Chapter 19
Maher felt the trigger begin to yield against the pressure of his finger. Since the Smith & Wesson was a double action weapon, the trigger mechanism would go through two steps before firing. First the hammer would cock, and then, as the trigger passed the half way point, the hammer would drop the round.
Maher held his breath and pressed the trigger hard. The was positioned for the deadly click.
Maher continued applying pressure, and he braced for the bullet. Suddenly his eyes popped open as the distant memory of his Catholic upbringing moved to the forefront of his psyche. I could go to hell for doing this!
Maher placed the gun on the floor and climbed out of the tub. He collected a phone book and cordless phone and climbed back in the tub. He looked up the number for St. Joseph’s Church in East Rutherford, New Jersey, and dialed. After several rings a man answered.
“St. Joseph’s. Father Daly speaking.”
Father Daly sounded sleepy. Of course, it was three o’clock in the morning.
“Sorry to wake you, Father.”
“That’s quite all right.”
After a long pause, Maher said: “Father Daly, my name is Kevin.”
“My name is Kevin, too,” Father Daly responded.
“I’m depressed,” Maher stated somberly. “And I’m contemplating ending my life.”
“Nothing could be that bad.”
“Father you have no idea.”
Father Daly waited for Maher to continue. Now what do I say? Maher wondered.
“I want you to hear my confession before I do this,” Maher finally said. “I don’t want to go to hell.”
“If you kill yourself,” Father Daly said sternly, “you will go to hell.”
“Unless I get absolution.”
Father Daly laughed. “So you’re trying to get absolution before you commit the sin?”
Maher, ever the player, was trying to work a deal with the priest. As if the priest was a cop and God was a judge.
“It doesn’t work that way, Kevin,” Father Daly said. “Besides there is no absolution for suicide.”
“You’re sure there is nothing we can do here?” Maher asked.
“I’m sure,” Father Daly responded.
“If you commit suicide, you won’t be able to be buried in a Catholic cemetery.”
Maher tossed Father Daly’s statement around in his mind. I hadn’t thought of that. So if I kill myself, where would I be buried?
“You’ll burn in hell,” Father Daly added.
Neither of them spoke for at lest a minute. Finally Father Daly said, “Kevin, why don’t you tell me why you want to kill yourself.”
“It’s a long story, Father. My life is totally fucked up.”
“I’ve got plenty of time, Kevin.”
Three hours later – after the car chase, the FBI, the DEA, Uribe, Beth, Beverly, and the missing Mary Catherine – Father Daly probably wished there was an absolution for suicide. But his patience paid off. At the end of the telephone conversation, Maher promised Father Daly he wouldn’t kill himself. Then Maher hung up the receiver and began to cry. What am I going to do? I have to do something to turn my life around.
Early in January, Maher was sitting on the welfare couch, daydreaming. He didn’t hear Colaneri’s footsteps coming up the stairs.
“What the hell happened to you?” Colaneri asked when he saw Maher slouched outside the welfare office.
The last time Colaneri saw Maher, Maher was driving a $100,000 Porsche. He had a swagger about him then, the cocksure attitude of a winner. Now Maher looked defeated.
“I’m going through a hard time,” Maher said.
“I can see that,” Colaneri noted, the thought: I’ve seen homeless people who looked less alone that he does.
“Look,” Colaneri finally said, “when you get done, stop into the office.”
After picking up his welfare check for $75, Maher walked across the hall and spent an hour hanging out with Colaneri. The next day Maher was back again. And the next. It gave Maher a place to go, a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Once in a while, Colaneri would “loan” him $20. A month later, Colaneri invited Maher to come over to his house.
“My wife, Patti, will cook you a good meal,” Colaneri said.
And so Maher became part of the Colaneri family. Patti’s reaction, however, was mixed. At first she, too, was taken by Maher. But by February she grew suspicious of Maher’s motives.
“I think this guy is using you,” Patti said one night.
“Come on, Patti,” Colaneri countered. “He’s just a troubled kid.”
“He’s not a kid,” Patti pointed out. “He’s older than you are.”
“By four months,” Colaneri noted.
Yes in many ways Maher seemed much younger than Colaneri. Perhaps Maher’s four years in prison –which robbed him of an adolescence- could account for the fact that part of him never grew up. As for Colaneri, maybe the presence of his wife and kids so early in his life forced him into an escalated process of maturity. Whatever the reasons, it was true. Colaneri was four months younger than Maher, was the older brother.
Eventually Patti warmed to Maher again and made an effort to understand him. She came to the conclusion that while he was jaded in some ways, in other ways he seemed almost innocent.
The more time Maher and Colaneri spent together, the more Colaneri felt comfortable playing the role of big brother.
“You shouldn’t be doing coke,” Colaneri said one day.
Maher laughed. “Coke?! What are you talking about. I don’t do coke anymore.”
Colaneri stared at Maher. Maher quickly diverted his eyes.
“You gonna lie to me now?” Colaneri asked. “I’m trying to help you, and you lie to me?”
“Sometimes I take a hit,” Maher admitted.
“And where do you get the money to buy it?” Colaneri demanded.
“I get a gram sometimes. It only cost – “
“I didn’t ask you what it costs,” Colaneri cut in. “I asked where you get the money.”
Maher didn’t respond.
“You use your welfare money to by cocaine?” Colaneri pressed. “Or do you use the money I loan you?”
Maher took a deep breath.
“It’s hard, Bobby. It’s hard to stop.”
“You want to be my friend?” Colaneri asked.
“Sure I do,” Maher responded.
“Okay. Then stop that shit.”
Maher knew that the pain of withdrawal could not possibly hurt more than losing Colaneri’s friendship.
“Okay, Bobby. I’ll stop.”
And this time Maher felt certain he would succeed.
A few days later, Colaneri turned his attention to Maher’s alcoholism.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” Maher protested.
“Then why do you get drunk every time we go out?” Colaneri asked.
Maher had a million excuses. Colaneri listened to Maher’s rationalizations, sitting patiently while Maher explained all the events in his life that made him drink the way he did. Prison. Beth. Beverly. Mary Catherine. Ultimately, Maher talked himself out.
“You through?” Colaneri asked.
Maher nodded.
“Good,” Colaneri said. “Because everything you just told me is bullshit. You’ve got to stop making excuses and quit drinking so much.”
From that day on, Maher drank less, especially whenever he was around Colaneri. Colaneri’s faith in him had become more important than drugs.
And then there was Maher’s temper. One day Maher was driving and Colaneri was a passenger. A pickup truck darted in front of Maher, blasted his horn and raced up beside the truck, screaming and making obscene gestures at the driver. Then Maher jammed his foot on the accelerator and sped away.
“Kevin, you’ve got to stop that shit.”
“He cut me off,” Maher protested. “The dumb fuck cut right in front of me.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, let me tell you about a homicide from several years ago.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Maher asked, already calming down.
December ’85,” Colaneri began, “I was paged at home around eleven o’clock at night. My partner, Mike Barbire, was working that night and he was called to the scene of a stabbing on Paterson Plank Road, near the entrance to Brendan Byrne Arena. A while male named Vasile had been knifed in the chest. You know how he wound up getting stabbed?”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you how,” Colaneri said. “Vasile was riding with a friend – they had just left the hockey game – and they were merging into traffic when a pickup truck cut them off.”
Colaneri looked over his shoulder through Maher’s rear window.
“Just like that truck back there cut you off,” Colaneri noted.
Maher shrugged, not giving Colaneri anything.
Colaneri continued, “The driver of the car Vasile was in and the driver of the truck, who was a white male, exchanged words. Vasile gets out the passenger seat and goes over to say something to the driver of the pickup. The driver stabs Vasile in the chest. But Vasile didn’t go down right away. He walks over and gets back in the passenger side of the car. The pickup truck takes off. Vasile’s friend now sees that Vasile is bleeding profusely and drives up Washington Avenue to Executive Motor Inn. That’s when I arrived.”
Colaneri paused, allowing the story to sink in.
“The blood was unbelievable,” Colaneri added.
Maher and Colaneri rode along in silence for a long time.
“You catch the guy?” Maher finally asked.
“Vasile’s friend couldn’t remember the license plate number of the truck. He wasn’t even sure what kind of truck it was. Could have been a Toyota, he said. Or a Chevy Blazer. The only thing he was certain about was that it was white. We even hypnotized the guy, hoping that would bring something out of his subconscious.”
Colaneri shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“You catch the fucking guy?” Maher asked again, his voice showing some impatience.
“It ‘s the toughest kind of homicide to figure out,” Colaneri said. “No connection between the people. And we don’t even know for sure if the driver of the pickup was at the hockey game. He could have been down the road at the Barge Club.”
Maher was taking all this in.
“You meet Bobby Rehberg,” Colaneri said. “Bergen County homicide squad.”
Maher nodded. “Yeah. He worked on the Molese case.
“That’s right. And Bobby worked with me on the Vasile homicide.”
Colaneri took a deep breath. “We never solved it. The case is still open.” Then: “A real shame. A young guy dying for no reason. And it all started over something like you just did.”
Day after day, Colaneri counseled Maher. He continued to loan him money on occasion and even found Maher work – as a dispatcher for a local trucking company.
Maher felt indebted to Colaneri and often wished he could find a way to repay his kindness. In May 1993, Maher found the perfect opportunity.
Maher had gone into Manhattan on night and stopped by The Z Bar, the place where he had met Mary Catherine. Although he didn’t hold out much hope – serendipity had only brought him trouble in the past – Maher half believed he would walk in and see Mary Catherine sitting at the bar.
Maher walked in. Mary Catherine was not there.
But Maher did see a familiar face, that of Lewis Klein. Klein had been a regular at 439 East 9th Street. He was a coke dealer.
“Hey, Kevin,” Klein said. “Long time. No see.”
“Hello, Lewis,” Maher said flatly.
Maher wasn’t pleased to see Klein.
Klein had been one of Mary Catherine’s main suppliers of crack.
“What are you up to?” Maher asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“Same old thin,” Klein said.
“Dealing?” Maher noted.
“Yeah,” Klein responded.
“What about you?” Klein asked Maher.
“Nothing much. I’m living over in Jersey. Got a job with a trucking company.”
“Jersey,” Klein exclaimed. “I’ve been over to Jersey a lot. Fort Lee.”
“What’s going on in Fort Lee?” Maher wanted to know.
“I got customers over there,” Klein said. “I do about five thousand a week in business in Jersey.”
Maher looked at Klein with disdain. And how many other Mary Catherines are you fucking up over there? Maher knew blaming a drug dealer was like blaming the gun if you shot yourself. Still, Maher felt Klein’s crack cocaine was the reason he had lost Mary Catherine. Maher didn’t care about the fact that if Klein hadn’t sold crack to Mary Catherine, somebody else would have. Klein was standing right there in front of him. Why don’t you put a bull’s-eye on your chest, motherfucker, Maher thought laughing to himself. ‘Cause I’m going to bang you out. And at that moment, Maher decided he would pin on his imaginary badge one more time.
“Listen Lewis,” Maher said as he leaned in on Klein, “I know a guy over in Carlstadt who wants some coke.”
“You know the guy?” Klein asked.
“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” Maher snapped.
“I’ll have to get back to you.”
Klein gave Maher his beeper number and address, a sleazy hotel on Times Square.
The following morning, Maher stopped by the Carlstadt police headquarters and found Colaneri at his desk.
“Hey, Bobby,” Maher said, “I got one for you.”
“Got one what?” Colaneri wanted to know.
“A DD,” Maher said. “He’s transporting shit from New York to New Jersey.”
“Is that right?” Colaneri asked with a smile.
“Yeah, I told him I had a new customer for him.”
“Well,” Colaneri said, “bring him on over.”
Maher and Colaneri worked out the details of the sting. The entrapment issue would not be a factor because Klein had previously transported cocaine to New Jersey.
“Pull off Route Seventeen onto Paterson Plank Road,” Colaneri instructed. “Just drive like you always do. And speed up when you go past Tenth Street. I’ll have a patrol car waiting to pull you over.”
At eleven-thirty that night, Maher picked up Klein in Times Square. Klein showed Maher an “eight ball,” which was a small packet of crack.
“This is what your guy wants?” Klein asked.
“That’s it,” Maher answered with a smile.
Maher followed the course he and Colaneri had mapped out. As Maher exited Route 17 and zoomed past 10th Street, a patrol car, lights flashing sirens blaring, pulled him over.
“License and Registration,” Sergeant Dave Smith said in a monotone.
“I don’t have a valid license,” Maher responded, following the script.
“Step out of the car,” Smith demanded.
Smith slapped handcuffs on Maher’s wrist. The Smith asked Klein for some identification. Klein could not produce any and was arrested.
At Carlstadt police headquarters, Klein was searched. All he had on him was a crack pipe. Even though a computer check turned up priors on Klein in Fort Lee, in the absence of an appreciable amount of cocaine, Klein could only be charge with “possession of drug paraphernalia.” He was released ROR.
This made everyone angry, especially Maher. On the way back into the city, Maher asked Klein what he did with the drugs.
“I had the shit tucked in the back of my belt,” Klein said.
Since Klein’s hands were cuffed behind his back, he was able to work his fingers under his belt and remove the tiny packet of crack cocaine.
“I slipped it out of my belt,” Klein explained, “and stuffed it in the seat of the police car.”
Maher dropped Klein at his hotel and raced back across the Hudson River to Carlstadt. Maher and Smith searched the patrol car. Sure enough, stuffed between the cushions of the backseat was an “eight ball.”
“Don’t worry,” Maher told Smith, “I’ll get the bastard for this.”
The next day, Maher again met Klein in Times Square.
“My friend Barry still wants to make a buy,” Maher told Klein. “Only he doesn’t want an eight ball, he wants an ounce of cocaine.”
Klein’s eyes lit up. An ounce would bring a nice profit.
Soon, Maher and Klein were back on Route 17. Klein kept glancing at the speedometer.
“Stay under the fucking speed limit, will you?” Klein pleaded.
Maher glided the car off Route 17 and drove to the hotel where an undercover Carlstadt police detective was waiting.
This time Klein was caught with a significant amount of cocaine and was charged with far more serious crimes than possession of drug paraphernalia.
The Carlstadt police had quite a few laughs over the drug dealer Colaneri and the fact that Maher had been arrested twice in twelve hours.
As summer arrived, Maher bore little resemblance to the person who sat in a bathtub with a gun in his mouth. He had brought his drinking under control. He was content, looking forward instead of backward, and it appeared Maher finally had everything under control. His drug habit. His emotions. With Colaneri’s help, his life had been transformed. But then, on July 14, 1993, something happened to upset his carefully constructed yet fragile existence.
Maher had his television tuned to A Current Affair, and although he wasn’t paying attention to the show, a woman’s face flashed on the screen. He snapped his head around. It can’t be. It can’t fucking be!
But it was. The woman on Maher’s television was Mary Catherine Williams.
A Current Affair was doing a promo for the next day’s program. According to the promo, Mary Catherine Williams was believed to be one of the victims of the most notorious serial killer in New York State history: Joel Rifkin.
Maher picked up the phone receiver and called Doherty. Doherty wasn’t home. After a mostly sleepless night, Maher reached Doherty at his office the following morning.
“You been reading about the guy the State Police picked up?” Maher asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Doherty replied. “The one they found with the dead body in a truck. Joel Rifkin.”
“I saw a thing on A Current Affair,” Maher said, sighing. “They believe Rifkin killed this girl I used to date. Mary Catherine Williams.”
Maher began to cry. Doherty tried to comfort him.
“That’s too bad, Kevin. I’m sorry.”
“I loved her,” Maher confided.
Doherty listened sympathetically as Maher reminisced about Mary Catherine.
“I have her address book in my closet,” Maher said at one point.
“You have her address book?!” Doherty almost jumped through the receiver. “Get it out and bring it to the phone!”
Maher raced to the closet and dug around until he found Mary Catherine’s address book. He returned to the phone.
“Okay, Jimmy. I’ve got it.”
“Turn to the R section,” Doherty said. “See if Rifkin is listed.”
Maher opened the address book. In addition to the names and phone numbers, Mary Catherine had written sideways notes to herself in large block letters. Sometimes she jotted down a quote from the Bible. This made Maher recall her little TV altar stand with the picture of Jesus. Tears filled his eyes, and he could barely see the pages as he flipped to the R section.
“There’s nothing here, Jimmy.”
“Try the J section,” Doherty suggested. “Maybe she just used first names.”
Maher turned to the J section and found an entry: J.R. There were two phone numbers.
“Jimmy,” Maher said as he looked at the phone numbers, “what are the first three digits of Rifkin’s telephone number?”
Since the Rifkin case was so prominent, Doherty, as did many other law enforcement officers, had a case file on his desk that detailed the serial killings. Doherty opened the folder and checked for Rifkin’s phone number.
“Four-eight-one,” Doherty said.
Maher finished the number. “Four-one-six-four.”
“Bingo,” Doherty almost shouted.
It was Rifkin’s unlisted phone number.
Maher read the second number listed before J.R. It was Rifkin’s mother’s number.
“Don’t lose that book,” Doherty said.
The following morning, Doherty followed police protocol and called the New York State Police, the lead agency in the Rifkin investigation.
“I have information that looks like it is relative to Joel Rifkin,” Doherty told a trooper who answered the phone.
“We’ll get back to you,” the trooper said.
Click.
Doherty stared at the receiver in disbelief. He had found the tone of the trooper’s voice unacceptably dismissive. Doherty’s instincts told him that working with the New York State Police was not going to be pleasant.
Later that day, Maher bought a Daily News to see if there was anything about Mary Catherine in the paper. Since the moment Rifkin had been arrested two weeks earlier and subsequently confessed to seventeen murders, there had been an enormous amount of media interest. Everywhere you turned- radio, television, magazines, newspapers – there were stories about the infamous murderer.
Maher leafed through the pages of the newspaper. There was a large picture of Joel Rifkin staring out from the page.
Until now, the only photos Maher had seen of Rifkin were snapped after he had been taken into custody. IN those pictures, Rifkin was always covering his face with his arm or pulling the hood of his prison garb down to obscure his features. But this was a posed portrait of Rifkin, a smiling face that belied the horror he was capable of inflicting.
Maher studied the photo in disbelief. Joel Rifkin, the caption said. But Maher didn’t know him as Joel Rifkin. Maher had always referred to him with a derisive nickname.
The nerd.
The man in the photo was the same man Maher had caught choking Mary Catherine Williams that horrifying day on 9th Street.
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