Murder My Love (7 page)

“Just for the record, ma’am, state your name and your relationship with Mr. Klopowitz.”

“My name is Deborah Kline and I’m Stanley’s aunt.”

Stanton almost blurted “holy shit” but caught himself.

“I’m really sorry for your loss Miss, er, Mrs. Kline…”

He apologized for her having been notified by the Wilkes-Barre Police, but under the circumstances his department could not inform her in person. Stanton went on to relate how they had found her nephew but withheld the morbid details. Kline, in turn, confirmed her relationship with Greenwell. She was her sister. Kline was her married name.

Stanton leaned forward and held her hand, “This must be devastating, to lose your sister and your nephew. I am so sorry.”

Kline told Stanton that there was a third sister, Stanley’s mother who had died of hepatitis. Upon her death Stanley had lived with Mrs. Kline.

“So, Stanley was your nephew who came to see his other aunt, Miss Greenwell. Do you know the reason for the visit?”

“No I don’t,” she said emphatically, seeming to indicate that she was at a loss to understand how he’d gotten involved in such a mess. She confirmed that he had traveled by bus, as he could not afford to buy or rent an automobile.

Stanton asked, “Was Miss Greenwell ever married, or if there was bad blood between her and a former suitor?”

Kline demurred. Stanton pursued the same line of inquiry. He asked her if Linda was recently in any kind of relationship.

“She was never married, if that’s what you’re asking,” she crisply replied.

“Ma’am, I’m just asking, was she in a relationship with anyone?”

At that point Deborah Kline broke down in tears. Stanton placed a box of tissues on the table in front of her. When she regained her composure she related that her sister had lived in Vermont for many years in several towns before moving to West Warwick. She had a close relationship with a woman in one of those towns. She knew nothing more other than that the woman had four children. It just seemed odd to the entire family that her sister never had a man in her life. She moved as far away as possible and settled in a remote part of the world either to enjoy rural life or avoid the scrutiny of her family.

“Do you know the name of the woman?”

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Skinner asked Stanton to go to the Chief’s office. He said that Huff was in there with her. Stanton excused himself and proceeded to her office.

“Sit down, Jeff.”

“I’m interviewing Greenwell’s sister, Klopowitz’s aunt.”

“You have to hear this.”

Huff recounted his visits to the community hospital. He’d first asked for permission from the Administrator to interview workers in the Department of Nutrition. He knew he wasn’t obliged because it was a murder investigation, but he thought he could gain better cooperation if he did. Everyone he interviewed could say nothing but nice things about Miss Greenwell. They were effusive in their compliments. It seemed unnatural to Huff. He felt there was always one person in a group, especially a group of co-workers, who had a dissident voice. He interviewed all the workers in the Nutrition department together. There was one woman in particular, Anita Mazelli, who was weeping throughout his questioning and that raised his hackles. He returned later in the day to speak with her alone.

“Hey, Anita, let’s go for a cup of coffee.”

“Why?”

“Just want to talk a little.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Look, Anita, you’ve seen me around here a lot. I’m not a bad guy. You know how good Miss Greenwell was to my father-in-law. So you know why I’m trying to find out who did this to her.”

“I know. I can’t believe what happened.”

Huff leaned back in his chair. “Here’s where it gets interesting, Chief. The woman admitted they had a very, very close relationship. After that, she began to sob uncontrollably. I couldn’t get her to stop crying. I couldn’t stand it anymore so I got up to come back to the station. As I was about to walk out the door, she called me back and through a flood of tears, she said they’d been lovers. She swore it was only one time. She begged me not to say anything. She was worried she’d be fired if anyone in the hospital knew. I told her, ‘Live and let live is my motto.”

Stanton said, “I’m getting the same vibes from the aunt. Seems Miss Greenwell liked girls more than boys.”

Wilson glared at Stanton. “Jeff, you can get away with saying things like that in here, but you better watch your mouth in public. And there are certain words I do not want to hear in this police department. Do you understand?”

“I hear you, Chief.”

“Then be sure everyone else does.”

The Chief felt obliged to relate the substance of her meeting with Alice Chicciarelli. Huff was pleased that he was taken into confidence. In fact, he felt that he was part of the process, an intimate to the boss. The Chief rewarded him for uncovering crucial information by assigning him a new task. “See if you can find out who Greenwell was fooling around with before this Chicciarelli woman. We all know her first name is Rita.”

Stanton stood up and said, “I got to finish up with Mrs. Kline.”

Huff chimed in, “I’ll start snooping some more, Chief.”

Abby smiled at him.

After Huff and Stanton had finished debriefing Wilson, she placed a call. The telephone rang in Mayor Gallarino’s office. He was sitting behind an ornate desk that had been in use for the better part of a century. The lustrous finish had worn off and half of the drawers stuck because the wood had warped. Several carvings had weathered and cracked but it was unseemly to consider replacing the desk. It had been in use for longer than any local citizen alive could recall. Gallarino was comfortable around old things. It was his responsibility to get used to it, as he had to get used to other matters thrust upon him. He was expecting Chief Wilson’s call but he had not anticipated its content. Chief Wilson told him that Linda Greenwell’s roommate had come forward. She could not be directly involved in the murders because she had been in Arizona at the time. They would confirm that fact but it appeared she was truthful, based on her reaction to the bad news. Those details didn’t bother the mayor. Wilson proceeded to tell him that news of the murders had somehow leaked out. He knew. His staff had briefed him. She said the media was camped outside the police station and proposed that they address them jointly. She could no longer keep the press at bay. In fact, delay would only compound the negative publicity. Guido Gallarino screamed into the telephone as only an insecure politician could, “Abby, you’re going to ruin everything.”

“Not me, Guido. The more you keep quiet the more heat you’re going to take. You don’t need to be standing in a bright light in front of a camera after the press does its digging. You need to get out in front of it.”

The mayor understood perfectly. He knew he’d been elected under peculiar circumstances. The bright light of publicity could drive the press to explore just how clandestine was his rise to power. The town of West Warwick was founded by Presbyterians. A small community of devout religious people settled in what was then a remote country village. Over time they decided to found a school to teach their children. They hired teachers from the larger cities in New England, gave them housing and sustenance and were rewarded by watching their children thrive. The reputation of the school spread and the ensuing decades saw its enrollment grow. While it had been chartered as a religious school, it could no longer mandate its religious affiliation with a secular student body. The school was chartered anew as a non-denominational coeducational college. The town of West Warwick grew commensurate with the school. Artisans, plumbers, electricians, and shopkeepers of all stripes took up residence to support the school and keep it functioning. One of the artisans was an immigrant Italian, Guido Gallarino’s grandfather. After two generations the Gallarino family had acquired considerable land and held sway over local politics. Guido graduated from West Warwick College with honors. When he ran for office it was Professor Judson who publicly endorsed him, an endorsement that was quite influential. It was most unusual for the stuffy, pedantic, aloof dean to lobby for Gallarino. In fact, he campaigned for him. The town was unaware that prior to announcing his candidacy, Gallarino deeded a piece of lakefront property on Lake Pocatopaug to Judson as a gesture of ‘friendship.’ He told Judson, “Consider it a thank-you for a good education.”

Gallarino considered how the press could probe into every facet of his life including his finances. The thought left him no option. He spoke deliberately into the phone. “Okay, Abby, what do you want me to do?”

“Call a press conference. I’ll stop by tomorrow and we can discuss what to say.”

Guido tried to reassure himself, “So far, it’s only in the Connecticut papers. Maybe the big national newspapers won’t pick it up. Nobody in the national media reads deeply into the local papers anyway.” He replaced the receiver on its cradle, let out a sigh and said to no one, “I pray to God the press conference is the right way to go.”

The next call on Wilson’s list was to Professor Martin Judson. She briefed him on her conversation with the mayor and abbreviated the story about Alice Chicciarelli. Judson was not the least bit happy about addressing the press, but he said he understood the mayor’s decision. Wilson added that she had to contact the State Police. Now Judson tensed. “Whatever for?” he asked.

Abby heard his voice change its timber.

He hoped he hadn’t tipped his hand.

“I need a forensic psychologist. We need to profile the savages who did this. Right now we don’t know what we’re looking for.”

“You don’t need to make that call, Chief. We have one of the nation’s pre-eminent psychologists right here on our faculty. I’ll call her and set up an appointment for tomorrow. I’ll make sure you can see her in the afternoon.”

Wilson said that the afternoon would be perfect for her. Judson felt his muscles relax. The throbbing in his head ceased.

It had been a long and eventful day. Chief Wilson was emotionally spent. She signed out and went home. That night, after the dinner dishes were cleared and the boys had gone to bed, Abby changed into a nightgown. She curled up on the sofa and watched TV with Sam. She absently stroked his arm and inner thigh. They went to bed, but not before Abby peeked in the boys’ bedroom to be sure they were sound asleep. As they fluffed their pillows to get comfortable, Abby reached down to find Sam’s source of pleasure. She curled around and excited him with her mouth. She couldn’t wait another moment before she leaped on top of him and rocked like she was riding a mechanical bronco, making wild, uninhibited, almost violent love. The frenzy of her lovemaking culminated in a brief squeal of ecstasy that allowed no room for any thought of Alice Chicciarelli.

“What was that all about?” Sam whispered as he caressed her cheek.

“I love you. Now go to sleep.”

Chapter 6

Abby slept late. She called in to the stationhouse and got Stanton on the phone. “I won’t be in this morning. I’ve got some political fences to mend. You’re in charge but if you need me you know how to find me.”

“Got it, Chief. You don’t have to hurry back.”

Her first stop was the DA’s office. Chief Wilson got in her car and drove to the courthouse. She ascended the stairs to the DA’s office, which was located on the second floor. She found his door and knocked once. His secretary opened it and ushered her in. Abby shook Rocklein’s hand and said, “Do I have to genuflect?”

“Oh! Have a seat. Do I look like a prick with a memory?”

The exchange thawed the ice. Abby went on to brief the DA, reminding him that they had suspicions but not a suspect. She told him that she didn’t think Anita Mazelli had anything to do with the murders, but perhaps she had more information. She intended to bring her to the stationhouse where she could be encouraged to remember more than she had. “Just tread carefully, Abby. Keep very accurate records. I would not want to be blindsided in a courtroom.”

“I would never let that happen, Greg.”

“Are you near an arrest?”

“Far from it.”

She then reached into her briefcase and took out the audiotape and inserted it into the player that she had brought along with her. She pushed the ‘play’ button and sat back. At its conclusion the DA stood and walked to his window, more than likely to hide his emotions. As he looked out his window he shouted, “This is fucking unbelievable.”

“I know,” said the Chief softly.

“Do you know how the killers entered the house?”

She was taken aback by his question. “What difference would it make?”

“Not much. Just curious.”

Wilson considered his comment and, for whatever reason, the image of the dog panel flashed before her. She wondered if it could have anything to do with the murders. It was built for a small dog, so she again dismissed it.

Rocklein proceeded to explain the current statute regarding homicide in the Penal Code. “If the killers were let in, or if they broke in, they could be indicted for felony homicide. If so, they would be subject to life imprisonment. There are eight categories for which they could be indicted for capital murder. Number seven on the list is ‘murder of two or more persons at the same time or in the course of a single transaction.”

“I guess I didn’t memorize all eight in school,” she said.

“Why would you? How often are you going to encounter something like this?”

“I don’t think you’ll have much trouble proving it.” Abby said.

“The burden of proof is a little higher, but at least it allows us to ask for the death penalty.”

“Your call, but you know where I stand.”

She thanked him for the brief lecture and admitted she should have known. She didn’t forget everything she had learned in graduate school, but the frenetic pace of solving the murders muddled her thinking. She stood up, shook his hand again and said good-bye. She thought that the meeting was professional. It certainly was courteous. Her next meeting was with the mayor.

The mayor’s office was unpretentious. There were the requisite American and State flags book-ending the rear of his ornate oak desk. There were the traditional photographs and portraits of former mayors and officials hanging from the paneled walls. There was the overstuffed leather swivel chair in which Mayor Guido Gallarino sat. An oversized window filtered in ample sunshine, but the room was otherwise stuffy, and the ancient, threadbare carpet lent a dismal tone to the surroundings. Gallarino was of average height with a cherubic face. His dark wavy hair was highlighted by streaks of gray above his ears. He wore tinted horn-rimmed eyeglasses that made it difficult to appreciate his dark brown eyes. His bulbous nose, the residue of boxing during his stint in military service, drew one’s attention, but as he spoke, he exposed gleaming white, perfectly aligned teeth that neutralized the image of his albatross.

“Come on in. Make yourself at home,” Gallarino directed.

“This is hardly a homecoming, Guido.”

“I know. Are you feeling the pressure?”

“No,” she offered half-heartedly.

“Wish you were somewhere else?”

Chief Wilson could only muster a half smile as she sat in an upright chair in front of his desk. “I wish for a lot of things right now, but that’s not one of them. Let me bring you up to speed.”

She recounted what she knew and what she suspected. She expanded on the story about Alice Chicciarelli and her relationship with Greenwell. At that juncture Gallarino let out a low whistle. With a furrowed brow, the mayor spoke in a lower octave, almost in a whisper, “I don’t think we should play up the homosexual thing.” As he finished the sentence his face slightly contorted.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Can you imagine what the national media would do if this was interpreted as a lesbian affair gone wrong?”

Abby looked at the mayor and said nothing. Her silence said it all. She changed the topic to divert him from pursuing that subject.

“I don’t think Mazilli is a suspect. I also feel certain the male victim was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“So where do you go from here,” he asked.

“We could use a solid lead. But frankly, it’s basic police work that will solve the case.”

“The media is relentless. They’re like bloodhounds. They want an arrest, a trial and a conviction they can write about,” he said.

“I know but as I told you yesterday, if we both address them at a press conference we can control the information, and keep them at bay, at least for a while. Then we can focus on our job.”

“I said I’d do it.”

Silence descended on the room. They looked at each other wondering who would speak next. Gallarino squirmed in his chair, leaned forward and asked, “Abby, is this more than you can handle?”

“You know me a long time, Guido. It’s a question you didn’t have to ask.”

“O.K. Let’s call a press conference for late tomorrow. It’ll give them the weekend to cool off a bit. Maybe you’ll catch a break.”

Abby got up, shook his hand and thanked him for watching her back. As she was walking out the door she stopped to say, “Oh, by the way, I’m told that Deborah Kline is claiming the bodies today. She’s taking them back to Wilkes-Barre to be buried. The least we can do is pay for the transportation.”

Waving his hand, the Mayor said, “Not a problem.”

When Abby had left his office, Guido penned a letter of personal condolence and expressed remorse on behalf of the town. He instructed his secretary to send it to Mrs. Kline, along with a bouquet of flowers, to where she would be sitting Shiva.

Abby thought her next appointment would be the most difficult one. It would be with the forensic psychologist that Dean Judson had recommended. It was scheduled for two o’clock but, as it was approaching noon, Abby elected to have lunch first. She chose to avoid O’Neill’s diner. She was reluctant to run into any of her officers, preferring that all contact with them be in a professional environment. It was not the time to socialize. She entered the Broadview cafeteria. Many customers were startled to see her. The townspeople were unaccustomed to seeing the Chief of Police among them. The former Chief dined exclusively at his desk or at the Pilgrim Golf Club. Abby asked the hostess if she could find her a table somewhat out of the way. The young girl was flustered and stammered that she understood her request. She ushered Abby to a corner table. Her lunch was a simple ham and Swiss cheese sandwich on rye bread and a cup of coffee. She avoided making eye contact with anyone in the cafeteria. She ate quietly, left a generous tip, paid her bill at the entrance counter and drove off to see the psychologist. She left a wake of whispering behind her.

In their recruitment programs, West Warwick College boasted that among its illustrious alumni were world-renowned artists, musicians and business tycoons. Their formidable generosity helped to establish an enviable endowment. The money was put to good use. It allowed the college to recruit notable educators and Nobel laureates. Among the more famous was Sylvia Weisbrow. She had graduated
summa cum laude
from Yale and received her postdoctoral degree from Stanford University. She had orchestrated a landmark study into the psychological makeup of serial killers, which had been funded by the Department of Justice. She appeared at many famous murder trials, sometimes for the prosecution, other times for the defense. Her motivation was always to search for the truth.

When Dean Judson offered to make available a faculty member of Weisbrow’s stature, Chief Wilson seized the opportunity and immediately called to confirm the appointment to see her. Judson had already told Weisbrow the reason why Wilson would seek her advice and urged her not to delay the appointment. The exigency of the circumstances left Weisbrow no option but to see her the next day.

The entrance to the college was through a Gothic wrought iron arch. Wilson drove along a winding lane and came upon Westfield Hall at the far edge of the campus. She had no idea what to expect. She had attended graduate school and met with and befriended many notable professors, but she never had the occasion to meet with or talk to anyone with the national stature of Sylvia Weisbrow. She entered the Hall and asked the receptionist for direction to the professor’s office. The receptionist pointed to an area not more than ten paces down the hallway from the entry. Abby approached the door, stood ramrod erect, and knocked on it.

“Come in. Come in,” the professor commanded in a voice that sounded hoarse. Wilson turned the knob, pushed open the door, looked about the room and was taken aback. Her mouth fell agape. Sylvia Weisbrow was sitting in a wheelchair.

“Not what you expected, Chief Wilson?”

“I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

Abby had not been forewarned.

The chief had all to do to regain her composure. Sylvia Weisbrow was sitting in an armless wheelchair, hunched over her desk, poring over papers. It was difficult for Wilson to assess her age. Her graying hair ran wild like a comic caricature. Her rimless eyeglasses sat at the tip of her nose. Lipstick was neatly painted on thin lips and extended above the upper lip to make it appear larger. Yet she showed no signs of gnarled knuckles of age or furrows in her face. Her complexion was silken smooth. It bore the color of weak tea and her jet-black pantsuit with a lavender camisole suggested a slim body. Wilson decided that any preconceptions she had of a forensic psychologist were irrelevant. She came for knowledge, not socialization.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she added.

“Likewise, Chief Wilson. I’ve heard so many good things about you.”

“I don’t accept flattery well, Professor.”

“Please, call me Sylvia. The burden of Professorship can be onerous enough.”

Sylvia turned her chair around to face her visitor and wheeled herself to a small conference table adjacent to her desk. She invited the chief to sit. She poured water from a decanter into a glass. Wilson offered to help. She waved her off. She offered her water. Abby declined.

“I suppose it’s somewhat like being Chief of Police. Everyone expects you to have all the answers,” Sylvia opined.

Sylvia’s engaging demeanor disarmed Abby. Her self-effacement immediately put her at ease. She began by telling her why she was relegated to her wheelchair. It was the result of a skiing accident when she was twenty-six years old, soon after earning her Ph.D. “One pays a terrible price for youthful indiscretion,” she said.

They began by discussing mutual concerns such as drinking on campus that spilled onto the streets of West Warwick. She lamented the rowdy students who were impugning the good name of the college. Discipline was difficult to impose, as some of the miscreants’ parents were alumni who contributed mightily to the college. The chief replied that misbehavior occupied too much of her staff’s time.

At last, they got around to the reason for her visit. Wilson brought along many of the photographs of the crime scene and a detailed summary of what they knew up to that moment. Sylvia studied the photos, read the summary and leaned back in her wheelchair. She stared at the ceiling deep in thought, attempting to organize her thoughts before presenting her assessment of the crime. She opened her eyes and removed her glasses, placing them on her lap. She looked at the chief and said, “Rather gruesome.”

“Sylvia, it’s the worst thing I have ever witnessed. The reality is worse than the photos.”

After a moment, a moment she needed to erase the images in her mind, Wilson leaned forward and asked, “Were the people who did this insane?”

“Well, first you have to define sanity. I’m not sure I can do that anymore. It seems to me that anyone given the right circumstances can be provoked to do something horrible, even something like this.”

Professor Weisbrow began to expand on her thoughts that bordered on a lecture she might have delivered to her students in a classroom. She parsed the difference between impulse, anger and rage. She ascribed impulse to a boy asking a girl for a date an hour before a dance. The girl declines and the boy calls her a bitch. That is just immature behavior with no lasting emotional effect, no loss of self-esteem. Anger, she said, was a somewhat normal reaction to a circumstance where one’s self esteem is injured. She provided an example of a male student who calls a girl and asks for a date. His expectations are high because he has seen the girl many times and talked to her at length and she had been affable. The boy anticipates a positive response. When he is rejected he becomes angry. His self-esteem is injured.

The Chief interrupted to say, “If that was my son, I’d tell him to just get over it.”

“Ah, but that would be a normal reaction, a mature response.

She went on to expand on the hypothetical encounter. She described a situation in which the boy becomes persistent, writes unkind letters, and stalks her about campus.

“Then we have a problem,” Abby said.

“Exactly,” Sylvia responded.

“How does this relate to these murders?”

“It’s clear to anyone in forensics that this crime was personal. The strongest emotion, dare I say the fiercest emotion, is between two people who are lovers? No matter how happy two people may appear to be, there is always a love/hate relationship. Freud called it a death wish, but let’s not go there. When one lover’s self esteem is injured, that party is at first angry. That anger must be dissipated in some way. Men might punch a wall or kick the dog. They might go out and drink with their buddies and engage in a mutual bitching contest. Women, on the other hand, might buy an unnecessary piece of jewelry, or go on a shopping spree ‘to get even.’ If it is pent up, if it festers, if it boils to white heat, then it becomes like an overfilled dam. It bursts. And the flood of emotion is uncontrollable. We shrinks call it rage.”