Fatal Vision

by Joe McGinniss

  Even when he finally made her listen, she refused to believe. He would show her his underlinings and his marginal notes and his pages of questions and comments. He would sit for hours and attempt to explain what he considered the undeniable logic of it all. But still Mildred would not allow herself to be convinced.

  She did, however, recall with an uneasiness that grew slowly into terror, the minutes that MacDonald had spent in her kitchen the previous December, glancing nervously about the room as he piled improbable detail upon detail during his recitation of his tale of revenge.

  Thus, when Fred Kassab called from North Carolina the first time in late March—to say that Jeff’s story of killing one of the intruders was a lie—Mildred felt herself begin to waver.

  When he called again the next day—having spent his somber hours inside 544 Castle Drive—to say that the truth was no longer in question, Mildred felt the full horror begin to overtake her.

  "The first doubts," she wrote in her journal. "The refusal to believe. Too awful to contemplate. Colette's love for him and death at his hands. Alone with her hurt and pain and keeping it secret. . . . The guilt—not to have known her unhappiness. To

  have been selfishly going about my own affairs while she was alone and fearful. . . . Their last moments, filled with such pain and terror. I said, 'Wait until spring.' With the last blow he crushed her head like an eggshell."

  In May, Jeffrey MacDonald took a vacation trip to Barbados. He sent a postcard to Freddy and Mildred Kassab.

  "It's nice," he wrote. "Great to get out of NYC. But it's lonely."

  The Kassabs did not reply.

  In June, having not been offered a residency at the Yale University Medical Center and having found that his New York celebrity was starting to fade—and aware, also, that he was a prime suspect in a continuing murder investigation (though this was an awareness which he kept very much to himself) —MacDonald moved to California and took a job in the emergency room of St. Mary's Hospital in Long Beach, a job offered by a former Green Beret physician from Fort Bragg.

  Soon after his arrival, he sent his former in-laws a change-of-address card.

  "Super busy," he scrawled at the bottom. "No news. Will write."

  Once convinced of the Kassabs' willingness to accept the results of the reinvestigation, Pruett and Kearns began to share information with them. The worst day, for Mildred, was the Saturday in June when Pruett and Kearns arrived at the Kassab home to inform them that Helena Stoeckley had been effectively eliminated as a suspect.

  While swimming in the backyard pool that Colette had never seen, Pruett and Kearns also told the Kassabs of Jeffrey MacDonald's series of infidelities.

  For Mildred, especially, this news carried a special sting. "Because then," she said, "I knew that not only had he killed her: he hadn't even been a decent husband to her while she was alive."

  Now that they were receptive to information which cast an unflattering light upon their former son-in-law, the Kassabs found that there was no shortage of it about. Most had to do with infidelity. Acquaintances informed them that during the summer of 1964—the first summer after the birth of Kimberly—MacDonald, while spending the week at his construction job on Montauk Point, had engaged in an affair with a secretary at the company by which he was employed.

  Even more distressing to the Kassabs were stories that MacDonald had maintained a relationship with his former high school girlfriend, Penny Wells, even after his marriage to Colette.

  Mildred now recalled an evening during June of 1969—just weeks before MacDonald had left for Fort Sam Houston. He and his brother and sister were giving a party to celebrate their mother's fiftieth birthday, and the Kassabs had stopped by briefly to pay their respects.

  "Penny Wells had been invited," Mildred wrote in her journal. "Colette pointed her out to me and asked if I thought she was pretty. After we left, all the gifts were piled up and Jeffs mother asked Penny to open them and read off the cards. Colette stood by, and one of her friends later told me that she later went inside and cried in embarrassment and hurt."

  An acquaintance told the Kassabs that several months later, Jeff, in full Green Beret uniform, had been observed embracing Penny Wells on the Patchogue train station platform. This was in November of 1969—a time that coincided with MacDonald's emergency home leave.

  If this were true, and if it were true also—as Pruett and Kearns found it to be—that by February of 1970, Miss Wells had taken an apartment in New York City, then MacDonald's sudden desire to accompany the Fort Bragg boxing team on its trip, not to Russia, as he had told Colette (though having her think he was incommunicado behind the Iron Curtain would both relieve him of any responsibility for maintaining contact with her, and make the venture seem more of a "once-in-a-lifetime" opportunity than would have been a trip to Trenton, New Jersey), but to tournament sites that would put him within easy striking distance of his old high school flame, became much more understandable.

  At home, in silence, and with even sharper, more insightful pain, Mildred Kassab read and reread the dozens of letters that Colette had written to her. In particular, she focused on the letters Colette had written from Chicago during Jeff's years at medical school—years that had apparently been filled with hope and joy.

  Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention it on the phone but if Freddy really meant it about letting Jeff use his jacket this winter, it would really come in handy, I think. I have spoken to some natives and they say that it gets unbearably cold . . .

  Kim's favorite game right now is really adorable. You know the way Jeff and I blow on her stomach and make that sound? Well, she has learned to do it now, too. Not on me, but on Jeff because he has his shirt off. She stands on his lap and leans down and blows on his chest and makes a little teeny sound and then looks up and laughs . . .

  Poor Jeff has so much work. Yesterday he had an exam for which he had been staying up until 4 A.M. every morning. Unfortunately, it was not a hard test the way it was promised to be and he wasn't able to show what he really knew . . .

  Freddy, I'm really sorry that I didn't get to speak to you on the phone but wait until we get home for Christmas—you won't be able to shut me up. And wait until Kim sits on your lap and pulls herself up by your ears. That will be only the beginning ...

  As you can guess, things are pretty rough right now, financially. We haven't paid our January rent yet so Jeff went looking for part-time jobs the other day. I really hate to see him work when he needs the time for studying, but other than money problems everything is fine. Luckily, our dispositions are still good. I guess because we feel that it isn't always going to be this way ...

  Colette's last letter from Chicago had been written in February of 1968, at the start of her husband's final semester in medical school and two years before she and her children would be murdered.

  Now that Jeff is almost a doctor, he has to wear his white jacket to class and to the hospital. You should see him, he looks really great—very handsome and very professional.

  Tomorrow he gives his first examination to a patient. The patient is told only that a doctor will be in to see him and Jeff introduces himself as Dr. MacDonald and is on his own from there on. Of course, he has been practicing on me for a week, and I have been percussed (when they thump you to find out where and how large your organs are) and palpated for masses and to find rigidity of muscles, symmetry of the two sides, etc. and auscutated (listened to) until I am sore. I'm really glad I'm not taking classes this semester because it is a full time job being a patient!

  Yesterday, we took Kim to the zoo. What an experience! As you can imagine, she was terrifically excited. I got a little worried because she was so excited that she could hardly breathe (and I'm not exaggerating). She spent most of the time sitting on Jeffs shoulders—or I should say jumping on his shoulders. She was all exclamations and panting and jumping and pointing. We took some bread along with us to feed the animals and she almost went crazy with delight when she was able to feed
the giraffe and the deer. The giraffe was the biggest thrill of all. Jeff held her up and the giraffe held out her tongue until Kim put it on and then ate it. (We took a few pictures of that!) . . .

  Meanwhile, your grandchild Kristen is a DEVIL!! As you know, she didn't have any teeth ... up until last week when she got 2 together. We wfere all up for 3 nights to get her through the trauma. Now she is a toughy and goes growling around the house like a baby panther.

  She and Kim have been having so much fun playing together lately. They both play peek-a-boo and then they roll across the floor trying to catch each other. It's really a great feeling hearing your own kids laughing and having fun with each other.

  During the summer of 1971, Mildred Kassab became aware of a lump in her breast. She told no one about it and did not seek medical attention, not even when it began to grow.

  She referred, in her journal, to her "final acceptance of the truth and subsequent desire to just die. Stop hurting. Stop feeling. Hugging my growing cancer to myself, keeping it secret for my release."

  But then, as she watched her husband grow stronger and more determined day by day, she realized the selfishness of her desire. She came to recognize, she wrote, "the need for action and retaliation." Colette had been her only daughter. It seemed not so much to expect of herself that she would assist her husband on his relentless quest for justice.

  In October, she underwent surgery and began a series of radiation treatments. In November, Jeffrey MacDonald returned from California for a brief visit to family and friends. He did not pay a social call on the Kassabs. Since the change, of address card, they'd had no communication of any kind with him.

  Freddy, in particular, had been growing increasingly restive through the fall. Believing what he now believed—and witnessing, daily, the agonies that his wife was enduring—it galled him immeasurably to think of MacDonald as a free man, enjoying the fruits of his new bachelor life in Southern California.

  Aware that the investigation was still in progress, Kassab had vowed to himself that he would not do or say anything that would indicate prematurely to MacDonald just how much evidence the CID was assembling, but upon learning of the Eastern trip, Kassab was unable to contain his irritation entirely. He broke silence long enough to write MacDonald a letter:

  We have just been told by a friend that you were here on Long Island a few weeks ago. If this is so, I think you should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself for not at least calling us on the telephone.

  For one solid year we called you almost daily and did everything human beings can do to help you. In return, we received a total of two phone calls from you, one to stop me from coming to Fort Bragg to get a copy of the transcript.

  I have just inquired from both the Army and the FBI and find that you have never asked for any information on the progress of the investigation to find the murderers. Perhaps you would like to push the whole thing behind you. We can't & won't until whoever did this is punished.

  As vague as that wording was, it seemed to make Jeffrey MacDonald uneasy. His tale of having killed one of the intruders obviously had not sufficed. The Kassabs still were not willing to forget. He replied to Kassab's letter immediately, and with considerable indignation:

  I am answering your incredibly rude, illogical and factually wrong letter because I know deep down that the only reason you wrote it was because you did love Colette, Kim and Kristy (& hopefully me) so much. That love would not be apparent from your letter and I can only hope it is your frustration at not seeing justice done that propels you to write such trash.

  I was in LI several weeks ago for 2 days (half day traveling to & from airport, half day at the graves, one day with mother/family/supposed friends and relatives).

  I have been in LI on several occasions in the last 3 months, usually not to see my family but to continue work on finding 3 (or possible 4, 1 more might be added according to current stories in hippie family #2 in N.C.) fugitives. I find I accomplish more when less people know I'm around.

  I must say, your apparent faith in Army investigators is puzzling, to say the least, when it is apparent to even the most casual observer that 1) usually they are incompetent if not criminal in nature, and 2) if not incompetent they are carefully picked to follow the Army line.

  This is true in every case currently in the public eye, just as it was in our case. They are either incredibly inept or they are out to protect the Army. I have come to my final decision in this matter—to believe anything else is sheer refusal to face facts.

  I am sorry I didn't call or see you this last visit. I truly tried, but every time I tried to leave my mother's apt. some other idiot would arrive. I didn't call because I felt you would be annoyed/hurt, if I called but didn't have time to come over.

  If you want me to be blatantly honest, another reason I have hesitated seeing you more frequently is because I live/relive/re-relive the case day & night. I have to consciously try to think of other things to maintain my sanity. At times, free time is almost worse than being guarded in my room—in my room I would bitch more directly about the Army, but free I run around in circles, always thinking of the case & trying to do several things at once.

  I find being with you and Mildred, as the most direct links to Colette, the most painful experience I have except reviewing my pictures & slides. It destroys me for several days and I've found it better to keep my own defenses up by being alone.

  I cannot discuss Colette & Kim & Kris easily or well because they were everything to me, and when I am with you I find myself trying to do that. Do you see what I am trying to say?

  As for the FBI & Army, that is an absolute lie that I haven't asked for information. I have been turned down on numerous occasions by both the FBI/CID (including those investigators you liked so well last spring) and Justice Dept. for any info on the case.

  It is obvious the only way for justice to be met is for me to do it. I am doing it, having been doing it (4 trips to N.C. & Florida in last three months) and will continue to do it as long as my strength holds up (broken hand last trip, $2,000 spent).

  The only legit help I foresee is private eye type, most of which I have found is no more competent than local cops. My next major goal is a large sum of money (via an advance from a publisher for this purpose). The first chapter of my book has been written, the outline is done, and still we are only dickering with publishers. They just won't come across fast.

  I would like to push the whole thing behind me—wouldn't anyone? I'd give anything to wake up and find it all a bad dream and have my life & house filled again with Colette, Kim & Kristy.

  The only difference between you and I is that I don't think you see the fact that justice will not bring back my family. I want revenge, preferably brutal revenge—I don't care about justice any more. There is no justice, in case you haven't noticed. You act as though you are on a noble cause. I think the cause is ugly, brutal, but necessary. I will do it—I have done some (one-fourth or one-fifth of it). Don't try to bullshit me about not caring. Our aim is the same—don't let frustration drive you down. I have been so frustrated at times in the last year you wouldn't believe it.

  I'm sorry if this letter is too honest—just remember it is honest. I care not for people's feelings any more. If and when revenge becomes complete, I foresee such pain at the full realization that it was all useless because my 3 girls are not back that life will not be worthwhile. Meanwhile, try to remember the loss is, for me, at least as great as your loss.

  The Kassabs had not seen Jeffrey MacDonald's mother since April of 1971 when she had come by their house to deliver some slides of Colette and the children which they had requested, and to tell them that Jeff was no longer able to visit the cemetery: it was simply too upsetting for him.

  Early on the evening of February 15, 1972, however, she paid them a surprise visit. She brought with her a small floral arrangement and said she had just heard that Mildred had undergone surgery.

  "She was her usual buoyant, bouncy self
," Mildred would later recall. "You know, 'Hey, kid, how are you? You're looking great!' That sort of thing. Actually, I looked pretty horrible at the time."

  The Kassabs offered her a drink, which she accepted. Then Freddy found himself unable to contain his true feelings. He felt compelled, as he put it later, "to give her a few facts of life."

  For the next two hours, Kassab explained, in explicit and extensive detail, what it was he had become convinced of and what it was that had led him to his conclusion—the conclusion being that Dorothy MacDonald's son had murdered his own wife and children.

  "She didn't say a word," Kassab recalled later. "Not one word. For two hours she just sat there in silence with that one drink in front of her. She didn't get mad, she didn't get angry, she didn't dispute anything I said—and believe me, I said it all—she just sat there. When I had finished she stood up and said, 'Well, I think I'll go home.' That was it. That was the last time we ever spoke to her."

  Months later—it was in fact in early summer—the Kassabs found notes on the graves of Colette, Kimberly, and Kristen. The notes were in the handwriting of Dorothy MacDonald. They said:

  Dearest Colette—You were every inch a woman. God forgive me for not telling you this but I always respected you. All my love, Mom.

  Dearest Kim—You were more precious to me than life itself. God keep you from any more pain. I love you, Nana.

  Dearest Kristy—You were always the toughie. May your spirit endure. Love you, Nana.

  The Kassabs turned the notes over to Pruett and Kearns. Eventually, Dorothy MacDonald moved to Southern California, where she bought a small house only ten minutes from her son's condominium.