. They’re gonna kill me. They don’t want me around messing up their investigation.”

  “Listen, Dan, if it would make you feel better I can get you some protection. Bulletproof vest, something like that.” Jack would not have had trouble obtaining such protective clothing because of his connection with various gun clubs.

  Dan wiped his forehead. “No, no way, Jack. Can’t do it. I need these guns. For all we know, they’ve searched your car while we were in the movies. They’re after me, Jack. I’m telling you, they’re after me.”

  As Jack listened he remembered that Dan had told him he’d been involved in organized crime in his younger days. Connections to big-time crime families. Jack had never believed the stories before and he didn’t believe them now. Dan seemed to be acting out some kind of fantasy in which he was an important crime figure and the police were corrupt villains. He seemed to have convinced himself that he would not be safe without carrying guns.

  Jack shook his head sadly. “Dan, do you know what they’re going to do if they arrest you and you’re carrying two guns?” Jack didn’t wait for Dan’s response. “They’ll thank you for cutting off your own head and handing it to them on a shiny silver platter, and then they’ll send you to prison and throw away the key. Get rid of the guns!”

  Dan shook his head. “I can’t, Jack.”

  After that discouraging talk Jack tried again several times to convince Dan to stop carrying guns. When Dan insisted on keeping them, Jack decided the man was truly the most self-destructive person he had
ever known.

  * * *

  In June, Dan’s psychiatrist made essentially the same observation, noting these signs that Dan was in need of psychological help: depression, paranoia, and self-destructive tendencies.

  Later that summer Annette had to leave town for a six-month business trip to Texas. She asked Dan—who had recently sold his house on South Myers Street—to move into her apartment and take care of the place in exchange for free rent. She hoped the move would help Dan get back on his feet financially.

  The setup did wonders for Dan, who suddenly found himself in a financial situation that was much less stressful than at any other time in his life. He had $150,000 in proceeds from the sale of his home, and at about the same time he collected $220,000 from the largest of Carol’s life insurance policies. Now that his budget wasn’t quite so tight, Dan paid off his gambling debts and, feeling less tense, stopped seeing his psychiatrist.

  Late that fall, showing a propensity for making bad decisions and exemplifying the very self-destructive behaviors his friends and doctor had observed, Dan took his newly acquired funds and on October 28, 1988, made a gambling trip to the Golden Nugget Casino in Nevada. By New Year’s Day 1989 Dan was visiting Las Vegas several times a month playing blackjack with an average bet of $347 per hand.

  Annette returned to Burbank in late January and was immediately notified by her homeowners’ association, of which she was a member of the board of directors, that some problems had arisen while she was gone. They said her condominium had been the site of numerous loud parties in the past six months. In addition, a number of prostitutes had been seen going to and from her home. Other homeowners had complained and the association wanted Annette’s word that these unacceptable occurrences would not be repeated.

  “Dan?” Annette asked as he let her into the condominium later that day. She sounded hurt and betrayed. “What happened while I was gone?”

  “Okay.” Dan drew in a deep breath. “Now, you might have heard some stories about things that went on here. I can explain the whole thing.” Annette walked slowly around her home. Smoke stains marked the walls and her once-crisp white curtains were now yellow. Cigarette burns dotted her marble kitchen countertop. The place seemed dank and dingy and was almost unrecognizable compared to the cheerful home it had been. Annette stopped just short of Dan and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “I already heard the stories, Dan,” she said quietly. “You know I’m on the board of directors for the homeowners’ association.”

  She waited for his explanation.

  Dan looked indignant. “Well, that’s all they are, Annette. Stories. Yeah, sure a prostitute came up here once in a while. You know why?” Dan raised his voice. “To bring up a payment from one of the guys I gamble for.” Dan lowered his voice again and narrowed his eyes. “Don’t worry. Nothing happened. I just took the money and sent them on their way.” He paused. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  Annette took a moment to digest Dan’s version of the story. How could she doubt him? Here was the man her closest friend had loved for eight years, the man Carol had rescued and who owed her his very heart and soul. The man standing before her had gone through the sort of ordeal no one should ever have to go through. How could she even consider doubting him?

  Slowly, she released a pent-up sigh and leaned over to hug Dan.

  “Of course I believe you, Dan. You’ve never lied to me.” Annette was disgusted with herself for doubting Carol’s husband, even for a few moments. She looked about the condominium again. Later she would insist that Dan help her clean the place up. But she had expected it to look messy. After all, Dan was a man harassed by police and still paralyzed by grief. He also no longer had a loving wife to help him keep the place clean. Annette certainly did not expect him to handle that task all by himself with everything else he had to think about.

  In the following months the friendship between Dan and Annette—while purely platonic—grew stronger. Dan had moved out of her apartment and now rented one of his own. He and Annette lunched together on a weekly basis and spent hours talking on the telephone. Annette knew Dan needed her because all he ever talked about was why the police were wrong to suspect him in Carol’s murder. Sometimes Annette and Dan would play a little game in which she would be the devil’s advocate and Dan would provide reasons why he was innocent.

  “The police believe you did it, Dan,” Annette would say uncomfortably. She did not like to doubt Dan, even in jest.

  “Impossible,” Dan would answer, shaking his head angrily. “I couldn’t have done it, because how could I have shot myself in the back?”

  “Well,” Annette would say, her Texas accent thick as she played up her role. “You might well have had a partner.”

  “How could I have had a partner?”

  “Very easily.”

  “How would he have gotten in?”

  “Same way you say the burglars got in.”

  “How could he have gotten away?”

  “Very easily. He drove.”

  “What about his car?” Dan fired back, taking a deep breath as the questions grew more intense. “People would have seen it.”

  “Well, now,” Annette retorted, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow. “I don’t believe he would have parked it out front. He parked it several streets away, of course, and scurried out the back door over fences and through people’s yards.”

  And so it went, this game they often played over lunch. Annette knew Dan was obsessed with proving himself innocent. And if his desire to play such a game ever bothered her or led her to doubt him, she never said so. Back then, showing even a hint of doubt made her feel as if she were betraying everything she and Carol had shared as friends.

  By the spring of 1989, days before the first anniversary of Carol’s murder, Dan had lost a staggering $53,200 in Las Vegas casinos, something he never mentioned to Annette. In fact, there were many things about Dan’s background that Annette knew nothing about. In late July, Detective Brian Arnspiger and Sergeant Bob Kight, guessing at her ignorance, decided she should know more about her new friend. When security guards from Annette’s condominium complex informed her that police had been asking questions about her involvement with Dan Montecalvo, she immediately dialed his telephone number.

  “Dan, police are comin’ round here asking questions.” Annette’s voice was urgent. For the first time since befriending Dan she wondered if she might have allowed herself to become too involved in his life. Suddenly, a seed of doubt began to grow in her mind.

  “Damn cops,” Dan muttered angrily. “What did they say?”

  Annette paused a moment before answering him, taken aback by Dan’s response. “They want to speak to me. Dan, I’m going to call them.”

  “What?” It was an angry, violent response and at the other end Annette involuntarily shrank back into her sofa. “Don’t do it,” he ordered loudly. “You can’t talk to them.”

  Annette steadied herself. “Dan, I’m going to call them. I don’t want them back around here asking questions and making a scene. The neighbors will talk.”

  “You don’t trust me or you wouldn’t do this,” Dan shouted, his voice loud and defensive.

  “This has nothing to do with trust. Of course I trust you, Dan. Don’t be crazy. Now, I’m calling them as soon as I hang up.”

  Dan forced an angry sigh. “Okay. Call me right back. Soon as you get done with them.”

  “Fine.”

  Annette was angry with Dan as she dialed the Burbank Police Department. What right did he have to tell her not to call the police. What was he afraid of? Annette pushed the answers from her mind.

  In the first minute of her conversation with Sergeant Kight, Dan called her back, breaking through on Annette’s second line to ask what was being said.

  “I’ll call you when I’m done,” she said impatiently. “I’m still on the phone with them.”

  Kight had introduced himself and t
old her that he and his men were investigating Dan for the murder of his wife.

  “Now, what if we could tell you something you don’t already know about Dan?” Kight asked pleasantly.

  “You can’t tell me something I don’t know. I’m his closest friend. I know everything about what’s going on.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure you know everything.”

  Then Kight proceeded to explain some of the things Annette did not know about Dan. Sometime toward the end of the conversation, after Annette had heard enough to question Dan’s integrity and her own intelligence in befriending him, she agreed to visit the police station. While they were working out details of the visit, Dan called again to question Annette.

  “I said I’d call you,” Annette said calmly. Dan listened closely to her voice and thought it sounded different than before. More distant.

  Annette would have agreed with his assessment. For the first time since she’d learned about Carol’s death she was afraid of her dead friend’s husband.

  Chapter 15

  Brian Arnspiger investigated the Montecalvo murder as he had never investigated any case before in his life. He found it a tremendous challenge that no one else had been able to crack it. He wasted no time getting started.

  The first thing Brian did the same day he was assigned the case was to lock himself in one of the station’s empty interview rooms with boxes of evidence and every report written on the case. He remembered his sergeant’s words: “No real evidence, no witnesses, and nothing more than suspicions to go on.” Brian put them out of his mind and carefully spread the evidence along the rectangular table. For the next five hours he went over each item with the precision of a surgeon.

  At 4 P.M. he struck gold. A pair of men’s pants lay at the bottom of one of the boxes. Brian carefully pulled them out and stared at the numerous blood spots on the lower pant legs, including the knees. Gingerly he maneuvered the evidence tag so he could read the description. Men’s pants worn by Dan Montecalvo, 3-31-88. Quickly, his eyes darted back to the middle portion of the pant legs, both of which were freckled with blood spots.