Joseph Wambaugh - Echoes in the Darkness

“Other than in Philadelphia, no.”

“And of course you don’t remember anything other than being in Philadelphia on Sunday, June twenty-fourth, 1979, do you?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you don’t remember your whereabouts or your activities that Monday, June twenty-fifth, 1979?”

“Aside from being in Philadelphia, no.”

“You don’t remember whether you left the residence of Bradfield and Pappas when the authorities came down to Santa Fe in the early summer of 1979, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You don’t remember any coding system, and in fact you deny any coding system between you and Bradfield, don’t you?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you don’t remember that in Thanksgiving of 1978, Bradfield called Reinert’s mother’s house from where the two of you were staying, do you?”

“I don’t remember. That’s correct.”

“Knowing Bradfield romantically for the years that you’ve known him, is there anything you can remember that would help the prosecution in their effort to learn anything about the murder of Susan Reinert and the disappearance of her two children?”

“I don’t have anything to add.”

“I have no further questions,” Bill Costopoulos said, and sat down.

Bill Costopoulos hadn’t intimidated Rachel. The hound of the Baskervilles couldn’t have intimidated Rachel.

When that study in black and white and gray strode across the courtroom, a single word came to mind: resolute . She had the self-righteous cast of a true believer. But a true believer risks sounding less like Joan of Arc and more like Lucrezia Borgia.

Along with the “my danger conspiracy” letter to V in cipher was the following deciphered message on the reverse side, also explained to the jury by an FBI cryptanalyst.

Miss you Hon. Love you terribly. Love you so much. Hurt for you. Hope I can see you soon, but lawyer says going up there now could be grounds for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution. Lawyers warn there will be FBI plant near you soon. Car bugged. Chris has been subpoenaed for grand jury. He will say nothing much. He must maintain this all the way up through possible (probable) trial. Hand on Bible et cetera or be in perjury five to ten years.

If you’re in same position, you know practically nothing about case and nothing at all about Smith P of D. You must maintain this all the way up through trial hand on Bible forever. Did we mention Smith to Pappas? Try to remember. We can’t be inconsistent about what we told them. Perhaps you could write them and warn them. Will be visited by FBI. If they haven’t yet. Ask them exactly what they remember about what we said. Love you. Remember that we made it. Love you. Wish I were lying next to you and holding you.

Destroy this and ashes. Congratulations you’re on way to becoming expert cryptologist. Can you take some more rules? Hope so. Lawyers assure us we are dealing with the best FBI has. So we better be fairly sophisticated, okay?

When coding, use last number then first and so forth back and forth. Destroy messages after receiving them. Destroy them without being observed. Don’t let anyone know you’re receiving or destroying code. Repeat. Destroy completely. If ashes are left, destroy them also. Grind them underfoot or something.

It is perhaps noteworthy that neither Bill Bradfield’s ex-wife Muriel nor Sue Myers, nor Shelly nor Rachel, had married in all the years since they’d known him. Things like romantic fantastic irrelevant letters resembling games of Scrabble might have had something to do with it. After you’ve been part of his madcap adventures it might be hard to settle down to domestic routine. Besides, it was probably great to have a mission in life.

If Bill Costopoulos didn’t succeed with intimidation, he did succeed in his foremost aim. He’d demonstrated to the jury that Rachel, unlike Vince Valaitis, could be considered as a crime partner of William Bradfield. In fact, her performance was assessed during the jury deliberation. It was learned that one juror asked if they had the power to convict her of anything.

If the letter within a letter was the most legally damaging piece of physical evidence in the Jay Smith trial, the tiny green pin from the Philadelphia Museum of Art carried the emotional load.

The trial had been going on for three weeks and both sides had just about shot their bolts. Bill Costopoulos had been working eighteen hours a day and looked haggard. Rick Guida was so overloaded with nicotine he could have jump-started a DC-10.

The prosecutor said that he had no idea what to expect when he subpoenaed former classmates of Karen Reinert from Chestnutwold Elementary School who’d made that museum field trip in the sixth grade. He was hoping they wouldn’t have green hair with pins through their noses.

The first of them wore a blue blazer and a necktie and testified that back in the sixth grade they’d gone to the museum, all right. He remembered the colonial furniture. He planned to enter Temple University in the fell.

The second, similarly dressed, was a senior at Haverford High School and would be attending the Virginia Military Institute. He testified to getting the green pin with the white P .

The third was also a student at Haverford who would be transferring to William and Mary, and he remembered the pin and the trip.

The next was going to the University of Cincinnati, and yes, he remembered the pin and the trip.

Another had kept his pin and turned it over to the police for comparison.

Each young witness was handsome and wholesome and well dressed and polite. Finally, one was called who wasn’t wearing a coat and tie. He was wearing jeans, but he was the jock of the crowd, another good-looking kid with college plans. He’d played in Michaels last cub scout game.

Guida asked him about the field trip and he testified that Karen Reinert had definitely been on the field trip at the museum that day in 1979.

When the prosecutor asked him how he could be sure, the young man said, “She was very cute. Lots of people at school had a crush on her. I was one of them.”

The jurors smiled. The courtroom got very quiet. A couple of people took out handkerchiefs.

Costopoulos couldn’t cross-examine. He had to wait until Jack Holtz again testified, in order to imply that all of the Bradfield people had been on the loose at that time and someone could have planted that pin in Jay Smiths car when it was parked at his brothers house in Delaware.

The defense knew what was coming next. The queue of bright wholesome kids had kept the courtroom utterly silent.

The look on the face of the defense lawyer said, Why can’t this one look like Saturday night at Studio 54?

She looked like a Mormon missionary. The young woman entered timidly and after the judge reassured her with a kindly smile, she sat down and put her hands in her lap and waited.

“State your name for the record,” Guida said.

“Elizabeth Ann Brook.”

“And where do you work?”

“I work at the Chubb insurance company.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“What is your grandmother’s name?”

“Mary Gove.”

“And where did your grandmother live in 1979?”

“She lived on Woodcrest Drive.”

“And who was her next-door neighbor?”

“Susan Reinert.”

“Who did Susan Reinert live there with?”

“Her two children, Karen and Michael.”

“Now, Beth Ann, during 1978 and 1979, did you stay at your grandmother’s house at all?”

“Yes, I did. Quite frequently.”