Chapter 7
Maher sat in an office at 1 Hogan Place and sighed. I thought this kind of stuff was behind me. But clearly it wasn’t. Sitting across from Maher were Detective Louis DePasquale and Assistant District Attorney John Malady.
“We think Scofield killed a prostitute, “ DePasquale began. (The woman’s name been withheld to protect the privacy of her parents.)
“How do you know he did it?” Maher asked, doubtful that Ronald Scofield actually murdered someone.
“We think he did it,” Malady said.
DePasquale explained the details of the case.
A white male and a female prostitute, using the alias “Mr. and Mrs. Adams,” checked into the Dixie Hotel at 250 West 43rd Street, a pay-by-the-hour hotel just off Times Square. About half and hour later the white make exited the hotel. A maid found the prostitute dead, her body stuffed under the bed. It was a particularly brutal crime. The woman had been struck a total of eight times, detaching her right eye. The killer had used both a telephone and a six foot floor lamp as weapons. In addition, she had been strangled by the telephone cord.
DePasquale had the placed dusted for prints and came up empty. No physical evidence could be linked to the killer. The only lead was the registration card. The name of phony – of course. And so was the address – 98 Babbitt Road, Beford Hills, New York. But although there was no 98 Babbitt Road in Bedford Hills, the street actually existed. And the man had inexplicably added an actual Zip code in Bedford Hills. This led DePasquale to conclude that the suspect had more than a passing knowledge of that town.
“I ran a check of recent parolees and work release participants from the Tuconic prison at Bedford Hills and came up with Scofield,” DePasquale remarked. In addition, DePasquale noted that Scofield’s family lived in Bedford Hills. “Which means he knows the streets and the Zip codes.” Furthermore, DePasquale had learned that the agency handling Scofield’s release program was five blocks away from where the murder took place. DePasquale interviewded Scofield, but Scofield refused to answer any questions. Without some other form of intervention – such as a confidential informant Scofield trusted – Scofield would talk.
“We need you, Kevin,” Malady said.
Maher thought about how Scofield just sat there as Molese pummeled poor Alice. Locking up Scofield would not only be an adventure, it would also be a pleasure.
“Sure,” Maher said. “I’ll do it.”
DePasquale and Malady smiled.
“How much?” Maher said.
“How much?” DePasquale looked at Malady. Malady looked back at DePaquale.
“Well, I ain’t doing it for nothing,” Maher stated with emphasis. He wanted to be paid. But how much didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he would be receiving money to act in a law enforcement capacity.
DePasquale offered $500 for the job. Maher accepted.
Maher was a veteran at wearing a wire. So he was as unruffled as a surgeon when he glided his 1971 Chrysler to a stop in front of the Scofield’s house in Bedford Hills later that evening. Even the car had been prepped. Standard procedure in situations like these was to remove a fuse, rendering the car radio inoperable . The reason for this slight modification was to prevent sound from obscuring a tape confession. Police had observed over the years that the first thing that many suspects did when they climbed into a an automobile was turn on the radio and crank up the volume. This behavior was not intended to muddle any recording done in the car, rather it appeared to be a reaction designed to prevent someone from outside the car overhearing the conversation. Cops had disabled radios many times, yet suspects never seemed to get it.
Scofield was no exception. The moment he slid into the car, he reached for the radio and snapped it on. Nothing.
“The radio is broken,” Maher said matter-of-factly.
Scofield glanced nervously out the window. The street was empty. After a beat, Maher kick-started the conversation.
“Ronald,” Maher said, “what the fuck did you do?”
“What are you talking about?” Scofield’s eyes were wide with fear.
“Man these fucking cops were all over me. They said someone who looked like me killed a fucking whore.”
Maher and Scofield were similar in appearance. So Scofield bought Maher’s line. He mulled over what Maher was saying for a minute or so.
Maher pressed. “The cops kept asking me about Bedford Hills.”
Scofield began to look like a cornered rabbit.
Maher grabbed Scofield’s shoulders. “Come on, Ronald. What the fuck did you do?”
“I couldn’t get it up, Kevin.”
Maher studied Scofield for a moment. That’s what this is all about. He couldn’t get it up?
Scofield, without any further prodding, continued. “She kept playing with me but I couldn’t get it up. Then she said she was leaving. I asked for my money back but she wouldn’t give it to me. So I hit her with the telephone.”
Scofield opened the car door. “I gotta get out of Bedford Hills.”
“Where are you going?” Maher wanted to know.
“I don’t know. Somewhere in Manhattan. Scofield stepped out onto the sidewalk. “I’ll call you.”
Maher drove back to the city where he, DePasquale, and Malady listened to Scofield’s impromptu confession. When the tape was over, DePasquale was happy enough, but Malady had a look of concern.
“Not enough,” Malady said with a sigh.
Maher was incredulous. Malady explained that Scofield’s confession contained nothing specific about the crime.
“I want to make sure I get a conviction,” Malady said. “So I need you to go back to Scofield to describe the murder in detail.”
Maher sighed. Being a cop wasn’t so easy after all.
A few days later, Scofield called and asked Maher if he could borrow some money. This time they met at a seedy West 44th Street hotel. Maher, fitted with a tape recorder, handed Scofield $50.
“Ronald, you gotta tell me what happened.”
“ I told you what happened,” Scofield retorted. “I hit the slut with the phone.”
Maher leaned in. “Listen. I’ve been in jail long enough to know what they need for an arrest, an indictment, and a conviction. You tell me every detail of what happened from the time you picked her up until you left the hotel room, and I’ll be able to tell you, without a fucking doubt, whether or not they’re jerking your chain.”
Scofield frowned, and Maher thought Scofield was spooked by the straightforward request for a blow-by-blow account of the murder. But then Scofield started into the story.
“Okay, l-l-let’s see,” Scofield stammered. “She wanted to leave – she was lying on the bed and she started to get up – I got pissed off and whacked her with the phone.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know. Three. Four, maybe.”
“And that killed her?”
“No! No!” Scofield was exasperated.
“When I realized she was hurt bad…” Scofield’s voice trailed off.
“How bad?” Maher pressed. “How bad was she hurt?”
“I knocked one of her eyes out.”
“Which eye?”
Scofield touched his right eye. “The right one.”
Maher grimaced. “ But she was still alive?”
“Yeah, she was squirming around the bed. And the bitch wouldn’t die. The fucking bitch wouldn’t die!”
Maher was sickened by what he was hearing. Scofield continued.
“I couldn’t let her live, Kevin.”
“Why not, Ronald? Why couldn’t you let her live?”
“I was on a work release program. I figured if she talked, they’d violate my parole.”
Maher felt like drawing back his fist and driving it into Scofield’s face.
Scofield went on with his gory tale.
“I chocked her with the phone cord, bit the bitch just wouldn’t fucking die!”
Maher winced at the words.
Scofield continued. “So I threw her on the floor and beat the shit out of her head with the fucking floor lamp.”
“You left her on the floor?”
“I stuffed the fucking whore under the bed.”
“Which way was the body facing?”
“Does that matter?” Scofield thought for a moment. “She was face down.”
Maher continued to extract specifics from Scofield, including the color of the furniture in the room and the type of furniture. Feeling he had enough to satisfy ADA Malady, Maher left. He stopped off in the lobby bathroom on the way out.
“I got this motherfucker now,” Maher whispered under his breath as he relieved himself. “This stupid motherfucker is going down.”
Maher rendezvoused with DePaquale, and he listened to the tape . Scofield was putting himself away for a very long time. The came the sound of Maher walking into a bathroom, followed by the sound of a zipper. Maher could be heard whispering: I got this motherfucker now. This stupid motherfucker is going down. Next came the sound of him relieving himself and then a flush.
“I forgot I had the Nagra on,” Maher said.
Both Maher and DePasquale laughed.
The next day Malady listened to the tape and immediately issued an arrest warrant. Then Maher testified in front of a grand jury as CI #667903. Scofield, as Maher had predicted, was indeed going down.
Since Maher had joined Penn Central, There had been a financial restructuring of the railroad was a new name – ConRail. Maher’s supervisor informed him that there was an opening in the signal and communication department of ConRail’s New Jersey region. The pay would be higher and the work would be a lot easier than the effort required in replacing railroad ties. And so, in mid-October 1976, Maher resigned his job at ConRail New York and signed on with ConRail New Jersey. He would start his new job on October 26. All was well in the Maher/Eschert household. Until the phone call from ADA Malady.
“Kevin,” Malady began, “there will be a discovery hearing in a few days and I’m going to have to turn over the minutes of the grand jury hearing.”
Although Malady insisted that he was not require to divulge Maher’s name, Maher knew that Scofield wasn’t that stupid. Scofield would know immediately who the unnamed CI was. For the first time since he started playing cop, Maher was frightened. Scofield knew where Maher lived. And even if Scofield were locked up, Scofield had a brother. And he had friends with nasty dispositions.
Still reeling from Malady’s call, Maher received another call.
“Hey, Kevin. It’s William Hand.”
William Hand was an inmate Maher had met during his term at Coxsackie Prison.
“I want to do a bank,” Hand said. “I need a wheel man. You interested?”
An invitation to a felony. Maher shook his head. Is there no way to go forward? Yes, there is a way to go forward. Say no. Hang up the receiver.
“When?’ Maher asked, surprising himself.
“Tomorrow.”
They agreed to meet that evening at Maher’s house to discuss the job.
Maher tried to reach Doherty but he wasn’t in and couldn’t be reached. Maher looked at the wall clock. He would be meeting Hand in two hours. He had to talk to someone in law enforcement before the meeting. It occurred to Maher that bank robbery was a federal crime. And he recalled having met FBI agent Al Garber in Doherty’s office.
Maher decided not to waste time on the telephone and drove directly to the FBI’s New York headquarters, an apartment building in east 69th Street. Maher entered the building and walked up to the reception desk.
“Agent Al Garber,” Maher said. “Tell him Kevin Maher is here to see him and it’s important. Tell him I’m Sergeant Doherty’s CI.”
A moment later, Garber emerged.
“Hello, Kevin. What can I do for you?”
“I’m going to rob a bank,” Maher said.
Garber led Maher d own the hall into a small room.
“Tell me about this bank,” Garber asked.
“First Federal Savings and Loan. Fourteenth Street and First Avenue. Hand says it’s an easy bank.” Maher laughed. “He told me a friend of his has robbed it three times.”
“When?” Garber wanted to know.
“Tomorrow.”
Garber shook his head. “It can’t be tomorrow. You have to stall him for a few days.”
Garber explained that the policy at the Justice Department was to move cautiously. Before they arrested a suspect, the FBI would always “identify” the suspect first, checking to see if another bureau was involved. What if the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms was already on Hand’s case?
“If you don’t take him off now with me,” Maher protested, “he’ll fund someone else and do the job anyway.”
Garber remained hesitant.
Maher pressed. “The guy is a heroin addict. And he’s running around the city with a gun.”
Garber grimaced. Certainly Hand was capable of acting on impulse, knocking off the first bank he saw. At least this way, with Maher, it was a “controlled bank robbery,” which was how the FBI referred to such an operation. Garber grabbed the phone and called a group supervisor. It was resolved that they would do they best they could to communicate with other bureaus. The bank robbery was on. For the next half hour, Garber briefed Maher on what he expected. When he finished, Maher got to the fee.
“How much do I get for this assignment?”
Garber offered Maher $1,500. Maher smiled. He got $500 from the Manhattan DA’s office for the Scofield case. And he would receive three times that much from the feds for his work on the Hand robbery. In the beginning, the adventure had been enough. Now the money was getting good enough to turn the adventure into a career.
But then reality hit him. Scofield! What about the Scofield and the discovery hearing?
“Agent Garber,” Maher said, “I have a problem.”
Maher explained the Scofield situation and Garber suggested that Maher entered the witness protection program.
“We can put you in North Dakota,” Garber said.
Maher was not overwhelmed by the idea of living in North Dakota. After a brief discussion of the options, Garber and Maher agreed that, in addition to the $1,500 he was getting as a fee, the FBI would pay an additional $1,000 for “relocation”. Maher chose New Jersey. Garber fired back that the FBI did not relocate people a few miles across the Hudson River and countered that a destination much farther away would be safer. Maher held his ground: New Jersey. Finally, Garber consented.
Hand arrived at Maher’s house sweating and shaking. Not a good sign, Maher thought. Hand was in need of a heroin fix.
“We do the bank tomorrow morning,” Hand said, his voice trilling from the involuntary shakes. “Ten o’clock.”
Hand asked Maher to meet him at an intersection on Tremont Avenue in the Bronx. Although Maher pressed Hand about an address, it was clear that Hand did not want Maher to know where he lived. Unfortunately, Hand was sitting in Maher’s living room. So Hand knew where Maher, lived.
Maher sighed. The sooner this job was over and the sooner he got to New Jersey, the better.
The following morning, Maher drove his cream 1971 Chrysler 300 to an intersection on Tremont Avenue and waited for Hand to appear. A moment later, Hand –more than a few convulsions past his heroin fix – stumbled out of a large frame house near the corner. So much for his secret address, Maher thought, laughing to himself. The dumb fuck makes a big deal about meeting him on a corner, then walks out of a house a few feet away.
“you’re driving your car, man,” Hand said as he climbed into Maher’s car. His voice was soaked in suspicion. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Maher was quick with a response: “It’s got a 440 under the hood, man. You want to get away or not?”
Hand mulled that over for a minute then countered. “They can trace your car.”
Maher fired back another volley. “No they can’t. I put on stolen plates.”
In fact, the plates were not stolen. But it was the best response Maher could come up with on the fly.
Hand reached into his jacket pocket and removed two guns: a .32 and a .357 magnum. The .357 looked new and bristled with power. The .32 clearly was old, even a bit rusty. Hand gave Maher the .32.
“Let’s go,’ Hand said, rocking back and forth in the seat.
Maher navigated the Manhattan traffic and turned onto 14th Street. As had been laid out by Garber, Maher double-parked his car behind a double-parked van. Although the van looked innocuous enough, there were six FBI agents crouched inside, each with an automatic weapon.
Hand nervously scanned the street then turned to Maher: “Okay. We wait for an old woman to walk into the fucking bank. And then we jump out. You follow her into the bank and grab her and we’ll use her as a hostage.”
Maher took a deep breath. Taking a hostage had never been part of the plan.
Hand passed Maher a wool ski mask. “Put this on. When we jump out, pull it over your face.”
Maher started to say something, something like, “William, it’s seventy-five degrees outside. A wool ski mask is a dead giveaway.” Instead, Maher just popped the wool cap on his head and say there as Hand scanned the area for an elderly hostage. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Maher’s forehead was sweating profusely. Where the fuck are all the old ladies? Suddenly Hand’s eyes widened. Maher turned to look out the windshield. Maybe there is an old lady coming down the fucking sidewalk. But it wasn’t an old lady. It was a uniformed police officer, strolling west on 14th Street. The officer ambled past the car, lowering his eyes as he passed. You could hear him thinking: Ski caps?
Instead of continuing west, the officer turned and walked east, once again passing the Chrysler. He stopped a few feet in front of the car and stared through the windshield at Hand.
The steady gaze of the cop made Hand start to tremble slightly. “I ain’t going back to prison, Kevin. You hear me? I ain’t going back to no fucking cell.”
Maher peered through the windshield at the young officer, who didn’t look more than twenty years old. He had a shiny new holster and a deep blue uniform that hadn’t seen many laundry cycles. A rookie for sure, perhaps a Police Academy graduate with only a few days on the force. Please, officer. Walk away. Just walk away. But the officer kept his eyes fixed on the car.
Hand was now taking breaths in little choking gasps. “I’m telling you, Kevin, I ain’t getting taken alive. I’ll waste the fucking cop if I have to.”
Maher sneaked a look at the FBI van. Do they realize there’s a foot cop out there? Then Maher glanced back at the officer. Slowly, the officer slid his walkie-talkie off his belt and raised it to his lips. Maher watched in horror as the cop mouthed the words: New Jersey plates. FMS 953. Maher’s earlier response to Hand’s trepidation about the car – I put on stolen plates – now had an ominous ring to it as the cop stood waiting for a response on his walkie-talkie.
“You said you had hot plates on this fucking thing,” Hand blurted out, then began rocking back and forth again on the seat. Had slid his fingers over the .357. “I’m going to waste the stupid motherfucker.”
Maher decided no matter what, he couldn’t let Hand shoot a cop. Maher grasped the .32. He could feel the grit and rust. Although he wasn’t even sure if the gun would fire, Maher slowly moved the barrel of the .32 toward Hand’s side and prepared to pull the trigger if it looked like Hand was going to fire at the cop. As the tense seconds ticked by, Maher’s mind raced through the repercussions of what he was about to do.
If the cope comes over, what do I do? What if the cop sees my gun? He doesn’t know I’m a good guy. I know this fuck beside me is about to kill a cop, so what do I do? Do I just sit here and let it happen? No; I have to shoot Hand. But when the cop sees the gun, is he going to start shooting at me? Or what if I kill Hand and get arrested? Am I going to get charged with murder? How does that work? I was born a Roman Catholic. I was an altar boy. And now I’ve got to kill a guy? Fuck!
Although Maher wasn’t aware of it, an FBI surveillance team had taken up a position in a furniture factory across the street from the bank. The team commander got on radio and instructed the cop to leave the area immediately. But even after the officer received the urgent message, he lingered, his eyes probing the car.
Hand raised the .357 slowely. Maher steadied the .32 and slipped his finger around the trigger. Then he turned his head. He didn’t want to see the blood. He would look away and squeeze the trigger. Maher tightened his finger, applying pressure to the trigger. Suddenly…
“He’s leaving!” Hand said with a growl. ‘He’s leaving!”
Maher – now drenched with sweat – relaxed the tension in his finger and looked through the windshield. The cop was walking away. And an old lady – laden down with shopping bags – was shuffling toward the bank.
“You get out of the car first,” Hand yelled. “The minute you get in the bank, grab the old lady.”
Maher and Hand bounded from the car and ran toward the bank.
The FBI would have preferred to arrest Hand in the act. That way, they would be able to charge him with bank robbery. Otherwise, they would only be able to charge him with attempted bank robbery, which carried a far lighter sentence. As illogical as the distinction might seem to a layman, that was the way the law worked.
While it was in the best interests of the FBI not to intervene before Hand had a opportunity to pull of the heist, they couldn’t allow a dangerous felony such as an armed robbery to occur. What is an innocent bystander were killed and it was later revealed that the FBI could have prevented the tragedy?
Maher and Hand moved quickly across the sidewalk. As Hand reached out for the revolving door, a flood of tellers and customers burst out of the bank. Then several pedestrians stepped toward him. The hot dog vendor dropped a bun and whipped around. Two con Edison employees, wearing bright blue hard hats, stopped working and ran toward the bank. A cashier jogged out of a Blimpie fast food restaurant. Suddenly, every one of them – the tellers, customers, pedestrians, hot dog vendor, Con Edison employees, even the Blimpie cashier – drew guns. They were all either FBI agents or NYPD cops.
A stunned Hand was tackled and thrown to the sidewalk. He surrendered without incident. So did Maher. They were shoved in a paddy wagon together, booked for attempted bank robbery and a weapons charge together, and they were arraigned together at Southern District Court. As Maher and Hand stood before a judge, several federal marshals burst into the courtroom.
“Your Honor,” one of the marshals explained, “We have an arrest warrant for Kevin Maher in South Carolina.”
After a brief discussion at the bench, Maher was handed over to the federal marshals.
Once outside the courthouse, Maher was uncuffed. The South Carolina warrant, just like the arraignment, was phony – designed to protect Maher’s cover.
“Good work,” one of the marshals said.
Maher smiled. It was good work.
As Maher walked down Centre Street to retrieve his car, he felt a swell of pride. I’, a good cop, he thought as he strode along, buoyed by a natural high. But then a sudden depression seized him. He wasn’t really a cop. In fact, he could never really be a cop because someone with a felony conviction was not allowed to be a cop. Maher bolstered himself again by reasoning that he was kind of a cop. But that didn’t take away the sting of the one thundering realization that shook his senses: All I ever wanted to be was cop. Just because I was a wild teenager who stole a car I’ll never be a real cop.
It just didn’t seem fair.
For the next two years, Maher did as Beth and he had agreed: he retired his imaginary badge. The frequent queries from various detectives no longer even tempted him. And whenever someone from his prison days surfaced with some felonious scheme, Maher politely declined.
“You better get somebody else,” Maher would say. “I’m out of the business.”
Life continued to improve for Maher and Beth. They saved some money and moved to a nicer place, in Wood-Ridge. At twenty-five years old, Maher had found contentment. Events prior to his relocation to Edgewater seemed surreal, as if they never had occurred. But then, on the night of March 23, 1979, as Maher and Beth settled in to watch the evening news, there came a bleak reminder about Maher’s bizarre past. The demons of 24 Sanford Road returned. And this time the evil was a hellish as it gets.
The news anchor stared out somberly from the television screen: “A mass murder in Fair Lawn, New Jersey. Coming up after this message.”
Maher snatched the phone receiver and dialed Doherty. “Sergeant Doherty. Turn to channel seven.”
Maher and Beth sat silently through a commercial. On the other end of the phone, Doherty, a receiver pressed to his ear, watched silently as well. Finally the newscast returned.
“A mass murder in New Jersey,” the anchor repeated. “For more on this late-breaking story we go to correspondent John Johnson, who is standing by live in Fair Lawn.”
The image on the television screen changed to John Johnson standing in front of the Molese house. Indeed, it was a late-breaking story – the body bags were just being removed. One normalsize body bag. On gigantic body bag. And one tiny body bag. Maher began to feel ill. Beth placed a hand over her gapping mouth. They knew. Before John Johnson uttered a word, they knew.
“A brutal triple homicide tonight in this quiet New Jersey community. The bodies of two women and a boy - their throats slashed – have been discovered inside the house at Twenty-four Sanford Road, in Fair Lawn. The victims have been identified as Marcia Ferrell, her fiver-year-old son, Harold Farrell, and the owner of the house..”
Johnson glanced at his notes, then looked up, staring directly into the camera. “…Alice Molese.”
