PRIMARY HOMICIDE INVESTIGATION REPORT
FILE#: 885–531
INVESTIGATING DETECTIVES: B. Lipson, R. Innes
DATE: 6/11/89
VICTIM’S NAME: Jennifer Judith Cornell
VICTIM’S ADDRESS: 2281 Park Drive, Apt.2A
VICTIM’S AGE: 33
MARITAL STATUS: Single
CRIMINAL RECORD: None
BIRTH DATE: 11/9/56
BIRTHPLACE: Augusta, Maine
NEXT OF KIN: Unknown (see ref. re: A. Cornell)
INVESTIGATING POLICE OFFICERS: T. Whalen, L. Wade
DATE/TIME OF INITIAL CALL: 6/11/89, 7:42 a.m.
REPORT DETAILS: Call received on 911 from two joggers (see witness/report statement) who found deceased under bridge connecting Park Drive and Fenway St. Investigating officers arrived 7:47 a.m. Head was immersed in Fens water, body in prone position resting on bank. Officers observed apparent injury to victim’s head. M.O. Hayes confirmed death at scene 8:15 a.m. (approx.) Fallen branch found at scene with blood and hair adhering to one end (see forensic report #T–55980 attached) (See photos A to L, film strip #89–7639)
INTERVIEWS: (LIST ON REVERSE IF NECESSARY):
Richard Fleckstone, TV Producer
Gerald Scott Milburn, underwriter, Upton Insurance Company
Irene Hoffman, Proprietor, “Irene’s”
Frances O’Neil, Waitress, “Pour Richards”
Marlene Richards, Proprietor, “Pour Richards”
Henry Reich, Superintendent, Parkway Apartments
AUTOPSY REPORT
Attached [X]
Not Attached [ ]
If not, why?
CURRENT STATUS
1. Case reassigned, E. Vance, T. Fox, 7/5/89
2. APB Andrew Cornell, NKA, age 36 (see attached APB #88–99310) for questioning
3. Last Update: 8/2/89
4. Authorized HOLD file status: 9/1/89
Andrew Cornell, the brother Ralph Innes had mentioned. Why focus so much attention on him? McGuire flipped through the pages, pausing at the autopsy report prepared by Mel Doitch. His eyes skipped over the usual clinical descriptions to the paragraph headed “Preliminary Findings”:
Victim expired as a result of drowning while unconscious, said condition the result of a single blow to the posterior of the right squamous temporal, producing a minor fracture and moderate bruising of adjacent parietal lobe. Estimated time of death: 2:00 a.m.
The autopsy report and the statements from the two joggers who found the body gave no indication of a sexual attack, just one blow from behind which, on its own, would not have been fatal. He scanned the rest of the details. Scars on each wrist. Old and properly healed fracture of left arm, apparently during adolescence. Small strawberry birthmark on right hip. Callous on ball of right foot. No evidence of having given birth. No other distinguishing marks or features.
McGuire read on.
She carried no identification, no purse, no keys. A passing neighbour recognized her and directed the police to her apartment building where she was positively identified by the superintendent.
Colour photographs in the file showed the grassy banks of the Fens, brilliant green in the sun of an early June morning. The body of Jennifer Judith Cornell lay under a picturesque stone bridge, hidden from the street above. She had been pulled from the water and, in a close-up photo of her face, McGuire recognized the surprised expression he had seen so often on murder victims.
Other pictures accompanied the report, including three eight-by-ten publicity photographs of Jennifer Cornell. In these professionally posed portraits, the face that looked back at McGuire was almost beautiful. The eyes and smile were a little too wide, the eyebrows too heavy, the shoulderlength hair too perfectly coiffed. Careful lighting had almost hidden the shallow crow’s-feet at the corners of the eyes but failed to conceal the desperation in their studied gaze.
He stared at the face, searching for clues to the dead woman’s personality, looking for something in her that could inspire someone with enough rage to commit murder on a night in June. But all he saw was the face of a sensual woman whose expression said she was frightened and whose records said she was dead.
More documentation: transcripts of interviews; a report of items recovered from dragging the immediate area of the Fens (two baby carriages, five automobile tires, one bicycle, several dozen cans and bottles, one typewriter, one drafting table. . . . A drafting table?); a description of the victim’s apartment (neat, tidy, well-furnished). McGuire frowned and reached for a pad of paper. He began making notes.
Her purse was found on a dresser with wallet, credit cards and almost one hundred dollars cash inside. Two sets of fingerprints were lifted from the apartment, both relatively fresh. One set was positively identified as Jennifer Cornell’s. The other, located in the bedroom, on the closet door and the exterior apartment door, belonged to someone unknown. Nothing appeared to be disturbed.
Andrew Cornell, McGuire muttered. Tell me about Andrew Cornell.
TO ALL DISTRICTS
APB # 88–99310
STATE-WIDE: [X]
F.B.I.: [X]
DATE: 6/21/89
B.P. D. CASE#: 885–531
NAME: Andrew (“Andy”) Cornell
SEX: Male
RACE: White Caucasian
ALIAS: None known
AGE: 35 to 38 (approx.)
HEIGHT: 5’8” / 5’10”
WEIGHT: 150-165 lbs.
HAIR: Brown
EYES: Brown
BIRTHPLACE: Unknown
BIRTH DATE: Unknown
SOCIAL SECURITY#: N/A
DISTINGUISHING MARKS/CHARACTERISTICS:
1. Walks with limp (right leg)
2. Speaks with slight lisp and southern accent
3. Well-proportioned physique; may frequent body-building gyms, etc.
WANTED FOR: Questioning regarding murder of sister, Jennifer Judith Cornell
LAST KNOWN ADDRESS: 2281 Park Ave., Apt. 2A
McGuire read on through the night, filling his notepad with scribbles. He wrote reminders to himself, sketched a map of the murder scene, and drew lines to connect names and locations until the sheet of paper resembled a perverse maze. When he finally stretched and looked at his watch, he was surprised to discover it was past three in the morning and he forced himself to set aside the files.
Later, waiting to fall asleep, he visualized the body of Jennifer Cornell in the last photographs ever taken of her, lying on her back, her wet hair clinging to the shape of her head, her eyes staring out in perpetual surprise.
He stepped out of the shower stall to hear the telephone ringing, and left a wet trail to his desk where the details of Jennifer Cornell’s murder still lay.
“You got the media on your ass yet?” Kavander snarled before McGuire finished answering.
“About what?”
“Hell, you don’t watch TV?”
“Somebody from the Globe called last night—”
“Yeah, you’re on their front page this morning. Saying ‘No comment.’ Very original, McGuire. You write that yourself?”
McGuire rubbed his head with the bath towel. “Jack, I just got out of the shower and I’m standing here looking like a hockey stick with hair. Get to the point, will you?”
“The point is, I need your butt here by ten o’clock. In case you don’t wear your watch in the shower, that’s forty minutes from now.”
“What’s happening?”
“You, me and Don Higgins, we’re going to talk about this mess. Then we’re going to face the hounds from the press and try to convince them that Boston cops don’t go around kicking puppies and beating up defence lawyers. Wear something in sincere blue,” Kavander ordered and hung up.
Prosecuting attorney Don Higgins wore sincere blue suits exclusively, usually Brooks Brothers. In his profession, political instincts and a thrust for the jugular were deemed essential. Higgins achieved success with minimal quantities of either, replacing them with keen intelligence and an unshakeable code of ethics in a job which frequently scoffed at both.
Tall and movie-star handsome, Higgins seemed cursed with what might have been an insurmountable handicap for a criminal law career: naïveté. Democrats and Republicans alike had approached him to run for office in almost any capacity he desired, convinced that his good looks and squeaky-clean image would harvest votes in bumper-crop numbers. But after extensive conversation, the political scouts soon cooled their enthusiasm.
“Guy is as clean as an Eagle Scout,” said one Democrat following an afternoon with Higgins. “But nobody’s ready to vote for a forty-two-year-old guy who still says ‘Golly!’ and thinks being underprivileged means not going to Disneyworld every year!’
Now, in a subtle blue pin-striped suit and quiet striped tie, Higgins rose from his chair in Kavander’s office and extended a pink, perfectly manicured hand to McGuire. “Hiya, Joe,” Higgins smiled. “Jack says he has you on special assignment.”
“I’d like to have him strung up by the thumbs,” Kavander growled, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s get to it.”
McGuire sat in the other chair, facing Kavander’s desk. “Why not start by filling me in?” he said, ignoring the captain’s outburst.
Kavander swung his feet on the desk and talked around the toothpick in his mouth. “The good news is, Judge Scaife isn’t pressing contempt charges against you. The bad news is, Rosen has launched two million-dollar law suits against the city like we expected. One is for him, charging criminal assault and naming you and the entire B.P.D. The other is for that weasel client of his, charging false arrest and harassment, naming you and the great city of Boston.”
“They are both without merit, in our opinion,” Higgins said, his smile erased. “We’ll propose a simple apology for the assault, since it’s clear that no injury was made on his person. He’ll sputter and complain, but the citizens of Boston won’t want to see a million dollars of their money going to a lawyer who owns a garage full of Ferraris.”
“The false arrest, it’s all grandstanding, right?” McGuire asked.
“Even less chance of succeeding than the assault charge,” Higgins smiled. “But it will let him keep his client off the street and delay proceedings. We’ll be fortunate if we can go back to trial within a year.”
“And every prospective juror from here to Cape Ann will believe we’re railroading Wilmer,” Kavander muttered. “Which is just what Rosen wants.”
“So what’s happening today?” McGuire asked.
Higgins leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. “We’ll try to neutralize the impact in the media. We can stop saying ‘No comment’ and begin stating that Rosen’s charges are baseless and that we have total confidence in the Boston Police Department staff in general and you in particular.”
“Very kind of you,” McGuire said grimly.
“Hey, Joseph!” Kavander removed his toothpick and pointed it at McGuire. “You’re not in any position to make smart remarks, okay? All you have to do is dance to our choreography, don’t trip over the footlights, stay away from here, keep your lip—”
“Stay away from here?” McGuire echoed, rising out of his chair.
“—keep your lip buttoned and we wait—”
“Back it up, Jack!” McGuire shouted. “What the hell does ‘Stay away from here’ mean?”
Higgins was smiling and waving his hands at the other men. “Hey, fellows, come on.”
Now Kavander was standing too, his hands on his hips. He swivelled to stare at an empty corner of his office, breathed deeply once, and turned back to face McGuire. “That’s the deal, Joe,” he said in a soft, almost conciliatory voice. “The official word is, you’re on special assignment. You keep your pay, your pension and your badge. Most of all, you keep your nose out of here.”
“Just until Rosen milks whatever he wants out of the charges and drops them,” Higgins added quickly.
“You want me to disappear?” McGuire asked, looking from one to the other. “Go away, sit home, watch soap operas?”
“I don’t give a fuck if you fly to the moon on a broom,” Kavander snapped. “Just don’t show your face around here for a couple of weeks at least.”
“What if I stay out of here permanently?” McGuire asked. He reached inside his jacket to retrieve his badge.
Kavander sat down. “Suit yourself,” he began, but Higgins interrupted, reaching to touch McGuire lightly on the arm.
“Not a good idea, Joe,” the prosecuting attorney said gently. “If you resign it will be construed as an admission of culpability. Rosen’s case would immediately become strong enough for litigation. And that would be just the beginning.”
“Of what?”
“According to our legal advice, resigning now would leave you open to full indemnity on both million-dollar suits filed by Rosen. The city would be relieved of the financial risk and of any obligation to provide you with legal support.”
McGuire stared at Higgins to be sure he was serious—a wasted effort. Higgins was always serious. “You mean I would be out on my own, facing two million dollars in law suits, and the city would be off the hook?”
Higgins nodded, a look of concern on his face.
Kavander was less comforting. “Not everybody would be sorry to see it happen, McGuire.”
“Does that include you, Jack?” McGuire demanded.
“Hey, what difference does it make?” The captain leaned back in his chair. “What are you, too proud to take a paid vacation?”
“We’re looking at a month, two months at the most,” Higgins said. “When Rosen drops his suits, everything is back to normal.”
Kavander rustled in his drawer for a fresh toothpick. “For once in your life, McGuire, be reasonable. If I was you, I’d be out booking a cruise, getting away from this lousy weather, maybe hustling rich old broads all over the Caribbean.”
“What about the grey files?” McGuire asked.
“Leave them. I’ll pass them on to Eddie Vance, see how he does with them.”
“Fat Eddie’s the reason most of them are grey in the first place, Jack. I solved one of them in a day.”
“You came up with a half-assed theory is what you did.” Kavander looked across at Higgins. “Silky Pete Genovese, remember him? Buick used him for a bowling ball and a telephone pole for the head pin. McGuire thinks it was a murder and suicide. Some guy’s way of handling a customer complaint with his friendly neighbourhood loan shark. Trouble is, nobody cares.”
“I care, Jack,” McGuire said. “The real trouble is that nobody else cares that Fat Eddie is blowing half the cases assigned to him. I’m looking at one now, a woman who drowned in the Fens last summer. There are leads everywhere, including an APB for her brother that was never followed up, and Fat Eddie writes ‘NETGO’ on it, leaves it in the drawer—”
“Writes what on it?” asked Higgins.
“NETGO,” Kavander said, staring down at his lap. “Nothing else to go on.” He was a different Kavander now, sullen and quiet. “Joe, you want to work on that one, you go ahead. I’m just telling you you’re on your own. You don’t show up here until I give you the word, and you work with whatever you already have.” His eyes snapped up and met McGuire’s. “That’s the deal. You either make the most of it or you book passage out of town, I don’t care. I just don’t want people around here tripping over you until Rosen’s off our back.”
“Why?” McGuire asked quietly.
The word detonated another explosion in the police captain. “There’s no ‘Why?’ There’s only ‘Do it.’” Kavander slapped his hand on the desk. “You’re a fucking loose cannon, McGuire. You’ve been that way since Ollie Schantz retired, flying around, bouncing off things.” He shook his head li though to erase his mood and force himself to grow calm again. “You ever play football in college, McGuire?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“Never went. After I graduated from high school, my old man told me I already had twice as much education as he did and I’d better get a job and start paying board.”
“What did you play in high school?”
“Usually dead.”
Kavander smirked. McGuire knew the captain had been an all-star guard at Boston College, a bruising blocker who remembered every opposition player he had ever knocked down. “I could tell you didn’t play team sports. Because you’ve never been a team player around here, McGuire. You’re a solo artist, you never learned how to put the team’s interests ahead of your own.”
Higgins glanced at his watch. “They’re waiting for us downstairs,” he interrupted, straightening the crease in his rousers. “The TV crews were setting up when I came in. We should get going.”
Kavander placed his elbows on the desk. Holding his head in his hands, he stared at a typed sheet of paper in front of him. “Joe, listen to me,” he said without looking up. His voice was low, his tone avuncular. “Trust me. I’m doing you a favour. Just lay low for a few weeks. It’ll do us both good. That’s all I’m asking. Just a few weeks, all right?”
When McGuire didn’t reply immediately, Kavander swept the sheet of paper from his desk and rose from his chair. “Let’s go,” he said, walking briskly to the door. “And for Christ’s sake, McGuire, try to keep your cool.”