by Ken Gross
It was not necessary for the mother to identify the child before the final autopsy, although Piering would defend it as “routine.” John Burke could have done it, but Piering wanted to keep the pressure on Alice Crimmins. She had angered him again. On this second day she was again immaculately groomed, and just seeing her did violence to Piering’s concept of grieving motherhood.
In the car back to Queens, Piering again hammered at her story. Is there anything you forgot to tell us? Are you certain you fell asleep at four? Did you accidentally kill Missy?
Alice Crimmins was tired. She had not slept. Piering was badgering her about things she thought were irrelevant. What about the search for Eddie? she wanted to know.
On the second day this search was more systematic and more organized. The police teams were equipped with neighborhood maps. A local officer accompanied each team to ensure that all areas were covered. Block by block, buildings were canvassed. A list was kept to check off which tenants had been questioned; they would return to find the ones on vacation or away.
When Alice returned to the apartment, there was a long string of callers. Johnny and Marilyn Bohan drove in from their home on Long Island. Emily Vernon, a friend of Alice’s mother, arrived exploding with energy. Why hadn’t a doctor been called? she asked Piering. This poor girl is exhausted on her feet.
Emily got in touch with a doctor, who telephoned a nearby drugstore to prescribe Valium for Alice. Emily picked up the prescription and supervised the reluctant Alice as she swallowed two.
“But what if someone calls about Eddie?” Alice protested.
“There are plenty of people here to answer the phone,” said Emily, cutting off the argument. “Just take the pills.”
While John Burke made arrangements for Missy’s funeral at St. Raymond’s in the Bronx, teams of detectives were rounding up anyone in the vicinity with a history of sex crimes.
Milton Helpern had been a doctor since 1926, and New York City’s Chief Medical Examiner since 1954. His list of honors and credentials ran several typewritten pages. Dr. Helpern was regarded as the nation’s foremost forensic pathologist. He would estimate that he had performed, supervised, or been present at twenty thousand autopsies.
The attending pathologist at Missy Crimmins’ autopsy, William Benenson, was sixty years old. Assisting Benenson was Michael Baden, a young physician in his first week on the staff of the Medical Examiner. Missy Crimmins lay on the sunken table latticed with drains to carry away the fluids from the probing autopsy. Dr. Benenson dictated into an overhanging microphone. The findings would be transcribed into the official autopsy report.
Alice Marie (Missy) Crimmins: Case No: Q65-2955.
Dr. Benenson ran through the routine. He made a visual observation of Missy and noted her normal development. He took sample swabs from her vagina and rectum to see if she had been sexually molested. The acid phosphatase tests would show bacteria, but no spermatazoa. There were tests of the major organs—brain, liver, kidney, heart, and stomach.
Samples were taken for chemical analysis—routinely. There was no evidence of drugs or brain damage. The contents of the stomach were sent to Alfred P. Stoholski, whose title was “microscopist-criminalist.”
SPECIMENS: Stomach contents of Alice Crimmins.
ANALYSES AND TESTS REQUESTED: Identification of all undigested food particles.
RESULT: Vegetables: Carrots, potatoes, green-leaved (such as spinach or parsley), lima or string beans.
Fruit: Having color and texture of peach.
Other: Macaroni, chewing gum. Also, many small dark-brown fruit seeds. . . .
Copies were sent to Dr. Helpern, Dr. Benenson, and Inspector Wolfgang Zanglein, who was chief of Queens Homicide.
It was not a particularly long or difficult autopsy. Dr. Helpern was not present for much of it. The tricky part would come later when the District Attorney and police were constructing the case against Alice Crimmins. There would be a time when Helpern recognized the rumblings of a staff revolt by his subordinates. He would take the case away from Dr. Benenson and testify in open court.
Excerpts from an interview with one of the doctors assisting in the autopsy of Missy Crimmins: “The question came up as to whether or not one could circumstantially implicate Mrs. Crimmins as far as the District Attorney’s office was concerned. Now, as an aside, our concern to run a Medical Examiner’s office properly and effectively and impartially can’t be, you know, whether or not a specific individual is the culprit. You see, our concerns aren’t to indict a given person. That’s up to the District Attorney’s office.”
The squabble never broke into open warfare. Benenson would retire quietly after Dr. Helpern exercised the privilege of his office and assumed the case. Other doctors in the Medical Examiner’s office became convinced that Dr. Helpern had lost his scientific detachment and became a part of the prosecution team.
“He feels very strongly that Crimmins was, you know, a nasty woman who was guilty,” said one of the doctors who assisted in the autopsy of Missy Crimmins. In time, the doctor said, as the prosecution groped for anything substantial for a courtroom test, the contents of the stomach became more and more important. If the stomach contained a lot of food, the authorities could fix the time of death:
If Alice Crimmins fed the children at about 7:00 p.m.;
If she claimed that she saw Missy alive at midnight;
If the stomach contained a great amount of food—say, for example, it was completely full—then Missy either could not have been alive at midnight or must have been fed again before being killed, since the digestive process would have been under way in five hours.
When it seemed clear how crucial the time factor was, others associated with the case said that Dr. Helpern became more certain about his recollection of the size of Missy’s stomach during the autopsy. None of the other participating doctors, not even Dr. Benenson, would have such a clear recollection. Dr. Helpern vividly recalled it being like “a full purse.” “It’s gotten bigger and bigger,” said one of the doctors who did not agree with Dr. Helpern.
But on July 15 Dr. Benenson concentrated on finding the immediate cause of death. The pinpoint hemorrhages in the mucous membranes in the throat and vocal chords indicated that pressure had been applied to the neck. In the absence of other injury, the result was almost self-evident: Missy Crimmins had been asphyxiated.
14
Nick Farina reported to the 107th Precinct early on July 15. He was not scheduled to come in until evening, but he showed up before noon.
The day he had spent in uniform patrolling the 102nd Precinct had been torture. He was convinced he wasn’t cut out for pounding a beat.
Farina couldn’t understand why no one had called him back after he revealed that he knew Alice Crimmins. The case was splashed all over the newspapers, radio, and television. He understood that jealousy and ambition could shut out detectives from a hot case, but he couldn’t believe that they would ignore him completely. Maybe they hadn’t understood him when he said he knew Alice Crimmins. Maybe they didn’t understand how well he knew her. On July 15 he was determined to make them understand.
Even the tin shield of a plainclothesman was a key to a golden life to Nick Farina. In the spring of 1964 he was in his late twenties, well over six feet tall and ruggedly handsome. He was two other things—single and a plainclothes detective in the 107th Squad. He had made a few good arrests and now there seemed to be no limit on his good fortune. He ate in the finest restaurants and couldn’t pick up the check. The choice of women for a handsome single detective was endless.
“One night we’re sitting around the squad and we get a squeal,” he recalled. “Right out at the desk. This guy is there. His car was in the lot near the precinct and someone broke in and took a briefcase. Not a big deal. But this guy is a buff, you know?”
Th
ere are always police buffs, who hover around policemen like moths. Some are attracted by the uniform, some by the mystique.
“So this guy, Pete Malone, has this big Caddy, and me and my partner go through the motions—filling out a report and all. I can see this guy is money. Juice. He has a dozen corporations, it turns out.”
Pete Malone spent a lot of time at the 107th Squad, and not necessarily to check on the burglary in his car. He just liked hanging around policemen. Malone never let a cop pay for a drink—and he and his detective friends spent many nights bent over the bars far up on Union Turnpike. Sometimes a girl would come over, sent by Malone like a complimentary drink. And there was an apartment in Whitestone, tastefully furnished, well equipped with liquor and the sort of casual food for quick entertainment. In the cabinets were crackers and cans of exotic spreads. No one lived in the apartment, which Malone kept for assignations. He also loaned it to special friends—like Nick Farina, who had his own key.
One night in the winter of 1964 Nick Farina was in the 107th Squad Room and there was a call from Pete Malone.
“Nick, you gotta come down here,” he said excitedly, mentioning a bar on 81st Street in Manhattan. “There’s a babe here you are not gonna believe. She’s got a body that’s out of this world.”
It was after midnight when Nick Farina squinted into the darkness of the 81st Street bar, looking for his friend.
“Nick, hey, Nick!” Pete Malone was half out of his chair, introducing Nick Farina around the table. “I want you to meet Tiger.”
“Hi,” said Farina, reaching across to shake hands with the woman. But he was watching the redhead half smiling at him from the side of the table.
“And this is Rusty.”
“That’s how I knew Alice Crimmins,” said Farina later. “I always knew her as Rusty. Her hair was flaming red. But it wasn’t her hair that drew you to her. She was striking. She was twenty-five years old then and lovely. I can’t tell you how lovely she was. Small, you know, but dynamite. She had a great laugh; a great personality.”
It was as if the homecoming queen and the football hero were being introduced at a fraternity smoker when Alice Crimmins met Nick Farina. Each was a recognized star in his or her own peculiar galaxy. Alice was the celebrity swinger who dangled paunchy executives in the string of week-night Long Island cheater bars. She would make guest appearances in Manhattan, but she preferred the suburban steak-house bars, where the competition was less spectacular. Manhattan was crowded with pretty women with uncomplicated lives. On Long Island most of the women were working on their second family cycle. In that setting Alice Crimmins bubbled like fresh champagne.
And Nick Farina was the macho king.
“So, we danced,” recalled Nick Farina.
They danced and there were promises in the music and the way that they moved together. “She said that she might have some legal problems sometime and maybe she should take my telephone number. And I took hers.”
In less than a week there was a message slip on Nick Farina’s desk that said “Rusty called.” Pleased, he phoned her back. “I think they had a prowler in the neighborhood or something,” said Farina much later. “Also she wanted to talk about her legal problems with her husband. So, naturally, I went over.”
The dates were erratic and surprisingly cold-blooded. Farina would show up and play with the kids for a while while Alice got ready. “She took a lot of time getting ready,” he recalled. Nick Farina liked Missy and Eddie. They were, he remembers, friendly and well-cared-for kids.
There would be elaborate instructions to the baby-sitter and then they would have a quiet dinner at one of the better restaurants in Queens. Alice would sip Scotch mists. She’d acquired the taste for Scotch mists with a wealthy contractor who had also taught her how to handle herself and order expensive dishes.
“It was never sneaky,” recalled Farina. “She was never afraid of being seen. She was never ashamed.”
After dinner Farina would take her to a motel or his friend’s apartment, where, in private, Alice was even more uninhibited.
“She had a pretty rigid sex life with her husband,” said Farina. “She had a really healthy sense of her body and herself. She wasn’t ashamed of any of it.”
But something did bother Farina. There was sex, but never any intimacy. She would make certain that she and her partner were both satisfied. But there were certain parts of Alice Crimmins that no one could ever touch.
During the later stages of the affair Nick Farina was dating a girl he would eventually marry. He continued to see Alice through the fall of 1964 and into the winter. But the relationship withered.
“Occasionally she’d call and we’d talk about her problems with her husband,” recalled Farina. “She was thinking about running away. She loved those kids.”
Farina found Sergeant Kurt Gruenthal in the furor of the 107th Squad Room. “Could I see you a second, Sarge?”
Gruenthal took Farina into the bathroom.
“Listen, Sarge, I tried to call you yesterday.”
“Yeah, I know, we were a little busy.”
Farina started to tell Gruenthal about his relationship with Alice Crimmins. “See, I thought that since I knew her so well, I could—”
Gruenthal held up his hand. “Wait here,” he told Farina.
Gruenthal came back with Jerry Piering, who held Alice Crimmins’ address book. On the facing-cover page were Farina’s name and the telephone number of the 107th Detective Squad. Gruenthal tore out the page and ripped it into little pieces, says Farina; then he flushed the pieces down the toilet in the adjoining bathroom.
“Now you have nothing to worry about,” Farina says Gruenthal told him.
But Farina continued to worry. “Look,” he said, “I’d like to tell McGuire about this. I mean, I don’t want him coming to me to tell me about it. I want to tell him. There’s no way I can keep this secret.”
The relationship would haunt Farina’s career. Despite his efforts to inform his superiors, he was thwarted. Later he would be flopped back to uniform for failure to report his connection with Alice. He would also come under suspicion by his friend and neighbor Jerry Piering. One day months later he would see Piering photographing him with a telescopic lens as he walked out of his house. The pictures would be used to show to potential witnesses.
“That bastard,” recalled Farina. “I would have posed if he asked me.”
15
“There is no need to tell anybody how we feel about this thing. We want anybody who has any idea whatever to help us. We will appreciate it. You know, we lost a daughter. We have a lot of hope we will find our son.”
—PUBLIC APPEAL BY EDMUND CRIMMONS
City Housing Authority police swept Pomonok Apartments, a thirty-five-building complex directly opposite Queens College on Kissena Boulevard. It was an incinerator-to-roof search and it, too, was futile. Assisted by Sanitation Department workers, police went to the city dump and sifted through 300,000 tons of garbage taken from that area of Queens. They found nothing of any value.
There were things they could have been looking for. Jerry Piering claims that in the garbage on the morning of July 14 he saw a package which had held frozen manicotti. Piering says he also saw a plate of leftover manicotti in the refrigerator. Alice Crimmins swore she had fed her children frozen veal.
There are techniques for determining who is telling the truth. If Piering had saved the manicotti package he claims he saw, it would have been admissible evidence. If he had made a notation in his notebook, the record would be admissible as evidence. But on July 14 perhaps the relevance of the manicotti did not strike Piering. After the autopsy report came in, listing “macaroni” in the contents of Missy’s stomach, the significance of the dispute became clear. If Piering had seen manicotti, that would be consistent with the autopsy report and one might conclude that Missy died before midnight. If Alice had fed her veal—and there was no mention of meat in the auto
psy—then Missy might have been fed again before she died. Or else she might already have digested the meat, thus throwing off the time factor in the autopsy report. Later Piering would have to rely on his memory to prove that Alice had fed the children manicotti. Neither side could muster support for the last meal.
John Reiersen was twenty-nine years old, and the co-owner of a German delicatessen at 72-40 Main Street. Alice Crimmins was one of his prized customers. The death of little Missy was a blow to Reiersen and his wife, who worked in the store. “Those kids were marvelous,” he would recall. “They had a proper upbringing. They were real good kids. You didn’t have to coax them or bribe them with a slice of salami. They behaved because they were taught the right way. You find very few kids around like that.”
The police, in retracing Alice’s steps, went to Reiersen, who told them that he remembered Mrs. Crimmins coming in. “I have a very distinct recollection,” he said. The detectives were skeptical and tried to break down Reiersen. At first it was the standard testing of a story that the police perform on every witness. Later it took on greater zeal. They suggested that they had better information than Reiersen’s. They dropped hints that they had absolutely incriminating evidence against Alice Crimmins—that his prized customer had made statements on tapes that would explode her version. The police told the story about the incriminating tapes to almost anyone who would listen. After it became clear that there were no incriminating tapes, they simply winked and said that there had been.
But it wasn’t the tapes story that made John Reiersen hesitate. It was an idea subtly planted by one detective.
“You know,” said the detective, “death could have been from poison.”
The power of that suggestion was impressive. If Missy had been poisoned, and if the last meal she had eaten had come from Reiersen’s food, then it could be concluded that Reiersen sold poisoned food. So Reiersen entertained some doubts. He would still “distinctly recall” that Alice had been in the store on July 13, but he could not remember what she had bought. He could never swear whether it was veal or manicotti. Enough doubt had been planted in Reiersen’s mind so that his testimony would be useless for a defense.