Never Enough (17 page)

She had brought a rug into the bedroom from the living room and had rolled her husband’s body up inside it. She had covered each end of the carpet with black plastic garbage bags and secured the ends with adhesive tape. She had sealed the entire roll with more adhesive tape. She had wrapped more polyethylene sheeting around it and had taped that shut. She had tied four cushions to the outside of the carpet.

On the third day, she had dragged it into the living room. And then she had called the workmen to take it away.

Investigators who opened the packing cartons that had been sent to the storeroom with the body found them filled with blood-soaked sheets and towels and other bloody debris. At the bottom of one, they found a broken lead statuette. A thick coating of dried blood covered its base. Alongside were the broken figurines of two little girls. Bent metal screws that had attached the figurines to the base indicated that they’d been broken from it forcefully, as would have occurred if Nancy had used the figurines as a handle while she’d swung the statuette down at the head of her immobile husband, shattering his skull five times with the heavy lead base.

When he returned to Ruttonjee at 9:00 a.m., Ira spoke to a police officer who said that Nancy would shortly be transferred to Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Kowloon, which had a “custodial facility.” He found both a representative of the United States consulate and a young lawyer from the Hong Kong firm of Mallesons Stephen Jaques standing at the end of Nancy’s bed.

The woman from the consulate said she would be available to answer any questions that might arise but that U.S. officials would have no direct involvement in the case. The lawyer told Ira that Mallesons had been contacted by Skadden, Arps and that a Mallesons partner named Simon Clarke was prepared to act as Nancy’s solicitor and would meet them at Queen Elizabeth Hospital.

Nancy herself was not speaking. She remained flat on her back, her eyes wide open, her face devoid of expression. Ira said good morning. She did not respond. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back.

As they left the ward for the trip to Queen Elizabeth at noon, Ira was almost swept off his feet by a clamoring horde of cameramen and photographers. The crush of press was even worse than it had been outside the emergency room. The attendant pushing Nancy’s wheelchair followed a phalanx of uniformed police to the elevator as Ira scrambled to stay close behind.

All day Friday, Hong Kong police evidence technicians combed through the bedroom in which Rob had died. They found bloodstains on walls, heavier bloodstains on the bed, bloodstains on the headboard of the bed, and more bloodstains on various pieces of furniture and spattered across the screen of the television set. The heaviest staining was on a section of carpet at the foot of the bed. It appeared that someone had attempted to conceal this by covering it with a new rug.

The police also noted that the portion of bedspread that had hung down from the footboard of the bed had been sheared off and was not in the bedroom. Given its proximity to the heavy staining on the carpet, police concluded that when they found that portion of the bedspread they’d find that it, too, was heavily stained.

There were no smears of blood on the walls, as there would have been if a bleeding man had been standing up and moving as he fought for his life. No blood spatters were found more than four feet above the floor, indicating the victim had been lying down when he was struck. There were no spatters of blood on the ceiling, indicating that the assailant had used not a long weapon such as a golf club, but a short, heavy weapon, such as a lead statuette.

The Sydney-based law firm of Mallesons Stephen Jaques was growing rapidly into one of the largest and most respected in Hong Kong. As a full partner, Simon Clarke had just cause to believe himself to be among the more sought-after of the territory’s five thousand solicitors. He was a chipper, cordial thirty-nine-year-old Australian who’d been in Hong Kong since 1994, first with Jewkes Chan and then Kwok & Yih before Mallesons. He specialized in representing multinational corporations seeking to assure themselves and others that none of their business practices, no matter how unfavorably construed, would be seen as having drifted across the fine line that separated innocent avarice from white-collar crime.

Because he had no experience with homicide, Clarke quickly obtained the services of someone who did. In the British legal system, which by and large remained in force in Hong Kong, the client hired a solicitor, who could do everything except try a case, and the solicitor hired a barrister, who represented the client at trial. Even before meeting Nancy, Clarke had contacted Alexander King, a highly regarded forty-eight-year-old barrister who’d worked as a criminal defense lawyer in England, a Crown prosecutor in New Zealand, and who’d been doing criminal trial and appeal work in Hong Kong since 1986.

The two attorneys were waiting in a conference room off the lobby of Queen Elizabeth Hospital when Ira returned to see Nancy early Friday evening. Ira wrote a check for twenty thousand dollars to get the ball rolling. It was the first of many such checks to Mallesons, none of them for a smaller amount.

Nancy was wheeled into the room. Except for her tremors, she seemed frozen into the chair. Her gaze was blank. She did not speak. Ira explained about her emotional condition. Clarke stood and stepped toward her.

“Are you able to understand me?” he said. “Blink if you can.”

Nancy blinked.

He explained who he and Alexander King were and why they were there. Then he asked, “Do I have your full attention?”

Nancy blinked.

“All right: listen very carefully and remember this. Don’t talk to anybody. I repeat: do—not—talk—to—
anybody
. Don’t talk to the police. Don’t talk to any doctors or nurses. Don’t talk to any psychiatrists or psychologists. From this moment forward I do not want you to talk to anyone in the world—including your father—unless I personally give you permission. Don’t forget that. Nothing could be more important. Blink if you understand.”

Nancy blinked.

Simon Clarke turned to Ira. “Do
not
ask her what happened,” he said. “Do
not
ask her what she did. She has already told you what she’s told you. Leave it at that. And tell everyone you talk to the same thing: do not ask Nancy any questions. From now on, only I ask the questions.”

Ira went upstairs with Nancy to her room, which was really a cell. There were bars on three sides. A police matron sat at a desk just outside the door. Among her tasks was to accompany Nancy to the bathroom when necessary. A small metal nightstand and a narrow cot with a mattress no thicker than Ira’s thumb were the only pieces of furniture in the room. Now Ira knew what “custodial facility” meant.

Nancy lay rigid, trembling and staring into space. Ira sat at the edge of her bed.

“I don’t know if you can understand me, sweetie,” he said. “But please don’t kill yourself. That would make everything worse. Remember how much the children need you. We’re all doing everything we can to help you. So please don’t do anything to harm yourself.”

She squeezed Ira’s hand when he said that. But she said nothing, not a word.

Connie realized that she hadn’t packed enough clothes for Isabel and Zoe. She walked to the apartment from the hotel on Friday evening, prepared to ask the police officer guarding the door if she could be permitted inside—under supervision—to gather some clothing.

But there was no police officer guarding the door. Connie used her key to open it. There were no police inside the apartment and no tape or signs or other indications that any of the rooms were off-limits. Connie went into the girls’ bedroom and opened the clothes closet.

The stench hit her hard. It forced her backward, hands covering her mouth and nose. She flipped the light switch outside the closet door. She saw two black plastic garbage bags on a shelf. Those bags had never been there before. And whatever was inside them was producing the stench.

She ran back to the hotel and called the police. Two officers arrived within the hour. They took the two garbage bags out of the closet. One of the officers opened a bag to look inside. He immediately dropped it and raced to the bathroom to vomit.

The bags were filled with blood-soaked towels, pillows, and other matter, possibly organic.

Ira woke up worried at 6:00 a.m. on Saturday. He knew, of course, that he’d be worried—or worse—for the rest of his life. But he’d been awakened by a specific, immediate worry that was now flitting about just below the level of his consciousness.

He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Then he remembered:
the newspaper
. Parkview hung the new day’s edition of the
South China Morning Post
on the doorknob of every occupied room in the hotel. Given Friday’s press frenzies, Ira was sure there would be a front-page headline and story about Rob’s death and Nancy’s arrest. He didn’t want the children to see that story. He walked down the hall to take the newspaper off the doorknob outside their suite.

He’d been right:

TOP US BANKER BLUDGEONED TO DEATH

IRA KNEW THE TIME HAD COME TO TELL THE CHILDREN.
He brought Isabel, the oldest, to his room after breakfast. He’d spent a lot of time on the phone with his second wife, whose psychological insights he valued. She’d given him what she called a “script” containing precise language for him to use when breaking the news. His son, Ryan, the medical student, would be arriving at midday. He and Ira had agreed that given Ryan’s training in child psychology it would be better for him to tell Zoe, six, and Ethan, four. He could stay with them after he told them to gauge their reactions and he could offer further solace and reassurance when needed. But nine-year-old Isabel was all too likely to overhear a stray phrase or to stumble inadvertently upon television news coverage, no matter how assiduous Connie was in shielding the children from all media. And Isabel would start asking questions. The answers, carelessly worded, could worsen the unavoidable trauma.

“I need to tell you something, Isabel,” Ira began. “Your mommy and daddy had an argument—a fight, the way people sometimes have fights—and Daddy did not survive.”

Did not survive
. That was the key phrase, Ira’s second wife had told him.

“Your daddy did not survive, and Mommy is very sick. She’s in the hospital to get better and you won’t be able to see her for a very long time. But you’re safe. Nothing will happen to you or Zoe or Ethan. All the people in the family who love you are going to take very, very good care of you. You’ll always be safe.”

“Is Daddy dead?” Isabel asked.

“Yes, he is,” Ira answered.

Her eyes filled with tears and she was silent for a moment.

“Uncle Ryan will be here soon and he’ll tell Zoe and Ethan all about this, so you don’t have to worry about them. You have no responsibility for telling them. Do you understand that?”

“Yes. Can I go back to my room now?”

Zoe and Ethan were jumping on the beds when they got there. Isabel ran in and joined them, giggling and shouting. To judge from outward appearances, it was as if Ira had said nothing at all.

Despite his arduous journey from Cincinnati, Ryan went straight to the Parkview Hotel on Saturday afternoon and plunged into childcare alongside Connie. At what seemed the proper moment, he sat down with Zoe and Ethan and carefully and lovingly told them what they needed to know, emphasizing, as Ira had, that they were safe and loved and would always be safe and surrounded by people who would love them and take care of them.

As a hard rain fell, the rest of the Kissel family arrived in Hong Kong on Saturday afternoon. Bill, Andrew and Hayley, and Jane and Richard had all flown to Tokyo from their different points of origin. After gathering there, they’d flown to Hong Kong together. Bill was heavily sedated, and Andrew was even edgier than usual, perhaps suffering from abrupt cocaine withdrawal. Bill had booked rooms for them all at the five-star JW Marriott in Pacific Place, in the Admiralty section of Central. But as soon as they’d dropped off their luggage and freshened up after the four-and-a-half-hour flight, they took taxis to the Parkview Hotel to see the children. In keeping with family custom, they brought plenty of presents.

They’d all been talking about the children. What should they do with the children? Clearly, they’d have to bring them back to the United States. But where should the children live? Who should have custody? Bill had strong feelings about the matter and, as usual, he was determined to get his way. Upon their arrival, he booked a conference room at the Marriott for a meeting the next day at which the Kissels and the Keeshins would discuss the question of the children. Or—as Bill saw it—a meeting at which he would explain to Ira and his son the way things were going to be.

Chaos ensued upon the Kissels’ arrival at the Parkview Hotel. The children tore the wrapping paper off their presents. Bill began roughhousing with Ethan on the floor. The girls resumed jumping on the beds. Andrew took one, then the other, and twirled them around at top speed, laughing as they screamed. Bill produced even more presents. The children shrieked louder. “Let’s make this a special time!” Andrew shouted, clapping his hands. “Let’s have a celebration!”

Ryan was dumbfounded. What was the message this kind of behavior was sending these poor kids?
Daddy’s dead so we get lots of new presents, hurray!

On Sunday morning, Ryan paid his first visit to Nancy. She was lying on a cot pushed against the back wall of the cell. Her hair was a mess, something Ryan had never thought he’d see. When she realized he was there, she rose slowly from the cot. She moved feebly toward him, hunched in apparent pain. Her breathing was shallow. Her hospital-issue slippers scraped across the concrete floor. They didn’t say much. Ryan followed the instruction to not ask her what happened. And Nancy didn’t seem to want to talk. She did ask about the children. Ryan told her they were fine.

Later, he would recall the ten minutes spent with Nancy as the most awkward of his life. “There was nothing to say. Nothing.”

As he was leaving, Nancy suddenly remarked, “Someone in Vermont is going to be very worried about me.”

Rain was still falling at midday Sunday when Ira and Ryan arrived at the Marriott to meet with the Kissels. They were wearing whatever clean clothes they’d been able to find: jeans and T-shirt for Ryan, polo shirt and wrinkled slacks for Ira. The Kissels walked into the conference room dressed as if for a Goldman Sachs board meeting. They also brought a lawyer with them.

Ira walked up to Bill, put his arms around him and hugged him. Bill stood stiffly, his face reddening. He was not a huggable man in the best of times, and he clearly wanted no part of an embrace from the father of the woman who’d killed his son.

As the lawyer began to introduce himself, Ira held up a hand. “We’ve all had a great loss,” he said. “And I think this is a family matter. With all respect, we don’t need lawyers here. I’m sure we can work this out ourselves.”

Bill and Andrew huddled with the lawyer. “All right,” Andrew said. “We’ll try it your way.” The lawyer left.

The meeting lasted for an hour and a half and was conducted in businesslike fashion. So much so that it seemed to Ryan as if they were discussing a corporate takeover, not the lives of Isabel, Zoe, and Ethan, three shell-shocked children who didn’t know why they’d lost their father and didn’t know when they’d see their mother and who didn’t know what continent they’d be on by the end of the week.

The continent was about the only thing they agreed on. Nancy had written a note to Simon Clarke saying that she wanted Ira to have custody of the children. Clarke had passed the note on to Ira. Producing it, Ira said he thought that the mother’s wishes should be respected, despite the extraordinary circumstances. Bill’s face grew so red and veins pulsed so hard in his temples that more than one person at the table feared that he was about to suffer either a heart attack or a stroke.

Ira said he was prepared to move the children into the house he and his wife shared in Winnetka and get them into local schools as soon as possible. He said they could be ready to leave within a week. Bill reacted as if Ira had said he was planning to sell the children into white slavery.

Bill wanted the children to go to Andrew and Hayley. As Rob’s brother, Bill said, Andrew had a stronger claim on the children than did the father of the evil woman who had killed him. In addition, Bill said, Andrew and Hayley were themselves wealthy enough so that the children would not suffer any loss of lifestyle. Although Ira was certainly well off, he was not in the multi-multimillionaire league of Andrew, whose real estate empire now stretched from Jersey City to New Haven.

Andrew and Hayley lived in Greenwich, not in some suburb of Chicago. Bill conceded that Winnetka did seem to have adequate schools and a per capita income he approved of, but it was still a part of the wasteland that he considered the Midwest to be, and he was goddamned if he was going to have his grandchildren raised in a wasteland. With Andrew and Hayley, the children would be closer to Stratton Mountain. And Andrew and Hayley had two daughters of their own who were about the same ages as Isabel and Zoe.

What Bill did not say, but what was by far the most important item on his unspoken agenda, was that Andrew and Hayley would protect the children from any attempt by Ira to portray their mother as anything other than a crazed and vicious murderess.

Likewise, Ira’s strongest argument was one he couldn’t make: he truly loved the children, while Andrew, he strongly suspected, was an alcoholic cokehead who loved no one but himself.

Meanwhile, Andrew had his own reasons for wanting custody: the children came with a $20 million trust fund attached. Assuming Nancy was convicted of Rob’s murder—and it seemed obvious to Andrew that she would be—the children would be beneficiaries of Rob’s estate. In the meantime, whoever had custody could bill the estate for all expenses involved in caring for them. This struck Andrew as an extraordinary opportunity.

The meeting ended disagreeably, with no resolution. First thing Monday morning, Bill went to Rob’s Merrill Lynch office, where he was permitted to take the children’s passports from Rob’s desk drawer. Without their passports, Ira couldn’t take them anywhere.

The same morning, Simon Clarke and Ryan went to the Parkview apartment to gather items Nancy said she wanted. Most important, she said, were her laptop and her jewelry. Clarke was amazed that the police were not controlling access to the apartment. Anyone with a key could get inside. One of Nancy’s Parkview friends had a key and had brought several other Parkview wives for a tour of the crime scene the day before. He was even more amazed that the police had not seized Nancy’s laptop. Didn’t they care what she’d been saying in her e-mails? Didn’t they care who she’d been e-mailing? How about Web sites she’d visited? What about searches? Suppose she’d been keeping a diary on her laptop. Even if it contained nothing incriminating, it would have offered insight into her state of mind in the days and weeks leading up to the killing. Now the police would never know. He sensed they didn’t care. No doubt they considered the case open and shut.

As soon as Ryan opened the door to the apartment, he wished he hadn’t. A stink of rot still filled the air. Even five days after Rob’s body had been moved, the stench lingered. Nonetheless, the two of them walked from room to room, gathering as many of the items on Nancy’s list as they could find. They saved the bedroom—where the smell was strongest—for last.

Three dressers stood against a wall on the left side of the bedroom. Two tall ones at either end were separated by a wide, shorter dresser in the middle. Clarke spotted a baseball bat on the floor behind the wide dresser. He got down on his hands and knees and reached under the dresser to retrieve it.

“I’m surprised the police didn’t take this,” he said. He put it, handle end up, in a shopping bag filled with other items from Nancy’s list.

Nancy was scheduled to appear in Eastern Magistrates’ Court on Monday, November 10, to offer a plea in response to the charge of murder. But she began to shake and she fell mute and she was too weak even to get into her wheelchair in the hospital, so Alexander King informed the magistrate that she was “medically unfit” and unable to appear. Her arraignment was rescheduled for Friday.

The police searched Rob’s office and his Porsche. In the car, they found life insurance policies with a value of $6.75 million, naming Nancy as beneficiary. In his office, they found the surveillance reports and videos that Frank Shea had sent. They also found several love letters to Nancy from Michael Del Priore in a drawer.

Inspector See began to consider the question of motive.

Police also viewed pictures from the Parkview security department’s closed-circuit television cameras. One set showed Nancy Kissel getting out of her Mercedes in the parking lot the previous Wednesday and hoisting a six-foot-long green carpet on her shoulder and carrying it with no apparent difficulty into the lobby of tower 17. It appeared to be the same rug that had been laid over the massively bloodstained section of carpet the police had found at the foot of the bed. It was the second rug she had carried into the apartment in two days. See began to consider the question of how badly hurt Nancy had really been by the ferocious beating she’d said she’d suffered at the hands of her husband.

The police also did a further search of the apartment. On Wednesday, November 12, they found a handbag of Nancy’s tucked away behind a cushion. Inside were bottles of five different prescription medications. They took the bottles to their laboratory for analysis. When the results came back, See compared them to the toxicology report he’d just received that disclosed the presence of five different hypnotic and sedative drugs in Robert Kissel’s stomach. The results matched. The drugs in Rob’s stomach were the same as those contained in five of the six prescription bottles obtained by Nancy in the weeks leading up to Rob’s death.

See began to consider the question of means. He’d been puzzled by Rob’s lack of resistance to Nancy’s attack. Now he saw a possible answer: only hours before he was killed, Rob had ingested five different prescription drugs, any one of which, in sufficient dose, could have rendered him unconscious. But why would he do that? Why would he have taken the five sedatives that his wife had obtained by prescription? Inspector See didn’t know, but he was confident that he’d find out. All in the fullness of time.

Late on the afternoon of Wednesday, November 12, the police said they had completed their work at the apartment. Connie and Min spent the day cleaning it. The next day, the children returned. The only rule was that they were not allowed to go into the master bedroom. That door stayed closed. None of the children asked why.