A Deadly Secret: The Story of Robert Durst (2 page)

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 rottweilers, 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 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, 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 loved his dogs. They were his best friends, as they should have been.

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 had 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 before collapsing 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.

He 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 was one of the few troopers who loved his job. He’d earned the unwanted nickname of “Hollywood” 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.

Damn, 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 been part of Becerra’s original plan.

He was majoring in education at the State University of New York at Cortland with designs on becoming 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 to be given 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 asked 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.

He enjoyed working as an investigator. Actually he loved it. He could wear a suit and tie and was working everything from burglaries to homicide investigations.

One piece of information led to another piece, and another, until finally, there was a suspect and an arrest. It was like putting together a puzzle.

The biggest puzzle of his career to date had been his work as an investigator working with the multiagency team that probed the explosion and crash of TWA Flight 800 off the coast of Long Island in July 1996.

Becerra was one of hundreds of police officers from throughout the New York area called in to help interview witnesses and collect thousands of the 747 airplane parts that had settled on the bottom of the ocean. Becerra spent three months on the case, processing and tagging evidence. Though he had only four years of experience as a detective, he never really bought into the final explanation that the plane just exploded in midair. There were too many witnesses who saw a light streaking up to the sky moments before the plane crashed into the sea. Planes just don’t “blow up” in midair, reasoned Becerra. And the FBI guys, always so tight-lipped, like they had rocks jammed up their asses, even with other investigative teams. What was up with that? he’d thought. The official explanation—a fuel-tank explosion—never made any sense to him.

But he was always the good soldier, a guy who followed the instructions of his superiors, and kept his opinions to himself. After three months on Long Island working Flight 800, Becerra returned to Westchester County.

And here he was, three years later, in the midst of a divorce, only six years from retirement, if he chose, though Becerra had grown to love the job so much, he thought he’d stay there forever.

Becerra walked into the barracks, where the uniformed troopers occupied the left side of the single-floor brick building, while the Bureau of Criminal Investigations occupied the right side. The investigators shared a large, square office, each with his own desk. Becerra sat in the front of the office, with a window view of the entrance and parking lot.

He offered a “good morning” to Henry Luttman, a thirty-five-year veteran who was engrossed in his newspaper and replied with only a nod as Becerra walked to his desk.

“Henry, I didn’t get out of here until midnight.”

Luttman nodded again, sipping his morning coffee.

Becerra wasn’t going to get anywhere with his superior, at least not until he finished off the sports section. He took off his jacket, a dark blue tweed, and settled into his chair, turning on his computer terminal.

He was reaching over to check his voice mail for messages when his phone rang.

“BCI, Becerra,” he answered.

“Hello, is this Joe?”

“Yes, it is. Who is this?”

“Um, Joe. It’s Tim Martin.”

Jesus, Becerra thought to himself.

Tim Martin was a lowlife he’d arrested for indecent exposure, ending a two-year investigation in which Martin, as it turned out, had been exposing himself to women of all ages in towns surrounding his home in Ridgefield, Connecticut. This guy was so screwed up, he even masturbated in front of a group of elderly women after crossing into New York.

Connecticut police finally picked Martin up on a warrant for failing to appear at a hearing in Westport after he was arrested there for flashing several high school girls.

Becerra got his hands on him, and after his arrest Martin had pleaded guilty and was sentenced to probation.

“What’s the matter, Timmy? You in trouble again?”

“No, I’m not in trouble. Actually I’m calling because I respect the fact that you chased after me for two years, and I want to give you something.”

“And what’s that?” said Becerra, holding the phone between his left shoulder and ear and organizing several files on his desk.

“I have some information on an old case, something that might interest you.”

“Go ahead, Tim, I’m listening.”

“Have you ever heard of Kathie Durst?”

The name didn’t register with Becerra.

“No,” said Becerra. “Who is she?”

“She was married to Bobby Durst, a rich guy whose family is worth millions. They had a home in South Salem. He killed her in 1982. Only he was never arrested.”

“You know this guy killed his wife?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Tim? How do you know?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone.”

In his fourteen years on the job Becerra had never heard of a Kathie Durst. He didn’t trust Martin, a guy he thought should have been dropped in a jail cell and forgotten. On the other hand, Becerra knew from experience that tips often came from the scuzziest of characters. Maybe he could call Martin’s legal-aid attorney in White Plains and set up a meeting.

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll call John Ryan, we’ll get together at his office, and you can tell me the story in person. That sound okay?”

“That’s fine with me,” said Martin. “I respect you, Joe.”

“Yeah, right,” said Becerra. “Are you back out on the street? You’re not—”

“No, I’m staying out of trouble,” said Martin, cutting him off.

Not likely, thought Becerra as he hung up the phone. Martin had spent most of his adult life being chased by the police, having been busted for a variety of burglaries and other petty crimes over the years before graduating to exposing himself.

Becerra thought for a moment, then looked over to Luttman, who was still reading his paper.

Becerra liked Luttman, an easygoing veteran who had been with the state police since the 1960s. Luttman was a relic, and he was approachable. If Becerra ever had a question about a case, Luttman had no problem trying to answer it. He wasn’t a hard-ass like so many of his superiors had been.

Becerra walked over to Luttman’s desk.

“Henry, did you ever hear of a woman named Kathie Durst?”

Luttman quickly took his eyes off the paper.

“Kathie Durst? Yeah. That’s an old one. Early 1980s. Maybe 1982. Married to a rich guy and disappeared. Probably dead. Why are you asking?”

“I just got a call from someone who said he had information, that she was killed by her husband.”

“Who’s the source?”

“Timmy Martin.”

“Timmy Martin?” said Luttman, letting out a laugh. “Didn’t you put him away?”

“He got probation.”

Luttman folded his newspaper, took a last sip of coffee, and stood up.