As I was leaving the theatre after the performance Wednesday night, I overheard disjointed references from the assistant stage manager, who was glued to her cell phone, about a disturbance at the Museum of Natural History, but her information was vague. When I turned on the 11:00 news, however, there it was. TV crews had rushed to Central Park West to the main entrance of the museum, which features a large statue of Teddy Roosevelt on horseback in front. Commentators breathlessly told us about the grotesque, bizarre events that had occurred inside during this elegant, black-tie gala. It was impossible not to relate this to what had happened at the Met Museum only two weeks before. The label “patron murders,” plural, was now all too true.
Unlike the Metropolitan murder, this time there were plenty of photographs. First, there were the shots taken by the museum’s official photographer who was on hand, and then there were dozens of images taken on cell phones and other handheld devices. TV wasted no time in getting their hands on these. Reporters tossed out terms like grotesque, horrific, bizarre, freakish, monstrous, and perverted to describe the scene.
The victim, Wallace Weatherby, turned out to be a Texan who had moved to New York with his wife, Sheryl, twelve years before. Wallace had been invited to join the Board of Trustees six years previously. A spokesperson for the museum appeared on camera for an impromptu press conference explaining what an exemplary and hard-working trustee he had been and what a dastardly, cowardly, and demeaning act this had been, the work surely of a sick, deranged mind. As for the perpetrator, like the earlier murder at the Met it appeared to be the work of more than one person, in addition to which there were very few clues: no obvious signs of a break-in, though, of course, the investigation—which would leave no stone unturned—was just beginning.
My reaction to all this was that there had to be some kind of backstory. There was clearly a thread running through both museum murders—a strong statement echoing some of the feelings that Sonny Beaufort had long expressed—but at the same time there was something diabolical and over-the-top about it.
The next morning Gina and Drew had a lengthy, front-page piece in the Times—they must have been up all night. Wallace Weatherby grew up in Abilene, Texas, and went to Texas A&M, where he studied engineering. He had been enormously successful in the energy business: oil, coal, natural gas. He had met his wife, also from West Texas, at A&M. Unlike most billionaires, who seem to shed wives like old overcoats, he had kept Sheryl by his side. In fact, she had been with him every step of the way, transforming herself from an Aggie with a Texas twang into a quite respectable Southern lady. It was said, for example, that she had successfully apprenticed herself to the social doyennes of Dallas and Fort Worth, leaving behind not only her twang but all vestiges and mannerisms of a down-home cowgirl.
The husband, Wally, by all accounts was outgoing, affable, very well liked, and apparently a masterly storyteller, not just tall tales from Texas but more sophisticated narratives that never failed to amuse. He was also regarded as a shrewd businessman who could break down a balance sheet with remarkable speed and acuity. The combination of his bonhomie and his sharp mind appeared in the eyes of many to make him an ideal trustee of a not-for-profit board. That, plus his amazing generosity—stepping in to make large gifts to causes and institutions just when they seemed to be most in need of support.
His wife, distraught and badly shaken, revealed that her husband had received a call at 4:00 p.m., purportedly from the director’s office, asking him to come to the museum early to meet with a potential donor who was attending the gala and was considering making a sizeable donation for the refurbishment of an entire wing. The donor wanted to meet with the director and two or three trustees before the cocktail hour to discuss the gift. In order to keep the meeting secret, Weatherby and his wife were to direct their driver to come to an entrance at the north end of the museum near the adjacent planetarium. Accordingly, Weatherby asked his driver to bring the car earlier than planned. The couple arrived at the designated entrance and were greeted by a well-dressed man with a mustache, wearing dark glasses, who escorted them in. Once inside, the husband was grabbed and whisked away, and Mrs. Weatherby was taken by two men in masks to a bathroom in a subbasement, where she was locked in along with a woman employee of the museum, a maid of some kind. Later, after the horrific events of the evening, a call came in to the museum explaining where she could be found.
Despite their many similarities, the murders at the Met and the Natural History differed in important respects. First, there were obviously more people involved in this operation. Second, while the murder at the Met was a very quiet, private sort of thing, this latest murder could not have been announced in a more public way, with the results being dramatically displayed to several hundred attendees at the gala. As before, there was no obvious evidence: no broken windows, surveillance tape, or fingerprints. But, unlike the Met operation, there were a few solid clues: three guards were found bound and gagged, though when questioned they had no idea what their captors looked like, as they had all worn masks. Two uniforms and passes from the catering staff were missing; these were from the kitchen staff, not the waitstaff, and so they were never exposed to general view. Also, the surveillance tape had been rigged so that the reel that appeared in the control room in the period from 5:00 to 8:00 p.m. was actually a repeat of the tape from 2:00 to 5:00. Perhaps most revealing of all, a fire alarm went off in the Milstein Hall at about 5:30. The room was emptied briefly until an all-clear sounded fifteen minutes later.
In other words, not only was this operation far more elaborate, but there appeared to be much more to go on than there had been in the previous murder. Still, there was no clue whatsoever as to when or how the perpetrators entered the museum or when or how they left. The man who met the Weatherbys at the side entrance was probably disguised. For the record, the police precinct in charge of the museum area was the 20th, whose headquarters were on West 82nd Street.
In terms of his personality and marital history, Wallace Weatherby quite obviously stood in contrast to the Met Museum victim. The important question was whether the two were alike in their financial history—in the manner in which they accumulated their fortunes and the ethics, or lack of them, with which they conducted their business affairs. To find out, it was my guess that Drew had taken the earliest possible plane out of LaGuardia headed to Dallas.
• • •
As might be expected, the story was all over the early morning news and talk shows. Headlines screamed phrases like “Heinous Assault on City’s Cultural Elite” and “Madman Murder at Museum.” Expert consultants were interviewed to voice their weighty opinions. One, for example, spoke of how “porous” the Museum of Natural History was. The entire acreage on which it was placed was surrounded only by a low fence. The large windows around the sides and back of the building itself were guarded by a wrought iron fence that could easily be surmounted. As for the sensors on the windows, which would send an alarm if one was opened even a crack, the controls at a central station could easily be disabled so that no report registered or siren went off. There was a driveway and entrance at 78th Street that came from Columbus Avenue straight to a loading dock for deliveries. It was heavily guarded, but this was no guarantee against an entry or escape there. The entire setup would be child’s play to real professionals, which was obviously what they were dealing with. There was also the question of motive, and it was open season on that.
• • •
Just as I finished reading about the latest museum murder, the phone rang. It was Monaghan.
“Congratulations.”
“You got Warren?”
“In Montreal, just as you thought. Yesterday afternoon.”
“Congratulations to you.”
“I can’t talk now. I’ll be tied up all day today and tomorrow. The two of them are being brought down this morning. We’ll be interviewing and processing at least till tomorrow night. Could you make lunch here on Saturday?”
“It would have to be early; I have a matinee.”
“How about noon? We’ll order a sandwich. You won’t believe the story when I tell you. It was like one of your comic dramas.”
“A farce?”
“That’s it.”
“I can’t wait to hear.”
• • •
After talking to Monaghan, I hit the pause button. Too much was happening too fast. Three weeks ago I was rehearsing a new play about to open on Broadway, definitely a better-than-average play, which was rare. Even better, it was being produced by someone I admired as much as anyone I had ever worked with in the theatre. No question: it was one of those rare moments, among the most fulfilling events of my career. Then, out of the blue, the world turned upside down.
In quick succession, an unprecedented, totally bizarre murder occurred at the Metropolitan Museum, and shortly after that Dorothy was killed in a senseless, obscene fashion. I could not get my head around the contrast between the two deaths. The first, the Met murder, reeking of sensationalism, was carefully planned, required weeks of preparation, and was intended to be as shocking as possible. Dorothy’s murder, on the other hand, was an unplanned, miserable affair that took place in an obscure basement. Now, on top of everything else, there was this latest horrendous slaying.
I needed a break. I headed for Anton’s, my favorite coffee shop on the corner of my block, run by a young couple, Mica and Anton Fielding who were always there, always friendly, and kept the place spotless. I ordered a latte and settled at my favorite table. Just as the coffee arrived, my cell phone rang. It was Phyllida. “Can you believe this? What a horrific spectacle.” She was referring, of course, to the Natural History murder.
“No doubt about that.”
“It’s macabre, Grand Guignol gone mad.”
“I agree.”
“Where will it end?”
“No one knows.”
“I have to talk to you.”
“I can’t today, or tomorrow. Maybe a quick bite tomorrow night before the show.”
“Great.”
I thought quickly. “There’s a pub, the Rose and Crown, right around the corner from the theatre on Eighth Avenue. Serves things like shepherd’s pie. I could be there at around 6:15.”
“I’ll be there. My God, it gets worse and worse. The magazine doesn’t know where to turn.”
“I can imagine.”
• • •
After I finished talking to Phyllida, I turned off my cell. I needed time to think. I had no idea who had masterminded these two museum murders, or why. One thing I did decide was that this second victim probably had a personal history very much like the first—that is, someone with a very shady business background who wanted to put it behind him and burnish his image by becoming a philanthropist and arts patron. I would be very surprised if Drew didn’t turn up just such a biography after his research in Dallas.
I realized, however, that it would be next to impossible to guess at the motive. Perhaps it was an obsessive reformer who wanted to make certain the lesson about questionable board members was driven home. Or someone who had known these two men years ago and felt wronged by them and wanted to get even. Or even a fanatical New York patron who resented the invasion of outsiders. I knew no one could guess the answer without a multitude of additional facts. I decided the answer lay not with the “why” but with the “how.”
Several things were clear. Whoever masterminded this had excellent information about the arts scene in New York, about the makeup and selection of trustees, about exhibits and schedules, about the inner workings of museums and concert halls. The person also had access to an incredible team of computer experts who could hack into almost anything and program anything. Probably most important, the person had at his disposal a first-class team of experts at clandestine search-and-seizure, including assassinations. It was time to get in touch with Hunter Waldrop. Hunter was a young guru who had helped me solve my computer problems for more than ten years and had been a key player in solving a case I had worked on some years before. At the time, I was acting in a courtroom drama, The Defense Objects, playing a cameo role as a young doctor giving expert testimony. In real life—not in the stage drama—the murder victim was the show’s lighting designer, Oliver Zelsky.
Oz, as everyone called him, was a brilliant designer: skillful, innovative, and imaginative. He was also an egotistical bastard who alienated everyone in sight. Everyone, that is, except a series of young, unsuspecting females whom he seemed to have an incredible knack for seducing. On the night after the second preview of The Defense Objects, Oz was found dead, hanged by the neck and dangling, like some Elizabethan criminal, from a metal catwalk high above the stage.
Given how many people detested Oz, there was a long list of suspects, and the police went about interviewing them. During their interrogations, it was discovered that a mystery man had been seen in the theatre during the final days before previews. Cleverly, when asked, he told the lighting people he was on the stage crew, the stage crew that he was a costume assistant, and the costume group that he was a lighting gopher. Once Oz was found dead and people began comparing notes, he became an obvious suspect. He claimed his name was Parker Burlingame, but that was obviously an alias. There were no photographs of him. Someone had taken a photo of the sound crew on an iPhone, but when the person checked, she found that her photos had been erased. Theatre people, however, are unusually observant, and when they pooled their impressions they came up with an unusually accurate sketch of his face. The only thing was, he was long gone.
That’s when Hunter came to the rescue. I got in touch with him, showed him the sketch, and explained the problem. I also told him that the suspect might be someone with a bent toward eighteenth- or nineteenth-century methods of execution: hangings, guillotines, etc. I admitted this was a needle-in-a-haystack situation, but he seemed to relish the challenge.
This was in the early days of Myspace and Facebook, and Hunter eventually identified him. His name was Roger Watkins, and he had decamped to Spokane, Washington, where he lived in a sort of time warp. Rather than a theatre person, he was into heraldry, honor, and retribution. His motive for killing Oz was that his first and only love was an innocent young lady named Rosalind, whom the dastardly Oz had induced to take drugs so he could seduce her. She had a violent reaction to whatever Oz gave her and lost not only her purity but her life. From that moment on, Roger had vowed to avenge her death, plotting, planning, in fact, devoting his whole life to it. Once I learned the circumstances, I felt great remorse that I had been the one who helped track him down.
It was near lunchtime. At Anton’s I ordered one of their jambon beurre sandwiches: thin-sliced French ham with marvelous butter and cheese on a freshly baked baguette. Sandwich in hand I returned to the loft, emailed Hunter, and told him that I needed to talk to him—urgently. I left a similar message on his cell phone.
• • •
I then put in a call to Annie in Boston. She was away temporarily, but Danny was there and answered the phone.
“I hear Dad’s been arrested in Montreal,” he said.
“That’s what I understand.”
“They’ll bring him back to New York?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Do you think he did it—killed Mother?”
“The police seem to believe so.”
“Is Mikey involved?”
“Again, the police think so.”
“Oh, God. This couldn’t be worse. How could Dad do this? I know he was mad at her, but to—I just can’t believe it.”
“I’m sure if he was involved it was probably accidental.”
“But to go this far …”
“We can’t do anything but wait at the moment, none of us. One thing I have learned, talking to his old friends in Connecticut: he hasn’t been himself lately. He’s become more and more erratic.”
“I’ve noticed that too, and I was worried, but something like this …”
“One thing you can count on, Danny. He’ll have the best lawyer anyone could find, someone who will be on his side all the way.”
“I should come down there and see him.”
“I’d wait if I were you. They’ll have him tied up for the next few days and won’t allow any visitors, even family.” I didn’t know if this were true, but I knew Danny should stay where he was. Also, I wanted to change the subject, so I began talking about the show and our schedule until opening night. This week was previews, I said, and next week—Monday, Tuesday, and the Wednesday matinee—would be the press previews. The opening would be next Wednesday night. I told him what a marvelous production it was, especially of a straight play without a lot of bells and whistles. I asked him to please pass this along to Annie, and said that either one of them should call me anytime they felt like it. I also told him that the moment I had any more news about Warren, I would call straightaway.
• • •
Hunter got back to me shortly after I finished talking to Danny and said he could meet me sometime around 4:30. He would be in the Wall Street area—an emergency. Could I meet him at the Starbucks at Broad and Beaver? I said I’d be there.
He was only ten minutes late. I told him it had to do with the patron murders and therefore had to be absolutely confidential. I then explained what I wanted.
When I finished, he said, “You don’t need me, you need Buzz Pegram.”
“Who the hell is Buzz Pegram?”
“To put it one way: my people charge $150 an hour. Buzz charges anywhere from $1,200 to $2,000 an hour.”
“He’s worth that?”
“The best computer software man outside the Defense Department—maybe better than anyone in the Defense Department.”
“How can we get hold of him?”
“I’ll try to reach him. I don’t ask him for things very often; if I explain how important it is … Well, we’ll see.”
“You have my cell number. I’ll meet him anytime, anywhere. The only caveat is that I’m at the theatre from 7:00 to 10:30 tonight.”
“Noted.” And he was off.