A feature article in the next morning’s Daily News quoted Jaytee as saying of Kitty Keeler, “Why, this girl has more guts than any man I’ve ever known. She been puttin’ on a front, actin’ out a role, and it’s cost her plenty to carry it off. She’d made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t break down in public. This kid’s got a sense of pride you wouldn’t believe. When I saw her in private, why, it’d like to tear your heart out, to see this, girl’s grief. She tole me, why, she nearly puts herself into a trance out in public, which is why you hardhearted s.o.b.’s been thinkin’ of her in all the wrong ways. Look, you know and I know, every person grieves in his or her own way. Hell, I’d sure hate to be expected to carry my grief out to the public, wouldn’t you?”
Relative to Kitty’s being in protective custody, Jaytee Williams commented as follows: “If that there Jerry Kelleher hadn’t come up with the idea hisself, I damn sure would have. Glad to see him takin’ a sensible line after all the hootin’ and nonsensical hollerin’ I seen him doin’ on the TV and in the papers. Fact of the matter is, they had this poor girl stuck in a dumb, unprotected motel out near this very airport, where every nut and screwball in the world coulda had at her. And I’m about to tell you this too, though Kitty herself will have a fit, should she read this interview. That girl is scared near to death—and rightly so, rightly so, what with the position she’s in. Now, I’m not sayin’ one way or t’other way, but you can all just figure it out for yourselves: any desperate sick-minded low-life that coulda done her little babies like they did, why, it wouldn’t be no more than whipped cream on a cake to them to do Kitty. She’s knowed that all along, but she’s been carryin’ her head high and you guys been callin’ down all kinds of things on her for it. The burden on this girl is mighty heavy enough without you fellas adding to it, and fair-minded that I’ve always known you all to be, I’m askin’ you all now to put yourselves in Kitty Keeler’s situation. And have a little compassion for what she’s been through. And a lot of admiration for how she’s handled things all by her lonesome. And be advised, gents and Jerry Kelleher, she ain’t by her lonesome no more.”
Gorgeous Jerry Kelleher, of course, had apoplexy at being addressed by name by this mushmouthed phony bullshit artist, and he had Tim Neary up and at attention by 9 A.M. the day Jaytee’s campaign hit the newspapers. Which put Tim Neary into one of his front-line, down-to-earth, we’re-all-in-this-together moods.
What he said to those squad members still in the office when he returned from the top floor was, “What the fuck are all you men doing in the office? What is this, anyway, coffee and gossip time?”
The last crack was meant for me in particular. It’s not that I’m overly sensitive; it’s just that I was finishing a container of lukewarm coffee and laughing into the telephone at the exact moment of Tim’s arrival.
“Whenever it’s convenient for you, Joe,” Tim said, “if you can fit it into your schedule, I’d like to see you in my office.”
I nodded and went on talking on the telephone. It’s amazing how fast nearly everyone else wound up their office business; reports were quickly stapled together, notes stuffed into pockets; Sergeant Gelber, who had been out sick for a week and looked terrible, was advised by each team leaving where they were going.
The first thing Tim said to me when I entered his office was, “What the fuck is Sam Catalano doing hanging around with George Keeler? This a secret operation you got going, Joe? Something you’re gonna surprise me with or what? What the fuck is going on, anyway, Joe?”
“We’re all in on it together, Captain Neary. All of us. It’s us against you. I figured you’d figure that out sooner or later.”
We stood with the desk between us, both of us breathing hard and both of us waiting to see exactly how far this stupid thing would go. Or rather, how far we’d let it go.
Tim shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think I slept more than two hours all told last night.”
“Then you better get to bed early tonight, Tim. Insomnia is making you nasty.”
I still felt tight and ready, but we both knew it was over for the moment.
“What the hell was that pompous schmuck upstairs telling me about Catalano ‘bringing George Keeler along’? How long’s that been going on?”
“A coupla days. I guess Sam feels that by buddying up to George he might be able to turn him. Against Kitty.”
Tim raised his eyebrows.
I shook my head. “Not a chance. George is true-blue. Which is why I figured it wouldn’t do any harm. And it would keep Sam from underfoot. He was doing it on his own time, so what the hell, let him do it on city time.”
“All right, all right, makes sense. Just in the future, Joe, you tell me what’s going on in my own squad. I don’t want to be told again by that bastard upstairs.” Tim took a good look at my face and said quickly, “All right, all right, Joe, for Christ’s sake, don’t you go getting touchy, too.” Which, coming from Tim Neary, can be considered an apology; which is as close as I’ve ever known him to get.
Apparently there was nobody left in the outer office to warn Vito, because he came barging into Tim’s office loudmouthed and excited. There are days when everyone, even Vito, should tap on the door and wait for Tim’s invitation. This was definitely one of those days. Tim’s face went right back to that tight, tooth-grinding, trouble-borrowing expression.
“Joey, Joey.” Vito wrapped his arms around me from behind and squeezed once, then let me go. I felt like I’d missed two complete breath cycles. “Timmy, kid, wadda ya say, Timmy, huh? Wadda ya say?”
“Vito.” That was all Tim was able to say; he was cracking his knuckles two at a time.
“Hey, Tim, you got your tight shoes on again today, huh, Captain Timmy?” Vito dropped into a chair, put his large feet up on Tim’s desk. “I’m gonna relieve your achin’ feet, Tim. Jeez, Joe, don’t he look terrible? Whatsa matter, Tim, they been givin’ ya the business upstairs again? Huh?”
Tim stood directly behind his desk chair; his fingers clenched the top of the chair so hard that his knuckles cracked all by themselves. “Vito. I’ll give you thirty seconds. And it better be good. Really good.”
Vito let his head fall back and he looked like he was doing eye exercises, examining first one corner of the ceiling and then the other. Finally he pulled his feet off the desk, pulled himself upright and said, “It’s good, Tim. Oh, it’s good.”
Tim walked around his chair, sat down, folded his hands on the desk and said, very quietly, “Fine, Vito. Any time you’re ready. I’m listening,”
Vito wanted to savor it a little longer; he shook his head, grinned, winked at Tim, then at me. He turned sharply toward the cracking sound. “Tim, you’re gonna give yourself arthritis of the knuckles you keep doin’ that. Tim.” Vito’s voice changed. “You remember you told me to keep a team on Vincent Martucci.” Tim’s face went blank for a moment. “Yeah, I forgot about it, too, Tim. So Haley and Finn been stayin’ with him on the late shift. They been workin’ six P to two A, since this guy moves around a lot at night.” Vito grinned. “And everywhere that Vincent went, the tail was sure to go! Right, Tim?”
“Cut out the goddamn nursery rhymes, Vito, and get to the point.”
“Well, Captain Tim, they tailed Mr. Martucci from his house to his health spa. From his health spa, he went to a nice restaurant in Manhasset where he ate his dinner. In the company of a coupla friends, right? Then, he has his driver take him into Manhattan. They pull up in front of one of those really swanky new buildings on Third Avenue. Jeez, remember the old days, Joe? When Third Avenue was like the Bowery uptown? With all them bums sleepin’ on the stations of the El?”
I just stared at Vito. He glanced at Tim and shrugged. “Okay, okay. So Vincent, Mr. Martucci, gets out of his limo and sends his driver away. He heads for the building. He enters the building. Then, Tim, then, like two minutes later, Vincent pops out of the building. He walks to the corner. He looks all around. He hails a c
ab. The cab takes him, Vincent Martucci,” down to the Village. Greenwich Village, right? Lower Greenwich Village. Vincent gets out of the cab.” The words had been coming from Vito in short jabbing bursts; his head swung from Tim to me as he spoke. “And then, Tim, huh?, then, Joe, Vincent Martucci spends the next three hours, from ten P to one A, visiting ... ya ready?—the gay bars, Cruisin’, Timmy.”
“Cruising?”
“The gay bars?”
Vito looked from Tim to me. He stood up, placed himself behind my chair, grabbed my shoulders and pressed his clamplike fingers into me for emphasis.
“Cruisin’; cruisin’ down the fuckin’ river, Timmy! Vincent Martucci was lookin’ for a goddamn boy!”
It took us three nights to get Vincent Martucci.
While the younger team of Haley and Finn tailed him from saloon to saloon, Geraldi and I waited, slumped in my Chevy. On the third night, when Martucci, in the company of a tall blond male hustler, headed for a local one-nighter, Vito and I became part of the tail. As soon as we entered the musty lobby of the hotel I felt a sharpening of the senses, and a sort of electric alertness wiped out the long hours of bored fatigue. Geraldi told Haley to stay with the panic-stricken room clerk after we learned that Martucci had been given the key to Room 12. Two small, thin young homosexuals entered the lobby, took one look at the little group surrounding the desk and, without breaking their arm-in-arm synchronized stride, about-faced and exited.
Vito, Tom Finn and I stood in the narrow dark insecticide-smelling hallway. Vito, his ear pressed against the door, listened, then whispered, “Now’s as good a time as any.”
The door splintered at the impact of Vito’s shoulder and he went wheeling across the small bedroom, landing almost on top of a naked Vincent Martucci and an almost naked hustler. In the confusion, Vito grabbed the hustler and a collection of clothing and said, “You take Martucci, Joe. I don’t trust myself. I might kill the bum.”
I picked up the butter-soft suede shirt and slacks and held them toward Martucci, but he bent over, grabbing his stomach, and made it into the dark little cubicle in time to vomit into the toilet. He ran the small trickle of water in the sink over his hands, dabbed water on his face, then blotted himself on the rough paper towels. Within the next five minutes, he was dressed and deposited in the rear seat of my car between Haley and Finn. Vito, who had scared the living hell out of the hustler before giving him a kick in the ass out the hotel’s side door, sat next to me as I drove. Vito was breathing heavily; it was the only sound in the car.
We took Martucci to a small, quiet, unused office down a long corridor on the third floor of the Kew Gardens Criminal Courts Building. The room was dim as we entered, but Tim, who had been waiting, switched on the overhead light, which really didn’t add much visibility. I pulled out a chair for Martucci; he seemed to fold into it. The man inside the beautiful suede custom-made outfit had become as limp as a scarecrow racked by blight. His hands trembled as he pressed his face into his palms.
“Vincent, look up.”
Vito came behind the chair and jerked Martucci’s face up toward the light, but Tim shook his head and Vito walked away.
“Vincent, do you want to call your attorney?” Tim turned and picked up a telephone from the small desk. “You want me to call him for you?” Tim’s voice sounded concerned and serious; there was nothing mocking or mean about it. “In fact, Vince, you can leave right now. You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. No one has placed you under arrest, have they?”
Haley and Finn both said, “No, sir.” Vito and I didn’t say anything.
“Vince, you want me to call your driver? Have him bring your limo around? Just say the word.”
Each time Tim spoke, it was as though a blow had landed on Martucci’s bowed head. In a thin, breaking voice, Martucci said from between his hands, “What do you want from me?”
During the ride out to Queens, he had already offered money, any amount, anything, but he had been met with silence.
“It’s very simple, Vincent,” Tim said. He turned and indicated the tape recorder on the desk, next to the telephone. “We just want you to tell us, exactly, what you and Kitty Keeler talked about on the telephone the night her children were murdered.”
Vincent Martucci rocked his head from side to side, not because he was refusing the request made of him, but because he knew that he could not refuse.
As much as we all knew about Vincent Martucci, as strongly as we all felt about him and his long and vicious career, no one, not even Vito Geraldi, took any pleasure in his complete and total degradation. I can’t speak for the others, but I know that my own feeling, in this and in similar situations, was one of personal shame. Maybe the sight of Vincent Martucci crying and cringing like a frightened child established a kind of common humanity between us; none of us were feeling particularly superior or satisfied with ourselves.
“My poor Kitty,” he whispered hoarsely. “Oh God, my poor Kitty. How can I do this to her?”
“Because you have no choice,” Tim Neary said.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 1
IT TOOK ED QUIBRO six days to present the case against Kitty Keeler to the Queens grand jury. The biggest headline during that time was KITTY, GEORGE CLAM ON KIDS’ KILLING, over a front-page picture of Kitty and George dashing for a car as they were leaving the courthouse, after claiming Fifth Amendment rights. The next-biggest headline was KITTY K’S LOVER BACK FOR SECOND DAY; in smaller bold print, over Vincent Martucci’s picture, was the question “Martucci Key to Keeler Kids’ Killing?”
On May 26, 1975, the Queens grand jury returned two indictments against Kitty, charging her with first-degree murder of both of her sons. The News headlined KITTY K. INDICTED! WHO HELPED KILL KIDS? The Post put it this way: MRS. KEELER INDICTED IN DOUBLE MURDER.
Vito Geraldi, Sam Catalano and I arrived at the Madison Avenue hotel at a prearranged time to serve the arrest warrants. George Keeler, his face the color of damp cement, stood to one side of Kitty; Jay T. Williams stood to the other side. Jeff Weinstein stood behind them, towering over all three. We all rode down the four floors in the same elevator. When we hit the lobby, there was a casual, subtle rearrangement. Williams and Weinstein eased George back slightly; Kitty came alongside me. When George reached for Kitty’s arm, she turned and said firmly, “George, you ride in Jaytee’s car. Go ahead; you’ll be right behind me all the way.” Then, with a sharp unyielding demand, “George, we’re going to do this the way Jaytee said.” She studied his face for a moment, as though debating which was the best approach. Her hand rested lightly on his arm; she whispered something to him, so quietly I couldn’t make out the words. Then she turned from him abruptly and walked beside me without breaking pace, without looking up until she was settled next to me in the back seat of the unmarked squad car.
We booked Kitty at the 107th Precinct in Fresh Meadows. Everything was low-key and routine; at least it was for us. Kitty’s face was ashen and from time to time she touched the corner of her eye where a nerve began to twitch. When the desk sergeant asked her to empty out her pocketbook, George tried to move in. Kitty whirled around and pushed him back.
“Goddamn it, George.” She said to Jaytee, “Get him out of here. Make him sit down somewhere.”
Jeff Weinstein took George away; Jay T. Williams stood next to Kitty radiating good will and reassurance.
“We’re going to go upstairs now, Kitty,” I told her. “We’re going to take your fingerprints.” For some reason, even to me, it sounded like an apology. When I took her arm, she yanked away from me. “It’s all right,” I told her.
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself,” Kitty said, head up, chin jutting, eyes blazing.
For the rest of the booking and arraignment procedures, Kitty was under very tight, angry control. During the ride from Queens into Manhattan, where she was photographed with a Bureau of Criminal Identification number on a plaque around her neck, then back to Queens for appearance befor
e a magistrate, Kitty never glanced out of the rear window. She knew that Jaytee’s white Mercedes was directly behind us. She didn’t speak one single word beside me in the car; no one spoke, not even Vito, who chewed on an unlit cigar.
As we entered the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, heading back toward Kew Gardens, I offered Kitty a cigarette. When she reached for it, I noticed her hands for the first time. Her fingers.
I took her left hand in mine without a word; examined it, then her right hand. Across the top of each nail was a ragged, bloody slash of soreness where she had either bitten or pulled the nail away. She stared at her fingers as though they were a total surprise to her. She looked up at me, then back to her fingertips, with that confused, puzzled expression I had seen at Kelly Brothers, when she had looked from one dead child to the other, not recognizing them. I pressed her wrist slightly and she jerked her head up, narrowed her eyes, pasted her lips together tightly and yanked her hand from mine. She folded her arms and buried her hands and stared out the window, the back of her head to me, for the rest of the trip.
Jaytee Williams was skillful at directing most of the attention from Kitty to himself as we hurried from the car to the court building. He blocked her without seeming to; protected her innocently while giving his statement to the press and television people.
The worst moment for Kitty came in the courtroom. She stood, rigid and vague, her eyes burning sightlessly into space, while the legal procedure took place all around her: impersonal, quiet, steady, routine, devoid of passion of any kind. The low humming of voices seemed to hypnotize her; not even George’s dangerous wheezing sounds seemed to penetrate. I stood to her left; Jaytee Williams a comforting presence to her right. When he spoke to her, his face close along the side of her neck, his hand playing up and down her arm, she turned, puzzled, totally unprepared for what was happening, since she hadn’t been following any of it; not any of it.
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