“You’re making a mistake, Phelan.”
“It won’t be the first. Are you arresting me? If not, I’m out of here.”
I try some more to convince him to talk to me, but I get nowhere. This guy has been through this before and is not about to let himself get trapped. So I send him on his way, at the same time moving him to the top of a very short suspect list.
Once he’s gone, I dig in to everything we know about him, as contained in the file and in my notes.
The reason I questioned him back at the time of the Brookings killing was that his car was parked illegally near where the shooter was judged to have fired from. The car had gotten a parking ticket, so we knew for certain that it was there.
He claimed that his car was stolen and later recovered. It seemed like a bullshit story, even though he had notified his insurance company about the theft, but I apparently couldn’t nail him on it.
His lawyer is a local attorney named Andy Carpenter, who is known as something of a hotshot in Jersey legal circles. He’s had some major victories in high-profile cases and is not exactly worshipped by the cops he’s cross-examined.
I would have said that I’ve never met Carpenter, but according to my notes, I talked to him about Phelan back during the investigation. It was shortly after that conversation that I made the determination that Phelan was likely not responsible for the Brookings shooting.
I’ve got a sick feeling in my stomach that I might have made a mistake. If I did, Randowsky and an unknown third person are dead because of me.
With maybe more to follow.
“I am nothing if not patient,” the shooter thought.
In fact, it was even a source of pride, of professionalism. To rush, to preempt the natural flow, was to invite a problem, to open the door to a mistake. Better to follow the plan, to let everything unfold naturally, and to take advantage of the perfect moment. Breathe normally, be relaxed and comfortable.
Then fire.
You only get one shot at a target. The shooter knew that, and therefore knew that the circumstances needed to be just right. But that wasn’t really a problem because everything had been planned out, and missing was not an option.
The shooter felt that it reminded him of what they always said about lawyers, which was never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. In his world, he changed that to never shoot at a target you aren’t positive you will hit.
And sometimes the opportunity did not present itself, at least not in a completely satisfactory way. Better not to take the shot and wait for next time. There would be no harm in letting the victim live for another day, or two, or three.
Of course, with the note already sent, that would be slightly embarrassing. On the plus side it would sow more confusion, and the shooter smiled at the prospect.
But on this day the opportunity would come, his patience would be rewarded. Chuck Maglie’s day at his place of employment, the Marriott in Saddle Brook just off Route 80, had come to an end. Chuck was a bellman and, when called upon, doubled as a valet parking attendant.
He had been there for three years and was a valued employee, which meant he was reliable. He showed up for work every day and did what he was supposed to do. After all this time his personnel file did not include a single complaint from a hotel guest, which in the hotel world was remarkable.
It was a Tuesday, so not very busy. Not many people checked in or out on Tuesdays, so Chuck didn’t have that much to do. He didn’t like that because it also meant he earned very little in tips, but it did make for an easy day.
Chuck’s shift ended at six o’clock, as long as his replacement showed up. The guy’s name was Vinnie, and he could be counted on to be there on time. That wasn’t true of the last guy who had the job, but he had gotten canned and Vinnie was brought in.
In Chuck’s mind, Vinnie’s arrival hadn’t necessarily been a change for the better. Chuck didn’t mind working overtime; he had nowhere in particular to go and he could use the extra money.
Chuck lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Lyndhurst, and when his work ended all he generally did was go home, cook himself some dinner, and maybe go out to the corner bar for a drink. If that process started an hour or two later because he was needed at work, so be it.
When Vinnie arrived that night, Chuck brought him up to date on everything he needed to know. For example, he told Vinnie that the guy in 218 wanted his bags brought down at 6:30, and would need his car brought around as well. Then Chuck went out the back door, like he always did, because at the far end of the rear parking lot is where employees parked their cars.
Chuck was reaching for his keys when the single bullet hit him in the chest and sent him flying backwards into a Subaru Impreza.
This is not my first time at Charlie’s Sports Bar in Paterson.
I’m not really much of a sports bar kind of guy. I’m a big fan of the New York teams, mainly the Giants, Knicks, Mets, and Rangers, and they’re all on the television stations we get at home. Jessie’s a big fan as well—actually much more intense about it than I am, so we watch a lot together. Doing so gives our den sort of a sports bar feel, because she screams at the TV a lot.
But I’ve been to Charlie’s a couple of times and I like it. The food is right up my alley: terrific wings, burgers, and fries. So I wasn’t too upset when Pete Stanton told me to come by, that I could find Andy Carpenter here.
Apparently Pete and Andy hang out here quite a bit, evidence of an unlikely police officer–defense attorney friendship. And sure enough, when I arrive I see them sitting at a table with another guy I recognize as Vince Sanders, editor of the local newspaper.
I wasn’t counting on Sanders being here, and I have no intention of talking in front of him, but I’ll let the situation play out.
“Hey, here he is,” Pete says, when he sees me. “That evens it out. Two upstanding men of the law, and two dregs of society.”
I say hello to all three of them, though Sanders is able to pull off a handshake without taking his eyes off the TV showing the Mets game. It’s late in the season, and the Mets have already effectively been eliminated from postseason action, so I’m not sure why he’s so intense about it. Maybe he’s betting the game.
“What are you eating and drinking?” Pete asks. “Andy’s buying, so price is no object.”
I know that Carpenter is very wealthy. I think I heard that he had a big inheritance, and he’s certainly had some lucrative cases. “I’m not having anything,” I say. “I just want to talk to Andy.”
“Now that is refreshing,” Andy says. “What about?”
I know Pete already told him the purpose of my coming here, but apparently Andy wants to hear it from me.
So does Sanders. “Is this on the record?” he asks, ever the newspaperman. He asks the question while still staring at the television.
Andy points to a table across the room. “You are going to spend the next fifteen minutes over there.…”
Sanders interrupts. “No way. This is my table.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” Andy says. “The rest of my sentence was ‘or that is the last beer of yours that I am ever going to pay for.’”
“You can’t intimidate me,” Sanders says. “But just the fact that you tried pisses me off so much that I am going to sit over there.” With that, he picks up his beer and goes off to the table Andy had pointed to.
Andy points to Pete. “Now if I could only get rid of this guy that easily.” Then, “What’s on your mind?”
“Danny Phelan.”
“You mean the Danny Phelan you tried to browbeat into talking without his lawyer present this afternoon? That Danny Phelan? The one who paid his debt to society and wants to live without fear of police harassment? That Danny Phelan?”
“‘Browbeat’ is not the word I would use. I wouldn’t go with ‘harassment’ either.”
“Seems to fit,” he says. “In any event, we already had this conversation a couple of years ago.”
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p; “There have been more shootings. The hiatus seems to fit neatly with the time that Phelan was away.”
“I’ll tell you what I told you last time,” he says. “Danny is a lot of things; he’s not a murderer. The only wounds he causes are self-inflicted.”
I know from my notes that Carpenter took on Phelan as a client because his accountant, Sam Willis, is Phelan’s cousin. The representation was originally just to facilitate Phelan’s turning himself in on the drug charge, and hopefully to keep his sentence as short as possible.
“So bring him in and tell us where he was when the shootings took place,” I say. “Give us a reason not to suspect him.”
“Look, Danny Phelan screwed up a good part of his life. He took drugs, and then he sold them to pay for the ones he took. But he’s admitted it, and he came back and made good on it. He lost his family, or at least part of it, but he got his life back. He’s a smart guy, and he’s a good guy, and he is not a guy that gets off on hiding behind some rock or tree and shooting people. You can keep going after him, but you’re wasting your time.”
“Is that what you told me last time?”
I can see the look on his face as he realizes what happened. “Right. That amnesia thing. That must be a pain in the ass.”
“I manage.”
“Yeah,” Andy says. “That’s what I told you last time. He’ll cooperate, but I need to be there. I would just suggest you not waste your time; this is not your guy.”
Pete pretty much snorts up his beer when he hears this. “Doug, the guy is a defense attorney. Take everything he says with a grain of horseshit.”
My phone rings, and I see that it’s Nate calling. “Yeah?”
“Where are you?” Nate asks.
“About to head home.”
“That ain’t happening,” he says.
“Why not?”
“We got another one.”
I stand up, but before I leave I turn to Carpenter. “We’re going to need to know where your boy was tonight.”
The Marriott is one of a string of hotels lining Route 80.
Route 80 is an amazing road. You can get on it in Teaneck, not far from the George Washington Bridge, and drive all the way to San Francisco. You never have to leave the highway, unless of course you want to eat, or sleep, or go to the bathroom. That’s where these hotels come in.
Route 80 is the main reason these places are here, since it’s not as if cities like Hackensack and Paterson are tourist hotspots. They literally tower over the area, and are clean, comfortable, and self-contained, with gyms, pools, restaurants, and room service. If you want to be near New York without paying New York prices, they represent a decent alternative.
And tonight this particular hotel, the Saddle Brook Marriott, has something that they won’t feature on their website: a dead body and blood spattered all over the back entrance.
By the time we arrive the word has made its way to the Saddle Brook police that the state police are in charge. I’m sure they had no desire to resist the directive, and would be aware that they have no power to do so anyway. So basically they have just locked down the scene until our arrival.
The goal of the first arriving cops in this type of situation, which is usually brief, is similar to physicians …“first, do no harm.” They want to secure the scene, make sure the criminal event is concluded and there is no more danger, keep onlookers away, and insure no evidence is tampered with.
It’s not necessarily an easy job. For just one example, they don’t want to walk around and tromp on potential evidence in the area where the killing took place, but they do need to examine the victim in case he or she might still be alive.
The parking lot is crowded when we arrive, but a large area around the body has been cordoned off. An ambulance is already there, but there is no one to rush to the hospital. The coroner’s van will be more functional, but it has not arrived yet.
One media truck is here, no doubt soon to be joined by many friends. Since these shootings are taking place so close to New York City, it has become a huge story, and getting bigger all the time. Within minutes there will be a caravan of media trucks arriving, and a few minutes after that reporters will be breathlessly talking, with the hotel in the background over their shoulders.
Nate shows his identification to the local cop in charge, but there’s really not a lot for us to do until our forensics people arrive. I do tell the cop to instruct his people to take photographs of the onlookers; there is always a chance that the perpetrator hung around to watch the police react to his handiwork. It wouldn’t be the first time.
There’s unfortunately not much for us to see and certainly no surprises. The victim, who has been identified as a bellman named Chuck Maglie, has one noticeable wound from a bullet that entered his chest in the area of his heart.
We don’t need a coroner to tell us the cause of death, or whether Maglie died instantly. And we don’t need Sherlock Holmes to tell us that this is related to the other killings.
The hotel manager tells me that he has a man in his office named Anthony Young, who seems to have been the only witness to the shooting. Nate stays near the victim so that he can direct forensics when they arrive, and I head off to question Mr. Young.
Young is obviously shook up. He’s sitting alone in the manager’s office, leaning forward in his chair. He looks up when he sees me. “Is he dead? What am I asking … he’s got to be dead. Of course he’s dead.”
I don’t see any reason to lie, so I confirm the fatality. Then, “Where were you at the time of the shooting?”
“There were no parking spots near the main entrance in front, so I was driving around looking for one. I was checking into the hotel, so I figured if I found a spot close enough, I’d park and walk with my bag around to the front.
“As I was passing near the back door, I saw a guy come out in a bellman’s uniform. I thought maybe he was working and would take my bags, but that wasn’t going to work because I couldn’t find a space close enough.
“So I was going back to the front to leave my bag, check in, and then find a place to park. Just as I was going to turn, I saw the bellman guy fall backwards and go down. At first I thought he slipped or something, and then I figured maybe he had a heart attack. So I jumped out of the car to help him, and that’s when I saw the blood. God, it was awful.”
“Did you hear anything unusual?” I ask.
“You mean like a shot?”
“Anything.”
“No, I don’t think so. But I still had the window closed, and I listen to satellite radio.”
“Do you play the radio loud?”
“No, not really.” Then he gives a slight grin of embarrassment. “I listen to show tunes; nobody plays show tunes really loud.”
“You said he fell backwards. Can you describe that?”
He thinks for a moment. “He just took like half a step back; I’m not even sure if he moved his feet. It wasn’t far or anything; he wasn’t blown backwards like you see in the movies. It was like he was slightly jolted, almost pushed, but his legs went out from under him and he dropped.”
We’ll know for sure when forensics gets to do their work, but my guess is the impact of the bullet was lessened by the distance that it traveled. Add in the fact that the sound of the shot was not loud enough to be heard over the satellite radio, and it’s clear that our shooter was probably a good distance away, but not enough to make him miss.
Our shooter doesn’t miss.
I get Mr. Young’s contact information and tell him he’s free to go, but that we might be wanting to talk with him again. He says that he’s going to be driving for a while and then checking into a different hotel. I can’t say that I blame him; most people in his situation would get in the car and drive to San Francisco.
By the time I get back outside, the scene is being fully processed. Captain Bradley has arrived as well, not a great surprise considering the developing importance of the situation.
“Anything t
o go on?” Bradley asks me, referring to my interview.
“Not yet. Next mistake our boy makes will be the first.”
He nods. “A bellman. Hard to figure.”
I know what he means. The first two victims, at least the ones we know about, were a successful businessman and a prominent attorney. On some level it could have been an attack on elite society, but killing the bellman rebuts that theory.
“Still could be someone getting revenge on people he has a grudge against. We’ll check potential suspects as we get them against hotel records. Who the hell knows? Maybe he stayed here and the bellman mishandled his luggage.”
“Speaking of potential suspects, you got any?” Bradley asks.
“Maybe one.”
“Phelan? Nate tells me you’re back to thinking he’s a possibility.”
“That’s all he is right now. But he knows we’re looking right at him. If he did this today, he’s rubbing our noses in it.”
I got nothing out of the brief talk with Andy Carpenter.
It was disappointing. I wasn’t expecting anything incriminating; the guy is smart and he’s Phelan’s lawyer. What I was selfishly hoping for was some information that would actually exonerate Phelan, that would demonstrate that he is not our guy.
But that didn’t happen, and it didn’t happen back at the time of the Brookings shooting either. Phelan still remains a suspect, in fact, our only viable one, though that is a pretty low bar. But as long as there is a chance he is the killer, it remains possible that I let the killer go back then.
The implications of that to me, in light of subsequent events, are obvious and awful. I want to catch the killer, and I want to do it quickly, but I do not want his name to be Danny Phelan.
Our ballistics people identify the location from where the shot was fired. It’s a secluded area near the back of the parking lot; it slopes upward, which would have given an unobstructed path for the shot. They say that the shooter could easily have taken it from inside his car, and certainly there are no shell casings or other pieces of evidence that can help us.
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