A Deadly Secret: The Bizarre and Chilling Story of Robert Durst - Softcover

For Donna, Matthew, and Christopher With love

This book is dedicated to

Donald W. Birkbeck

NYPD

1957 to 1979

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Maria Eftimiades, the former New York bureau chief at People Magazine, Helen George, a journalist and associate professor at Northampton Community College, and Paul Moses, a former reporter and editor at Newsday, author, and associate professor of journalism at Brooklyn College, for their help and guidance with this book.

PROLOGUE

A cold wind blew easily through the thick oak trees that protected the palatial home on Hampton Road, pressing down the almost bare branches and forcing them back and forth in rhythmic fashion, blowing off the few remaining leaves, which were swept out into the open air.

Some of the leaves were hurled to the ground while others were caught in the draft and forced upward, landing on the roof of the picturesque two-story home and at the bare feet of a woman, who was standing alone in the cool, nighttime air, high above the concrete driveway, wearing only a nightgown and robe.

Below her, in the driveway, was Scarsdale police Sergeant Vincent Jural, who arrived at the house around 8:30 P.M., the wailing sounds of a fire engine not too far behind in the distance.

Jural spent several minutes trying to convince the woman to sit down, since the dark brown, ceramic roof was pitched sharply, making it almost impossible for someone to stand on it without losing her balance. But there she stood, her toes pointed downward, her weight supported by the balls of her feet, performing a kind of balancing act as she looked up toward the starry fall sky, oblivious to the elements.

Standing nervously behind Jural were three men. Just a half hour earlier they had been sitting in the living room, discussing the woman’s condition, a radio turned on in the background, a newscaster reporting that United Nations forces were battling the Chinese in Korea.

With cigar and cigarette smoke slowly rising toward the ceiling, their quiet discussion about depression and paranoia had been interrupted by a loud scream. It came from a little boy, only seven, who had ventured into his mother’s bedroom to see she if she was comfortable. Instead he found the bed empty, and he raced through the upper floors, frantically searching from room to room, then running down the stairs.

He found his mother.

“Mommy! Mommy!” he said, panting. “Mommy’s on the roof!”

“On the roof? Where?” said the boy’s father, jumping up from his seat.

“In the back. Over the garage. Hurry up,” he said. “We have to get her.”

The three men followed the boy, who ran toward the back of the home, out through the kitchen, and onto the driveway.

“Look, up there,” the boys said, pointing.

The men could see her, standing above a second floor bedroom window and far above the driveway, which was sloped downward, half a floor below the ground level.

“Bernice, Bernice, are you all right?” shouted one of the men. “You have to get down from there. Do you hear me? Walk over to the window and come back inside.”

The woman slowly turned her head and looked down towards the men, focusing on her husband, but she did not reply. She stood there, staring intensely, before taking her eyes off him and redirecting her blank gaze out beyond the trees.

“Somebody call the police,” said the husband.

The call went out at 8:18 P.M., and the husband, wearing a pained expression on his face, greeted Jural upon his arrival.

“She’s in the back, on the roof,” he said.

As the two men took hurried steps, Jural asked why she was up on the roof in thirty-five-degree November weather.

The explanation was brief: his wife had suffered what appeared to be an asthma attack earlier in the day. The doctor gave her some prescription medication, which helped her fall asleep.

The man said he was in the living room talking with his father-in-law and the doctor, thinking his wife was still asleep, when they heard his oldest son scream.

Jural was now in the back of the house looking up at the woman, knowing he had to get her off the roof.

“Ma’am. Can you just sit tight while I come up there to help you back into the house?”

“No, I’m not ready to come in,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

The woman didn’t answer.

The fire truck finally pulled up to the front of the house, and Jural yelled out for someone to tell the firemen to bring a long ladder.

The firemen unhooked an extension ladder and two of them, each carrying one end, headed down the driveway, the truck’s flashing red lights attracting several neighbors like moths to a porch light. They swarmed, gawking, from the side of the house between the swaying oak trees.

The lead fireman, Tom Langan, reached the back of the driveway, looked up, and could see that the woman was in trouble.

“Hey, Tommy,” said Jural. “We need to get that ladder up there and get her down. She’s not going to move herself.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Her husband and father were telling me that she had some kind of asthma attack and was on medication. They thought she was sleeping, but one of the kids noticed she wasn’t in her room and found her up on the roof. I don’t know what her condition is. She seems distant.”

Langan looked up and called out, telling the woman he was going to prop his extension ladder against the house, in front of the garage, and would pull the rope, raising the extension just high enough to reach over the gutters.

“What’s her name?”

“I think it’s Bernice,” said Jural.

“Ma’am, please don’t move. I’m coming up to get you,” said Langan, who locked the ladder in place and began his ascent.

“No, I’m all right,” she said. “I’m really all right.”

“Bernice, I want you to stay put. Don’t move. I’m going to climb up there and you can come down with me, okay?” said Langan

The woman peered over the gutter as Langan slowly made his way toward the roof, putting one foot on a step, then placing the other foot on the same step.

She looked down onto the driveway, where her husband and father were standing. Her eyes remained fixed on her husband. There were no words, no facial expressions, just a blank stare.

The husband looked back, but said nothing.

As Langan neared the roof, he could see that the woman had moved forward and was now teetering on the edge of the roof, her robe whipped by the cold wind.

“Ma’am, you can’t move,” said Langan nervously, extending his arm out. “You have to stay still. Let me come up there and we’ll come down together.”

Her father cried out from the driveway, “Bernice, don’t move, don’t move!”

Langan checked his feet to secure his footing, then looked up, only to see the woman falling over the edge, headfirst.

Langan could hear the screams coming from neighbors as he reached out with his left hand, hoping to grab onto a part of her robe, or maybe a limb. He touched the robe, but it slipped out of his hand. The woman fell to the cold, hard concrete pavement below with a sickening thud.

Langan raced down the ladder while Jural and the three men ran over to the woman, who lay still.

“Bernice, Bernice!” shouted her husband.

Behind him was his seven-year-old son, his oldest boy, teary eyes open wide, his mouth trembling.

“Mommy!” he cried. “Mommy!”

CHAPTER ONE

The low hills surrounding the eleven-acre horse farm in Bedford, New York, made for perfect jogging trails for New York State Police investigator Joe Becerra, who enjoyed running along the narrow paths that traversed the acreage surrounding the farm.

At least once a day, usually in the early morning, Becerra would leave his rented one-bedroom cottage with his two black Rottweiler’s, Bullet and Roxy, in tow, and run. Becerra always felt better when he was running, his feet hitting the ground in a rhythmic pace, his five-foot nine inch frame tight and trim.

It was late November 1999, and a misty haze enveloped the northern New York City suburbs, soaking the landscape. Becerra, who ran his usual four miles on the muddy trails, never once had to call out to his dogs to keep up, and worked up a good sweat in the unusually warm, late fall morning air. Becerra was drenched, beads of sweat and rain falling from his brow. At the end of the run, which took him in a full circle back to his cottage, he stood there bent over, breathing heavily, his palms down on his knees.

The dogs were right with him, their paws, lower legs, and underbellies muddied. They barked and reached up to Becerra on their hind legs.

Becerra pushed them off, and then wiped the mud from his sweatpants.

“C’mon, you guys. You’re filthy,” he said, still taking deep breaths.

The dogs continued to bark.

“Okay, I know,” he said.

Becerra had found Bullet on the side of I-684 when he was just five weeks old. He sat there in a cardboard box, part of a litter discarded by someone who thought, for some reason, a highway was a good place to get rid of five puppies.

Roxy’s story was even better. He had become part of Becerra’s family as a result of a murder investigation. Roxy’s former master had shot his wife, who was lying dead on the floor with Roxy barking away when Becerra arrived. Becerra followed the dog to the pound. He was an orphan, and Becerra asked the dog warden how long he’d have to wait until he could adopt him. Becerra left the pound that night with Roxy in tow.

Now the dogs were thirsty, and Becerra obliged, filling up a five-gallon pail with a garden hose, which had running water only because the last few days had been warmer than usual.

He left the two dogs outside and walked into the cottage. It was quaint - a living room, bedroom, bathroom, and small eat-in kitchen. The furniture was gifts from friends and family. A sofa from a brother, a small kitchen table from an old schoolmate. Becerra had found his new home six months earlier after living like a nomad, some nights out of his car.

Becerra liked living on this farm, even though the foul smell of manure often drifted over from the distant barns that housed the horses. It was quiet and private, which was fine for Becerra and his two dogs. He was a single guy now, and the solitude was welcome.

Becerra left his wet, dirty sneakers by the front door and walked into the kitchen, pulling off his blue New York State Police sweatshirt and grabbing a towel from a closet.

He threw the sweatshirt into a corner by the bathroom, rubbed his head and face with the towel, and walked over to the kitchen sink, turning on the faucet and filling a glass with cold water, which he finished off with one gulp, placing the glass down on the counter next to several unopened envelopes.

It was yesterday’s mail, which Becerra didn’t have time to look at, having arrived home after midnight thanks to a mound of paperwork following a late night arrest. By the time he’d gotten home, he could barely get his clothes off and collapsed into a deep sleep.

As he looked at the letters, he noticed one was from a law firm, and shook his head. It was from the attorney representing his estranged wife.

Becerra was in the midst of a divorce, five years of marriage ended with some harsh words. He got the two dogs. She got the raised ranch. Luckily, they didn’t have any children, though Becerra thought he got the wrong end of the deal, except for the dogs, which he’d had now for eight years, even before he met his soon to be ex-wife.

Becerra put the envelope down and headed for the shower. He’d read it later.

After washing up and feeding his dogs, and with the clock nearing 8 A.M. Becerra pulled his green, 1994 BMW 540 out of the driveway for the ten-minute drive to the Somers barracks, where he worked as an investigator with Troop K of the New York State Police.

Becerra loved his job, even though he’d earned the unwanted nickname of “Hollywood,” mostly for his good looks and sharp clothes. And it didn’t help that Becerra always seemed to find his way into the local newspapers or the Channel 12 cable-TV news. He wasn’t a media hound, though he probably didn’t mind the attention.

The name stuck because Becerra looked like he’d jumped out of the pages of GQ. His suits were neatly pressed and his jet-black hair was always perfectly coiffed and slicked back. He’d inherited his ruggedly handsome, dark features, including his dark brown eyes, from his Spanish mother and his Spanish-Italian father. He smiled easily, his teeth pearly white. Of medium height, he stood straight, with his shoulders back, giving the appearance of a taller person. While some troopers resented his smooth appearance he was, on the whole, well liked. He was the kind of guy who was still friendly with high school classmates from Archbishop Stepinac, even after twenty years.

As he drove into the parking lot in front of the barracks, his thoughts drifted to the envelope he’d left behind at home. He should have opened it, he thought. Now he’d have to go through the whole day wondering what was inside. Another demand? He’d already lost their four-bedroom home. And it couldn’t be more money.

He was thirty-five years old, making $65,000 a year, which doesn’t go far in Westchester County, living in an $800-a-month cottage. Money? He didn’t have any money, but his wife knew that, which was one of the reasons why things had ended like they did. Money and a career chasing bad guys, which hadn’t even been in Becerra’s original plans.

He was majoring in education at the State University of New York at Cortland with plans to become a teacher when a Beta Phi Epsilon frat brother, a six-foot seven-inch behemoth named Big Al, dared him to take the state police exam.

Big Al talked about nothing else but being a state trooper. It was his life’s dream.

“Shut the fuck up,” was all Becerra would say to him. Being a cop was the furthest thing from his mind.

But when it was announced in early 1984 that the state trooper test was scheduled at the Syracuse War Memorial Coliseum, Big Al knew he was going to take it, and he was going to convince his friend Becerra to come along.

“Cop? Are you kidding,” he told Big Al, who in turn suggested that Becerra was either too dumb or too stupid to pass the test.

Big Al’s taunts didn’t bother Becerra, at first. But he just wouldn’t stop talking about it. So to shut up his friend, hopefully forever, Becerra decided to take the test, and passed with flying colors.

Six months later Becerra was admitted to the state trooper academy and graduated in 1985. His youthful looks soon earned him an undercover assignment posing as a student at a high school in a suburb north of New York City.

For four months, he attended class and gathered information on drug dealing at the school, where the kids were mostly white and from wealthy families.

The experience helped Becerra develop a taste for investigative work, and after seven years in uniform, mostly handing out speeding tickets on the New York State Thruway, he was promoted to investigator with the Bureau of Criminal Investigations in 1992.

Becerra enjoyed working as an inve...