A Deadly Secret: The Story of Robert Durst (11 page)

Struk was still angry after the women left. He walked to the back of the room and poured himself a cup of coffee. He was tired and frustrated, having spent a solid seven weeks searching for Kathie Durst. He put the coffee down on his desk, fingered through his Rolodex, and stopped at
H
.

Roger Hayes was sitting in his downtown office, sporting a wide smile.

Hayes always smiled, especially when he was preparing to deliver bad news, which was one of the reasons why Mike Struk, who was making his case for arresting Bobby Durst, liked him so much.

Struk’s hard exterior hid the fact that he had been shaken by the meeting several days earlier with Ellen Strauss, Eleanor Schwank, and Gilberte Najamy. Despite his anger, he agreed with them. He wanted to arrest Bobby. Or at the least bring his evidence, though circumstantial, before a grand jury.

“I have the hospital records, his own interviews, which were filled with lies, mistruths, and discrepancies. I don’t know what to make of that itinerary and the boot receipt yet, but I have Kathie Durst’s friends, all of whom can testify that she lived in terror of her husband,” said Struk. “He was beating her pretty regularly, Roger. And now the prick won’t even talk to me. I know you think we’ve got something here. Can we go to the grand jury?”

Hayes smiled as he shook his head no.

“Mike, you know we could indict him if we wanted to. That’s the easy part,” said Hayes. “But what do you think is going to happen here?”

Hayes methodically laid out the scenario.

“Let’s say Bobby is arrested. The next day it would be on the front pages of all the local newspapers. There will be crazy headlines, like ‘Son of Real Estate King Indicted for Murder of Wife!’ Your picture will be on page one, Mike, leading Bobby in handcuffs into a waiting police car. It would make a big splash, and everyone would be happy, for a little while.”

Hayes paused for a moment, reloading his thoughts.

“But the reality of the case is that all we have is circumstantial evidence, no matter how compelling we may think it is. It just isn’t enough. We either need a confession, which we know isn’t coming, or physical evidence, a body, a body part, body fluids.”

The smile was gone from Hayes’s face as he leaned across his desk toward Struk.

“Let’s think about this. Bobby would be indicted, and then hire the best criminal attorneys in town. They would destroy our case, and they’d do it by attacking his wife. Yeah, they’d bring in her drug use, her affairs, her problems at school. And who’s she hanging out with? Some guy you’re telling me is a drug dealer? And a woman who claims to be one of her best friends and may also be dealing? If we go to trial and Bobby is acquitted, which would be highly likely, then what? He couldn’t be prosecuted even if they found Kathie’s body. Double jeopardy would come into play.”

“And that would be that,” said Struk.

“And that would be that,” said Hayes. “So you see, my friend, indicting Bob Durst would not be the smart, or prudent, thing to do. I would suggest you get a confession, or find a body.”

—

On his way uptown Struk pulled his car over and ordered a beef gyro and a soda from a street vendor, the Russian dressing spilling onto his white shirt as he tried to navigate traffic on Eighth Avenue with one hand and eat his fat, sloppy sandwich with the other.

After parking his car and walking up to the squad room, Struk saw he had a visitor waiting for him. It was Ellen Strauss.

Of all the people the detective had met since Bobby Durst walked into the Twentieth Precinct on February 5, Ellen seemed the most reasonable, not to mention that she was very attractive, dressed well, and carried herself like a woman should.

Seeing Ellen lifted his spirits. If it had been Gilberte Najamy or Eleanor Schwank standing there, he would have said he was busy and quickly dismissed her.

But Ellen was different, and he brought her to his desk before excusing himself for a moment to visit the bathroom to clean the dressing from the gyro that remained on his white shirt.

“I see you had a little accident,” said Ellen.

“That’s what happens when you try to do too much,” said Struk.

Ellen understood the double meaning. She could see that the detective was still sore after his last meeting with the three friends. And unlike the other two, Ellen was of the opinion that Struk was spending a lot of time on this case. She reasoned that if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have seethed as he had, especially toward Eleanor.

So Ellen decided she would try to make nice, to bring Struk into their fold.

Struk returned from the bathroom, sat down, and asked what he could do for her.

“Listen, I had some business in Manhattan today and I wanted to stop by to invite you to a party I’m having this weekend,” said Ellen. “It’s going to be me and seventy of my closest friends at my house in Connecticut.”

“A party?” said Struk, his tough exterior melting just a bit. He was taken aback, actually surprised and pleased by the gesture. Working the Durst case, along with the problems in his personal life, hadn’t left him much time for partying. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d received an invitation to attend a party in Connecticut, of all places.

His first thought was to accept, but he knew this was still an active case and perhaps it wouldn’t be proper.

Ellen assured him there would be no drugs at the party, something she always insisted upon, and that plenty of pretty, available professional women would be in attendance.

“You’re not married, are you?” asked Ellen.

“Separated,” said Struk. “But I’m not really looking.”

“I took the liberty of writing this down,” she said, handing him directions to her home. “If you’re free, please come up.”

“Okay,” said Struk. “If I can make it, I will.”

Struk watched Ellen as she left the room. Lieutenant Gibbons walked over to the detective, whose eyes remained on Ellen.

“That,” he said, “is one nice-looking lady.”

“That’s Ellen Strauss. She just invited me to a party at her house Saturday night. Whaddaya think, lou?”

“Will it help the case?”

“Let’s call it a covert operation,” Struk quipped. “Actually, she said there’ll be seventy people there. Maybe I’ll bump into someone who has something to offer.”

“Okay,” said Gibbons. “Just make sure you sign out that you’re going to Connecticut. And take someone with you.”

—

The cardboard sign taped to the front door of Ellen Strauss’s Colonial home in Westport read
NO TOKING,
NO SMOKING, NO JOKING
!.

The house had been hard to find. Struk had grabbed another detective, Rocco Marriotti, told him they had a tough job that night, and headed up to the Bronx, to the Hutchinson River Parkway north to the Merritt Parkway and into Connecticut. It was about an hour’s drive from Manhattan. It was dusk, and as Struk drove up Route 53 in Weston, he could see some of the homes that lined each side of the road.

They were large Colonials and Tudors, and even a mansion or two. Struk realized he was out of his territory, and even out of his league. Ellen’s street was in a wooded area, where the homes were somewhat smaller but still attractive. Cars lined the gravel road and filled Ellen’s small driveway. People were milling around outside, some smoking marijuana. He saw others, farther away, their hands reaching up to their noses.

Ellen had said her home was drug-free, but that hadn’t stopped some of her guests from indulging outside in the darkness.

The red-and-black-trimmed two-story home was, as Struk had imagined, complete with dark, hardwood floors and antique furniture. The house was bulging with people and Struk’s six-foot-three-inch frame towered above most guests. He caught a glimpse of Eleanor Schwank, who was making her way through the crowd from the other end of the room, heading straight for Ellen.

“Do you see who’s here!” said Eleanor, pointing over to Struk, who stood awkwardly by the front door. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Ellen grabbed Eleanor’s arm.

“Take it easy. I invited him. I didn’t like how our last meeting ended and we need him on our side,” she said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Eleanor, then stormed into the kitchen area. She had no use for Struk. She didn’t like his investigation, she didn’t like his attitude when they met, and she sure didn’t like his handshake.

Ellen made her way through the crowd and walked over to the detectives, who were still standing by the front door.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, smiling, holding out her hand. “Did you have any trouble finding the house?”

“No, we just followed the cars. That’s a long line down the block.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of people here. I do this every once in a while. There are a lot of nice people here, some lawyers, some doctors. The bar is over there,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen.

Ellen walked Struk and Rocco over to the bar, where they opened a couple of Heinekens and smiled as Ellen introduced them to some of her friends, who asked the two detectives about the status of the Kathie Durst case.

Struk told them what he could, that they were still searching but were somewhat frustrated. There’d been no sign of Kathie for nearly three months.

The night was supposed to be official business, but Struk found he was enjoying himself. He felt at ease, lost in the loud music and good humor. And Ellen was right: there were plenty of beautiful and available women walking by, smiling and sometimes stopping to chat. Word quickly traveled through the house that two New York City detectives were in attendance. Struk was popular, if only for a few hours. The night passed quickly, and Rocco decided to join about a dozen other inebriated people who were sleeping on the floor. Struk thought it best to leave, and gave one of Ellen’s female guests a ride home.

—

Chips was on Columbus Avenue and West Sixty-ninth Street, directly across from WABC-TV’s studios. The restaurant and bar served as a hangout for the reporters and anchors from the station, which aired on Channel 7 in New York, and was also a friendly watering hole for some detectives from the Twentieth Precinct, including Mike Struk and Lieutenant Robert Gibbons.

It was early on a Monday night, and the two men decided to meet for a drink, a bite to eat, and a talk about the Durst case. Something was bothering Struk, only he wanted to hash it out outside the precinct, and Gibbons agreed to meet.

As they sat at the bar, they could easily hear the laughter coming from the back of the restaurant from some of WABC’s newspeople, who had gathered after wrapping up the 6
P.M.
news.

One of them, a producer, recognized Struk and walked over to say hello and ask about the Durst case. Struk could only say that he was still investigating. He introduced the producer to Gibbons and ordered another beer.

After the producer rejoined his group, Struk leaned over toward Gibbons, his elbow on the bar and left hand on his forehead.

“Here’s what’s bothering me, in a nutshell. This guy is loaded, right? Has a ton of money. Everybody knows who his father is, and if they didn’t know before, they know now. My question is: Where is this guy? Where is Seymour Durst? You and I and some of the other guys have been humping on this case, but other than the first week, I don’t see any pressure on us to find this lady. My question to you is, and I want you, as a friend, to tell me: Are we wasting our time here?”

“What you’re asking me is, are we chasing our tails?”

“You know what I’m saying,” said Struk.

“No one has pulled me aside and said to lay off. That’s never happened to me, period. Do I think it’s weird there hasn’t been more pressure coming down to find her? Yeah, maybe,” said Gibbons.

“That’s what I’m saying,” said Struk. “You’d think Nicastro—fuck, you’d think the commissioner— would be on our asses about this. But they’re not. I haven’t heard anything about Nicastro since the first week. Have you?”

“No. I give the captain updates, and word travels downtown.”

“And what about the old man—Seymour? Where the fuck has he been? If that was my daughter or daughter-in-law, I’d be doing everything I could to find her. But this guy hasn’t done shit. He even tossed the McCormack family out of his house.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“It tells me they know what happened to her. And it’s not good. Jesus, I’ve got people telling me that Kathie was threatening the family. That she had tax returns and stock transfers and information on the Dursts they wouldn’t want anyone to know about.”

“So you think the family had her bumped off?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I think Bobby Durst has a bad temper and he hit her one too many times. He’s tossing all of her stuff out. He wants nothing to do with her. Not even a memory. He’s not acting like a bereaved husband, right? Actually, I think he’s got a couple of screws loose. But I don’t know where to go with this, and if I’m at the end of the line, then we’re done. Finished. She’s gone, forever.”

“What about the phone records?”

“Still waiting.”

“And Bobby won’t talk to you?”

“I’ve been trying. He’s not returning my calls.”

“Why don’t you try him again. Maybe it’s time to get him in for a polygraph. See if he’ll cooperate. Aside from that, we’ll wait for the phone records and see what we get from that.”

The two men sipped their drinks and ordered dinner.

—

The following morning Struk left another message with Bobby Durst, asking him to return the call. An hour later, his phone rang.

“Detective Struk,” he answered.

“Hey, Mikey,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “How ya doing!”

Struk didn’t recognize the voice.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Nick, Attorney Nick Scoppetta. I’ve been retained by Robert Durst to represent him. I know you’ve been trying to contact him in regards to his wife. I’d appreciate it if all calls concerning Mr. Durst now go through me. Okay, Mikey?”

Struk recognized Scoppetta’s name but couldn’t quite place it. The call took him by surprise, and Scoppetta’s “Hey, Mikey” greeting didn’t earn him any points.

“Well, yeah, I’ve been trying to contact him. There are a couple of things I’d like to discuss with him,” said Struk.

“Are you going to arrest Mr. Durst?”

“I didn’t say that. I just want to talk to him.”

“Well, I’m advising Mr. Durst not to talk to anyone at this point. He really wants to help you, but he’s very busy and there’s nothing more that he can add than what he’s already told you.”