Struk said yes, and that he checked Bobby’s records for any prior arrests, but there were none.
“That’s because the charges were dismissed. Peter had sued Bobby and they settled. Kathie went nuts. She called Peter the night she disappeared, when she was at my house before. She didn’t know it was over. She couldn’t believe it. All she kept saying was the Dursts always win.”
Struk thanked Gilberte for bringing the papers to his attention and reminded her to stay away from the South Salem home. As Gilberte left the precinct, she was convinced that Struk was a dimwit.
Struk studied the itinerary, then returned to a report from the task-force detectives. They had interviewed the couple who lived in the adjoining penthouse on Riverside Drive, Kevin and Ann Doyle, and they had a Kathie Durst story that was, at the least, disturbing.
The Doyles reported that the previous November they had been lying in bed watching television when they heard a pounding sound. It was Kathie Durst, and she was banging on their window, in her pajamas, sobbing uncontrollably and screaming for help. They let her in and sat her down. She explained that she had jumped out of a window in her apartment, climbed over a wall that divided their patios, walked along a balcony, and sought refuge. She and Bobby had been arguing about a woman he was seeing, Prudence Farrow, and he had hit her twice, his hand curled into a fist. Kathie remained with Ann and Kevin until midnight, when Kevin went next door to speak with Bobby, who acknowledged that he and Kathie had argued, but said he never hit her.
Struk could only shake his head when he read that Kathie had gone back to Bobby after assuring the neighbors that she’d be fine.
The Doyles stood in the hallway after Bobby closed the door, expecting to hear a loud outburst.
There was none.
After talking with Gilberte Najamy, Struk called the New York State Police and spoke with Investigator Stan Roman, who agreed to meet him at the home of Bill and Ruth Mayer, who lived in South Salem next door to the Dursts’ home.
The Mayers had known Bobby and Kathie since 1976, when the Dursts bought the cottage. The new neighbors became friendly and socialized on occasion, though the Mayers had no idea they were socializing with the heir to one of New York’s great real estate empires.
Bobby insisted on maintaining a low-key lifestyle, driving older cars, wearing old clothes. And when Bobby and Kathie entertained, they served hot dogs and cheese.
During the summers the Mayers would see Bobby in his canoe, paddling on Lake Truesdale. He was nice enough to make small talk, though their conversations usually didn’t last long.
Kathie was far more personable. Always cheerful, she would stop over for long conversations. The Mayers had a young daughter, just a toddler, who adored Kathie, who’d take time out to play with the girl.
Kathie had wanted children of her own, but confided to Ruth that Bobby made it clear he didn’t want any. She told Ruth about her pregnancy in 1976 and how Bobby demanded she have an abortion.
Within a year the Mayers learned of Bobby’s wealth, and as summers came and went, they watched their neighbors’ marriage disintegrate. They heard through Kathie that Bobby was having an affair with Prudence Farrow, and Kathie confided to Ruth that she, too, had an affair going, with a medical student at Einstein. Kathie was also indulging in drugs and drinking and socializing with her cleaning lady, Janet Finke. Finke was younger than Kathie, blond, and just as pretty. One summer afternoon, during a chat while sitting on the grass behind the Dursts’ home, Kathie told Ruth that she and Janet had gone to a party hosted by Hugh Hefner. It was at the Playboy Mansion in Los Angeles.
“She said it was wild. I asked her what did that mean, lots of sex and drugs? She would only smile and say it was absolutely wild,” said Ruth.
The last time Ruth saw Kathie was a week before she disappeared. She had come up to South Salem for the weekend, alone. Ruth was hosting a small afternoon party and invited Kathie to come over. As soon as she arrived, she began drinking full glasses of wine, chugging them down like soda pop.
“She was just excessive on the wine and coke. She looked lost and distraught,” said Ruth.
Early that evening Ruth said she and Bill, along with another couple, the Picards, decided to have dinner at a local restaurant.
“Kathie asked if she could join us. You could see she was scared to be alone. She came along and all she did was drink and talk, talk all night long about Bobby. She drank two bottles of champagne. Then she said she did something she shouldn’t have done,” said Ruth.
“What was that?” said Struk.
“She said she told Bob she was going to reveal family secrets if she didn’t get more money. Stuff about Bob signing their tax returns and her stock transfers. She wanted a settlement. But the second she told us, she knew she crossed the line. You could see it. She was terrified.”
“And she was too drunk to drive home,” said Bill. “When she ordered the champagne she told us not to worry about it, that she’d pay for it. But when the check came she just put on her coat and walked out of the restaurant. I wouldn’t let her drive, so I took her car and Ruth followed.”
“When was the last time you saw Bobby?” said Struk.
Bill and Ruth looked at each other.
“He came by Thursday afternoon, the day before he reported Kathie missing. He stopped by to ask if we had seen Kathie,” said Bill. “He said she was missing and he didn’t know where she was.”
“I heard that and said, ‘Oh, my God.’ I knew something had happened,” said Ruth.
“What do you think happened?” said Struk.
“Oh, God. The way Kathie was talking, she was terrified. And Bobby has a horrible temper. I don’t want to even think he could have done something to her,” said Ruth.
Roman, the investigator with the state police, joined the meeting after taking a walk around the outside of the Durst home. He sat down next to Struk and said he hadn’t seen anything unusual, except for the broken window on the back door.
Struk knew this was the work of Gilberte Najamy, so he didn’t pay much attention.
Ruth continued to talk, telling Struk she remembered seeing a strange blue light coming from the room downstairs, near where the door was broken.
“It was a couple of days before Bobby reported Kathie had disappeared, which was—what? A Friday? I must have seen the light that Tuesday, it was in the middle of the night. I’d never seen it before, and I haven’t seen it since,” said Ruth. “Are you going to look in the house?”
“It’s my understanding two state troopers were inside the house and didn’t see anything unusual. Besides, she made it into Manhattan,” said Struk, who showed the Mayers the composite of the mystery man who had visited Kathie that Sunday night.
The Mayers didn’t recognize him.
Struk had shown the composite to all of Kathie’s friends and family, but no one could identify the face. They couldn’t even suggest someone who looked familiar.
The mystery man was just that, a mystery, as were the whereabouts of Kathie Durst.
—
When Struk arrived at Hayes’s office downtown on Tuesday, February 16, accompanied by two detectives from the Detective Bureau of Manhattan and a third detective from the Manhattan Task Force, he and Hayes exchanged warm handshakes. After Struk settled into his chair, he got right to the point.
“Roger, I want to drop Bobby Durst’s phone lines. I think something’s screwy here. I need paper,” said Struk.
Struk asked Hayes to subpoena Bobby’s telephone records at his two residences at 37 Riverside Drive and 12 East Eighty-sixth Street. He also wanted the records from Bobby’s office at the Durst Organization’s headquarters at 1133 Avenue of the Americas. In addition, Struk wanted the records from Jacobi Hospital, where Kathie was admitted in January.
“The guy came to us to report his wife missing, then says he thinks s
he’s having an affair with some drug dealer. I’m now thinking it’s all bullshit. Their marriage was on the rocks, she wants a settlement, he’s not giving in. He’s having an affair with another woman and he’s apparently beating the shit out of his wife, who’s all coked up thinking he’s going to kill her. I need paper.”
“You know she could just be paranoid from all the cocaine. How much was she doing?”
“A couple of grams a week, maybe more.”
“Jesus,” said Hayes, who agreed there was probable cause and said he’d sign off.
The two men shook hands and promised to get together for a beer in the near future.
Struk was happy. He had his paper.
He headed uptown to the Riverside Drive penthouse. Bobby agreed to allow the Crime Scene Unit to examine the apartment. Unlike a walk-through, like the one Struk had taken before, this would be a complete search. The CSU investigators brought luminol, a chemical used to find trace elements of blood, spraying it in a sweeping motion in various spots. If blood was present, it would glow.
Bobby was there, and handed Struk what he said was a ransom note.
It was postmarked February 10, 1982. The letter was vague, demanded an unspecified amount of cash, and instructed Bobby to stay by his phone for further instructions. Struk didn’t think much of the letter, which seemed to be a prank.
Bobby watched as the CSU team visited each room. He was his usual aloof, quiet self. If he was distraught, as Struk had read in the papers, he was doing a lousy job maintaining that appearance.
“I read you hired a private eye. Any luck?” said Struk, trying to engage Bobby in casual conversation.
“No. I’m sure if he comes across any information he’ll pass it along to you,” said Bobby.
As the CSU team searched through the bedroom, Struk excused himself and walked back into the living room. He looked over toward the closet by the door, but the coat was gone.
It was the weirdest thing. A Burberry raincoat, something he’d noticed earlier in the week when he entered the penthouse with Mary Hughes, Kathie’s sister, and Mary’s friend Geraldine McInerney. Mary had a key to the penthouse and was desperate to look inside after learning that Bobby tried to sublet the East Eighty-sixth Street apartment on February 4, the day before he reported Kathie missing. Mary also discovered, from one of the building maintenance men, that Bobby had tossed Kathie’s belongings from that apartment down the building trash chute. He threw so much stuff down there, a building employee had to remind him the trash disposal was for garbage only. Mary then called Struk, who agreed to accompany the women to the penthouse.
Mary knew the doorman, who told her that Bobby had left for work that morning. She told him she was taking her sister’s jewelry. The doorman recognized Struk and let them pass through.
Mary, Geraldine, and Struk walked through each room, and the only odd thing they noticed was the coat that hung on the closet door. Geraldine said it was an expensive coat, and it looked like it had been placed in a washing machine, which didn’t make sense.
“You don’t wash a coat like that,” said Geraldine, who estimated it to be worth around $600.
But now the coat was gone. Struk walked over to the closet and opened the door. It wasn’t there either.
The CSU team finished up its search of the apartment, which was clean, though Struk had known the outcome in advance. He thanked Bobby for his continued cooperation during this very difficult time and said he’d be in touch.
When he returned to his office there were more than two dozen messages waiting for him. Some were from people he knew, others were people calling with information on the Durst case. The Durst calls had come in at a steady clip since the stories in the Daily News and Post. People were reporting “Kathie sightings” all over town. Two detectives were sent to a coffee shop on Thirty-ninth Street, where a waitress claimed Kathie had had breakfast after she supposedly disappeared. Even the Secret Service called, saying some of its operatives had found a disoriented woman at the World Trade Center who fit the description of Kathie Durst. Struk also heard from several psychics, one of whom said she “saw” three men drop garbage bags into the East River. Kathie Durst’s body was in those bags, the psychic claimed.
The sightings were quickly discounted. The investigation pressed ahead, though little new information was coming forward. To make matters worse, by the middle of March, Bobby Durst stopped returning Struk’s calls.
9
The tears rolled down Mike Struk’s cheeks, rushing to his jaw and falling from his chin.
He was sitting in the bathroom, the door closed, crying quietly. He could hear the police scanner in the background, the voices interrupted by loud squawks and beeps.
His thoughts were with his children, who were up in Middletown with their mother. He missed them terribly, and there were plenty of days when he’d tell someone he was going to the can when in fact he’d sit on the bowl, close the door, and cry his eyes out.
One particularly long sobbing session ended with Struk waiting several minutes for his eyes to clear before leaving the bathroom.
Gibbons, like the rest of the squad, knew about Struk’s divorce, but never pried. Convinced that Struk had made it out of the bathroom in one emotional piece, the lieutenant handed him an envelope.
It was the medical records Roger Hayes had subpoenaed from Jacobi Hospital.
Struk’s longing for his kids was quickly replaced by his longing for the information that was in the file, which he consumed.
It was the first bit of new information to come along in several weeks. The investigation had all but stalled, even after Struk and a host of other detectives from the Twentieth Precinct and the Manhattan Task Force had tracked down every lead, followed up on every phone call, and even spoke with soothsayers and psychics. Struk studied the records, which stated that Kathie had checked into Jacobi Hospital during the early afternoon of January 2, 1982. She told the doctors she had been beaten by her husband. An examination determined she had a history of blunt trauma to the left side of the face.
When the doctors pressed her for information, Kathie admitted that she wasn’t just slapped, but punched, and several times. She was bruised, but the outward markings were faint. She had pressure and tightness over her left cheek and eye. The doctors gave her Tylenol and advice to find a new husband.
The records confirmed what everyone was saying, that Bobby was beating his wife. And not just slapping her, but using her as a punching bag.
A real scumbag, thought Struk, who felt the strong urge to go down to Bobby’s Sixth Avenue office in the middle of the afternoon, police lights flashing, the press surrounding the front entrance, and march Bobby out in handcuffs. But Gibbons called him into his office.
Struk was told to set up a meeting downtown at police headquarters.
—
“What’s your name?”
“Eddie Lopez.”
“What’s your occupation?”
“I work as a building employee at Thirty-seven Riverside Drive.”
“Were you working the evening of Sunday, January thirty-first?”
“Yes.”
Lopez sat in a darkened room at One Police Plaza, answering questions from Millie Markman, the NYPD’s hypnotist.
Mike Struk sat off to the side, in the darkness and out of view, his head resting on one hand, his eyes closed.
He had driven Lopez downtown at the request of Gibbons, whose superiors had suggested hypnosis. The New York media continued to cover the Kathie Durst story, running pieces every week, theorizing that Kathie met foul play at the hands of a mystery man who entered her apartment that Sunday night, the last day of January. Was he a friend, a lover, or perhaps a drug dealer?
The brass were still paying attention, and “suggested” hypnosis.
Struk thought it was a colossal waste of time.
<
br /> “You fucking kidding me?” he said when Gibbons told him to set up the appointment with Markman.
Struk hated the idea, but realized he had no choice, so he agreed to draw up the questions. They were all standard. Did you ever see the man before? Can you describe him? What did Kathie say when she opened the door? Did she look drunk or sick?
He wanted to add a few other questions. Are you really hypnotized? Do you know who killed JFK?
As Lopez was “put under,” Struk sat there, unimpressed, privately wondering if Markman could hypnotize a banana.
Lopez’s story, supposedly under hypnosis, was the same as it had been before: he took Kathie up to her apartment around 11 P.M. and soon after a white male, about thirty-five, clean-cut with a good build and short black hair and a neat black mustache, paid her a visit.
Struk thanked Markman for her wasted efforts, drove Lopez to Riverside Drive, then returned to the Twentieth Precinct.
“How did it go?” said Gibbons.
Struk was flippant. “We solved the case,” he said, walking straight to his desk.
Gibbons said nothing, wondering only what Struk would do next.
—
Mary Hughes’s East Side apartment was filled with family and a few close friends. The mood was somber, conversation reduced to a whisper. Mary’s husband, Tom, a New York City fireman, handed Jim McCormack a beer while Ann McCormack sat on the end of a sofa, paying little attention to the discussion that centered on her son-in-law.
Ann was lost in thought. Kathie was her youngest daughter, her baby, the teenage runway model who left her Long Island home when she was nineteen to begin a new life in Manhattan working as a dental assistant.
Kathie had always been spunky, and prone to rash behavior, especially after her father died in 1966 when she was just fourteen. So it wasn’t surprising to Ann when Kathie announced not only that she had found an apartment, but that she had a boyfriend, an older man. Ann didn’t know what to make of Bobby Durst. He seemed nice enough. He was quiet, reserved, though he never showered Kathie with affection. He was also Jewish, which didn’t quite endear him to Ann’s heart. She was Irish-Catholic and believed in family and the Church, and not necessarily in that order.
A Deadly Secret: The Story of Robert Durst Page 8