by Dana Perry
“That’s the only reason I can think of why he kept chasing after me the way he did.”
“Maybe he really liked you.”
“Well, he said he did.”
“So?”
“He’s a liar, remember?”
“Okay, no one’s perfect.” Ellen laughed.
“I’m just glad I didn’t sleep with him.”
“Why would that have been so bad? You might have had fun. No matter who he was. As for the lying, I’ve slept with a lot of men who’ve lied to me about a lot of things. It’s not that big a deal.”
“It is to me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to sleep with anyone I don’t respect.”
“Well, that sure cuts down your dating pool by quite a bit.”
We talked then about a lot of other stuff. Including the unsettling conclusion of the search for my father – my non-existent father, as I found out – with the genealogy investigator she’d set me up with. My emotional trip to Sam’s apartment that night when I’d unsuccessfully offered myself up for sex with him. And then back to my front-page story in the Tribune that was sitting in front of us.
“Do you think Sanders did it?” Ellen asked me.
“I still have trouble believing that. I met the guy, Ellen. He seemed to love Maura Walsh very much. Oh, I know that emotional passion like that can lead to murderous passion too. But I didn’t see that in him. He was sad about Maura and him, more than he was angry at her. I know how bad it looks that he made up that phony alibi for the time of her murder. But they haven’t actually charged him with the murder yet. Which means they don’t have any direct evidence linking him to her death or the crime scene.”
“Of course, if Sanders is guilty,” Ellen pointed out, “that means all the rest of it doesn’t mean anything. The payoffs; corrupt cops; mob involvement; and the troubled relationship between Maura and her father. All of that becomes irrelevant to the story if Sanders murdered her in a jealous rage.”
“I understand that.”
“Which is maybe why you don’t want to believe the really simple answer of Charlie Sanders that’s right in front of you.”
“I plan to keep working this story,” I said. “Until I find out more about Sanders and about all the rest of it.”
Ellen nodded.
“What are you going to do next?”
“Go see Maura Walsh’s psychiatrist.”
“A psychiatrist isn’t going to talk to a newspaper reporter like you about a patient.”
“I know that.”
“And, even if she did, what could she possibly tell you that is important to finding out who killed Maura Walsh?”
“I know that too.”
“Then why waste your time?”
“Because another journalist once told me when I was starting out in this business that I needed to always ask questions – no matter how futile and unimportant they might seem – because—”
“Because that’s what a reporter does,” Ellen finished.
“Exactly.”
“I can see I taught you well, Jessie,” she said with a smile.
Fifty-Three
The psychiatrist’s name was Kowalski. Julie Kowalski. She had an office in a medical building on Madison Avenue in the 50s. I made an appointment to go see her there.
My plan was to pretend I was a patient, make up some story about why I was there for psychiatric counseling and then – when I thought the time was right – ask her about Maura Walsh.
I knew it wouldn’t be easy getting medical information about a patient from a doctor. But at least this way I’d be inside her office when she said no – not at the other end of a phone or trying to get a message through her receptionist.
But that plan went off the rails as soon as I walked into her office because she recognized me from all the media attention I’d gotten recently over my own Central Park case.
She immediately assumed I was there to get professional help for all the emotional turmoil I’d endured – and maybe that wouldn’t have been a bad idea for me to do. But I had no desire to open myself up emotionally to this woman about my real story, only the fake one I’d concocted for this visit.
Now that plan wasn’t going to work. So I resorted to doing what I do as a reporter to get a story when I can’t think of any other alternative: I told the truth.
“I’m not here to talk about myself, Dr. Kowalski,” I said. “I only said that so you would see me. I’m working on a story for the Tribune about the murder of Maura Walsh. While doing this, I’ve uncovered a lot of disturbing information. I’ve also learned that she was a patient of yours. I understand the concept of doctor/patient confidentiality in most cases. But this isn’t most cases. Also, Maura Walsh is dead now. The information you have from her could help find out who killed her and why. Will you help me do that?”
Dr. Kowalski was middle-aged, attractive, with short brown hair – but very professional-looking too. More than professional, she had a “no-nonsense” look to her. She looked like a psychiatrist. Or at least my idea of what a woman psychiatrist would look like. If I saw her on the street and didn’t know anything about her, I’d probably guess she was some kind of a doctor. And because she was a doctor – a professional, no-nonsense doctor – I wasn’t surprised by her answer.
“I cannot divulge information about any patient of mine to you,” she said.
“But Maura Walsh isn’t your patient anymore. She’s dead.”
“The death of a patient does not alter the doctor/patient relationship. What she might have told me about herself remains sacrosanct. It cannot leave this office – even after she is no longer alive.”
“I understand, but—”
“Ms. Tucker, I have other patients to see. If you’re not here as a patient, you have to leave. I will not discuss a patient with you.”
“But in this particular case—”
“You can ask me the question as many times as you want, but my answer will remain the same. And that answer is ‘no’.”
I needed some kind of a Hail Mary to get through this woman’s resistance to talk. So I tried one.
“Did you care about Maura Walsh, doctor?”
“I care about all my patients.”
“No, I mean did you have any special emotional attachment to her?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because I do. And I never even met her. But, in looking into her short life, I developed tremendous empathy for this young woman and all she went through. Maybe because I went through a lot too. She’s not just another story for me, Dr. Kowalski. I want to find out the truth for Maura’s sake. Even if it is too late to help save her. But maybe I can save myself by doing that.”
Her face softened a bit.
“I wish I could help you, Ms. Tucker. I really do. But I simply cannot talk to you about a patient. Even a former patient.”
“What if I talk to you about a patient?”
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s say I make up a hypothetical patient. No name. And I tell you what I think has been going on in her life. You wouldn’t be breaking any confidentiality to listen to me talk about this hypothetical patient. Will you do that?”
She didn’t say anything. I took that as a yes.
“Okay, this hypothetical patient,” I said, “comes from a highly respected family with a long tradition of public service. She’s followed this family line all her life, doing what was expected of her and always making the family proud of her. But then suddenly she stops doing that. She turns on her family, breaks off relations with them and then does unexplained things that will embarrass her family if they became public. I’m not sure why she did it. But I think it had to do with something she found out about a tragedy that happened when she was growing up. It involved the death of her brother. In a little town in upstate New York. She went back there and whatever she found out seemed to set a lot of other things in motion. Does that sound like a reasonable scena
rio, Dr. Kowalski? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
Dr. Kowalski nodded.
“Saginaw Lake,” she said.
“Yes.”
“She talked about Saginaw Lake the last time she was here. I couldn’t tell you any more even if I knew it, but I don’t. I never found out what she discovered there in Saginaw Lake that affected her so much. All she said was she had to make everything right. She needed to deal with it. I asked what she meant, but she wouldn’t tell me. That was the last time I saw her.”
“When was that?”
“Six months ago.”
Six months.
Six months ago was when she’d transferred into the 22d Precinct, her father’s old command, and partnered up with Billy Renfro to begin taking bribes and kickbacks and payoffs.
That had to be more than a coincidence.
“And that was the last time she ever came to see you?”
“Yes, I reached out to her several times after that, but she never returned my calls or emails.”
“I wonder why.”
“I think – and this is just my hypothesis, although I believe it’s a reasonable one – that what she found out in Saginaw Lake was so devastating to her that she decided she didn’t want to share it with anyone, even me.”
I talked a bit more to Dr. Kowalski, but that was all she could tell me. I was surprised she’d opened up to me at all. But I think she was the kind of doctor who went by her instincts – not always by the rules – and her instincts told her that I was on Maura Walsh’s side. Just like she had been.
I liked Dr. Kowalski.
If I ever did go see a shrink about my own emotional troubles, she would be a good choice.
Maybe that was something I should think about doing one day.
One day.
But right now I had a story to do.
Fifty-Four
I was going to get an interview with Maura Walsh’s father, after all.
My source at the NYPD called to tell me the next morning that the deputy commissioner was willing to meet with me in his office at One Police Plaza at threee p.m. that day to answer questions.
I was surprised.
But I was even more surprised when I found out how the interview came about.
“It wasn’t me,” my source said. “I tried, but couldn’t convince Walsh to cooperate. Then someone from your newspaper contacted someone very close to Walsh – and he agreed to do it.”
“Who was it from the Tribune?”
“A woman. The managing editor. Lorraine…?”
“Lorraine Molinski?”
“Yes, she’s the one responsible for getting you in to see Walsh.”
Damn. Lorraine Molinski. Well, she did say she had sources. But who? Not that it mattered, of course. All that mattered was that I was finally going to get a chance to meet with Walsh.
I was a little concerned at first that Walsh might have heard about what I was doing – checking into his daughter taking payoffs and all the rest – and he wanted to warn me off the story in person.
I mean, I’d already gotten threats from the police about pursuing my Maura Walsh investigation.
Not to mention a warning from mobster Dominic Bennato too.
So why not a personal message along the same lines delivered directly from Deputy Commissioner Walsh himself?
But that wasn’t it at all, according to Lorraine.
“He actually liked the piece you did about Maura for the Tribune,” Lorraine said when I went to see her about it. “The interview with her partner about what a great cop she was. The stuff from others about her dedication to the job and to the entire Walsh family tradition. And he even thought you handled the quotes from his wife well, under the circumstances. Anyway, he wants to talk to you himself now. I think he realizes he has to talk to someone about it at some point. And you’ve been the lead reporter in town on this story recently. So he’ll do the interview with you.”
Should I ask her how she’d managed to get me the interview?
Probably not.
But it sure reaffirmed my belief that she was a damn interesting woman.
Deputy Commissioner Walsh’s office was even more of a shrine to the Walsh family than the living room in his house had been.
The walls behind his desk and around the room were filled with pictures of him and all of the members of the Walsh family who had served in the NYPD. There were a lot of them. From beat cops to detectives to precinct captains to the one who’d been commissioner a number of years ago. There were all sorts of awards too – honoring him and the other Walsh NYPD officers.
On his desk was a picture of Maura in her police uniform – and another of her dressed the same way standing with him in front of the 22nd Precinct. They looked happy in the picture. I wondered if that was just for the camera, though. There was also a picture of a little boy dressed in a police hat with a badge. His father’s hat and badge. Patrick Walsh, who must have died not long after this adorable picture of him was taken.
Walsh himself seemed even more stiff-necked and more officious in person than I remembered him from the awkward and emotionless screen appearance I’d watched the day after Maura died.
He got up from behind his desk – dressed impeccably in his blue police uniform – and walked over to me.
I wasn’t sure whether to shake his hand – or salute him.
I shook his hand and introduced myself.
I’d decided to start off with something easy for him to answer.
“The police have named Charlie Sanders, who your daughter had been dating until recently, as the prime suspect in her murder. Do you believe Sanders was the one who killed her?”
He moved to his desk and sat down.
“My daughter’s murder is still under investigation,” he said. “I can’t make any comment on the status of that investigation until it has been completed. I have the utmost confidence in the NYPD investigators to determine the facts about my daughter’s case.”
Okay, so much for that.
He picked up a sheet of paper now and began reading from it.
“My daughter, Maura Walsh, exemplified the best of the New York City Police Department. From her youngest days growing up, Maura always wanted to be a police officer and help her community. That’s what she did for the past five years. She won awards, honors and – maybe most importantly of all – she won the admiration of her fellow officers and of the people in this city. Every police officer knows the risks he or she takes with this job. Maura certainly understood that. But she was willing to take those risks because she was so dedicated…”
He looked over at me. I wasn’t doing anything.
“Why aren’t you writing this down?” he asked.
“I can’t use any of it for the article I’m working on for the Tribune.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve heard all that before. Everyone has.”
“You said you wanted to know more about Maura. I’m telling you about Maura.”
“Not the kind of things I need to know though. I’m trying to get to the real story here. That’s why I need to ask you some questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
I took a deep breath. Here we go, I thought.
“First off, what was your relationship with your daughter like before she died?”
“She was my daughter. I loved her.”
“Did she love you?”
I talked about the fight I’d heard about them having at the 22nd Precinct. How several people told me she never wanted to talk about him or their relationship. And even about the things his own wife had said about him pushing her into being a police officer as a young girl growing up.
“There’s nothing wrong with a father who wants their child to follow his career. But there seemed to be much more going on between you and Maura. That’s why I’d like you to talk about your father-daughter relationship.”
“Next question.”
“Excuse me?�
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“Next question. I’m not going to talk to you or anyone else about my relationship with my daughter. My dead daughter, I might point out. I think that’s very inappropriate for you to bring something like this up right now.”
I tried to ask about it again in a couple different ways, but got the same answer from Walsh. So I moved on to the death of Walsh’s son – Maura’s little brother – a long time ago in Saginaw Lake, New York. I pointed to the picture of the little boy I’d seen on Walsh’s desk.
“I was in Saginaw Lake and I wanted to ask about what happened that day.”
“I will not talk about my son.”
“But I have some questions about the circumstances of his death. I think your daughter had questions about it too. She was looking into the details of exactly what happened right before she was killed. Do you have any idea why she was doing that?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“But—”
“Next question.”
I sighed.
“I came here to ask you questions. I can’t do that if you won’t answer any of them.”
“Not these questions. Do you have any another questions?”
“I do. But it’s a big one. And I don’t think you’re going to like it either.”
Walsh just glared at me.
“I think it’s only fair for me to tell you that I’m working on a story about corruption in the 22nd Precinct,” I said. “Your former command. I’m pretty sure your daughter was involved in the corruption currently going on there.”
I went through the highlights of what I knew – including the payoffs she’d been witnessed taking and the money she’d spent on a fancy car, a condo and other expensive items.
“I think we have to consider the possibility at this point that your daughter’s death wasn’t random at all but somehow connected to the bribes and payoffs she was a part of. Do you have anything to say about that?”