67
Mike was barely in his office when Investigator Sam Hines knocked on the half-opened door. “Mike, I think I might have something on that tow truck driver we’re looking for.”
Mike waved him in, pointing to a chair opposite his desk. “What have you got?”
“It’s a bit of a fluke I found this, because I wasn’t even looking for it. I’ve been researching drivers who work for the tow truck companies that have permits to operate in local municipalities. So far, nothing interesting has turned up. But these companies aren’t the only ones that own tow trucks. Junkyards typically have one to retrieve wrecks.”
“That makes sense.”
“So that’s what made this arrest report from the Lodi Police Department so interesting.” Hall began summarizing. “Twenty-four-year-old Edward Dietz was arrested three hours ago and charged with possession of cocaine and drug paraphernalia. He was stopped on Route 17 for speeding and passing on the right. The tow truck he was driving was registered to Ferranda Brothers, an auto salvage company in Moonachie.
“Here’s where it gets interesting. I’m reading about this guy they arrested and my phone rings. It’s Patrolman Sandy Fitchet from the Lodi police force. Fitchet was aware of the BOLO we put out on the tow truck driver.” Mike knew that BOLO was shorthand for “Be On the Look Out” for. “Fitchet said they’ve been holding this guy while doing an outstanding warrants check, and he has several. Failure to appear in court for a traffic infraction, he’s behind in child support, and he had an assault charge against him dropped three months ago, for trying to kiss a woman he had helped in the Woodbury Commons mall parking lot when her car wouldn’t start.”
“Why was it dropped?”
“The victim was from out of state. She didn’t show up to testify.”
“How old was the victim?”
“Seventeen.”
“So he likes hitting on young women. He offers to help them, and then he tries to take advantage. Nice work, Sam. I want to have a talk with our Good Samaritan right now.”
“I had a feeling you would,” Hines said. “Fitchet is at the station waiting for you. Dietz is still in their holding cell.”
• • •
As Mike inched along on Route 17 South, he was fervently hoping that this tow truck driver would be the one who had the encounter with Kerry. On the other hand he could only imagine the field day the press would have if it was revealed that the Prosecutor’s Office had a third independent suspect in the Dowling murder. Don’t get ahead of yourself, he thought. Odds are this isn’t the guy we’re looking for.
When he finally arrived at the Lodi police station, the desk sergeant pointed him to a room where Patrolman Sandy Fitchet was seated at a table. Several clear plastic bags were on top of it. One contained a wallet, a pocketknife and keychain. Another was stuffed with papers.
As it turned out, Patrolman Fitchet was Patrolwoman Fitchet. She stood up, extended her hand and introduced herself. Mike guessed Fitchet was in her mid- to late twenties.
She briefed Mike on the circumstances under which she had pulled over and arrested Dietz. “I’m just starting to go through his personal effects,” she said as she spilled the contents of one of the bags out on the table.
“That is one really fat wallet,” Mike observed. “Do you mind if I go through it?”
“Be my guest,” Sandy said as she started to open another bag filled with papers.
“What are all those?” Mike asked, referring to the bag in front of Sandy.
“This stuff was in his truck. The crack pipe was resting on top of it. Just want to see if there’s anything interesting.”
“Obviously you searched his truck. How did you get a warrant so quickly?”
“Didn’t need one. It’s not Dietz’s truck. It’s registered to Ferranda Brothers. I spoke to the owner. After assuring me that anything I find in the truck doesn’t belong to him, he gave me permission to search.”
“What is your impression of Dietz?”
“I’m right in the middle of reading him his rights while I’m arresting him, and this jerk starts telling me how beautiful I am. What a creep.”
Mike smiled as he listened. Dietz’s wallet was so thick Mike wondered if it would fit in his back pocket. He began taking out pieces of paper and sorting them into piles. Wendy’s, Dunkin’ Donuts and McDonald’s receipts. Gas and ShopRite receipts. A traffic summons from two weeks ago. A receipt from a motorcycle repair shop. Several business cards, including one from a doctor and two from attorneys. Mike knew one of the lawyers, whose office was in East Rutherford.
His attention was suddenly riveted by a torn envelope with a phone number scribbled on it.
Sandy must have noticed his expression change. “Mike, what is it?”
Without answering, he pulled his notebook from his pocket and flipped the pages. He glanced back at the number on the torn envelope. A grim smile came over his face.
“Pay dirt,” he said. “The number on this piece of paper that came from Dietz’s wallet is the cell phone number of Kerry Dowling. He’s the guy we’ve been looking for.”
“Mike, when you question Dietz, mind if I watch from the other room?”
“Not at all.”
• • •
While waiting in another meeting room for Dietz to be brought in, Mike phoned Artie Schulman. The assistant prosecutor insisted Mike call him immediately after he questioned Dietz.
The door opened, and Sandy Fitchet had her hand on Dietz’s elbow as she escorted him into the room. He was wearing faded, greasy blue jeans and scuffed work boots. His oil-stained gray T-shirt had a small tear by the right shoulder and the logo of an engine company on the front. His hands were cuffed in front of him. His bare arms showed the telltale welts of recent needle marks. He settled into the folding chair opposite Mike.
Dietz was about five-foot-ten with a crew cut. Despite the fact that he was unshaven and the darkness under his eyes, his features were handsome.
“Mr. Dietz, my name is Mike Wilson. I’m a detective with the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office.”
“My name is Eddie Dietz, but you probably already know that. It’s an honor to meet you, Detective,” he said sarcastically.
“Okay, Eddie, I don’t want to take up too much of your valuable time, so let’s cut to the chase. Let me begin by saying I have zero interest in your recent speeding ticket, your drug arrest, your outstanding warrants and your overdue child support. I hope I didn’t leave anything out. I’m here to talk about one of my cases involving a young woman. Do you know a Kerry Dowling?”
Dietz paused for a moment. “No, that name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Maybe this will help,” Mike said as he pulled a picture of Kerry out of an envelope and slid it across the table in front of Dietz.
He stared at it, then looked up at Mike and said, “Sorry, don’t know her.”
“You said you don’t know her. Are you saying you never met her?”
Dietz shook his head.
“All right, Eddie, let’s see if I can improve your memory. The girl in the picture is eighteen-year-old Kerry Dowling. Two and a half weeks ago, after having her high school friends over for a beer party, she was found dead in the swimming pool in her backyard.”
“Oh, yeah, I think I might have seen something about that case on TV.”
Mike pulled a bag from under his chair and laid it on the table. Pointing to the wallet in the bag, Mike asked, “Is that yours?”
“It looks like mine.”
“It is yours, Eddie. And the papers stuffed inside the wallet, they’re yours too, aren’t they?”
“Maybe.”
“Eddie, I want to know about this piece of paper,” he said as he put the torn envelope on the table in front of him.
“It’s somebody’s phone number. So what?”
“Eddie, let’s cut the crap. About a week before she died, you were on Route 17 in Mahwah. You pulled over and changed a flat tire for Kerry Dowling. You made arrangements with her to provide the alcohol for her upcoming party, a party you wanted to be invited to. You even asked her if you could come by after the party. When she said no, you tried to force yourself on her.”
“I didn’t force anything. She wanted it.”
“Oh, I’m sure she did, Eddie. Just like the girl at Woodbury Commons. A good-looking guy like you helps her get her car started. She just wanted to show her appreciation.”
“That’s right.”
“Eddie, much as I would love to nail you for groping Kerry after you delivered the alcohol, and providing alcohol to a minor, I can’t do that. The only witness, Kerry Dowling, is dead, murdered. But that’s not the end of the story with you and Kerry, is it? Later that night, you—”
“Wait a minute. You don’t think I—”
“Yes, Eddie, I think you went back to her house after the party. Maybe you were a little drunk or high. When she refused your advances, you got really angry and killed her.”
Eddie was breathing hard. His eyes, which were dull and listless earlier, were now sharp and focused. “The day she died, that was Saturday night?”
“Saturday, August 25,” Mike replied. “The same day you gave her the beer and asked if you could come to the party.”
“Okay, I admit it. When I brought her the beer, I asked about going to the party. But I can prove I didn’t go to her house that night.”
“How? Where were you?” Mike demanded.
“I drove down to Atlantic City that night. I stayed at the Tropicana. I gambled most of the night.”
“What time did you get to the Tropicana?”
“I checked in around ten o’clock.”
Mike quickly did the math. Atlantic City was 140 miles from Saddle River. Even if Dietz was really pushing it, it would have taken him over two hours to get there. If he murdered Kerry at 11:15, the earliest he could have gotten to the Tropicana was about 1:30 A.M.
“In that garbage pail that you call a wallet, I didn’t see a receipt for the Tropicana.”
“I don’t save everything.”
“Did you drive to Atlantic City?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Whose car?”
“Mine.”
“Do you have an E-ZPass?”
“Not since I lost my credit card. I pay cash for my tolls.”
“How did you pay for your hotel room?”
“Cash.”
“Okay, Eddie, I’m gonna check out your Tropicana story. I know where to find you if I need you.”
• • •
As Mike walked quickly toward the door, the desk sergeant called out to him. “Detective, Officer Fitchet asks if you could wait a few minutes. She wants to talk to you before you leave.”
“Okay,” Mike said as he moved over to a chair and sat down. He dialed Artie Schulman, who picked up on the first ring. “Artie, I’m still at the Lodi police station. The guy they picked up is the tow truck driver we’ve been looking for. He’s claiming he was in Atlantic City at the time of the murder. I’m checking his story.”
“Good work. I’ll ask if we have any contacts here that can move things along more quickly. Keep me posted.”
Out of the corner of his eye Mike spotted Sandy Fitchet heading toward him with a piece of paper in her hand. She took the seat next to him. “I just spoke to my uncle, Herb Phillips. He’s a lieutenant with the State Police in South Jersey. He works closely with security people at the casinos. Uncle Herb said he and the Tropicana’s director of security can meet you or one of your people tomorrow morning at ten to look at surveillance footage. Here are their phone numbers.”
“I’m in court tomorrow morning. I can’t go myself. I’ll send one of my investigators. I owe you a dinner. Thanks so much,” Mike said as he hurried out to his car.
His first call was to Sam Hines. After briefing him on the Dietz questioning, Mike said, “Set your alarm. You need to be in Atlantic City by ten o’clock. Call Artie and fill him in.”
• • •
Mike was in his office the next morning doing paperwork. A delay at the trial had pushed his testimony to the afternoon. When his phone rang at eleven-thirty, the ID screen showed Tropicana Hotel. He picked it up.
“Sam, what have you got?”
“Reservations records show a single room for the night of August 25 booked by a Mr. Edward Dietz. The room was paid for in advance with cash. Security footage shows a young white male who I’m absolutely certain is Dietz entering the hotel at 9:49 P.M. There’s more footage I can go through from inside the casino but—”
“Don’t bother,” Mike said. “If he’s in AC at almost ten, there’s no way he’s back in Saddle River at eleven-fifteen. Thank the guys down there for me.”
Mike hung up the phone and exhaled. He was not looking forward to telling Assistant Prosecutor Artie Schulman and Prosecutor Matt Koenig that once again their only suspects in the Dowling murder were Alan Crowley and Jamie Chapman.