Читать книгу Good Cop/Bad Cop - Rebecca Cofer - Dartt - Страница 16
ОглавлениеSenior Investigator David McElligott planned to take his two younger children Christmas shopping later that Saturday morning, December 23, to help them buy a present for their mother. It was the first day of his vacation. During the holidays he always tried to take time off to be with his family. Although divorced, McElligott adored his children and saw as much of them as possible on his days off from the narcotics unit in Binghamton. He was waiting for the kids to arrive when his boss called.
“You said you wanted to be assigned to Ithaca, David. Well, here’s your chance,” Carl Shaver told McElligott after, giving him the bare facts of the quadruple homicide in Ellis Hollow. “I want you to head up to Ithaca right away and start coordinating the investigation.” Shaver knew McElligott had worked on many cases in the Ithaca area, so he knew the place. Moreover, Shaver could count on McElligott.
McElligott hated telling his kids that their outing was off, and when he did, they were very disappointed. Once again McElligott felt guilty. He’d left them many times at the dinner table, and hadn’t been at other family and school affairs, all because of his work. In fact, McElligott being on call like a doctor was a major reason his marriage had broken up.
David McElligott had been with the New York State Police for over twenty years, the last twelve as senior investigator in the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Troop C, headquartered in Sidney. Troop C covered nine counties in the central part of the state.
“The only thing I ever wanted to be in my life was a detective, like my older brother, Jerry,” he liked to tell his children.
He was proud of his Irish background. McElligott’s father had come to America from the County of Limerick, as a young boy in the late 1800s. His father had worked hard to make something of himself. He’d tried professional baseball among many other pursuits, before starting a general contracting business in New Jersey. After the Depression, during which he’d lost all of his money, McElligott’s father decided that railroads were here to stay and became a telegrapher for the New York, Ontario and Western Railroad in upstate New York. He moved his family to Sidney where he and his wife, thirty years his junior, raised seven children. David was second to the youngest.
McElligott’s father was still working as a telegrapher in his early eighties. Having a secure job was so important to him, that he made sure that his sons learned a good trade. David started as a railroad telegrapher right out of high school following another brother, then spent four years in the Marine Corps. When he got out, David’s brother, Jerry, already in the state police, suggested that David take the examination to be a trooper. David McElligott was accepted the day he got out of the service.
On Thanksgiving day four years later, he was promoted to investigator and sent downstate to Monticello, New York. It was an eye-opener for someone who had lived and worked in the rural part of the state. The Monticello station in Sullivan County had eighteen investigators and sixty uniformed men. David had been used to the small staffed stations upstate. At first he liked the excitement of being in a big operation. When he was sent to New York City on a homicide investigation, David began to think of himself as a city detective. But fate had another plan.
Less than a year later David’s brother phoned him from Sidney and asked if David would like to replace an investigator who had passed away suddenly. McElligott hesitated, but called his brother back in a few minutes to accept the offer. He never regretted the decision.
He stood in a bam a week later, talking to a judge as he milked the cows, and looking down at his wing-tipped shoes in the manure, he murmured to himself, “I’ve come home. I belong here.” He might have dressed like a city-slicker but he knew these people and could talk to them.
McElligott had the presence of a man who knew who he was and what he was about. Early in his career he’d taken advice from others he respected, especially his brother, who told him never to depend on a gun he carried for confidence. “You talk like you have it on.” His talent at conversation—he could talk to anyone—make him one of the best interrogators in the BCI. He knew when to push and how to cajole a suspect into giving him information or a confession.
McElligott didn’t let the military-style organization of the state police bother him. He wasn’t like some of his colleagues who were clearly nervous in the company of higher ranking officers. He had worked in an undercover operation for a year under the then Captain Tom Constantine who was now the superintendent. They were on friendly terms, but McElligott never forgot Constantine’s rank, addressing him with military decorum.
Of course, there were times when he disagreed with his superiors. When this happened he might voice his frustration to a good friend but to a boss, it was always “yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” The unfailing politeness fit his practical nature and made him popular with his superiors. He was a cop’s cop.
McElligott was rooted in the team approach to solving crimes. Working in the narcotics unit for many years had taught him that. But as he progressed up the chain of command, he knew that someone had to be in charge and he accepted the role with ease. He liked to get things rolling as soon as he found out exactly what happened. Officers who took a slow approach to the job irritated him. He wanted action and he didn’t mince words about what he wanted done. He’d tell investigators who hadn’t worked with him before, “Patience is not one of my virtues.”
McElligott’s reputation became almost legendary in the BCI. He expected the best from the men on his team. He could blow his Irish temper with a flood of expletives if someone didn’t follow his instructions or did something McElligott thought was stupid.
But investigators who got to know him on a personal level learned he had a big heart that went along with this demand for excellence. He understood human nature. He knew how to listen to a troubled or scared young officer and give him encouragement. He passed along tips to newcomers that his brother had given him when he became an investigator.
Having to witness the unsavory side of life on an almost daily basis hadn’t embittered him or made him feel it was a rotten world. It was easy for him to understand how people who didn’t have anything got themselves into trouble. The first time he saw several children sleeping on a bare and dirty mattress, his heart went out to them. He felt badly that any kids had to live in such shabby conditions. He often felt sorry for people he had to arrest.
The challenge of the work continued to invigorate him. Each new case meant a different puzzle to solve. And no matter how bleak the situation looked, he stayed upbeat. “We’ll get ‘um. It’s just a matter of time,” he’d say to his team.
However, there was stress on the job and sometimes it got to him. To relieve the tension he smoked over a pack of cigarettes a day. He had cut down some, but couldn’t break the habit. Also, he sometimes showed a nervous trait of opening and shutting his eyes rapidly while in conversation.
He and his friend, Charlie Porter, gave up drinking altogether a few years back when both of them realized that alcohol had become a liability. He was middle aged and knew he had to change some habits to keep feeling good. Another one he’d given up was, after a bout with skin cancer, baking in the sun on the Jersey shore.
His work habits matched his neat, color-coordinated appearance. McElligott worked in an orderly fashion. Nothing was out of place in his office. No matter how busy he was, his desk was not cluttered. He could immediately find what he wanted because of a filing system he’d devised for himself.
There were visible contrasts to the man. He had a strong, intelligent face with the reddish complexion and rugged good looks of an outdoorsman—he looked easily capable of splitting logs, yet he dressed impeccably like a Wall Street banker.
He’d rather own a few well-made, expensive shirts than have a drawer full of cheap polyesters. The same with shoes and suits. He bought good ones and kept them in excellent condition. His shoes always had a military shine. What he wore looked well thought-out. One could imagine his closet and drawers organized by color and style.
He and his good friends in the force were all snappy dressers. When they went to a meeting in Albany, they’d try to out do each other wearing the nicest suit they owned.
McElligott’s shoulders sagged a bit now on his slim five foot eleven inch frame and his thick, wavy hair was peppered with gray, but he approached his job as vigorously as he had those first years. There was still passion in his belly.
As David McElligott drove to Ithaca on Route 79 from Binghamton he spoke with Charlie Porter over the car transmitter.
“Where in the hell is this house on Ellis Hollow, Charlie?” McElligott asked. He’d never used Ellis Hollow Road as a shortcut to Route 79 as many people did.
“It’s at the end near 79 just pass Slaterville Springs. Turn right on Ellis Hollow and it’s about a mile or so on the left.”
McElligott pulled into the driveway along side Porter’s car. He’d heard there was a fire. He assumed he’d be looking at a burned-down building. Porter was waiting outside.
“Where’s the scene, Charlie?”
“This is it,” Porter replied pointing to the left side of the house where firemen had vented out the upstairs windows and then McElligott saw the scorching and smoke.
Trooper Lishansky. standing next to Charlie Porter, hadn’t been in the identification unit at Sidney for long. He had been on his way to a Windsor case when he was called .
McElligott looked at Lishansky for a long withering moment but made no comment. Then he said, “Where’s Chandler?”
“Shaver said he’d be right over,” Porter assured McElligott.
When the call had come through to the Oneonta station Saturday about a homicide in Ithaca, Karl Chandler was at his computer, entering information from lead sheets on a murder investigation in Windsor. He called Ithaca and was told to head for Ellis Hollow immediately.
Karl Chandler’s specialty was homicide. He’d been a senior investigator with the state police for twelve years and in the force since 1960. Chandler could keep going longer than anyone else in the business. He slept little and with no family responsibilities, his work was his life. Around March when he got fed up with driving in snow and ice, he’d talk about the wonderful day when he’d get the hell out of this God forsaken climate and retire to play golf in Florida. But his friends on the force knew better. Retirement would not come easy for Chandler.
He took the kidding that went on regularly among his fellow investigators with a shrug and a smile, except when it came to his dog, Reggie, his prize possession. He doted on Reggie like a mother hen. He bought a van so the Wheaton Terrier would have plenty of room. One day when his good friend, McElligott, asked him if he’d heard about a big dog being hit over on Interstate 88, it wasn’t until he saw McElligott laughing that Chandler could breathe easier. Jesus, he thought, nothing was beyond a joke with these guys.
Someone asked Chandler how he handled fear before he was promoted to senior status—back when he faced dangerous situations in field assignments on a regular basis.
“I’m just always trying to figure out how in the hell am I going to get out of the thing. And I don’t want to embarrass myself”
He once talked a fugitive out of shooting him after the guy told Chandler to get down on his hands and knees and beg for mercy.
“No way was I going to do that,” Chandler said matter-of-factly.
Most of the danger was gone now as a suit and tie man, but the business of solving a homicide supplied enough excitement to keep Chandler keyed up. His pack of Camels stayed at arm’s reach, a habit he couldn’t break. He didn’t mind admitting that one of the benefits of making senior investigator was sending others to autopsies. He never saw an autopsy he liked.
The job of solving homicides had joined the technology revolution and Chandler had been on board from the beginning. The computer fascinated him. It became clear to him that with a computer two investigators could do the work of ten. He was one of the first in the force to see the potential of computers in solving crimes and when the state didn’t come through with the equipment, he bought his own. He tried to convince McElligott to give up the typewriter, but the old-timer kept postponing the transition. He said he’d do it when he had more time.
Coming on to computers fitted Chandler’s practical nature. He put the crime puzzle together with a heavy dose of common sense. When headquarters sent him a specialist trained in behavioral science to set up a psychological profile of a murderer or rapist. Chandler was not enthusiastic. He knew enough about human nature after years of solving homicides and other crimes of violence to draw his own profile. He didn’t believe in soothsayers.
Chandler arrived at the scene a short while later. He joined McElligott inside the house and Charlie Porter gave them a quick tour around the house. The investigators wanted to get an overall feel of what they had facing them.
McElligott noticed the overturned gas can in the living room. Quickly he went upstairs. He could recognize the figure on the floor as a female in the master bedroom, but standing in the other bedroom, he had to ask Porter: “Where are they?” He didn’t see anything that looked like bodies. Porter pointed to some odd forms. McElligott walked closer and grimaced. Because the victims had been shrouded and bent down on their knees, they looked like charred lumps on the floor. McElligott leaned toward them and could see they’d been bound. He shook his head.
“Lishansky gather every single piece of evidence you can find. I want every scrap of paper and strand of hair saved.” McElligott had learned from watching others in the field and from his own experience to leave nothing to chance and he was a stickler for detail. It appeared there were no witnesses to the crime which made evidence gathering crucial.
He told Lishansky the way he wanted the photographs taken—a method he’d learned at a national homicide school. “Go to each comer of the room and take a picture of the body. That way the camera will pick up everything in the room.”
“But that’s not how we do it,” Lishansky told McElligott.
“You don’t understand, damn-it. That’s the way I want it done. As senior investigator I decide how it’s done. I want those pictures like I told you,” McElligott barked. “And make sure you get good pictures of every room in this house.”
As a senior investigator in charge of a homicide investigation McElligott had to plan from the start how to prepare the case so the district attorney could present it in court, provided they caught the killer. Since there seemed to be no “smoking gun”, keeping detailed records for the prosecution was very important.
They needed more manpower. A few days before the murders McElligott had met Sergeant David Nazer, the head of detectives at the Ithaca Police Department, and had mentioned to Nazer that he hoped to be assigned to Ithaca soon. They’d agreed to help each other out if the occasion arose.
McElligott had to cash in on Nazer’s offer right away and asked him if he could spare a few guys. Nazer ended up by sending every man he could find on the Ithaca force that wasn’t involved with a priority case.
The Tompkins County medical examiner, Dr. John Maines, was notified about the murders at 8:45 A.M. He came over immediately.
While McElligott waited for the medical examiner results, he called George Dentes to tell him about the Harris murders. Dentes had been elected Tompkins County District Attorney in November and would take over the position on January 1. What a way to start off, he thought. Worst multiple homicide that ever happened here. He’d seen nothing as bad as this in three and a half years as Assistant District Attorney in Manhattan. In 1985 he had moved his young family out of chaotic, crime-infested New York City to quieter pastures upstate—rural Ithaca where he and his wife were bom and grew up (he had degrees in engineering and law from Cornell University). At least, it was a relief that the state police with a big organization and plenty of personnel were handling the case and that McElligott would lead the investigation. He had heard of McElligott’s extraordinary ability.
One-half hour later Dr. Maines announced that each of the four dead Harrises was shot in the head. Since Maines was not a forensic specialist, he asked for assistance from the Onondaga County Medical Examiner’s office in Syracuse. In a short while Dr. Humphrey Germaniuk, a forensic pathologist with Onondaga County was on his way to Ithaca.
Lieutenant Bart Ingersoll of Cornell University’s Public Safety Division was chief of the investigative arm of the campus police, but that Saturday morning he was standing in for the lieutenant in charge of the uniform patrol who had the day off. When the dispatcher walked across the hall to his office in Barton Hall and handed him the APB that had just come over the teletype about a missing GM van. The message contained little information except a description of the vehicle and that they were looking for it in connection with a homicide. He immediately radioed all patrol cars and told them to call blue light (secured phones where police could speak over closed circuits, located across campus under blue lights). Ingersoll instructed the patrolmen to look for the van in the sectors they covered. He then got in a car to do his own search.
Ingersoll started looking in places where stolen vehicles were often dumped. He’d been a campus investigator eighteen years, so he knew all the spots where hot cars had been found. After he checked those areas, lie went out to Game Farm Road and looked behind Cornell’s poultry bams; another location for stolen cars. He drove through the East Hill apartment complex, checked the area around Best Western Motel and behind East Hill Plaza, then swung around to the plaza parking lot, which was filled with cars and shopping carts by then. He drove slowly up and down each parking lane.
Across from the plaza was Ides Bowling Lanes and he remembered finding two stolen cars way in the back of the building on separate occasions. As he drove to the rear of Ides and around toward Marine Midland Bank, he spotted a van that looked like the one described in the bulletin. He got out of his car and glared at the license plate. It matched. Ingersoll radioed his base on campus what he had found. It was 10:38 A.M.
Ted Palmer and Charlie Porter went up to Ides to check out the van reported by Cornell safety. And an ID man was ordered to gather whatever evidence they could find in and around the vehicle.
A light coat of snow covered the van (it had been snowing off and on since 4:00 A.M.) They cordoned off a fifty foot area around the vehicle to prevent disturbance to the scene. Patrol cars and police stood at the various entrances to Ides Bowling Lanes and Marine Midland Bank to block cars and pedestrians from interfering with the site. Porter brushed the snow off the left rear comer of the van and peeked inside. He half-hoped he’d find a body in there—the boyfriend who shot himself after killing the family. He still yearned for a straightforward solution to the homicides. But he didn’t see anything in the van.
They took pictures and the ID investigator fanned the snow back from the door of the driver’s side with a 3 by 5 index card. He found three or four large footprints headed toward Ides Bowling Lanes and then disappear in a mishmash of tire tracks. The prints indicated the person could have been running. They took photographs of the footprints. Porter arranged to have the van towed to the police lab in Port Crane, near Binghamton, where technicians would go over it with a fine tooth comb for evidence.
Palmer went inside the bowling alley and talked with employees. They told him they saw a van like the Harrises parked in the same location at various times Friday night and early Saturday morning; later they talked with a few Friday night bowlers and they, too, remembered seeing a van like the Harrises parked outside.
While Palmer spoke with people inside the lanes. Porter knocked on the doors of houses close to the Marine Midland bank and Ides to see if anyone noticed the van or persons around it the previous night or early that morning. No one knew anything about the van.
At times like this when he was working for McElligott, Porter never forgot for a moment what a tyrant the man could be when it came to investigating a homicide. He was his best friend, but friendship had nothing to do with solving crimes with McElligott. He demanded more than a hundred percent and if you didn’t ask all the right questions, he’s say you screwed up, even if fifty people were around. He remembered when he was doing his first case as an investigator on a Binghamton homicide, involving a woman strangled and left in the trunk of a car. He came back to the station after interviewing the paperboy and McElligott said to him: “How’d you do with the Perkins kid?” McElligott began firing questions like bullets from a machine gun: Did he tell you this and what did he tell you about that? There were over thirty investigators on the case and Porter noticed McElligott did the same with each one of them, never referring to notes. He had all the facts in his head.
Investigators had to reconcile these van sightings at Ides with fresh tire tracks that Trooper Beno saw at 7:20 A.M. Saturday on the Harris driveway and across the lawn. Did the killer stay all night or come back before daybreak Saturday to bum the evidence? And there was always the chance that witnesses were mistaken about the vehicle they saw in the parking lot. The Harrises van was a common model and color and at night in snowy conditions, vehicles can all look alike.
Tall, good looking David Harding, the upcoming star investigator with the ID section who had trained Lishansky in identification work arrived at the crime scene and joined Lishansky inside the house. They had worked on many cases together that led to convictions and praise from their bosses. Harding called the shots and Lishansky followed.
They knew this one would take longer than the usual crime scenes they faced involving one or two rooms. They had a big house to deal with and to make things worse the fire left water damage and perhaps had destroyed evidence. Their work required technical skill and a calm, methodical approach to collecting evidence. But the immediate excitement of entering a murder scene pushed the adrenaline up a notch or two. Neither man had seen anything so horrendous before.
David Harding loved being in the hot spot of an investigation. When he entered the room, he’d work it like a politician shaking hands with everybody and smiling broadly. He wanted his colleagues to like and admire him. Most of them did.
Harding and Lishansky soon realized that circumstances surrounding the multiple murders on Ellis Hollow Road were out of the ordinary: A well-respected, affluent family of four murdered in their own home three days before Christmas wasn’t an every day event. This was a major case. A piece of evidence they found at the scene and preserved might be the ammunition needed later to nail the killer. And if they fouled up and let something important slip by, it would not be pleasant facing McElligott.
Harding wanted to get the telephones working again and the furnace back in operation. He could see his breath when he walked inside the house. Icicles had formed on the kitchen faucet. It seemed to him there was no point in freezing while they did this long, painstaking job.
