Chapter 20
Maher called Doherty immediately.
"Joel Rifkin," Maher said, out of breath. "I know him."
"You’re full of shit," Doherty reacted.
"It’s the guy I beat up in the apartment," Maher insisted.
Maher then explained how he came face to face with Rifkin. How Rifkin choked Mary Catherine on day on 9th Street and how he had punched Rifkin in the face.
As Doherty listened to the story, he knew Maher was providing him with a crucial piece of information, especially in view of what had occurred since Rifkin had been arrested on June 28 for the murder of Tiffany Bresciani, the twenty-two-year-old woman who was found in the back of his truck.
When Rifkin was interrogated by the New York State Police shortly after his arrest, he confessed to seventeen murders before a lawyer was claiming he may not have been read the Miranda rights prior to the confessions. Should that kind of challenge succeed, the seventeen confessions would be inadmissible and, in the event, seventeen homicide cases could be damaged beyond legal repair.
Significantly, Mary Catherine Williams was not one of the women Rifkin admitted to killing. She had been included in the list of Rifkin’s possible victims because her credit card had been found at Rifkin’s house.
Since the State Police had a name on a credit card but no body, law enforcement agencies around the New York area were contacted to see if they had an unidentified female corpse. Police in Yorktown Heights, a village in Westchester County, reported that a badly decomposed body had been discovered in a wooded area on December 21, 1992. Via dental records, the body was positively identified as that of Mary Catherine Williams.
The fact that Mary Catherine Williams had been murdered was no longer in question. As to who killed her, there was much speculation in law enforcement circles that she may have been Rifkin victim number eighteen and, had Rifkin’s lawyer not stopped him, he would have confessed to Mary Catherine Williams’s murder as well.
Now Doherty had someone who could place Rifkin and Mary Catherine Williams together, providing a chain of association between them. Coupled with the credit card found at Rifkin’s house, Maher’s testimony could be a powerful factor in the successful prosecution of Joel Rifkin for at least one homicide.
Doherty called the State Police again and upped the ante.
"I have a witness who can link Rifkin to a murder victim," Doherty stated. "And that witness is extremely reliable."
Doherty got the same response.
"We’ll get back to you," a trooper stated.
Doherty couldn’t believe it. What the fuck is with these guys?
On Saturday, July 17, as Doherty was in the middle of hosting a baby shower for his daughter-in-law, a senior investigator with the State Police called to say he would like to take Maher’s statement that afternoon. Doherty was not overly thrilled – all of his sons and daughters (except one son who was in the Navy) were gathered at the house.
Doherty rendezvoused with Maher at State Police barracks in Farmingdale. They were greeted by the supervisor of Troop L, who took Maher’s statement:
On Thursday, July 15, 1993, I contacted Suffolk County Detective Investigator James J. Doherty to advise him that I knew Mary Catherine Williams, that she was a girl I would visit on 9th Street, and that I was in possession of her address book… On Friday, July 16, 1993, I saw a picture of Joel Rifkin on page 3 of the New York Daily News. I recognized him to be a person who would come to the 9th Street apartment to have sex with Mary Catherine Williams. On a day in mid-September, in the early evening, I was in the first floor apartment with a girl named Alicia Whittington. I heard a scream from Mary Catherine Williams’s apartment.
The written statement then described how Maher intervened and threw the man out. The statement went on:
The man is the person identified in the July 16, 1993, Daily News photo as Joel Rifkin. In the prior four months, Joel Rifkin was a frequent visitor to the 9th Street apartment to have sex with prostitutes.
"Thank you," the supervisor said in a monotone when he finished taking Maher’s statement.
Maher and Doherty looked at each other. Is this guy taking a statement on a stolen car or a homicide?
Driving away from the barracks, Maher and Doherty discussed the fact that Mary Catherine’s body was discovered in Yorktown Heights rather than in one of the boroughs of New York City or on Long Island, like the rest of Rifkin’s victims.
"Yeah," Doherty concluded, " it seems strange he would dump on of the bodies fifty-five miles away from the city out in Westchester County."
"Yeah. That’s where Yorktown Heights is. In Westchester County."
Maher grew animated. Jimmy! There was a pimp hanging around Nineth Street! Peter B. The last day I saw Mary Catherine alive, Peter B. was trying to get her to move into his house. In Westchester County!"
Maher and Doherty drove to Westchester County. The Yorktown Heights Police Department, using a facial reconstruction computer program and, based on the bone structure and characteristics of skull, had generated a likeness of Mary Catherine Williams. When Maher saw the computer-generated image, he began to tremble.
"That’s her," Maher stated.
Doherty frowned. "Kevin, that’s a computer approximation of what the deceased may have looked like."
"That’s her!" Maher shouted, tears in his eyes.
Upon returned to Manhattan, Maher went to see Joe Leo on 9th Street and found out that Peter B.’s house was about five minutes from where Mary Catherine’s body had been discovered. Although there was no hard evidence to link the death of Mary Catherine Williams to Peter B. – or Joel Rifkin, for that matter- Maher was convinced that both of them were responsible. And he was determined to prove it.
Nothing happened in the homicide investigation into Mary Catherine Williams’s death until a steamy morning in mid-August when Doherty received a disturbing call from the State Police supervisor who had taken Maher’s statement in July.
"Detective Doherty," the supervisor said, "we’d like you to supply Kevin Maher again."
"Sure," Doherty replied. "What is this all about?"
"You don’t have to be here," the supervisor remarked, avoiding Doherty’s question. "We only need Maher."
Doherty didn’t hesitate with a response: "I don’t go; he don’t go."
"Have it your way," the supervisor said.
On August 19, Doherty and his partner, Joe Daley, met Maher at the State Police barracks. Maher was ebullient.
"That bastard Rifkin is going to pay for Mary Catherine’s murder," Maher exclaimed. "And I am going to give them the pimp, too."
But Doherty had serious reservations about the reason the State Police had requested a second statement from Maher. While he didn’t know exactly what was going on at State Police barracks, over the years Doherty had learned to read nuances in someone’s voice. Having interrogated hundred of suspects, Doherty had developed an ability to distinguish between the truth and a lie. He trusted his powers of observation more than he trusted a polygraph. So, as Doherty headed into State Police barracks on this summer afternoon, he replayed his conversation with the supervisor in his head. Doherty was certain the supervisor was hiding something. And whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
The moment Maher, Doherty and Daley entered the barracks, one trooper stepped up to Maher and led him down a hallway. A second trooper steered Doherty and Daly back into the vestibule.
"Can you wait here, please?" the trooper said.
Doherty was indignant. "what do you mean, can we wait?"
"I’m asking you to wait here, Detective," the trooper asserted. The tone of his voice, his demeanor, everything about him seemed to say: Detective Doherty, this is not the Suffolk County district attorney’s office. This is the State Police barracks.
"And I am asking you what’s going on," Doherty fired back.
"We’re going to give Kevin Maher a polygraph," the trooper answered.
"Why?" Doherty was stunned.
"Because we don’t believe his story," the trooper said. "We think he might be an accessory."
Doherty felt sick to his stomach.
"I’ve known this guy for twenty years," Doherty said.
Doherty refused to wait in the vestibule so the trooper led Doherty and Daly into a room with a one-way mirror. There were five troopers staring through the glass, each with a pencil and a pad. But what Doherty saw on the other side of the glass made him furious. There was Maher sitting with a polygraph operator ready to strap him up.
"What are you doing?" Maher asked.
"We want you to take a polygraph," the operator said.
Maher bolted out of his chair. The incident was beginning to bear eerie similarities to the Ciasullo case, in which the Queens chief of detectives thought Maher might have been involved in the attempted robbery. They’re trying to link me with Rifkin.
"I ain’t taking no fucking polygraph," Maher protested. Then he turned, pointed toward the glass, and shouted: And I don’t like all those guys staring at me."
The five troopers behind the glass jumped. Doherty could almost hear them thinking: He’s not supposed to be able to see us.
"I want out of here!" Maher screamed. "And where’s Sergeant Doherty?"
On the other side of the glass, Doherty turned to a trooper," I want to call my boss."
Doherty was ushered into an office, where he called Robert Creighton at the Suffolk County district attorney’s office.
"These guys pulled this shit out without telling me," Doherty roared into the receiver. "It’s completely out of order. It’s not professional between law enforcement agencies. They treated me like I was harboring a criminal."
"Jim," Creighton asked, "is Kevin under arrest?"
"No."
"Then you’re free to leave at anytime you want."
Doherty hung up the receiver and charged down the hall into the lieutentant’s office.
"We’re leaving," Doherty informed him.
At that moment a major –whom Doherty knew from previous contact on a case – walked in the office.
"What’s the matter, Jim?" the major asked. "You don’t look to happy."
"I don’t like what’s going on," Doherty snapped. "Why wasn’t I told of any of this before I got here?"
"We play hard ball around here," the major said with a smile.
"He’s not going to take a lie detector test," Doherty said with a growl. "I can tell you right now. Not under these conditions. We’re getting out of here."
The major shrugged. "You’re guy’s already talking to investigators."
"What?!?!" Doherty was furious. "Take me to Kevin. NOW!"
The major showed Doherty and Daley to a door.
"He’s in there," the major said, then walked away.
Maher looked up as Doherty and Daley entered the room. When Maher saw Doherty’s face, his heart began pounding. In all the years Maher had known Doherty, this was the first time he saw Doherty show any fear. Doherty grew even more concerned when he saw Maher sitting amid eight troopers, each of them firing questions. Eight guys interrogating one suspect? Doherty fumed. What a Mickey Mouse operation.
One of the troopers interrogating Maher asked him: "Were you ever in Joel Rifkin’s truck?"
Maher’s brow wrinkled in disbelief.
"What’s the next question? Did I help him dump the bodies? What are you, out of your fucking mind?"
Maher leaned into one of the troopers.
"But I do think there was someone else involved," Maher said. "A pimp named Peter B."
The trooper was unimpressed.
"We already looked into that," he said with a yawn. "Rifkin acted alone."
"How can you overlook the fact that the pimp’s house is five minutes from where they found the body?" Maher asked, his voice raised. "Peter B. was involved in the murder of Mary Catherine Williams."
"We have no evidence to support that," a trooper countered.
"Okay," Maher said, "then give me a wire. I’ll go talk to Joe Leo, Peter B., the prostitutes. They’ll talk to me. Not you with the badges."
A trooper smiled wryly at Maher. "Our policy is that we don’t work with informants who don’t take lie detectors tests."
"Oh, yeah?" Maher fired back. "Well, my policy is I don’t work with cops that don’t believe me."
There was a long, tense silence.
"You want me to help you," Maher finally said, "I will. You want to sit there and give me a hard time, I’m getting the fuck out of here."
One of the troopers, using a conciliatory tone, asked Maher if he would mind looking at some photographs.
"Photographs of what?" Maher responded.
"Items we believe belonged to Mary Catherine Williams," the trooper said.
Maher nodded, and a book of photographs was brought into the room. As Maher looked down at the photos, his eyes watered.
"That looks like her belt," Maher said, his voice cracking.
Oblivious to Maher’s emotional pain, one of the troopers asked: "Will you give us a written statement to that effect?"
"Sure," Maher half whispered.
After examining the photographs, Maher wrote the following statement on a deposition form:
On 08/19/93 at about 3:00/PM I viewed a book containing photographs of jewelry and clothing in which, at the State Police barracks in Farmingdale, I recognized photo number 7 as displaying as set of white Rosary Beads. I know that Mary Catherine Williams owned a pair identical to these, and that they glowed in the dark. I recognized photograph number 13 as depicting a black belt that looks similar to a belt Mary Catherine Williams used to have. A key chain attachment depicted in photograph number 37 is definitely Mary Catherine Williams’s. Photograph number 19 which depicts a crucifix and portion of Rosary, and this looks familiar to the one that Mary Catherine Williams had.
And then, for the next five hours, Maher went through virtually every minute of every day from the time he first met Mary Catherine Williams until the day he socked Joel Rifkin in the face. The troopers were spellbound. Clearly, they had never seen anyone who could talk so much for so long and recall every detail.
Doherty watched the faces of the troopers as Maher told his story. True, the troopers were hanging on every word. Yet doubt radiated from their eyes. They still think Kevin was involved somehow, Doherty thought.
It was dark when Maher, Doherty, and Daley left the barracks. They were drained.
"This is it, kid," Doherty said. "They don’t believe you."
Maher couldn’t respond.
"We did the best we could," Doherty continued. "We gave them all the information. There’s nothing more we can do."
But in Maher’s mind, there was a great deal more he could do. For one thing, he could turn up the heat on the New York State Police.
After his grueling experience at the State Police barracks, Maher felt justified in contacting the New York Daily News and New York Newsday. Both ran stories about Maher’s brush with serial killer Joel Rifkin.
The headline of the Daily News story on August 25 blared VICTIM’S PAL SOCKED JOEL. The accompanying subhead elaborated by stating SAYS HE HALTED SLAY TRY.
A man who claims he dated a prostitute apparently slain by Joel Rifkin says he caught the confessed killer trying to strangle her in a lower east side apartment and punched him out – weeks before she disappeared.
"I whacked him tight in the face," said the 39-year-old Kevin Maher.
While the article gave Maher’s account of the incident between him and Rifkin, it also contained a two-paragraph reaction from the State Police, replete with the subhead reading QUESTION CREDIBILITY.
Law enforcement sources believe key elements of Maher’s account and they he knew Williams but could not confirm he punched out Rifkin.
They cautioned that they feel the paid informer, who is working for the Suffolk County prosecutors, could be embellishing part of the story in an effort to gain notoriety.
Maher was not particularly happy with tone of the two paragraphs, nor was he thrilled with the charge that he was seeking notoriety. But he actually choked when he read the words "paid informer." What are they trying to do, get me killed?
Doherty was incensed. IT was unconscionable for one law enforcement agency to publicly identify the informant of another law enforcement agency.
Following the two newspaper articles, Maher was contacted by The Maury Povich Show, which was about to tape a segment with acquaintances and relatives of Joel Rifkin. Maher appeared in the studio on August 31 along with several guests, including one of Rifkin’s co-workers, a former classmate, and the mother of Tiffany Brensciani, the first known victim of Rifkin’s homicidal spree. The show aired in late September.
Maher was obsessed. Not only was he going to tell the world that Joel Rifkin killed Mary Catherine Williams, he also was going to prove it. To that end, Maher called the Manhattan district attorney’s office and spoke with Tom Harkins. By now Maher had become extraordinarily conversant about the case against Rifkin, which was evident as he laid out the situation to Harkins.
"The State Police fucked up from the beginning," Maher asserted. "They hold Rifkin for twenty-four hours without reading him his rights. Then they call his mother and say they arrested her son on traffic violations. Meanwhile, Rifkin gets to confession number seventeen – I believe Mary Catherine would have been number eighteen – and some fucking lawyer shuts Rifkin up. Which means that the only evidence not tainted is my evidence."
Harkins smiled. He was accustomed to Maher’s leaps in logic.
"You should continue working with the State Police," Harkins said. "Continue gathering evidence."
"I’m not working with them," Maher reacted. "The reason the State Police don’t care about this case is because the victims were drug addicts and prostitutes. I pointed out that this fucking pimp, Peter B. owns a house in Westchester, and they don’t want to hear it. And what about the fifty-five gallon drums Rifkin used to get rid of the bodies? You think one man can do that? Lift a body and a fifty-five gallon drum and throw it in the river? You think you could that? Rifkin had to have a helper. And I think it was Peter B."
Maher took a breath and then concluded his diatribe.
"I’ll tell you something, Detective Harkins, I’m not letting this go. I’m going to find out exactly what happened to Mary Catherine."
"So," Harkins asked, "what do you want me to do?"
"Two homicides were in Manhattan," Maher said. "You have jurisdiction."
"To do what?"
"Give me a wire. I’ll go down to Ninth Street."
"I don’t know, Kevin. The State Police are the lead agency in the case."
"Fine," Maher said with a sigh. "But you can’t stop me. With or without consent, with or without your wire, I’m going there."
"Hang on," Harkins said.
While Maher was on hold, Harkins called the assistant district attorney who was handling Rifkin’s two Manhattan homicides.
"Give him a Bluebird," the ADA said.
A Bluebird was a state-of-the-art recording device that had replaced the Nagra tape recorder in the law enforcement surveillance. Unlike the Nagra, which required audiotape, the Bluebird could record eight hours of conversation on a microchip.
Harkins punched the blinking light on the like where Maher was holding.
"Okay, Kevin. You got it."
The following day, fitted snugly with a Bluebird, Maher walked into Joe Leo’s apartment. Maher’s only concern was that Leo might have read the Daily News article in which Maher was identified as a "paid informant."
"Hey, Kevin," Leo said, his tone friendly.
Apparently Leo hadn’t seen the Daily News. But before Maher could get into a meaningful interchange with Leo, there was a hard rap on the door. When Leo answered the knock, two men stormed in.
"State Police," the announced as they flashed badges.
Maher smiled. They fucking listened to me after all.
"Joe Leo," one of them said, "we’d like to ask you a few questions."
"I’m too sick," Leo said. "Maybe tomorrow."
One of the investigators shoved Leo into a chair.
"Shut the fuck up," the investigator said with a growl. "I’m a New York State policeman."
Maher frowned. The guy is going to beat the shit out of Joe. And I’m wearing a fucking wire.
Maher walked over to the other investigator.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Go ahead."
"Not in here. In the hall."
Maher and the investigator walked out into the hallway.
"what do you want?" the investigator said impatiently.
"Do you know who I am?" Maher asked him.
"Yeah," the investigator said smugly. "You’re Kevin Maher."
"I am CI."
"I know."
Maher raised his shirt, revealing the Bluebird. The investigator’s eyes widened.
"What’s that?" the investigator asked, knowing full well what it was. "You wearing that for some TV show?"
Maher shook his head. "I’m working for the Manhattan DA’s office."
The investigator’s eyes widened even more; then he walked back into Leo’s apartment and whispered in the ear of the other investigator. The investigator blanched.
Maher left Leo’s apartment and walked to the street. The area was filled with State Police. Maher climbed in his car and drove away, but he only got a few blocks before the State Police pulled him over. Several investigators and troopers surrounded Maher’s car and demanded to see the Bluebird again. Maher raised his shirt.
"Is that thing still on?" one of them asked.
"No," Maher said, showing them the on/off switch.
"Give me that," another said.
"You ain’t taking this," Maher fired back. "It belongs to the Manhattan DA."
The State Police insisted that Maher call Tom Harkins immediately. Maher got Harkins on the phone and then handed the receiver to an investigator. After a brief conversation, the investigator handed the receiver back to Maher.
"I’ll meet you downstairs in front of Hogan Place," Harkins said.
When Maher met Harkins in front of 1 Hogan Place, Harkins had a concerned look on his face.
"I’m in trouble," Harkins said with a sigh. "The DA’s in trouble. Everybody’s in trouble."
"I told you I didn’t want to work with the fucking State Police," Maher said as he unstrapped the Bluebird and gave it to Harkins.
The case was over now as far as Maher was concerned. If he continued to pursue it, he would create more problems for Harkins.
Several weeks later the chief of the State Police filed a formal protest with NYPD chief of detectives Joe Borelli. Calling the incident "a classic case of left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing," the State Police chief blamed the breach of interagency communication on the Manhattan district attorney’s office.
On a wintery day in early 1994, the Rifkin case still eating at him, Maher drove out to Suffolk County to see Doherty. They talked for awhile in Doherty’s office. Then Doherty walked Maher to his car.
"You know, Kevin," Doherty observed, "you’ve got to leave the Rifkin case alone. It’s time to stop all of it. It’s time you quit this shit for good."
Maher looked at the setting sun. As late afternoon transformed into early evening, swirls of hues and colors spread across the sky like celestial butterfly wings.
"Yeah," Maher said with a sigh. "I guess you’re right. No one treats me like a real cop except you and Bobby. Everyone else treats me like a fucking snitch."
Maher and Doherty hugged tightly. Doherty suddenly began to laugh. So did Maher. They released and just stood in the parking lot, laughing.
"Why are we laughing?" Maher asked between outbursts.
"I’ll tell you why we’re laughing," Doherty said, catching his breath. "Because this all started with a rug. A fucking rug."
"It was a good rug, though," Maher observed.
And then they laughed so hard tears began to roll down their cheeks. Tears and laughter. Endings and beginnings.
"Listen," Maher said, "you interested in a guy who’s selling guns?"
"Get outta here!" Doherty said, laughing.
Maher opened the door to his car. He started to climb behind the wheel but stopped with one foot on the floorboard and one still on the pavement. Both Maher and Doherty stood motionless for a few seconds, frozen in a fragment of time.
"Be talking to you, kid," Doherty whispered, fighting back emotion.
And then, as Doherty turned and walked away, Kevin Maher climbed into his car and, with nowhere in particular to go, drove away.
Epilogue to come!
