A Deadly Secret: The Story of Robert Durst

by Matt Birkbeck

  Struk asked about the Sunday party, and Gilberte said it was a small affair. She explained that Kathie had called earlier that day and asked if she could come over. She was in South Salem with Bobby, and they were arguing. She needed to get out of there. It was a forty-five-minute drive from South Salem to Newtown, Connecticut, where Gilberte lived, and Kathie arrived early in the afternoon.

  “Bobby?” said Struk.

  “Yes, Bobby. Everyone calls him that,” said Gilberte. “The minute Kathie arrived at my house, Bobby called, demanding that Kathie return home.”

  Struk asked if Kathie had had any alcohol, and Gilberte said just a few glasses of wine.

  “Any drugs?” asked Struk.

  “No. It was a family party,” said Gilberte.

  Bobby called several more times through the afternoon, and by 7 P.M. Kathie’d had enough, calling him back and telling him she was leaving. Gilberte said she expected to see her the next night at the Lion’s Head. The dinner at the dark and cozy restaurant would be a celebration of sorts for Gilberte, who’d closed a deal to cater the postshow party for Johnny Carson’s new NBC special.

  Kathie’s sister, Mary Hughes, was an account executive with the Mahoney & Wasserman public relations firm and in charge of the party. Hughes and Gilberte had met for lunch that Monday afternoon and Gilberte couldn’t wait to break the news to Kathie. She told Struk that she had sat at the bar near the Lion’s Head front door, ordered a Bloody Mary, and waited for her friend, making small talk with the bartender and a couple of patrons waiting for a table. The restaurant, which was shaped like a railroad car, was crowded. The dining area was toward the back.

  By 7 P.M. Kathie had yet to arrive. Gilberte said she grabbed some change and walked over to the pay phone tucked away near the restrooms between the bar and the dining area. She called the penthouse on Riverside Drive, but there was no answer. She called Kathie’s apartment on East Eighty-sixth Street, but again no answer. Both times she left a message.

  Gilberte said Kathie had never stood her up before. And if she couldn’t make a dinner or planned meeting, she always called. But Kathie had been an emotional wreck these last few months. And with the added burden of finishing medical school, Gilberte figured her friend wasn’t herself, especially after Kathie told her that Bobby wasn’t going to pay the rest of her tuition.

  Sunday had been especially bad. Kathie was really out of sorts, complaining about Bobby. That’s all she talked about, her problems with Bobby. He had already cut her off financially, leaving her with no money. Gilberte said Kathie had to borrow money from friends.

  “I understand his family has millions,” said Struk.

  “Tell me about it,” said Gilberte. “I had to cash a check for Kathie for one hundred fifty dollars on Sunday.”

  Kathie was also upset over an incident that had occurred a year before when Bobby kicked a friend of hers, Peter Schwartz, in the face because he thought the guy was having an affair with Kathie.

  “Was he?”

  “No, he was just a friend, a photographer. We had a small party at the East Eighty-sixth Street apartment, then we all went out dancing at Xenon. Kathie and Peter stayed behind. Bobby got pissed, so he went back to the apartment and bashed him in the face. Broke his jaw.”

  Gilberte said Schwartz pressed assault charges and filed a civil suit against Bobby, but the charges were later dropped and Schwartz settled the litigation.

  “Kathie couldn’t believe Peter did that, settled with Bobby. She was so hot about that. Said the Dursts always win,” said Gilberte.

  By Wednesday, Gilberte said several other friends, including Kathy Traystman and Eleanor Schwank, left messages with Gilberte wondering where Kathie was. No one, it seemed, had heard from Kathie since Sunday. Did she have an exam no one knew about? Was she with another man? Was she just looking for some quiet time alone? None of the friends had any answers.

  She had to be somewhere, they agreed.

  On Thursday, around 3 P.M., Gilberte said she called Kathie’s number at the South Salem home. No one answered, so she left another message, telling Kathie that her friends were a little concerned since no one had seen her since Sunday. Five minutes later Gilberte said her phone rang.

  It was Bobby.

  “He said he hadn’t seen Kathie all week.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Yeah, I did. There were times they’d go days without seeing each other. But there were never instances where days would go by and Kathie wouldn’t talk to one of her friends.”

  Gilberte paused for a moment.

  “Listen, Detective. Bobby called her Sunday night at my house and Kathie turned to me and said she had to go. I walked her out onto my front porch and she gave me a warning. It was something she said to all of her friends.”

  “What was that?”

  “She said if anything ever happened to her, suspect foul play. Suspect Bobby.”

  Struk could hear Gilberte weeping. The story didn’t make much sense to him. If Kathie Durst was that scared of her husband, he reasoned, why in the world had she been spending the weekend with him?

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Struk. “Do you know a Michael Burns?”

  “Not really. I mean, I know of him, but I don’t really know him.”

  “The state police tell me he’s the guy that told you to leave Kathie alone, that she’s had enough. Is that true?”

  “Yeah, he did. But I didn’t know what he was talking about. I don’t think Kathie really knew him that long. Listen, I have to run, I have an appointment. You have my number. You can call me anytime.”

  —

  Jim McCormack sounded groggy, explaining he had been up half the night with his newborn daughter. His wife, Sharon, had given birth two weeks earlier. It was their first child.

  The call from Mike Struk was greeted with surprise. Jim said he had heard from Bobby Thursday night.

  “He asked me if anyone knew where Kathie was, which was pretty unusual.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Bobby never called me. Ever.”

  Jim said the conversation with Bobby lasted maybe two minutes, if that.

  “He didn’t sound especially concerned. I know he and my sister were having problems.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “A year ago, Christmas, they were at my mom’s house on Long Island and Bobby wanted to leave. He never liked socializing with my family, and when he did it was only for a special event. Kathie was enjoying herself and wanted to stay. Bobby went outside, started his car, then came in and said they were leaving. Kathie said no. So Bobby walked behind where Kathie was sitting and pulled her off the sofa by the hair. He had chunks of hair in his hand,” said Jim.

  “What did you do?”

  “I know what I wanted to do, and that was grab him by the neck. But Kathie said she was all right and that they were going to leave.”

  “Any other incidents?”

  “Not really. I mean, Kathie didn’t really confide in me. My wife just had the baby, so we’re preoccupied with our stuff. My sister Mary would know more. She and Kathie talked all the time.”

  —

  It was noon, midway through his shift, and Struk was busy typing up his second report on the Durst case.

  He had decided that Kathie Durst had run off, only he didn’t know with whom. As he finished up his report, Gibbons called out.

  “You have a phone call. It’s Robert Durst.”

  Struk picked up the phone with the thought that Durst’s wife had returned home.

  “Mr. Durst? Detective Struk.”

  “Detective, there’s something I think I should have told you last night.”

  “And what was that?”

  “My wife has a friend, a man. His name is Michael Burns.”

  “Who’s he?” said Struk, p
retending he never heard the name.

  “A cocaine dealer,” said Bobby. “I know he and Kathie have become friendly over the past few months.”*

  “Is your wife using cocaine, Mr. Durst?”

  “Yes. About two, maybe three grams a week.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

  “I was hoping that she’d have come home by now, and I could save her the embarrassment. As it is, I’m beginning to worry.”

  “Well, I’m glad you told me. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. I believe my wife is having an affair with this man.”

  “You told me there weren’t any problems in your marriage, Mr. Durst.”

  “I know. Again, this is extremely personal, as you can imagine. I was thinking about this last night after I returned home and thought you should know.”

  Bobby told Struk he believed Burns lived in Mount Vernon, north of the city.

  “Okay, Mr. Durst. I’m still making calls. When I hear something I’ll let you know.”

  Gibbons walked over as Struk hung up the phone, curious about the conversation.

  “He thinks his wife is having an affair with some lowlife, a Michael Burns. Says he’s a coke dealer,” said Struk. “He also says she’s snorting a couple of grams of coke a week.”

  Gibbons walked back to his office. Struk turned to his report and typed “marital runaway.”

  5

  Five uniformed members of the New York Police Department’s elite Emergency Service Unit combed 37 Riverside Drive, checking every common area inside the sixteen-floor building. The elevators, elevator shafts, basement, backyard area, roof, stairwells, and water tower were meticulously searched.

  It was Monday afternoon, February 8, and five detectives from the Twentieth Precinct, including Mike Struk, had joined the search, doubling the police presence at the building. Some of the residents gathered in the lobby, wondering why nearly a dozen police officers were poking and probing throughout their home.

  One woman stood wearing her sable fur while an elderly man tried to control his four dachshunds, which were bouncing wildly.

  One ESU truck, painted in the familiar blue and white of the NYPD, sat in front of the building, along with one patrol car and two unmarked cars driven by the detectives.

  Struk didn’t want to attract attention to the search for Kathie Durst, but his conversation just a few hours earlier with Lieutenant Gibbons had set all this activity at Riverside Drive in motion.

  Struk had left the Twentieth Precinct Saturday afternoon all but convinced that Kathie had fled and was sunning herself somewhere with a lover, probably enjoying unfamiliar surroundings and indulging in wine and cocaine. He didn’t think highly of Kathie, believing her to be an out-of-control wife who drank excessively, snorted coke, and slept around. Struk would have closed the book on the case if it hadn’t been for one lingering thought—a doubt he tried to erase, but that just wouldn’t go away. Women left their husbands every day. But his experience was telling him that a woman like Kathie Durst, blue-collar background and all, didn’t just up and leave a guy like Robert Durst, given his wealth and standing. She was in medical school, for Christ’s sake, only a few months away from graduation. What was she thinking?

  Struk’s thoughts centered on Bobby. Gibbons thought it was odd that Bobby would wait five days to report his wife missing. And Bobby said he called the New York State Police to report his wife missing when it was one of Kathie’s friends who made the call. In reality, Bobby was surprised to see the state police show up at his door Friday morning.

  As the squad room came to life that morning after the slow weekend—with phones ringing incessantly, detectives talking, the noise from other parts of the busy precinct rumbling through the floors—Struk and Gibbons talked at length about the case.

  Struk observed that Bobby displayed little emotion or genuine concern about his missing wife.

  “He just doesn’t seem to care,” he said.

  Both agreed that Struk should make a few more calls and perhaps even pay a visit to 37 Riverside Drive. If anything, they could get this settled and move on to other things.

  —

  The penthouse was on the sixteenth floor, with the Hudson River just across from the Henry Hudson Parkway. Struk showed his badge to the doorman, who called upstairs to Bobby, announcing he had a visitor.

  Once inside, Struk noted that the rooms were of medium size and that the apartment was somewhat bare and unkempt, with the furniture nondescript.

  If he hadn’t known it already, Struk would never have guessed that the penthouse was the home of a man of Bobby’s means. Kathie Durst might have been a bright woman, a medical student, but she wasn’t much of a homemaker, thought Struk. The place needed a good cleaning.

  There was one attraction, the balcony, which offered spectacular views of the Hudson River.

  Bobby quietly followed as Struk entered each room, searching for any signs of a struggle, or blood, or anything that might suggest something was amiss.

  The tour lasted ten minutes. Struk hadn’t expected to find anything. After all, if something did happen here, Struk reasoned, would Bobby Durst let a detective nose around?

  When the two men settled down in the living room, Bobby seemed more relaxed. At six feet, three inches tall, Struk towered over Bobby, but sitting, they were close to being eye to eye. Bobby’s Norwegian elkhound, whom he’d named Igor, settled down at his feet. Bobby offered Struk something to drink, which he declined. Struk was more interested in hearing where Bobby had been the past week.

  Bobby answered each question slowly and deliberately, a slight twitch noticeable at the corner of his mouth.

  “We had an argument that Sunday night. Kathie came home from Gilberte Najamy’s in a foul mood. She walked in and started yelling and screaming. She appeared to be drunk. She opened a bottle of red wine and poured full glasses, yelled some more, then said she was driving back to the city. I told her she was in no condition to drive, so I drove her to the Katonah train station, where she caught a nine-seventeen P.M. train back to Manhattan.”

  “What were you arguing about?”

  “Issues, with us. Things concerning our relationship. She always argued with me whenever she hung around with Gilberte Najamy.”

  “And you spoke to her later that night?”

  “Yes, I was walking my dog, so I called her from a pay phone near Route 35.”

  “That’s pretty far from your house, isn’t it?” said Struk, remembering the conversation with Trooper Harney, who’d wondered out loud why Durst would make a call from so far away.

  “Yeah, a couple of miles, but I was walking my dog and we ended up there, so I made a quick call to see if she was all right.”

  The conversation shifted to Bobby’s week, where he was and what he did. The answers came quickly: a couple of business trips, one in Connecticut on Tuesday to scout properties. Nothing really special.

  “I’m usually very busy during the week,” said Bobby, who didn’t look very busy this Monday morning, wearing sweats and sneakers.

  Struk flipped to a fresh page in his small notebook, easily following Bobby’s responses, which were delivered in a slow drawl.

  Bobby reiterated his suspicions about Michael Burns, whom he believed to be a drug dealer engaged in an affair with his wife.

  “Is that just a feeling you have, that he’s having an affair with your wife, or do you know this for a fact?”

  “It’s more a feeling. He’s always with her. I thought it was for the cocaine, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Any idea how they met?”

  “Gilberte Najamy. He knew Gilberte and she introduced him to Kathie. When Burns wasn’t around, Kathie would get her drugs through Gilberte.”

  “Gilberte Najamy?”

  “Yeah, she’s like a drugstore,�
�� said Bobby. “She is a very bad influence on my wife. She’s also been trying to break us up. I don’t know why. I mean, I heard she liked women, though I don’t think she’d be silly enough to think she’d ever get Kathie into bed with her. Have you met her? She looks manly. Always wears these awful combat boots. I think Kathie just hangs out with her for the drugs. When they’re together, Kathie’s always coming back here, picking a fight.”

  Struk noted Bobby’s comments on Najamy, folded his notebook, and slipped it into an inside pocket in his black trench coat. As he got up to leave, he had one more question for Bobby.

  “Did you ever hit or beat your wife?”

  Bobby handled the questions easily. “No, I’d never hit Kathie.”

  He walked Struk to the door, assuring him of his continued cooperation, maintaining he only wanted to see that his wife was safe.

  Struk boarded the elevator and told the operator to take him to the ground floor. The operator closed the door and the elevator descended. Struk reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook, scribbling some quick notes, including Bobby’s denial that he ever hit Kathie. He then took out his badge and showed it to the elevator operator.

  “Say, buddy, do you know Kathie Durst?”

  The operator nodded yes.

  “Were you working last Sunday night?”

  The operator paused for a moment, then said he worked until 6 A.M.

  “Did you see Mrs. Durst?”

  “Um, yeah, I did. I did see Mrs. Durst. Last Sunday night, yeah, right, I took her up to her apartment.”

  Struk took out his pad again. “What’s your name?”

  “Eddie, Eddie Lopez.”

  “And you saw Mrs. Durst last Sunday night? On January thirty-first?”

  “Yes, about eleven P.M.”

  “Was she with anybody?”

  “No. Mrs. Durst was alone. But I did take a man up to her penthouse about an hour or two later.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “White guy, I don’t know, maybe thirty-five years old. Good dresser, dark pants, leather jacket. He had a very thick neck and, I remember, marks on his face, like little craters.”