In spring, her compulsion to bake having waned, Mildred had begun to plant roses, more roses, hundreds of roses, digging feverishly into the soil around her house, as if somehow, by sheer dint of spade work, she could force it to yield up to her that which she wanted so desperately—those whom it had forever claimed.
In summer, she had started to swim. Each evening, having completed her labor in the garden, she would place stereo speakers in her living room windows, facing outward, and fill the night air with the music of Chopin, Debussy, Schumann, Mozart, Beethoven and then immerse herself in the pool that had been built for Colette and the children.
'The passion and pain of the old masters," she wrote in a journal, "unleashing my own inner turmoil. Swimming in the night, up and down, up and down, for hours, the pool filled with music, until finally exhausted enough to go toN sleep."
Her husband, as if sleepwalking, had eventually returned to work. Each day was a void, however, which would end only in a new night of sorrow. The only activity which energized him was his battle to clear his son-in-law's name. The only emotion which fueled him was rage—rage now not only against the nameless, faceless, vanished killers, but against the obdurate and merciless military bureaucracy which, with its false and sadistic accusation, seemed determined to compound the original tragedy.
Occasionally, Freddy Kassab would have a minor, tactical
disagreement with Jeffrey MacDonald. If they offered him a lie detector test, Freddy wondered, why not take it? If they wanted hair samples, why not give them?
MacDonald, however, or occasionally his lawyer, Bernie Segal, would at such times remind Kassab that matters had passed beyond the point where cooperation with the investigators could be of value. The Army no longer had any interest in solving the crime: its only goal was to make the charge against MacDonald stick. It was on that—not on the arrest of the four intruders—that promotions were riding. The Army had committed itself: its goal was to destroy Jeffrey MacDonald. Under such circumstances, both Segal and MacDonald insisted, you gave them nothing. You fought them, with tenacity and savagery, on every point. This was war.
Kassab understood about war. He had lost a wife and child to one, long ago. Now, having lost also the last family that he would ever have, he was not about to interfere in Segal's attempt to win dismissal of the charges against MacDonald.
What did frustrate him, however, was his lack of knowledge. Given MacDonald's refusal ever to describe the events of February 17, and given the Army?s decision to bar the public from the Article 32 hearing, Kassab's only sources of information were the occasional newspaper stories based on briefings given to the press by Bernie Segal, or the phone calls from MacDonald in which he would gleefully describe the defense's uncovering of the latest example of the CID's negligence and ineptitude.
It was not until the Newsday interview appeared in late July that the Kassabs received their first account of what had actually happened to Colette, Kimberly, and Kristen. And it was vaguely disturbing to them that MacDonald had been so ready to share with a newspaper reporter those intimate and anguishing details which he had withheld from all others for so long, but the primary effect of the information contained in the Newsday story was to whet the Kassabs' appetite for more. The details of the slaughter provided only the coldest, most numbing sort of comfort, yet information—any information—relating to the deaths seemed all that could fill even a minuscule portion of the void.
As a first step toward the acquisition of knowledge, Kassab, during a telephone call in early October, asked MacDonald to provide him with the transcript of the Article 32 hearing. (As he would continue to do for several years, Kassab was—without the knowledge of the party to whom he was speaking—tape-recording all telephone conversations which were in any way related to the case.)
"How heavy are those volumes you've got down there?" Kassab asked.
"It's, ah, thirteen volumes, each about an inch and a half thick."
" 'Cause I was gonna say, you know, if your mother can bring them back I can run them off on my big machine in the office."
"Aaah, geez . . . I—she just asked me for an extra suitcase 'cause she's overflowing because she's bought some clothes down here. I don't know. I'll see if we can—if I can arrange it."
"Yeah, because if she brings them up I can run them off on my big machine in the office. I'll run down on a Sunday.".
"Well, Freddy, you've got—you have no idea what this entails. This is not, you know, like running off a letter."
"No, I know, Jeff. I realize it will take me a few rolls of paper, but—"
"This is well over two thousand pages."
"I know. I know it is. But what the hell, I'll buy the paper and I'll go down to the office on a Sunday and run them off."
"Yeah, well, I'll tell you what. Let me see what I can work out with a smaller suitcase and then see how much we can get in. I might have to do it in sections, and then mail the rest."
MacDonald, however, sent none of the transcript, telling Kassab a few days later that Bernie Segal had instructed him that it would be inappropriate to release the material before Colonel Rock had filed his report.
Having lost all else, the Kassabs now asked very little of life: only that Jeff, who had so deeply loved Colette, be cleared of the charges against him; that, however painful the knowledge would be, they eventually learn what had happened at 544 Castle Drive, and that those responsible for such a monstrous, evil act be brought to justice.
By the end of October, with the charges against MacDonald finally dismissed, it was this last desire which began to obsess the Kassabs. They had assumed that within twenty-four hours of the dropping of the charges, the FBI would be back in the case, assuming control of the investigation.
But then a week passed. And then another. Nine months had now elapsed since the murders, and as far as the Kassabs could tell, no effort to find the killers was being made by anyone. The Army was apparently so embarrassed by the entire affair that it seemed unwilling to investigate any further, while the FBI—in response to a phone call from Kassab—declared that it had no plans to reenter a case in which, months before, it had been deprived of primary jurisdiction.
Fred Kassab's anger was immense. The killers were out there— scot free—and no one was even trying to find them! He did not stay idle for long. While MacDonald remained at Fort Bragg, awaiting his honorable discharge, Kassab contacted dozens of public officials demanding a renewed investigation.
Most receptive seemed Allard Lowenstein, the Long Island congressman and antiwar activist who did not need to be convinced that the Army was capable of both stupidity and injustice. Lowenstein, however, was only one man. Moreover, he had just lost a bid for reelection. By the end of January, he would not even be a member of Congress. Kassab, therefore, drafted a letter to all 500 U.S. senators and congressmen, requesting not only a hearing into the Army's mishandling of the case, but a congressionally mandated reinvestigation of the crimes.
After specifying twenty-nine counts of misfeasance and malfeasance by the Army—allegations which were based upon information supplied him by Jeffrey MacDonald and Bernie Segal—Kassab wrote, "An effort must be made by some body other than the Army's Criminal Investigation Division to find the murderers who are still running loose, maybe to kill again."
In his conversations with members of Congress—or, more often, with their administrative assistants—Kassab had begun to learn that when trying to prompt a public figure to take action— publicity (either the threat of it or promise of it) could be an extremely useful tool.
By mid-November then—though their motives did not entirely coincide—both MacDonald and Kassab were devoting considerable time and energy to the task of building the MacDonald case into a national issue.
Unaware of Bernie Segal's prior effort—during which the payment of a fee to Jeffrey MacDonald had been requested— Kassab arranged a meeting with a senior editor at Look magazine. The editor, himself unaware of Segal's origin
al approach, expressed considerable interest.
Excited by what he considered a potential breakthrough, Kassab called MacDonald at Fort Bragg.
"I just had a two-hour meeting with the editor of Look magazine," he said.
"Oh, really?"
"And they are extremely interested in splitting this thing wide open. I told him I had three purposes: one, a complete investigation so that we can see if we can catch the people that did this—" "Right."
"—two, I want you cleared one hundred percent"—something which, in Kassab's eyes, an announcement that the charges had been dropped for "insufficient evidence" had not accomplished— "and, three, to try and prevent this from ever happening to anyone else again."
"Uh huh."
"And they are definitely very interested. He says they have two investigating reporters who would make FBI agents look like school kids."
"Really?"
"He says the problem is you'll be sick of these people. They'll just about live with you. They'll look into every sneeze and what-have-you and wherefore, and it will take three months."
"Three months?"
"That's what he says."
"All right. Did you tell him how much material I have?" "I sure did. By the way, have you still got that transcript?" "Yeah."
"I'll tell you why, Jeff. We got to talking about that and he said, Tor God's sake, get that material out of there. And not only that—when you get it where you're taking it, make a copy and one copy must be in a safe in a bank.''
"Yeah."
"So I think I'm gonna come down." "Oh, don't come down."
"No, I'm not taking any chances, Jeff. For a hundred and fifty dollars' airfare it's not worth it. The minute you don't have that thing anymore they could still spit right in your eye."
"Aaah, listen. Don't—that's silly, to come down. I'll mail it up.
"No. I don't trust the mail. And the editor doesn't either. I spoke to him about it. I'll just come down and pick it up and meanwhile we can visit a little."
"All right," MacDonald said, a notable lack of enthusiasm in his voice.
Ten minutes later, MacDonald called back.
"Hi, Freddy? Listen, I was sleeping when you called before. Would you go over that once more, fast, for me? I mean, I thought that—you know, it was all about a story, and you're coming down tomorrow and everything, but, ah, I haven't been feeling well, I have the flu, and I was sleeping and I'm not sure I got all of it."
Kassab repeated his account of the meeting with the magazine editor.
"Was this Look or Life?" MacDonald asked. "Look."
"And they're interested?"
"Oh, God, yes. He said that they were definitely very interested."
"Okay. Now what was this about a three-month-type thing?"
"He said it would take that long to do a complete investigation. They'll look into every sneeze, and—I mean, he said these two fellows that they've got make most FBI men look like public school kids."
"Oh, great. That's terrific."
"In other words, they'll do an in-depth investigation." "Right. Now did they, ah, discuss—I'm sure finances never came up, huh?" "What?"
"Finances never came up?"
"No, no, no, no. I never even thought of it."
"Yeah, well, see, that's got to pay for some of my expenses, that's the thing."
A few minutes later, Kassab received a call from an aide to Bernie Segal, instructing him not to proceed any further in discussions with any magazines because that was an area Segal wanted to supervise personally, to assure that "Jeffs interests are protected."
Within the hour, Kassab received another phone call from MacDonald, who said this time that his lawyers had instructed him not to give Kassab a copy of the transcript because to do so would be to risk court-martial for release of classified information.
This news so angered Kassab that he inadvertently disconnected his electronic recording device.
The next morning, MacDonald's mother called. "Freddy," she said. "I just wanted to call because Jeff said you sounded very upset last night and he was upset. He sounded hysterical on the phone to me when he said, 'I understand Freddy's position very well but I am in danger of being court-martialed.' In other words, that kind of information cannot be released."
"I am upset," Kassab said. "The thing that upsets me is that they've come to the conclusion that this transcript is going to be a money-making scheme. Well, ah, I don't go along with that and for them to tell Jeff that he can't give me a copy of the transcript because somebody's going to court-martial him is a lot of nonsense, and I know it and they know it."
"Well, I don't know what the technicalities are, Freddy. I really don't."
"First of all, nobody has given an order to Jeff that he cannot release that transcript."
"Well, Jeff said to me last night—and - I can only tell you what I heard from him—that there is that outside possibility."
"As far as I'm concerned," Kassab said, "this is just Bernie's way of scaring Jeff, which I think is a terrible thing to do because under no circumstances—there is no possible way—"
"Look, Freddy, everybody wants action. We all want to get the real killers, all right? By the same token, at this particular moment perhaps is not the time when the transcript essentially can be freed. Right now he is still in the grip of the Army."
Jeffrey MacDonald's mother then urged Kassab to relax a little bit, to try to unwind, perhaps to take Mildred away for a few days, maybe to Cape Cod, from which she herself had just returned. The Cape was beautiful in the fall, she said. Very restorative.
Kassab told her he would never take a vacation—he would not even take a weekend off—until the real killers had been caught.
Despite the fact that Freddy Kassab had been, from the start, Jeffrey MacDonald's most outspoken supporter, he had always made MacDonald slightly nervous. As Bernie Segal put it, "Freddy's a zealot, and there's no telling when a zealot might get dangerous."
As early as Sunday, June 14, MacDonald had written in his diary:
Freddy called today—they are coming down to see me on ' Thursday or Friday. I have mixed feelings. I'm uneasy about seeing them. The last time I saw them, I was in the hospital, recovering from the tragedy and my wounds—now, I'm charged with the murders, and have to face the parents of my wife. Granted, they have been terrific in their support, but, like everyone else, they can't help but wonder. Besides, we have been a little worried about Freddy's statements that 'only a full court martial will clear my name,' which is a lot of bullshit. I just have to get out of this mess.
Five days later, after the Kassabs had arrived, MacDonald noted:
Today was not too bad. We had a very nice dinner at the Officer's club and they were really nice about reaffirming their support for me.
There was, however, one point which concerned him:
Freddy wants a complete transcript of the Art. 32 hearing, but I don't think he should get it—I don't see the reason for that.
Now that it was November and the charges had already been dismissed, MacDonald saw even less reason for it. The case against him was closed. There was no need for Freddy to stay involved. Let law enforcement authorities renew their search for the four intruders. MacDonald himself—once he was safely discharged—would launch his public attack against the incompetence and malevolence of the military bureaucracy which had put him through so much needless torture, but there was no cause for Kassab to start probing into the details of the case. No good could possibly come of that.
Kassab—undeniably a zealot, at least insofar as the murder of Colette and her children was concerned—would not, however, wait passively for action that might never be taken. He himself would act: prodding, goading, and cajoling others—particularly those in positions of influence—to join him.
To act effectively, however, he needed to be fully informed. To be informed, he needed the transcript of the Article 32 hearing. To be told by an assistant to Bernie Segal that he could not hav
e a copy infuriated him.
If MacDonald was made nervous by Kassab when Kassab was an unswerving supporter, he was considerably more jittery about the prospect of Kassab's becoming alienated from him in any way. What Freddy wanted most was to have the killers caught. Perhaps if he learned that something along those lines had occurred, he would be able to relax a bit.
It was, thus, in an attempt to pacify his father-in-law that Jeffrey MacDonald—on the night of Sunday, November 18— called Kassab from his BOQ room and said, "There's something happened down here that I can't tell you about on the phone."
"Yeah?"
"Ah, all I can say on this phone is one down, three to go." There was a brief silence. "Did you get what I mean?"
"Yeah, I got what you meant." "But that's for real." "Yeah. Good. Good, good."
"I don't know," MacDonald sighed. "It doesn't really change anything."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. Well, nothing's going to change anything, Jeff."
"I think, ah, that ah, our friend Miss Helena Stoeckley is really gone," MacDonald said, "because I would have found out—there's no question that I would have been told had she still been in town. And, ah, he claimed that, ah, she wasn't around. And there's no question he was willing to say anything he knew."
There was another brief pause. Kassab, believing that MacDonald's own telephone might be tapped, remained deliberately unresponsive.
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