It seems incredible to think that at thirteen or fourteen, Rob might have committed a murder. Or was it? He’d been only fourteen when he viciously assaulted Christopher Cassidy.
I reasoned that in those years he had been at Arbinger in Massachusetts for a year and a half, then spent six months at Bath Public School in England, two years in Carrington Academy in Maine, and a semester or so in Willow, a nondescript college near Buffalo. The Westerfields have a house in Vail and another in Palm Beach. It seemed to me that Rob must have visited those places. He also may have gone on class trips abroad.
That was a lot of territory to cover. I knew I needed help.
Marcus Longo had been a detective with the Westchester County District Attorney’s Office for twenty-five years. If anyone could track down the homicide of a man with only a first name as a clue, my money would be on him.
Fortunately, when I phoned Marcus, I reached him instead of an answering machine. As I suspected, he had flown to Colorado to pick up his wife. “We stayed a few extra days to look at some houses,” he explained. “I think we found one.”
His tone changed. “I was going to tell you all about the baby, but that can hold. I understand a lot of things have happened since I’ve been gone.”
“I would have to agree with that, Marcus. May I buy you lunch? I need some advice.”
“The advice is free. I buy the lunch.”
* * *
WE MET AT THE DEPOT RESTAURANT in Cold Spring. There, over club sandwiches and coffee, I filled him in on my eventful week.
He stopped me regularly with questions.
“Do you think the fire was set to scare you or actually to kill you?”
“I was more than scared; I wasn’t sure I’d get out alive.”
“All right. And you say the Oldham police think you set it?”
“Officer White has done everything but cuff me.”
“His cousin used to be in the D.A.’s office when I was there. He’s a judge now and a member of the same country club as Rob’s father. In fairness, he always thought Paulie Stroebel was guilty of Andrea’s murder. I bet he’s the one who has White riled up about you. That Website is mighty provocative to anyone who’s hand-in-glove with the Westerfields.”
“Then it’s a success.”
I looked around to make sure that I could not be overheard. “Marcus—”
“Ellie, do you realize your eyes keep darting around this place? Who or what are you looking for?”
I told him about Rob Westerfield showing up at the inn. “He didn’t get there until I’d almost finished dinner,” I said. “Someone called him and tipped him off. I’m sure of it.”
I knew that next Marcus would either warn me to be careful or ask me to stop putting inflammatory material on the Website. I didn’t give him the chance.
“Marcus, I received a call from someone who was in prison with Rob.” I told him about the deal I had made to buy information and then about the phone call last night.
He listened quietly, his eyes searching my face.
He heard me out, then asked, “You believe this guy, don’t you?”
“Marcus, I knew I might be suckered into losing five thousand dollars. But this is different. This man was in fear of his life. He wanted me to know about Phil because he wanted revenge on Westerfield.”
“You say he referred to the sign you were holding up outside the prison?”
“Yes.”
“You’re assuming he was a convict, so that means he probably was released that day. You were only there once, isn’t that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Ellie, that guy could also be a prison employee who was entering or leaving the prison while you were standing outside. Money buys favors from some guards as well as from other prisoners.”
I hadn’t thought about that. “I was hoping that you could get a list of the prisoners who were discharged the day after Westerfield. Then you could see if anything happened to any one of them.”
“I can do that. Ellie, you realize this also could be some nut playing games.”
“I know that, but I don’t think so.” I opened my pocketbook. “I’ve made a list of the schools Rob West-erfield attended, both here and in England, and the places where his family has homes. There are databases listing unsolved homicides that took place between twenty-two and twenty-seven years ago, aren’t there?”
“Of course.”
“Westchester County has one?”
“Yes.”
“Can you access it, or get someone else to do it for you?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Then it shouldn’t be too hard to learn if there’s a victim whose name is Phil?”
“No, it shouldn’t.”
“How about checking an unsolved crimes database in the areas around the schools and homes where Westerfield spent time?”
He looked at the list. “Massachusetts, Maine, Florida, Colorado, New York, England.” He whistled. “That’s a lot of territory. I’ll see what I can do.”
“One more thing. Knowing the way Rob Westerfield operates, is there a database for solved crimes that would list Phil as the victim and someone claiming innocence as serving time for it?”
“Ellie, nine out of ten people convicted at trial and behind bars claim somebody else did it. Let’s start with unsolved homicides and see where we go.”
“Tomorrow I’m going to put Christopher Cassidy’s story about Rob on the Website. No one would question Cassidy’s integrity, so his account should carry some weight. I never did get up to Carrington Academy. I’ll see if I can make an appointment there for Monday or Tuesday.”
“Check the student roster for the years Westerfield was there,” Marcus said as he signaled for the check.
“I’ve thought of that. One of the schools might have had a student named Phil who tangled with Westerfield.”
“That opens the territory,” Marcus warned. “The students in prep school come from all over the country. Westerfield could have followed one of them home to settle a grudge.”
“ ‘I beat Phil to death, and it felt good.’ ”
Who were the people who loved Phil? I wondered. Were they still grieving? Of course they were.
The waitress was placing the tab in front of Marcus. I waited until she was gone before I said, “I can call my connection at Arbinger. He’s been pretty helpful. When I go to Carrington and Willow College, I’ll ask about students from Westerfield’s time. Philip isn’t that common a name.”
“Ellie, you’ve told me you believe Rob Westerfield was tipped off that you were at dinner the other night?”
“Yes.”
“You told me that your informant claimed to be in fear of his life?”
“Yes.”
“Ellie, Rob Westerfield is worried your Website could influence his grandmother to leave her money to charity. Now he may be terrified that you could uncover another crime that might send him back to prison. Don’t you realize how precarious your situation is?”
“I honestly do, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Damn it, Ellie, yes you can! Your father was a state trooper. He’s retired. You could live in his house. He could be your bodyguard. Trust me, you need one. And something else: If that guy’s story is on the level, helping to put Westerfield back in prison would help your father have closure, too. I don’t think you understand how tough this has been on him.”
“He’s been in touch with you?”
“Yes, he has.”
“Marcus, you mean well,” I said as we stood up, “but I don’t think you understand something. My father got his closure when he let us go and never lifted a finger to bring us back. My mother needed and expected him to do that, but he did nothing. Next time he calls, tell him to watch his son play basketball and leave me alone.”
Marcus gave me a hug as we separated in the parking lot. “I’ll call you as soon as I start getting answers,” he promised.
I drove
back to the inn. Mrs. Willis was at the desk. “Your brother is waiting for you in the sunroom,” she said.
32
HE WAS STANDING in front of the window, looking out, his back to me. He was a good six feet three, taller than I’d realized when I saw him on television. He was wearing khaki pants and sneakers and his school jacket. His hands were in his pockets, and he was jiggling his right foot. I had the impression that he was nervous.
He must have heard my footsteps because he turned around. We looked at each other.
“You’ll never be able to deny her,” my grandmother used to joke to my mother about Andrea. “She’s growing up to be the image of you.”
If she were here, she’d be saying the same sort of thing to us. In appearance, at least, we could never deny each other.
“Hello, Ellie. I’m your brother, Teddy.” He walked to me, holding out his hand.
I ignored it.
“Can’t I just talk to you for five minutes?” His voice had not yet fully deepened, but it was well modulated. He looked worried but determined.
I shook my head and turned to leave.
“You’re my sister,” he said. “You could at least give me five minutes. You might even like me if you knew me.”
I turned back to him. “Teddy, you seem like a nice young man, but I’m sure you have better things to do than spend time with me. I know you’ve been sent by your father. He just doesn’t seem to get the fact that I never want to see or hear from him again.”
“He’s your father, too. Whether you believe it or not, he never stopped being your father. He didn’t send me. He doesn’t know I’m here. I came because I wanted to meet you. I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
There was appeal in his voice. “Why don’t we have a soda or something?”
I shook my head.
“Please, Ellie.”
Maybe it was the way my name fell from his lips, or maybe I just have a hard time being downright rude. This kid hadn’t done anything to me.
I heard myself saying, “There’s a soda machine in the hall.” I started to dig in my purse.
“I’ve got it. What kind do you want?”
“Plain water.”
“Me, too. I’ll be right back.” His smile was both shy and relieved.
I sat on the brightly patterned wicker love seat, trying to figure out how to send him away. I didn’t want to listen to a pitch about what a great father we had and how I should let bygones be bygones.
Maybe he was a great father for two of his children, Andrea and you, I thought, but I slipped between the cracks.
Teddy returned carrying the two bottles of water. I could read his mind as he eyed the love seat and the chair. He made the wise decision and chose the chair. I did not want him to sit beside me. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, I thought. No, that has to do with Adam and Eve, not siblings.
Half siblings.
“Ellie, would you come and see me play basketball sometime?”
It wasn’t what I expected.
“I mean, couldn’t we be friends at least? I always kept hoping you’d come and visit us, but if you won’t do that, maybe you and I can just get together sometimes. I read your book last year, about the cases you’ve worked on. It was great. I’d like to talk to you about them.”
“Teddy, I’m awfully busy right now and—”
He interrupted: “I watch your Website every day. The way you write about Westerfield must be driving him crazy. Ellie, you’re my sister, and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
I wanted to say, “Please don’t call me your sister,” but the words died on my lips. I settled for “Please don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“Can’t I help you? This morning I read in the paper about what happened to your car. Suppose somebody loosens a wheel or a brake in the one you’re driving now? I’m good with cars. I could check yours out for you before you go anywhere, or I could even drive you around in mine.”
He was so earnest and so concerned that I had to smile. “Teddy, you have school and, I’m sure, plenty of basketball practice. And now I honestly have to get to work.”
He stood up with me. “We look a lot alike,” he said.
“I know we do.”
“I’m glad. Ellie, I’m getting out of your way now, but I’m coming back.”
Would to God your father had had the same persistence, I thought. Then I realized that if he had, this boy would never have been born.
* * *
I WORKED FOR A COUPLE of hours, refining the way I would present Christopher Cassidy’s story for the Website. When I thought I had it right, I e-mailed it to his office for his approval.
At four o’clock Marcus Longo called. “Ellie, the Westerfields have taken a page out of your book. They have a Website: comjusrob.com.”
“Let me guess what it stands for: ‘Committee for Justice for Rob.’ ”
“You have it. I understand they’ve taken out ads in all the Westchester papers to advertise it. Basically the strategy is to present touching stories of people who were wrongly convicted of crimes.”
“Thereby linking them to Rob Westerfield, the most innocent of them all.”
“You’ve got it. But they’ve also been doing some digging about you, and they’ve come up with some unfortunate stuff.”
“Meaning what?”
“The Fromme Center, a psychiatric facility.”
“I did an undercover story on it. It was a rip-off joint. Paid a fortune by the state of Georgia, and not one legitimate psychiatrist or psychologist on staff.”
“Were you a patient there?”
“Marcus, are you crazy? Of course I wasn’t.”
“Was there a photograph taken of you in the Fromme Center in which you were lying on a bed with your arms and legs in restraints?”
“Yes, there was, and it was taken to illustrate what had been going on there. After the state closed Fromme and moved the patients to other facilities, we did a follow-up story on the way they had kept people shackled for days at a time. Why?”
“It’s on the Westerfields’ Website.”
“Without explanation?”
“Insinuating that you were forcibly held there.” He paused. “Ellie, are you surprised that these people play dirty?”
“I’d be surprised if they didn’t, frankly. I’ll put the full article, including picture and text, on my Website. I’ll do it under a new heading: ‘Latest Westerfield Lie.’ But I do understand that a lot of people who see his Website may not see mine.”
“And the other way around. That’s my next concern. Ellie, are you planning to put anything on the Website about the other possible homicide?”
“I’m not sure. On the one hand, someone who sees it might come forward with information about a murder victim. On the other hand, it might tip off Rob Westerfield and in some way help him cover his tracks.”
“Or get rid of someone who could give damaging testimony against him. You’ve got to be very careful.”
“That may already have happened.”
“Exactly. Let me know what you decide.”
* * *
I WENT ONLINE and found the new Website of “The Committee for Justice for Robson Westerfield.”
It had been handsomely designed with a quotation from Voltaire under the heading: It is better to risk saving a guilty person than to condemn an innocent one.
The picture of a grave and contemplative Rob Westerfield was directly below the quote. It was followed by stories of people who genuinely had been imprisoned for someone else’s crime. The stories were well written and pulled on heartstrings. It didn’t take a great leap to figure that Jake Bern had been the author.
The personal section on the Website made the Westerfields sound like American royalty. There were pictures of Rob as a baby with his grandfather, the United States senator, and at age nine or ten with his grandmother, helping her cut the ribbon on a new Westerfield children’s center. There were shots
of him with his parents boarding the Queen Elizabeth II and dressed in tennis whites at The Everglades Club.
I guess the idea was to convey that it was beneath the dignity of this privileged young man to take a human life.
I was the star of the next page of the Website. It showed me spread out on the bed in the Fromme psychiatric center, my legs and arms shackled, wearing one of the pitifully inadequate nightshirts that were mandatory for the patients. I was only partially covered by a thin rag of a blanket.
The caption was “The witness whose testimony convicted Robson Westerfield.”
I clicked off. I have a mannerism I had picked up from my father. When he was absolutely furious about something, he had a way of biting the right corner of his lip.
I was doing exactly that.
I sat for half an hour trying to calm down as I reviewed the pros and cons, and tried to figure out how to handle publicizing Westerfield’s alleged confession of another murder.
Marcus Longo had talked about a territorial problem in trying to track down an unsolved homicide Rob Westerfield may have committed.
The Website was international.
Would I be exposing anyone to risk by putting the name of the supposed victim out there?
But my unidentified caller was already at risk, and he knew it.
In the end I composed a simple entry.
“Somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-seven years ago, it is alleged, Rob Westerfield committed another crime. He is directly quoted as saying when he was high on drugs in prison, ‘I beat Phil to death, and it felt good.’
“Anyone with information about this crime, please e-mail me at [email protected]. Confidentiality and reward.”
I looked it over. Rob Westerfield will certainly read it, I thought. But suppose he knows there is someone besides my unknown caller who has information that could hurt him?
There are two things an investigative reporter does not do: reveal sources and place innocent people in danger.
I put the entry on hold.
33
ON FRIDAY EVENING I broke down and phoned Pete Lawlor.
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