He Killed Them All Page 12

  More important, Robert knew the police were coming for her.

  According to Robert in The Jinx, Susan told him, “The police want to talk to me. I’m just going to talk to them. Is that all right?” He replied, “Do whatever you want.”

  The Berman case didn’t get far and quieted down quickly.

  To me, the key was the cadaver note, which was shared with us by L.A. No progress there, either. I have used handwriting experts many times. To me, the most credible handwriting exemplars are not the ones where you sit down with a suspect and ask him to write certain words. He knows how he wrote them, and if he’s got half a brain, he’ll write them differently this time. Handwriting exemplars are not that valuable. What is valuable is writing that already exists, and is known to be the suspect’s, to compare to the evidence in question. But at the time L.A. wasn’t collecting or looking at Durst’s handwriting anyway.

  I kept calling L.A. to see if there were any breaks in the case. In 2002, I called Bill Bratton, who had just become chief of the Los Angeles Police Department. I had worked with him when he was police commissioner in New York City. I made a friendly call and said, “Bill, you’ve got to look at this case again.”

  He was the consummate professional, the consummate cop, so when he said, “Of course,” I knew we had a second shot at Durst.

  BEFORE WE EVEN KNEW Susan was dead, she was buried. She was laid to rest on January 2, placed next to her father in the mausoleum at Home of Peace Cemetery in Los Angeles.

  Robert did not attend the funeral.

  Her memorial service was at the Los Angeles branch of the Writers’ Guild the following week.

  And although Robert was in Los Angeles at the time, he did not attend the service. What does that tell you? Why would he be in L.A. at the exact time of her service and not attend? He knew it would be a bad idea.

  Anyone as seasoned as Durst in the art of human disappearance knows that the police are looking at anyone and everyone at such a service. Plus, any news outlet would have killed to get a shot of Durst at Berman’s memorial.

  It’s interesting, though, that Durst would connect with Susan’s adoptive son, Sareb Kaufman, that week. You meet with the adoptive son but don’t go to the service? Was Durst just trying to find out from Sareb the kinds of questions police were asking? Sareb had stayed loyal to Robert, despite the field day the press was having about his stepmother’s murder and its possible connection to Robert. Instead of being suspicious, even a tiny bit, he rewarded Robert with Susan’s most treasured possession.

  In her will, she left Robert her father’s silver medallion and key chain. David Berman’s name had been engraved on them. Robert accepted the gift from Sareb, left Los Angeles, and completely dropped off the radar.

  A few months later, he resurfaced in my neck of the woods in a bizarre and eerie way.

  On April 12, four months after Susan’s murder, Gabrielle Colquitt saw a man standing on the dock by the lake at her cottage in South Salem, staring wistfully at the water. Colquitt recognized him as Robert Durst and called us in a complete panic.

  The date was significant. It was Robert’s birthday, as well as his wedding anniversary.

  O’Donnell remembered that Colquitt was hysterical, like, “He’s here! He’s here! He’s outside! He’s here!” By the time John arrived, though, Durst had driven off in his Saab to God knows where.

  “Boss, you’re not going to believe this one,” John reported to me later, and told me about Durst’s trespassing on his old stomping grounds.

  “Oh, I believe it,” I said. “Every criminal returns to the scene of the crime! That son of a bitch!”

  SEVEN |

  | “I HAVE A DOG NAMED CODY”

  I was in Midtown Manhattan on the morning of 9/11, coming out of an early meeting. I remember it was a sunny day, and thinking what a beautiful blue the sky was. John Orfei and James O’Donnell (no relation to John or Rosie) were on my security detail that day. Chief Mike Duffy, John’s boss, called him to say that we needed to return to Westchester.

  John said, “Boss, we have to go back. There’s something wrong.”

  I said, “What’s wrong?” I was not interested in returning.

  John then reported to Chief Duffy that I wasn’t interested in returning.

  My investigators and I always had an interesting relationship. Even though we were mutual caring, we were often at odds. They were cops. They carried guns. They had a sixth sense about things. But I was the boss. I was more of an independent free-agent type, not at all interested in being told what to do.

  John told me, “Boss, a plane hit the World Trade Center.”

  It didn’t sink in that it might be terrorists. I thought, “Some idiot flew into the building.” I could see a gray cloud downtown. At that point, my brain didn’t go to terrorism. The chief then said, “Just throw her in the car and get her the hell out of there.”

  I said, “Okay. Let’s go.”

  We got into my police vehicle and headed north on the FDR Drive back to White Plains. John was listening to the police radio on the way. When we arrived at the office, I went to the investigators’ squad room where everyone was watching a television. By then, the second building was hit. We were all numb, wondering who would do this. I remember saying, “This is Pearl Harbor all over again!”

  The sense of helplessness that we all had was overwhelming. I thought about my family and thanked God none of them were in the city.

  And then I heard the news that the Pentagon had been hit. I screamed, “Kiki is there!” My sixteen-year-old daughter, Cristine, was in Washington, D.C., touring the Pentagon with her class that day. Someone came into the room with a very somber face, telling me that Scott Nelson, the headmaster from Rye Country Day, was on the phone. My heart dropped. I didn’t want to pick it up.

  I did and said, “Hi, Scott.”

  “Jeanine, I need your help,” he said. “Some parents are upset. We need to know where the kids are and whether we can get them home tonight. Can you find out what’s going on?”

  “Let me try, I’ll get back to you.” At the time, Rudy Giuliani was mayor of New York. Bernie Kerik, the police commissioner of New York, was someone who, like Bratton, I’d worked with as DA. He was also a dear friend. I asked James O’Donnell to try to get through to Kerik. He was able to do so and brought the phone to me. At the time, Bernie was walking through hell.

  I said, “Bernie, I know you don’t have time for this, but my daughter and her class are at the Pentagon . . .”

  I didn’t even finish my sentence.

  He said, “I’ll get back to you.” That was Bernie. A great guy and a 9/11 hero.

  About an hour later, he called. “Everybody is okay,” he said, “but there is no way they’re coming home tonight.” I immediately reported the news to Scott.

  By afternoon, my office was fielding hundreds of calls from distraught and panicked citizens. Meanwhile, New York City law enforcement arrived in my White Plains office en masse. I’d set up a state-of-the-art high-intensity drug trafficking area (HIDTA) program with advanced-intelligence technology. The NYPD traveled to White Plains to use our center because their lines were down in the city. Dozens of officers, squad cars with lights blazing, and vans with more electronics streamed to our building. They set up at my office and stayed for weeks. I got to know a number of the investigators, and some of them would wind up working for me.

  Many families in Westchester County were ravaged by the terror attacks at the World Trade Center. We lost a total of 123 people, including thirty-one mostly young investment bankers at Cantor Fitzgerald and fifteen Westchester firefighters. And that didn’t include the hundreds of victims who were raised here, still had family and roots here, but had moved to the city for an education, a job, or both. Too many husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters were gone. One minute they had everything to live for, and the next they had vanished into thin air in an act of senseless violence.

  I walked
Ground Zero within twenty-four hours with Governor George Pataki, his wife, Libby, state troopers, and my friend Christy Ferrer, whose husband, Neil, had just gotten a new job at the World Trade Center. The governor had appointed him as director of the Port Authority. As we walked through the ashes, Christy had a stack of photos of Neil that she handed out to people, hoping that someone had seen him. Libby Pataki, Christy, and I visited hospitals, hoping to find him. It was not to be.

  I remember the soot on my shoes. I wore a pantsuit that day. I remember how dirty it felt to walk through the debris. At the time I didn’t think we could be walking on the perished bodies of those innocent victims of terrorism.

  I brought in staff from my victim/witness program to work with the families of those who’d been killed. Along with our collective shock and sorrow, logistics had to be dealt with. Many Westchester residents ride the train to their jobs in the city. But first, they parked their cars in the various commuter lots. It was painful to see the ghost cars whose owners would never be returning. Permission was needed to remove those cars. I gave the okay.

  As a former judge, I was friends with the Surrogate’s Court judge. Many of the spouses who started coming into my office needed information and quick access to victims’ bank accounts. Some of the family members knew nothing about finances. They didn’t know how to pay the mortgage or access their savings to pay for groceries. Along with their loss, I felt they shouldn’t have to worry about such mundane things. We short-circuited the paperwork and the endless appearances it would have taken to probate wills.

  When the idea occurred to me that these families needed somewhere to go to get answers, I knew what I had to do. On the Saturday after 9/11, I called everyone into the office, starting with Anne Marie Corbalis, my public affairs director. She had been getting her hair frosted in Yonkers. I told her she had to come in. A half hour later, she showed up at the office with her hair still wet. She never resented the hours we kept. She chuckled, quoting her colorist, who asked her, “Who the hell do you work for?” as she ran out of the salon. Most of the staff wasn’t surprised at all to be called in on a Saturday, but the colorist was put out.

  We worked day and night to accommodate those devastated by 9/11. Mary Ann Walsh also worked for me in the Office of Public Affairs. Her dad had been a murder victim and, knowing what we needed, she brought in mental health workers and bereavement counselors and set them up in the conference room next to my office. She had the 9/11 victims’ assistance unit up and connected to those who had suffered losses.

  The families of these homicide victims wanted closure, but they didn’t have bodies to bury or even proof that their loved ones were dead. Forensics could bring closure; DNA was the key. I organized a system for victims to bring toothbrushes, hairbrushes, anything we could use to match DNA with remains found at Ground Zero.

  The bereaved came through our halls seven days a week. The grief was overwhelming. I watched them grow more and more depressed, thinner, and frailer. I remember one woman to whom I said, “You’re too thin. You need to eat.” I gave her whatever health bars I was eating at the time. She wasn’t hungry.

  Virtually no one in the New York area was unaffected by what the terrorists did to us. Eddie Murphy’s brother Ray was an FDNY lieutenant with Ladder Company J. He was missing, and Eddie went off the Durst case for a period of time. In fact, 9/11 put the brakes on almost everything.

  September 11, 2001, was the first day in years I didn’t think about Robert Durst. A month later, he came roaring back into my life in a big way.

  ON THE MORNING OF October 11, 2001, now chief assistant Clem Patti walked into my office, as he did every morning, to discuss any big cases that had arisen overnight. What wasn’t usual was the look on his face—part bug-eyed, part “holy shit.” Clem was always hyper, but today he was intensely so.

  Anything could have come out of his mouth. Another terrorist attack? Another anthrax mailing somewhere?

  “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.

  “What?” I yelled. I was anxious because I knew he was.

  “Durst killed his neighbor.”

  I eyeballed him for less than a second.

  “WHAT?” Robert Durst?

  Clem chuckled. “Durst killed his neighbor. It’s confirmed. He was arrested.”

  “SON OF A BITCH.”

  I knew what Durst was, I knew he was a killer. But still. Really? He killed his neighbor? I cooled my jets, or tried to, while Clem briefed me on what he knew so far.

  “Durst was living in Galveston, Texas.”

  Galveston? I knew Galveston only from the Glen Campbell song (“Galveston, oh, Galveston”), but otherwise, nothing. Is it an island? Did rhinestone cowboys ride horses there?

  “He chopped the guy up.”

  WHAT?

  “And he already posted bail.”

  Of course he did.

  It was only nine months since Susan Berman had been executed. Because of 9/11, Robert Durst had hardly been at the top of anyone’s priority list.

  My own world had been turned upside down, too. I was in the last month of a tough reelection campaign for DA. I suspended the campaign for three weeks after 9/11, out of deference to those who lost loved ones, but now it was back in full swing with lots of catching up to do. My opponent, Tony Castro, was a bare-knuckle-tactics kind of guy, a Bronx assistant DA with no political experience, but he knew how to operate. I was used to rough-and-tumble elections and the inevitable sexism that came with them. In my first race for DA, in 1993, my opponent, Mike Cherkasky, a father of three whose wife was pregnant, made an issue of my being a woman. After all, how could a mother of two be able to put in the necessary hours?

  I ovulated, so I therefore couldn’t work late? I was forced to hold a press conference to announce to the people of Westchester that I had household help and a husband to care for my kids if I had to work late. I won huge and became the first woman to be elected DA in Westchester County history. To this day, Cherkasky thanks me for beating him, because he says if he had stayed in government, he’d never be making the money he makes now. Happy to help, Mike.

  My third time running brought a whole new level of crazy.

  Have I mentioned that my then husband was in a federal prison?

  It took guts to seek a third term as the chief law-enforcement officer with Al away. I hoped voters would see me as a strong DA, an independent woman, and more than just an appendage of the man to whom I was married.

  Castro, as everyone expected, made Al’s conviction for tax evasion his central campaign issue, to no avail. The voters rejected it. My record of success as a DA was well established. Of course I took some hits. I’m a big girl, I get it. Politics is a blood sport, especially in New York. And I have the scars to prove it.

  In any event, that’s what life was like for me the day I learned Robert Durst had dismembered his neighbor: in the midst of a tough campaign, raising two kids with an absent father, grieving with the survivors of 9/11, and handling the regular duties of an office that prosecuted tens of thousands of cases a year.

  “Everybody’s here, boss,” said Clem, referring to the team of investigators on our Durst case. “Can I bring them all in?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I stepped out from behind my huge desk to join my staff at the conference table, where everyone was gathering. I yelled to Ro to bring out some coffee. I always liked to feed my staff. I have this mother thing. We sat at the conference table in my office. I first made eye contact with John O’Donnell. He shook his head. They were all shaking their heads. Clem kept chuckling.

  “Can you believe this son of a bitch?” I said.

  And for a moment, they all relaxed. I saw a few welcome grins. But then it was down to business.

  We kicked it around, the little bit we knew.

  “Look,” I told them, “I’m not worried about the Texas case. It’s Texas, they’re probably going to kill him. Isn’t Texas where they have the hanging immediately a
fter the arrest?”

  My staff was used to me. Someone laughed.

  “I don’t care whether they hang him in the village square or shoot him and charge his family for the cost of the bullet. What I want is peace and closure for Kathleen’s family. They deserve to know what happened to her. And I need to know.”

  “Yes, Boss,” they pretty much said in unison.

  “And I don’t want any quick plea deal by some smart-ass defense attorney, saying, ‘If you don’t give us the death penalty, we’ll give you x, y, or z.’ I want to be the x, the y, and the z. I want to be in the deal if any deal is going to be made down there.”

  I wasn’t even thinking of prosecuting that roach. I was thinking of putting Kathie to rest, and giving Ann McCormack, then eighty-seven, some kind of peace. She deserved to know what happened to her daughter, and where the remains might be.

  Now the question was whether to go to Galveston. My instincts told me there were things I could learn about Durst and things I could tell authorities there. There was no question L.A. would send someone; the gun used to kill Morris Black was a .22 semiautomatic. Susan had been killed with a nine-millimeter—the same type of gun found in the car when Durst was arrested in Galveston.

  We don’t know how Kathie was killed, but we do know that Susan Berman and Morris Black were killed with semiautomatics. Curiously, whenever Durst was on the run, and later arrested, he was always in possession of revolvers, in both Pennsylvania and in New Orleans. Why? Robert Durst is not stupid. He learns along the way. Revolvers “keep the brass”—which explains why in many organized crime cases, .22 revolvers are used. Unlike an automatic, where the shell casing is ejected and falls on the floor, the revolver shell casing stays in the cylinder. It’s less evidence at the crime scene.