by Walter Marks
She handed me a note paper with the number on it.
She’s good.
"Thanks, Kim," I said. "You’ve really been a big help."
"No problem," she responded, "At least we made a start."
She used the W word.
CHAPTER 28
My call to Advocates for the Innocent was answered by an attorney, Laura Hecht, whose languid Southern drawl belied the fact that she was knowledgeable and dedicated.
After I laid out the Victor Janko situation, she wasn’t optimistic. First of all, she said, it was difficult to get a body exhumed, and second, even if the DNA under the victim’s fingernails wasn't Janko’s, that wouldn’t prove Victor was innocent. All it would prove was that she didn’t scratch Victor. You couldn’t overturn a conviction based on that.
"But I know who the killer is," I said. "The DNA will belong to Leo Hagopian."
"Same deal," she replied. "All it would prove was that he was scratched by the victim. Hagopian was the woman's boyfriend, right?”
“Ex-boyfriend, I believe.”
“Doesn’t matter. He knew her, so he could claim he saw her earlier in the day, and she scratched him — durin’ an argument, or whatever. It would be hard to prove otherwise. "
"So I have no case?"
"I can't see much of one," she replied. "You'd need Hagopian's DNA on the murder weapon. But even if..."
"Wait a minute," I said, interrupting her. "Hagopian’s blood is on the knife. Victor Janko slashed him with it, when he struggled with him after the murder."
"With his blood you’d definitely have somethin’," the lawyer said. “Then if we exhumed the body and the skin under the victim’s fingernails was his, you’d have powerful corroborating evidence."
"Sounds encouraging."
"But what I wanted to tell you," she said. "Is you’d have a problem obtainin’ Hagopian's DNA. See, you can't force someone to give a genetic sample just 'cause you think he did somethin’ wrong. It violates his constitutional rights — unlawful search and seizure. He'd simply refuse to submit to DNA testin’."
I sighed in frustration.
"This guy Hagopian," the lawyer said, "Is he by any chance a convict, or an ex-convict?"
"I don’t know. Possibly."
"'Cause New York State has a DNA database of all prisoners and parolees with violent felony convictions. So they may have his genetic profile."
"I'll look into it."
"But they only started doin' DNA testin' in '92," she cautioned me. "So if he was released before that, they'd have nothin'."
"I understand," I said.
"There's another issue. We don’t know where the murder weapon is. How long ago was this crime committed?"
"Fifteen years."
"That’s not real good," she said. "After conviction, the police usually hold evidence for a while, pendin’ appeal. But if there is none, eventually they get rid of it."
She paused for a moment. "There’s one hope, though. It was a high profile case, so the knife may still be stored in the property room at One Police Plaza. But the system’s kinda slipshod. Every so often, someone up there decides to do some house-cleanin', and they throw out a lot of stuff. I sure wouldn’t count on findin’ it."
"How do I check on that?"
"Why don't I do it," she said. "They know me. I’m always pesterin’ ‘em to dig up stuff. Every year I give the property clerk an extravagant Christmas present...cash money."
"I’d sure appreciate that," I said. "How long you think it'll take?"
“I’ll get right on it.”
When I tried to thank her she cut me off, saying "My secretary will take your contact numbers. Hold on, I’ll transfer you."
There were a few beeps, then her secretary, Max, got on the line and took down the info. “You have a fax number?”
“Yes,” I said. “But e-mail’s the best way...”
“Ms. Hecht prefers fax. She says she’s an analog person in a digital world.”
“I know the feeling.”
I called Kim during my lunch break and asked if she wouldn’t mind coming in early, because I needed her help. She said she’d come in at six.
I asked if she could access the database containing all men who'd been incarcerated in New York State. She said it was on the nurses’ station computer
When Kim arrived, she told the day nurse she’d take over for her. Nurse Rachit was delighted to go home early. "You’re a doll," she said.
"No problem."
Rachit turned to me. "Did you get your fax?"
"No."
"Oh," she said. "It came in late this afternoon, while you were in the middle of Group. I didn’t want to disturb you."
She went to the fax machine, picked up a two-page document and handed it to me. I saw the logo on the cover-sheet; AFTI — Advocates for the Innocent.
The fax read: You caught a break. Last year the NYPD decided to auction off evidence from famous murder cases to collectors of crime memorabilia. Apparently there’s a big market for this stuff — they sold such goodies as Son of Sam’s .44 caliber pistol, a black cape worn during a murder by Salvador "Capeman" Agron, the gasoline can used by Julio Gonzalez to incinerate 87 people at the Happy Land Social Club, and...the Baby Carriage Killer’s kitchen knife. The weapon is now in the hands of a collector, Mervyn Pratt of Bayside, Queens. I called Mr. Pratt, and he said he’d be happy to provide the knife if it’s needed for evidence. He hopes we can reopen the Janko case because it would jack up the value of the murder weapon. Whatta world, huh? I was concerned he might have cleaned up and polished the knife, but he assured me he didn’t, because the bloodstains made it a great conversation piece. Like I said, you got lucky. But remember, unless you’ve got Hagopian's DNA and can match it to what’s on the knife, you have no case.
Feel free to call if you have further questions.
— Laura Hecht.
I handed the fax to Kim, who read it and then went to her computer. As I watched, she whizzed through the sub-directories, navigating like an über-hacker. She brought up a list of inmates’ names. Leo Hagopian had indeed been sent up for violent crimes, to Elmira and Attica. But he was released before 1992, so there’d be no DNA sample on file.
His record contained a glowering mug shot, his broken nose giving him a thuggish appearance. He’d done time twice — two years for dealing amphetamines, assaulting a police officer, and weapons possession, and five years for breaking and entering, malicious wounding, and forcible rape (what other kind is there? Kim asked). It was noted he’d once boxed professionally as a cruiserweight, using the name Leo "The Lion" Hagopian. His probation officer was listed as Floyd W. Feeney, NYS Division of Parole at 314 West 40th Street in Manhattan.
"Can you print that out?"
"Sure," Kim said.
"I’ll call the parole office tomorrow. If this guy Feeney is still around, maybe he’ll know where Hagopian is."
"But even if you find out where he is," she asked. "What are you gonna do?"
"Well," I said in a determined voice. "There’s only one thing I can do — get a sample of his DNA."
CHAPTER 29
The next afternoon, I drove south on the Taconic State Parkway, making the two-hour trip to New York City.
Officer Floyd W. Feeney had been standoffish on the phone. He said Hagopian was no longer on probation but he might have an idea of his whereabouts. However, he wouldn’t tell me on the telephone — I’d have to come to his office in person with proper ID.
I made an appointment with Feeney for 5:30. Then I told Ben Caldwell I needed a couple of days in New York for personal reasons.
"I understand,” Ben said. “You’re going through a lot and it would be good to get away, sort things out."
He also said he’d found an applicant for my job, a guy from Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, so if I decided to quit at the end of these two weeks, it might work out okay. I said I wasn’t sure about anything at this point. Ben said neither was h
e.
As the Taconic merged into the Saw Mill River Parkway, I turned on my radio and knew I was getting close to Manhattan; the sports-talk station was going full blast, and the voice of Mike Francesa warmed my heart. I listened to the jokers who called in — "Vinnie from Queens", "Tarik" the Ali G sound-alike from Yonkers, and a bunch of first-time-caller-long-time-listeners, who held forth on the NBA salary cap, performance enhancing drugs, and whether bowling was a sport or not.
Now I was heading down the Henry Hudson Parkway, with its magnificent view across the river, of high, rugged, columnar cliffs — the New Jersey Palisades. Passing under the George Washington Bridge, to my left I saw the Deco towers of Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center, where I'd once spent my summer vacation as an undergrad intern, mostly cleaning bedpans.
Beyond the hospital, the racially mixed urban area of Washington Heights stretched east across Manhattan to the Harlem River, It was there, in the grim Dyckman Street housing project, where this whole scenario had begun — fifteen years ago.
As I swung onto the circular off-ramp at 79th Street, I saw an uplifting sight; my houseboat moored in the Boat Basin Marina to my right. I’d arranged with Ed Sorenson to sleep there. I was looking forward to it.
I drove north on West End Avenue, looking for what New Yorkers call “a spot”. Somebody pulled out at 81st, and I grabbed it. As I backed in, I reveled in the simple act of parallel parking. Vanderkill was all parking lots.
The red and white sign on a lamppost advised me I was good till 11 AM.
Getting out of my air-conditioned Checker, the blast of 90 degree heat felt like a sauna. It was good to experience again the hothouse swelter of a New York summer.
I walked over to Broadway and caught the subway at 79th Street. It rumbled down to Times Square in five quick stops.
I rode up the sleek chrome and steel escalator and emerged at Broadway and 42nd Street. I walked west on the sanitized, prettified main stem. Gone were the adult book stores, porno movie houses, S&M paraphernalia boutiques, and head shops of the past. Now mothers with children in tow, and hordes of nicely dressed tourists strolled the street — once the turf of hookers, transvestites, street people, and drug dealers. I passed the restored New Amsterdam Theatre, now leased to Disney Theatricals for 99 years; home to a parade of musicals like “The Lion King”, “Mary Poppins”, “Aladdin”, and other G-rated fare. I remembered renting a DVD of Scorsese’s 1976 “Taxi Driver” and watching Travis Bickle drive past that very same marquee, when it proclaimed “Swedish Marriage Manual XXX” and next door "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" on a double bill with "Cycle Sluts".
Walking past Madame Tussaud’s I saw three sample wax figures in the window. I’d once visited the Tussaud museum in London, and behind its front glass stood Winston Churchill, Lord Laurence Olivier, and Mother Teresa. Here they featured Arnold Schwarzenegger, Anderson Cooper, and Lady Gaga.
I turned the corner at Eighth Ave and walked downtown. My watch said 5:05 so I had some time to kill. I passed an electronic gizmo store. In the window was a Memo Q mini voice recorder w/ 20 hour battery, and a sign saying, "Secretly record any conversation." Immediately I saw how Victor could get the goods on Stevie Karp — if he could record Karp's sexually coercive statements, we’d be able to nail the guard. I went in and bought the device.
Continuing down Eighth, the scent of fresh ground coffee beans lured me into a Starbucks, another thing I missed up in Vanderkill. I’d tried the local coffee shop “Perc’s”, but it was very Maxwell House.
I ordered a latte, made with skim milk because I was watching my weight. And a slab of maple-frosted raisin pound cake, because I wasn’t watching it all that closely.
Sitting at a table, I unwrapped the voice recorder. It weighed 1.3 oz. and was voice activated. Victor could slip it into his jumpsuit pocket and it would turn on when the guard spoke to him. Karp’s ass would be grass.
I put it in my jacket pocket.
After my coffee break, I walked down to Fortieth Street. Looking east I saw a four-story, dirty white brick building with a New York State flag drooping from a flagpole in front. It had to be the Parole Office.
The waiting room was filled with grim, scruffy people sitting on plastic chrome-legged chairs. They were all men, except for one woman who held a squalling infant. The desk clerk and I were the only white folks in the room.
At the desk I gave my name, and said I was there to see Floyd Feeney.
"Please take a seat till your name is called," the cop said.
"He’s expecting me. And I’m not a..."
"Please take a seat till your name is called."
The guy was stuck on automatic pilot, so I sat down. Every so often a side door opened, and a police-type called out a name. A parolee got up, trudged over to the door and was ushered inside.
I noticed a large walnut board hanging on the front wall. Mounted on it were bronze embossed plaques with the names and likenesses of men wearing police hats. Above them, in bold letters, were the words, "Parole Officers Who Died Heroically in The Line Of Duty".
Forty-five minutes later Floyd Feeney came out and called, "David Rothberg." Feeney looked more like a movie star than a parole officer. He bore a strong resemblance to George Clooney, and you got the feeling he knew that.
He brought me into his office. On the wall was a large calendar, displaying the days of July, with Feeney’s appointments scribbled over the dates. It featured a color photo of Miss July, sitting in a beach-chair reading a newspaper, topless. There was a quotation from the nubile, busty gal, "I’m keeping abreast of recent developments."
"So, what can I do for you, Dave?"
I pulled out my Vanderkill ID card and handed it to Feeney, who gave it a cursory look and slid it back to me.
"You’re the one who's trying to locate Hagopian?"
"Yes."
"I’m not sure I can help you."
"You’re not sure?"
"Leo doesn’t have to report to me anymore. He’s been off probation for a couple years now."
"But on the phone you said you might know his whereabouts."
"That’s right," he said. "I might." He opened a desk drawer and took out an eight-by-ten framed photograph,
"Are you familiar with the Police Ath-a-letic League?" he asked.
"Sure."
"I’m very active in the Police Ath-a-letic League," Feeney said, handing me the photo. "P.A.L. That’s what I am...a pal. Here’s a picture of my guys, taken in spring training."
It was a team photo of ten-year-old baseball players. Their uniforms indicated they were the "Sound View Bombers."
"I sponsor those kids," Feeney said. "Right now we're raising money for new uniforms."
"Looks like they’ve already got pretty nice uniforms."
"Those are home uniforms," Feeney explained patiently. "They need away uniforms. I’m looking for three hundred dollars."
"Well, I’ll be glad to help out."
"Like I said, I'm lookin' for three hundred dollars."
"I don’t think..."
"Dave, Dave," he pleaded, "It would really help these kids. Plus, it would really help me...to remember about Leo Hagopian."
The prick is shaking me down.
"C’mon, Dave...be a pal," Feeney said in a cajoling voice.
"All right," I said. "Can I write you a check?"
"Cash."
I took out my money clip. "All I've got is two hundred and change."
"Well, that'll have to do," he said, sticking out his hand. "You can keep the singles." I paid him and he shoved the bills in his pocket.
For a few moments, the parole officer said nothing. Then it hit me — I might not get anything for my money.
The cop was obviously getting a kick out of my anxious expression. It pissed me off.
“Cut the crap, Feeney,” I said. “Tell me what I just paid for.”
“You think I’m jerkin’ you around?”
“Yeah. But I also know you’re gonna t
ell me, because you’re a stand-up guy.”
“What if I don’t?” he said, toying with me.
I reached in my bag and pulled out the voice recorder. It wasn’t running, but I waved it at him.
“Voice activated.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’ve said enough.”
“I could confiscate it.”
“You do and I’ll file charges, which’ll cause an investigation, which’ll expose the corrupt underbelly of your department, which’ll mean your ass.”
"Hey. Lighten up, Dave," he said. "You’re a pal now, and I take care of my pals."
“Glad to hear it.”
"Here’s the story," Feeney said. "I got Hagopian a job a few years ago. I do that for some of my guys, y’know try to give ‘em a leg up, keep ‘em on the straight and narrow."
Yeah, for a nice, hefty kickback from their salaries.
"He’s working as bouncer in a titty-bar called 'The Play Pen,'" Feeney went on. "No wait...I forgot...they changed the name. Now they call it ‘The Sixty-Forty Club’."
"Sixty-Forty?"
"It’s a dig at the law that says sixty percent of a sex-related business has to be used for non-sex-related purposes. Strip joints now have regular bar and grill operations in the front, and the forty percent in the back is where all the tits ‘n’ ass is."
"Where’s this place?"
"Down on 33rd Street," Feeney replied. “Right off the West Side Highway."
"That’s near the Javits Center, right?”
"Yeah," Feeney said. "Let’s see, this is Thursday. You can find him there between eight and four in the morning."
"Thanks," I said, getting up to leave.
"Word of advice," Feeney said. "I wouldn’t fuck with Hagopian. He’s addicted to speed...and also to pounding the shit outta people."
"Appreciate the warning," I said.
"Always glad to help out a pal," Feeney said, giving me a big grin. I noted with satisfaction that Parole Officer Feeney didn’t look exactly like George Clooney. He had brown teeth.