When Schreiber left New York that summer for Colorado, Kathie was despondent. Eleanor tried to assure her that she was not in love, that it was just a fling. In time, Kathie realized Eleanor was right. And deep down, she still held on to some hope that Bobby would change, that they could work out their problems and somehow remain a couple.
But then came Prudence Farrow, who would call Kathie at home, demanding that she let Bobby go. Kathie wouldn’t budge. But as the marriage crumbled even further, as the beatings became more intense, Kathie finally realized that it was over, and she decided she’d file for a divorce and seek a modest settlement to go with it.
She broke the news to Eleanor, who thought it was about time. Kathie told Gilberte during a winter vacation in Puerto Rico.
The trip was Gilberte’s idea. It was February 1981. Gilberte had bought the tickets and paid for the hotel. After they arrived Kathie told her friend she was going to divorce Bobby. Gilberte was thrilled. Things couldn’t have worked out better. Kathie was at an emotional low, and she was here, alone with Gilberte, who envisioned holding Kathie in her arms, comforting her, caressing and kissing her.
But Kathie had other plans, and they didn’t include Gilberte. Each night Gilberte waited patiently for Kathie to return to their room, but Kathie was off with a man she’d met the first day they arrived.
Gilberte was infuriated.
When they returned to New York, Gilberte reminded Kathie how much she owed her for the trip, and she’d appreciate a check. Kathie said fine. The check never came.
That summer Kathie hired attorney Dale Ragus and moved forward with her decision to seek a divorce. As the summer turned to fall, Bobby resisted, adamantly refusing to give Kathie any substantial settlement. He made her life a living hell, often waking her up in the middle of the night to argue after a long day at school. He denied her access to cash and cut off most of her credit cards.
Three months before she disappeared, Eleanor knew Kathie was a wreck. She was becoming paranoid, snorting as much as three grams of cocaine a week.
She wasn’t sleeping and her studies were suffering. She had no money, and had even turned to Seymour for a handout. Seymour knew his son and pretty wife were having problems, but it wasn’t his business, and he wouldn’t interfere. He couldn’t. He knew his son all too well. Bobby was the heir apparent, and conducted his personal life the same way he conducted his business affairs, privately.
As Kathie pressed for the divorce, she made it clear she wasn’t going to step aside without a settlement.
“Eleanor, I have papers. I have information. Stock transfers. Income-tax statements. He forged my name! I have information on Bobby. I’m not coming out of this marriage without anything!” said Kathie.
“You don’t need his money!” Eleanor would argue. “Drop it. You’re dealing with something you just can’t win. It’s much bigger than you realize. These are powerful people.”
But Kathie thought she was back in college, fighting the administration over the nursing caps.
“I’m going to win this, Eleanor. I’m going to win.”
Instead, Eleanor received a call on January 2 from a sobbing Kathie, who said she had been beaten yet again.
“Get to the hospital. You have to get this documented,” said Eleanor, who hoped this was the final straw.
Three weeks later Eleanor learned that Kathie had disappeared, and she was the first of Kathie’s friends to say that she was dead.
—
Ellen Strauss didn’t know what to think when she heard the news that Kathie was missing. Ellen was a law-school student with modellike beauty and a brain to go with it. She, too, had been a student at WCSC before turning her attention to the law. She was older than Kathie, by eight years, and was married.
Ellen carried herself well, and she knew it. She was very attractive—thin, shapely, with light golden brown hair that curled under her chin. She was meticulous and extremely organized, to the point where her friends thought she was beyond obsessive. Every meeting, every conversation would be written into a calendar book, to be recorded forever. Ellen was friendly with Eleanor Schwank and had met Gilberte only once or twice before Kathie disappeared. Ellen was one of Kathie’s non-drug friends and was unaware of Kathie’s cocaine use. She knew only that her friend was the member of a wealthy family and a medical student who had severe marital difficulties. So severe that Kathie would call Ellen at all hours of the day and night, seeking advice on how to work through the divorce and get a just settlement.
Ellen would remind Kathie that she was only a law-school student, not a full-fledged attorney, but Kathie would ramble on, hours at a time, and Ellen would patiently listen.
Meanwhile, after weeks of trying to find the answers, and with little word from the police, the patience of Kathie’s friends was running out. Eleanor, Ellen, and Gilberte decided to drive into Manhattan and pay a visit to Mike Struk.
At 7 P.M. on Friday, March 19, the three women were led up to the third floor of the Twentieth Precinct station house and into the detectives’ squad room. They were lucky. Struk was there, though he didn’t seem pleased to see them standing there, waiting at the front gate.
Struk had already met Gilberte. He was immediately smitten with Ellen. Struk pulled two more chairs over to his desk, and the women sat down. But before the detective could offer a single word, Eleanor jumped on him, the questions coming rapid fire.
“What is going on?” she demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“Why hasn’t Bobby been arrested?”
“We’re conducting an investigation.”
“You know Kathie feared Bobby would kill her and told all of her friends, what are you doing about it?”
Ellen, the budding attorney, tried to intervene, attempting a little diplomacy. But Eleanor, the rabble-rouser, had already pounced and drew first blood.
“I’m telling you Bobby murdered Kathie, and if you’re conducting such a thorough investigation, why didn’t you trace their phone calls? You would have seen that I was on the phone with Kathie for hours and you would have called me for an interview. Instead I have to come here and ask why haven’t you called me, and why aren’t you searching the South Salem house? Bobby’s throwing her stuff out, her books and clothes, everything!”
Struk paused while Ellen cringed. She could see that the detective’s eyes were afire. And any thought Ellen had that Struk would at the least be pleasant to these women, who had barged in unannounced, went through the ventilator shaft and out onto West Eighty-second Street.
Struk wanted to put his thoughts into words, spew them out, then throw these women out of his office. Criticize me? I’ve been working this case day and night with a dozen other detectives for two months, and you’re going to come into my building and tell me I’m fucking incompetent?
He was simmering, but regained his composure. His face, which turned a slight shade of red as Eleanor delivered her speech, returned to its pale color. Struk managed to get ahold of his emotions.
He looked at Ellen and spoke slowly, so they would all understand.
“I’m conducting an investigation, and I’m conducting it the way I think it should be conducted,” he said calmly. “I know about the clothes, and I know he beat his wife, and I know a lot of other things, but I’m not going to divulge any information to you or anyone else. As for the South Salem home, it’s not in my jurisdiction. My business is in New York City. And New York City is where she was last seen alive.”
Struk wasn’t about to tell these women that he believed them, that he believed Bobby Durst knew more than he was saying, that he wanted to arrest Bobby. He could taste it. He dreamed about it. But he just couldn’t do it. Not yet.
And he couldn’t tell them about the things he knew. A week after Bobby reported Kathie missing, Struk had received a call from a Dr. Marcia Naveh, who was a resident at Ein
stein working in Jacobi Hospital. The chief resident, said Naveh, was Alan Schreiber, and it was common knowledge that Schreiber and Kathie Durst were having an affair. The suggestion was that Schreiber might know where Kathie was.
Struk called Schreiber in his Denver, Colorado, office several days later. Schreiber had been in Colorado since the summer of 1980 and he didn’t say much to Struk, except that he had met Kathie during his residency and hadn’t seen her since he left for Denver. Struk didn’t press the doctor about the affair.
Struk rose from his seat and extended his hand to Ellen and Gilberte.
“Sorry, but there’s not much more I can tell you,” he said, turning to Eleanor, grabbing her hand, and tightening his grip so hard her fingers were crushed together. It was uncomfortable, but didn’t hurt. Still, the message was delivered: don’t fuck with me.
As the women walked out of the precinct, Eleanor thought she’d just met a Neanderthal.
“They’re incompetent. All of them. I don’t understand it. We all know Bobby did it,” said Eleanor.
Ellen said little. She was trying to be more pragmatic. As a budding attorney, she knew that evidence, not theory, was all the police could go on. She didn’t like the way Eleanor attacked Struk, trying to intimidate him into doing something. Ellen needed to make it up to him, get him on their side.
Struk was still angry after the women left. He walked to the back of the room and poured himself a cup of coffee. He was tired and frustrated, having spent a solid seven weeks searching for Kathie Durst. He put the coffee down on his desk, fingered through his Rolodex, and stopped at H.
11
Roger Hayes was sitting in his downtown office, sporting a wide smile.
Hayes always smiled, especially when he was preparing to deliver bad news, which was one of the reasons why Mike Struk, who was making his case for arresting Bobby Durst, liked him so much.
Struk’s hard exterior hid the fact that he had been shaken by the meeting several days earlier with Ellen Strauss, Eleanor Schwank, and Gilberte Najamy. Despite his anger, he agreed with them. He wanted to arrest Bobby. Or at the least bring his evidence, though circumstantial, before a grand jury.
“I have the hospital records, his own interviews, which were filled with lies, mistruths, and discrepancies. I don’t know what to make of that itinerary and the boot receipt yet, but I have Kathie Durst’s friends, all of whom can testify that she lived in terror of her husband,” said Struk. “He was beating her pretty regularly, Roger. And now the prick won’t even talk to me. I know you think we’ve got something here. Can we go to the grand jury?”
Hayes smiled as he shook his head no.
“Mike, you know we could indict him if we wanted to. That’s the easy part,” said Hayes. “But what do you think is going to happen here?”
Hayes methodically laid out the scenario.
“Let’s say Bobby is arrested. The next day it would be on the front pages of all the local newspapers. There will be crazy headlines, like ‘Son of Real Estate King Indicted for Murder of Wife!’ Your picture will be on page one, Mike, leading Bobby in handcuffs into a waiting police car. It would make a big splash, and everyone would be happy, for a little while.”
Hayes paused for a moment, reloading his thoughts.
“But the reality of the case is that all we have is circumstantial evidence, no matter how compelling we may think it is. It just isn’t enough. We either need a confession, which we know isn’t coming, or physical evidence, a body, a body part, body fluids.”
The smile was gone from Hayes’s face as he leaned across his desk toward Struk.
“Let’s think about this. Bobby would be indicted, and then hire the best criminal attorneys in town. They would destroy our case, and they’d do it by attacking his wife. Yeah, they’d bring in her drug use, her affairs, her problems at school. And who’s she hanging out with? Some guy you’re telling me is a drug dealer? And a woman who claims to be one of her best friends and may also be dealing? If we go to trial and Bobby is acquitted, which would be highly likely, then what? He couldn’t be prosecuted even if they found Kathie’s body. Double jeopardy would come into play.”
“And that would be that,” said Struk.
“And that would be that,” said Hayes. “So you see, my friend, indicting Bob Durst would not be the smart, or prudent, thing to do. I would suggest you get a confession, or find a body.”
—
On his way uptown Struk pulled his car over and ordered a beef gyro and a soda from a street vendor, the Russian dressing spilling onto his white shirt as he tried to navigate traffic on Eighth Avenue with one hand and eat his fat, sloppy sandwich with the other.
After parking his car and walking up to the squad room, Struk saw he had a visitor waiting for him. It was Ellen Strauss.
Of all the people the detective had met since Bobby Durst walked into the Twentieth Precinct on February 5, Ellen seemed the most reasonable, not to mention that she was very attractive, dressed well, and carried herself like a woman should.
Seeing Ellen lifted his spirits. If it had been Gilberte Najamy or Eleanor Schwank standing there, he would have said he was busy and quickly dismissed her.
But Ellen was different, and he brought her to his desk before excusing himself for a moment to visit the bathroom to clean the dressing from the gyro that remained on his white shirt.
“I see you had a little accident,” said Ellen.
“That’s what happens when you try to do too much,” said Struk.
Ellen understood the double meaning. She could see that the detective was still sore after his last meeting with the three friends. And unlike the other two, Ellen was of the opinion that Struk was spending a lot of time on this case. She reasoned that if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have seethed as he had, especially toward Eleanor.
So Ellen decided she would try to make nice, to bring Struk into their fold.
Struk returned from the bathroom, sat down, and asked what he could do for her.
“Listen, I had some business in Manhattan today and I wanted to stop by to invite you to a party I’m having this weekend,” said Ellen. “It’s going to be me and seventy of my closest friends at my house in Connecticut.”
“A party?” said Struk, his tough exterior melting just a bit. He was taken aback, actually surprised and pleased by the gesture. Working the Durst case, along with the problems in his personal life, hadn’t left him much time for partying. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d received an invitation to attend a party in Connecticut, of all places.
His first thought was to accept, but he knew this was still an active case and perhaps it wouldn’t be proper.
Ellen assured him there would be no drugs at the party, something she always insisted upon, and that plenty of pretty, available professional women would be in attendance.
“You’re not married, are you?” asked Ellen.
“Separated,” said Struk. “But I’m not really looking.”
“I took the liberty of writing this down,” she said, handing him directions to her home. “If you’re free, please come up.”
“Okay,” said Struk. “If I can make it, I will.”
Struk watched Ellen as she left the room. Lieutenant Gibbons walked over to the detective, whose eyes remained on Ellen.
“That,” he said, “is one nice-looking lady.”
“That’s Ellen Strauss. She just invited me to a party at her house Saturday night. Whaddaya think, lou?”
“Will it help the case?”
“Let’s call it a covert operation,” Struk quipped. “Actually, she said there’ll be seventy people there. Maybe I’ll bump into someone who has something to offer.”
“Okay,” said Gibbons. “Just make sure you sign out that you’re going to Connecticut. And take someone with you.”
—
The house had been hard to find. Struk had grabbed another detective, Rocco Marriotti, told him they had a tough job that night, and headed up to the Bronx, to the Hutchinson River Parkway north to the Merritt Parkway and into Connecticut. It was about an hour’s drive from Manhattan. It was dusk, and as Struk drove up Route 53 in Weston, he could see some of the homes that lined each side of the road.
They were large Colonials and Tudors, and even a mansion or two. Struk realized he was out of his territory, and even out of his league. Ellen’s street was in a wooded area, where the homes were somewhat smaller but still attractive. Cars lined the gravel road and filled Ellen’s small driveway. People were milling around outside, some smoking marijuana. He saw others, farther away, their hands reaching up to their noses.
Ellen had said her home was drug-free, but that hadn’t stopped some of her guests from indulging outside in the darkness.
The red-and-black-trimmed two-story home was, as Struk had imagined, complete with dark, hardwood floors and antique furniture. The house was bulging with people and Struk’s six-foot-three-inch frame towered above most guests. He caught a glimpse of Eleanor Schwank, who was making her way through the crowd from the other end of the room, heading straight for Ellen.
“Do you see who’s here!” said Eleanor, pointing over to Struk, who stood awkwardly by the front door. “What the fuck is he doing here?”
Ellen grabbed Eleanor’s arm.
“Take it easy. I invited him. I didn’t like how our last meeting ended and we need him on our side,” she said.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Eleanor, then stormed into the kitchen area. She had no use for Struk. She didn’t like his investigation, she didn’t like his attitude when they met, and she sure didn’t like his handshake.
Ellen made her way through the crowd and walked over to the detectives, who were still standing by the front door.
A Deadly Secret: The Story of Robert Durst Page 11