On February 13, 2004, Detective Della Rocca drove out to Newark and spoke with Jeffrey Ransom and a woman named Loretta who both lived at 212 Elwood. He asked if he could take a look inside the adjacent carriage house at 214 Elwood. They gave their consent.
His visual inspection confirmed Greg Bach’s story of a hand-troweled concrete slab of recent vintage. He looked around but saw no blood. He stood still and sniffed the air—a little mustiness, but no whiff of decay. And that would make sense. It had been nine months since the body was sealed up in its concrete tomb. Della Rocca looked at the rough-poured slab in the back and suddenly knew Greg’s suspicions were true. So far, so good, he thought. Maybe the long wait for the Cruz family is finally over.
But in Newark, Della Rocca was out of his jurisdiction—in another state under a different legal authority. So he enlisted the assistance of the homicide squad in the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office. Investigator Christopher Smith and Assistant Prosecutor Thomas McTigue walked Della Rocca through the unfamiliar paperwork needed to obtain a search warrant for the carriage house.
New Jersey Superior Court Judge Michael Petrolle authorized the search. New York authorities could not go in alone. On February 18, investigators Della Rocca, Smith and Ford, and Della Rocca’s partner T. J. Marony came to the scene with the Newark Police Department. The police called in for the assistance of the New Jersey troopers. En masse, a team of forensic technicians and detectives descended on the unsuspecting neighborhood of Forest Hill to tear apart the concrete and gather evidence in the case of Maria Cruz.
It was impossible for this many people and vehicles to go unnoticed. Just two and a half years after 9-11, in a community not far from the collapse of the twin towers, it was not surprising that the most popular rumor involved Islamic extremists. Word spread that the authorities were busting a terrorist cell. The first news helicopter headed to Newark and in no time, every media outlet with an air crew was there. Even the Department of Homeland Security and the FBI sent agents to the scene.
At the center of the circus, techs got to work dismantling the concrete mound by the carriage house steps. The digging began at noon. Concerned about the destruction of Jeffrey’s property, Loretta questioned the police officers.
“We’ll dig up the whole floor of the garage if we need to,” they told her. “If we find nothing there, we’ll dig up your whole yard.” Then they threatened her with arrest if she interfered in any way.
As Loretta left the carriage house, she heard one officer mention Greg Bach’s name. She headed for the telephone. She didn’t have his phone number, but she knew who Greg was. She wanted to talk to him and find out what the heck was happening.
Two hours later, techs removed a suitcase from Dean’s concrete creation. News photographers snapped photos as officers carried two bundles from the building to the awaiting vans. Officials continued to search for evidence implicating Dean Faiello in the death of Maria Cruz.
Maria’s Uncle Jose in Queens held out hope. He told The New York Times: “Everyone is so very sure that it’s Maria. I’m still clinging to the hope that it’s not really her. They’ll be doing the autopsy tomorrow morning.”
Nonetheless, Irenea and Rudolfo Cruz, along with their two oldest children Tes and Jun, boarded a plane in Manila for their sorrowful flight to Newark Liberty International Airport. With confirmation of Maria’s death, there would come the demise of all their hopes and all their dreams.
DR. DAVID GOLDSCHMITT, EMERGENCY SERVICES DIRECTOR AT New York University Downtown Hospital, backed out of his driveway to head to work. Looking up Ridge Street, he saw the yellow crime-scene tape circling a major portion of the block. His first thoughts went to a friend of his whose home was enclosed inside the police barrier. As soon as he arrived at the hospital, he sent an email to her. “Are you okay?” he asked.
The response contained a grisly truth, one that churned in his stomach and made bile rise in his throat. The telephone conversation he’d had with Dean ten months ago raced through his mind.
Did he overhear a murder? It couldn’t be connected, he thought, then called one of his neighbors. As he listened to a story about the body recently removed, he encouraged himself not to think the worst. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, his cautious side argued. But David’s sense of responsibility and respect for life—any life—drove him to the Newark police station after work to tell them what he knew.
JEANE MACINTOSH HAD TRAVELED OUT TO NEW JERSEY THAT morning to cover another story. Finishing her assignment, she turned back to Manhattan. As she approached Newark, Jeane noticed the flash of helicopters flitting through the sky. Curiosity danced in her mind, but she continued on toward the office.
Before she hit the river to cross over to New York, her cell phone rang. It was the assignment desk. “Jeane, does the name Dean Faiello mean anything to you?”
“Yeah,” Jean said, “that’s my fake doctor.”
“They’re looking for a body at his house in Newark. They think he murdered Maria Cruz.”
Jeane turned her car around and headed back toward the hovering helicopters.
LETICIA FRANKS, DEAN’S NEIGHBOR ON RIDGE STREET, REturned from a shopping trip to discover her whole block closed off by strips of yellow crime-scene tape. There were more police vehicles gathered in her block than she’d ever seen in one place at one time.
She had to park a distance from her home and walk, lugging her packages to the house. From her porch, she saw the bustle of activity in the carriage house that faced Ridge Street. She didn’t know her new neighbor Jeffrey Ransom that well and wondered what he had done.
Then she learned that her new neighbor wasn’t the problem at all. It was the polite young man who passed the time with her, helped her out with her porch and tantalized the neighborhood girls—he was responsible for the police and media attention. Even worse—a body had been found only yards from her front door. She sat in silent disbelief, rebuffing every media representative who darkened her door.
LINDA BURKE HEARD THE NEWS OF THE GROTESQUE DISCOVERY in New Jersey. Then she heard the suspect’s name—Dean Faiello. Why did that name sound so familiar?
For days, the question lingered in the back of her mind until her memory sparked. Wasn’t that the name of the dermatologist who treated me when I first moved to New York seven years ago?
The revelation sent her scurrying to her financial records. She dug deep and there it was—the receipt for services rendered. She was right: It was Dean Faiello. She had lain down on a table and placed herself at the mercy of someone capable of burying a patient in concrete. She was horrified.
BARBARA NEVINS TAYLOR WAS SHOCKED WHEN SHE HEARD THE news. She had seen Faiello arrested and taken away in handcuffs. His arrest was supposed to end the charade—to stop him from performing risky procedures and posing as a doctor. And if he didn’t do so on his own, she was confident that the cops would act to protect the public.
“You think if you expose a problem and show a bad guy doing something wrong, those in authority will prevent him from harming others,” she said. “I can’t believe they didn’t keep an eye on him. He had a prior record—his past behavior foreshadowed his future actions. They should have known that.”
When Channel 9 announced the discovery of Maria’s body, they reprised their previous investigation of 2002. It was an indictment of the inefficiency of a vast, unwieldy bureaucracy. Barbara believed that if the authorities had acted more expeditiously, Maria Cruz would still be alive.
DANI SAMUELSON, A FORMER TRANSEXUAL CLIENT OF DEAN’S, watched NY1, the 24-hour local news channel, on February 18. Three times an hour, reporters recapped the news from Newark. When the story was repeated several times without any new information, Dani walked away, leaving the television on.
She sat at her computer tapping away, the news a constant, quiet hum in the background. Then she heard the announcer say, “Dean Faiello.” Or at least that’s what it sounded like. Dani’s fingers froze over the keyboard. Was she imagining things? Sh
e rushed back to the television and turned up the volume, waiting for the news from Newark to cycle through again.
She was right. The announcer did say “Dean Faiello.” He buried a woman’s body in concrete at his house in Newark. Charming, gracious, good-looking Dean Faiello a killer? Unbelievable. Or was it?
Did the sinister truth always lurk beneath that attractive façade? The more she thought about it, the more believable it became. She recalled Howard Stern’s reaction to the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. After the incident, every time Stern said an Arab name, he’d say “Guilty.”
Dani now felt the same way about Dean. Whenever she heard his name, “Guilty” pounded through her head. Sometimes, she said it out loud.
CHAPTER THIRTY
DR. LAURIE POLIS WAS STAGGERED BY THE DISCOVERY OF A body at Dean Faiello’s former home. She could barely set down the receiver before the phone rang again. Every member of the media she’d ever heard of—and a few she hadn’t—called, wanting to know the back story of Dean Faiello.
Reporters cajoled her for interviews. They said: “You’re the good guy,” “You’re the poster child for public protection,” “You’re the one who fought so hard to get him off the street.” No amount of flattery swayed Dr. Polis. She would not agree to an interview. She did not want to win publicity out of Maria’s victimization and Dean Faiello’s handiwork.
GREG BACH WAS WORKING OUT AT THE GYM WHEN HIS CELL phone chirped. It was one of his old neighbors from Newark. Loretta called him, he told Greg. The police were tearing up the concrete in the carriage house and Loretta heard an officer mention Greg’s name. “Could you call her and let her know what’s going on?”
Greg could hardly believe it. At long last, the police acted on his information—state troopers and other officials filled that corner of the neighborhood to everyone’s amazement. Soon Greg learned that not only had they acted, they also confirmed his worst suspicions. There was a body buried in the concrete he had watched Dean pour that ugly day in May.
Greg’s thoughts went to the elderly housekeeper Elizabeth. While Dean’s real estate broker was trying to sell his house, she met Elizabeth. Both spoke Hungarian and the two hit it off right away. They chattered in Elizabeth’s native tongue every time the agent came to the house.
After negotiating a sale for Dean, the broker got a good price for Elizabeth’s own home, enabling her to move from Newark to Ohio to be near her son. Elizabeth—now pushing 80—was scheduled to move early that morning. Greg hoped she left before the word about Dean spread to her door. He hoped she would never learn about what Dean had done. Greg knew it would break her heart.
By the time Greg returned to his apartment, messages from the media saturated his voicemail. He stopped answering the phone.
He was astonished that the police had leaked his name, that his involvement in the discovery of the body was revealed to the news outlets. Greg willingly told his story to authorities, but did not want Dean to know of his actions. From his viewpoint, the revelation of his name demonstrated a total disregard for his privacy and personal safety. Would Dean—could Dean—retaliate?
Watching the news the day that Maria was found, he heard that the body was hidden inside a suitcase. When Della Rocca and Marony visited him at his apartment that night, he asked, “Was she found in a suitcase?” but Della Rocca denied it.
When Greg later heard a full description of the black carry-on with wheels, he wondered why the cops would lie. He could recall that suitcase very well: It had been in the garage. Then, he’d noticed, it was gone. At one point, it returned. The suitcase was an odd presence, but with all the moving around of household items at the time, he did not give it much thought. After all, it sure did not seem big enough to hold a human body. But still, he thought, if the officers had told him the truth, his recollections might have been useful in their investigation. Greg simply did not understand their motivation.
He also did not comprehend their process of investigation. “You need to locate Dean’s Jeep Cherokee,” he told them. “Someone I know received an email from Dean. He’d inadvertently attached a document to it that provided instructions about locating and retrieving the vehicle. I think you’ll find a New Jersey State Trooper with the car in her driveway.” Greg said, alluding to Debra. “I think Dean used it to transport the body. It could contain forensic evidence.”
“Ah, well,” Della Rocca said in his heavy New York accent. “It’s probably been all cleaned up by now.”
Greg recoiled at that cavalier attitude. “While you’re turning over every stone, why don’tcha just take a look at that one?”
The detective only shrugged in response. Nothing was making any sense to Greg at all.
AT FIRST, AUTHORITIES ANNOUNCED A TENTATIVE, PRELIMInary identification. From the serial number on the breast implants, it appeared as if the body was indeed Maria Cruz, who had been missing since April of the previous year. During autopsy, a forensic odontologist compared Maria’s dental records with the mouth of the victim uncovered in Newark. There was a match. Maria Cruz had been found.
THE POLICE DISAPPEARED FROM THE NEIGHBORHOOD AFTER A couple of days; but for weeks afterward, bedlam reigned in Forest Hill—what had been the last quiet neighborhood in Newark. Local television vans, newspaper reporters and stringers for national news services formed an occupation force in the vicinity of Elwood and Ridge.
Maria Cruz’s family made pilgrimages to the spot. They parked their car across the street and stared at the old white carriage house where their daughter had lain encased in cold concrete for month after month. Neighbors watched them, but left them in peace—their hearts broken in vicarious grief.
Maria’s sister Tes told reporters, “You can’t just allow somebody to die, and then throw her out like a piece of garbage. She must have had a family. Did he not think of that family?”
In their unquenchable thirst for a new angle, the media horde spread out from the immediate area. They formed outposts at every location with any connection—no matter how tenuous—to the crime. One spot was the emergency room at NYU’s Downtown Hospital. Their presence interfered with the timely administration of critical care treatment. Officials told Dr. Goldschmitt to stay away from the facility until the furor died down.
When the media got word that Dean fled the area and was now in Central America, the satellite uplink trucks, microphones and questions diminished, but did not fade away for weeks. Some of the reporters grabbed at the opportunity to leave the New York winter behind and take up the hunt for a story on the sunny shores of Costa Rica.
DEBRA FAIELLO WAS NOT TO BLAME FOR MARIA CRUZ’S DEATH, but guilt dogged her steps just the same. She did have some knowledge of Dean’s actions. Did she know about the murder when she assumed control of the vehicle used to transport Maria’s body? Did she realize what Dean had done when she’d laid claim to Dean’s patient files? Had she learned the identity of his victim when she gained possession of Maria’s purse and identification? Was she part of the cover-up?
Only Debra knew the answers to those questions. It was clear however that she knew her brother had broken the law by providing treatments that he wasn’t qualified to give. She knew he forged prescriptions to feed his drug habit.
Debra, a member of law enforcement, knew her brother was on the lam. She knew his whereabouts when she badgered Tom Shanahan to send him that money. She duped an upstanding and respected member of the legal community by withholding information. By doing so, had she implicated herself in a conspiracy to aid and abet a fugitive from justice?
The moment Tom Shanahan heard about the body found at Dean’s home, he called the district attorney’s office and informed them that he had unwittingly wired funds to the account of a wanted fugitive in Costa Rica. He said nothing more about Dean. No matter what Dean had done, he was still Tom’s client, and attorney-client privilege prevailed.
Shanahan felt he could ethically reveal Debra’s involvement in Dean’s flight if he received a criminal subp
oena from the New Jersey State Police. Brad Hamilton, a New York Post reporter, agreed to attempt to broker that deal.
He called the Internal Affairs division and explained the situation. “This person wants to speak with you,” he said, “but can’t do so unless you issue a subpoena.”
“We don’t work that way. We don’t issue subpoenas to get information,” the sergeant said.
“But he wants to talk to you,” Brad said.
“Then, let him talk.”
Brad wondered what lay behind the answers. Were the New Jersey State police willing to ignore the possibility of wrongdoing by one of their own?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ON SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 22, FRIENDS, RELATIVES—INCLUDING Maria’s parents and siblings from the Philippines—and co-workers from Barclays gathered at the Greenwich Village Funeral Home on Bleecker Street for a two-hour prayer service in memory of Maria Cruz. The Bukas Palad Choir from Irvington, New Jersey, sang “Hindi Kita Malilimutan.” This sorrowful melody in Maria’s native Tagalog dialect meant “We Will Never Forget You.”
The funeral mass began at 9:30 on the morning of February 23 at Our Lady of Pompeii Church on the corner of Carmine and Bleecker Streets in Greenwich Village. A dominant landmark in this area of Manhattan, the Italian Renaissance-style church, with its asymmetrically placed tower, was built in 1928 on property that once was the site of a vaudeville hall and also of St. Benedict Moor, the first black Catholic church in New York City.
Constructed to serve the Italian-Americans who established the surrounding neighborhood, the church continued to offer one mass in Italian every Sunday. The congregation, however, was now far more diverse. In response to an influx of immigrants from the Philippines, the church established their Filipino Pastoral Ministry in the 1980s. Many Vietnamese worshiped regularly at Our Lady of Pompeii and a mass in Portuguese often brought a full house of Brazilians through its doors.
Under the Knife Page 15