If Looks Could Kill (4 page)

By 12:31
P.M
., Jeff Zack was on his way to Akron City Hospital, fighting desperately for his life. Before they left, paramedics told Ed Moriarty that Jeff Zack had likely pulled into BJ’s for the last time. He had lost too much blood. One of the doctors at the scene tending to him had mentioned something about hearing “gurgling noises” as he performed CPR, which meant Jeff’s lungs had taken in blood.

Not a good sign.

Akron Emergency Medical Service (EMS) paramedics worked on Jeff best they could during the fast three-minute trip to Akron City Hospital. When they arrived, Jeff was rushed to the emergency room, where doctors, after trying to revive him several times, pronounced him dead at 12:46
P.M
. One of the doctors who had traveled with Jeff from the scene and worked in emergency told detectives when they arrived right behind the ambulance that “for all intents and purposes, [Jeff] Zack was dead when he arrived at the hospital.”

After being informed of the circumstances surrounding Jeff’s death, Summit County’s chief medical examiner (ME), Lisa Kohler, ordered an autopsy, which she said she was planning on conducting herself the following morning.

Back at BJ’s, Ed Moriarty and his CAPU team of detectives were searching the scene for any evidence left by the shooter. If nothing else, it appeared to be a clean hit-and-run type of murder—at least on the surface. The bullet, of course, was going to be important. Moriarty wanted everyone to focus on finding that one projectile. It had to be somewhere. Jeff’s killer had obviously not stopped to pick it up.

“Find that damn bullet,” Moriarty snapped.

Experience told Moriarty that the media was going to show up any moment and start asking questions. As sergeant in charge of the investigation, it was his responsibility to give them some sort of statement, a little bit of a crumb to nibble on while the CAPU sorted out best it could what had happened. On that note, in case there had been, in Moriarty’s words, a “sinister plot” behind Jeff’s murder, he decided to put the case out into the public as a road rage crime. The idea was to make Jeff’s killer feel as comfortable and secure as possible during the opening moments of the investigation. Moriarty knew it might throw him or her off balance enough to make that one mistake to point detectives in the right direction. In other words, if the killer was home now, pacing, waiting, preparing his or her next move, if he or she believed cops were looking for a road rage incident turned bloody, it might give him or her not only some relief from worrying about being caught, but time to regroup and figure out his or her next move.

Exactly what Moriarty wanted.

Standing beside Jeff’s Ford Explorer, looking in the direction of where the bullet could have possibly traveled after leaving Jeff Zack’s head, detectives thought the concrete wall about one hundred yards northeast of where the bullet exited the passenger-side window of Jeff’s vehicle was the best place to start looking. It was a good bet a bullet fragment was somewhere in the vicinity of that wall.

During the preliminary stage of any homicide investigation, every aspect of the case becomes a thread—some sort of fact gleaned from nowhere, a continuous collection of circumstances that cannot be hidden by a suspect, for which eventually, with some luck and solid gumshoe police work woven through, lead to his or her arrest. Call it karma. Fate. Hard work. It doesn’t matter. Experienced cops know the technique, pay attention to the need for patience and dedication to detail. In time, most homicides
can
be solved. Initially, every point of fact matters because there is no telling which one will be that gem at the end of a case.

Another part of the immediate investigation for Ed Moriarty and the CAPU was gathering all of the videotape surveillance footage from BJ’s. Like most fuel stations, BJ’s had continually looping videotape cameras watching over the entire area. It was a way to ward off the bump-and-run fuel snatchers, who felt the need to leave without paying, and also robbery attempts. With any luck, the cameras had caught a few frames of the shooter pulling in and racing out—or, perhaps, maybe even committing the murder.

“When we thought about it later,” Moriarty said, reflecting back on the case, “we knew the killer was a bit ballsy for shooting Zack in the middle of the afternoon, in front of all those people, with cameras all over the place. It was that, or we were dealing with one stupid son of a bitch.”

Inside BJ’s, the retail store itself, detectives started talking to employees. It seemed anyone who had worked at the store for a time knew of Jeff Zack and had some sort of memorable encounter with him, especially female employees.

Detective John Bell spoke to one of the store’s managers, who said he knew Jeff, “Because he had frequently shopped at the store.”

“What can you tell me about him?” Bell asked.

“Well,” the manager said, “from viewing him in the store, I could tell he was very egotistical, arrogant, and was always trying to pick up my female employees.”

Other employees, two cashiers in particular, said Jeff Zack never came into the store without saying something sexually charged. He was always asking the girls out on dates. And one female, a rather good-looking underage cashier, said whenever she noticed Jeff had entered the store, she closed her register and ran in the back, scared he was going to say something inappropriate or harass her.

After a few more questions with several employees, Detective Bell moved on.

By 12:45
P.M
., Detective D. E. Parnell had arrived to help out. His first assignment from Ed Moriarty was to assist Bell in an interview he was conducting with a woman who had come face-to-face with the suspect on the motorcycle.

“Get with her and Bell,” Moriarty suggested, “and find out
exactly
what she saw.”

Parnell stood as Bell asked the woman for a complete, detailed version of what she witnessed. “He was riding a motorcycle, lime green in color, with black trim,” the woman said stoically. She appeared frightened. Shaken by coming so close in contact with a purported murderer. It was the fifth or sixth report of a “lime green” or fluorescent green motorcycle. That was a good sign. Several reports of the same description meant it was probably true. “I was standing,” the woman continued, “very close to the man, but I could not see his face because he was wearing a full matching-colored helmet with a dark visor on it, which was completely covering his face.”

It was a man, Moriarty was convinced, simply because of the way in which witnesses described the suspect’s build. Stocky. The way he walked. Cocky. Muscular, like a weight lifter. He was white, too, they knew, because he wasn’t wearing gloves—the only section of his body where skin was exposed—and the woman saw his hands. Caucasian hands.

“Take it slow,” Bell said, trying to calm the woman down. “Relax. It’s OK, ma’am.”

“I, well, I think he was a young man.”

“What makes you say that?”

“His frame and build. He wasn’t fat, but firm, you know, like he was in shape.”

Parnell looked at Bell and asked him, “Is there anyone else we need to interview?”

Detective Bell said, “Can you go and talk to the general manager?”

“I’m on it.”

The general manager told the same story just about everyone else had: when he heard the shot, he ran for the pumps and saw Jeff Zack slumped over in his truck and someone on a Ninja motorcycle speeding away.

“Lime green,” the manager said, describing the motorcycle. “I’m
sure
of it.”

Parnell then caught up with Moriarty. “We need to find that bullet,” Moriarty said again. He was getting impatient, several detectives later said, recounting the scene as Moriarty took control of it. He wanted that bullet.

“It is likely here within the area,” Moriarty explained, pointing to a taped-off paved section of the fuel station. Heading around the corner of the parking lot, a cement landscaped wall was holding back part of the parking lot’s embankment.

There was an identification (ID) unit scouring the scene with metal detectors. Detective Parnell joined them. At first, they focused on the grass field south of the pumps. Perhaps the bullet had passed through the passenger-side glass window and whizzed up into the field. Passersby were lucky. No one else had gotten hit. A woman in a minivan full of kids heading to a Little League game could have been driving by at the same time. In one sense, Moriarty mused, they were fortunate they were dealing with only one death.

After a careful search of the field, Parnell met with Moriarty and told him they didn’t have much luck.

“Nothing?”

“No, Sarge, sorry.”

“All right,” Moriarty suggested, “let’s get some uniforms over here, form a line and walk the entire parking lot in that area over there.” He pointed to the northeast, a large paved area with several utility poles. The concrete wall was in the same direction.

It didn’t take long. As they swept the area, Parnell came up with what looked like a bullet fragment. It was sitting on the ground on the sidewalk in front of the concrete wall. There was a fresh chip in the concrete wall directly above it. Looking back toward Jeff Zack’s truck, Parnell could see that the bullet had traveled perhaps across the parking lot, hit the wall and had fallen on the pavement.

“Over here,” Parnell told someone from the ID unit, “mark this with a placard and photograph it.”

Then he walked over to Moriarty. “We found it.”

“Great.”

“I secured the area. I’ll canvass the surrounding-area business employees for other possible witness statements.”

“That bullet was extremely important to us,” Moriarty recalled later. “That was why we put so much time and effort into finding it. I was thinking ahead. Finding a projectile for a possible future match to a weapon, beyond knowing what type of weapon was used, even if you never recover the weapon…it’s one of the very important bits of evidence.”

The next order of business was going to be the most daunting part of the investigation at this early stage: notifying Jeff Zack’s immediate family. It was the knock on the door no cop wanted to make. Not to mention that Jeff’s wife had to be viewed as a suspect. Yet as Moriarty gathered a few of his detectives together to have them head over to Stow and notify Bonnie Zack that her husband had been murdered, he could have never imagined the Pandora’s box of potential suspects and motives he and his team were about to open.

“Not in my entire career.”

Like sections of Akron, Stow is a wonderland of middle-class, hardworking people who like to go about their lives in an unassuming manner. According to the 2000 census, some thirty-four thousand people had chosen Stow as their home, making it the third largest city in Summit County. Stow’s community profile claims the “city has long recognized the benefits of a diverse tax base and a balance between residential, commercial and industrial development…[and] is committed to providing an environment where citizens may safely raise their children and businesses can thrive.”

Traveling around town, you get a sense that Stow is no different from any other American town. People go about their business without bothering one another too much, feeling as if they’ve managed to carve out a little slice of the American pie.

When Detective Bertina King arrived at BJ’s, Moriarty asked her to first drive over to the hospital, meet with the medical examiner and get a report regarding the actual cause of Jeff Zack’s death. While at Akron City Hospital, King met with Investigator R. Riggins, who took some of Jeff Zack’s clothing for evidentiary purposes. Then she found Lisa Ellis, a nurse who had taken several Polaroid photographs of Jeff, and asked her to give the photographs to another detective there at the hospital. With that all done, King took off for Jeff Zack’s house in Stow to notify his family about his death.

During the ride over, King contacted the Stow Police Department (SPD) to let them know what was going on, requesting, as a procedure, an escort to Bonnie and Jeff’s house.

When they arrived, it appeared as if no one was home. The garage was closed. The house looked dark. Empty.

So King walked up to the front door and knocked.

No answer.

Then she placed her business card in the doorjamb.

“Let’s try around back,” she suggested to the Stow officer and medical examiner tagging along.

No luck again.

As they walked toward the front of the house, however, King heard a car pulling into the driveway. As they came around the corner of the garage, a black Cadillac made its way up the pavement and pulled into the garage. A woman was driving. When she got out of the car inside the garage, King came up from behind and introduced herself, asking, “Are you Mrs. Zack?”

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Jeff Zack,” Bonnie said, a bit surprised and, obviously, quite startled.

King then explained the reason for their visit, letting Bonnie know the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death.

When Bonnie heard, she broke down and needed to be escorted into the house, where she sat at the kitchen table, sobbing and shaking.

King sat with Bonnie for a moment and consoled her. She was obviously distraught over Jeff’s death, regardless of the bumpy road their marriage had taken. Still, from an investigative position, Bonnie was a suspect. In time, she would have to answer some hard questions.

“Can you phone my brother and Jeff’s mother?” Bonnie asked King after she collected herself. “His mother lives in Arizona.”

Apart from notifying Jeff’s extended family, King asked Bonnie several personal questions regarding her relationship with Jeff. Through that brief question-and-answer period, Bonnie mentioned something about a strange voice mail Jeff had received a few days before, saying, “I saved it. You want to hear it?”

“Yes,” King said.

On June 13, a man had left a message on Bonnie and Jeff’s answering machine. Quite stern and serious in tone, at 2:55
P.M
. that day, the guy said, “All right, buddy, you’ve got one more out. You need to start carrying your cell phone, OK? I’ll be talking to you.”

It could have been anyone. It was clear Jeff had been involved in a bit of questionable activity throughout his life. Knowing the voice mail message might come into play down the road, King made a copy of it. By that time, Bonnie’s brother had arrived at the house after stopping at the park to pick up Ashton. After Ashton had a moment with his mother, King took the child aside and began asking questions. He was obviously in shock over the passing of his father. They had fought that morning. Jeff wanted his son’s help. Now he was dead. The next day was supposed to be a celebration of fatherhood. What in the world was the boy supposed to do now?

Detective Bertina King stands about six feet tall, quite eccentric in her appearance and demeanor. She is straightforward and direct when she needs to be, but also quite comforting and soothing when duty calls. There is not one colleague of King’s who doesn’t respect her work ethic and natural ability to get things done out in the field. Growing up in the inner city, King has many contacts and knows how to work the streets. She exudes professionalism and understands when to push a witness and when to step back. People who meet King for the first time never seem to forget her uncanny display of charisma and charm. A proud African-American, her appearance screams of her energetic manner: she has somewhat short, auburn (maybe even red), kinky, curly hair, like spring coils; a medium yet solid build; and dresses conservatively while on the job. Her long fingernails (probably fake) are one of her trademarks. Except for those dire situations, such as the one she found herself in on the afternoon of June 16, heading into an interview with a boy whose father had just been murdered, it’s unlikely you’d catch King without some sort of smile on her beautiful, comforting face.

“She knows everyone from the suspects to the chief [of police],” a close friend said later, “and takes her job seriously, while, at the same time, putting people at ease.”

Experience and dedication breed success. King had solved cases on her sheer will and calm conduct alone, understanding that suspects are people, too. They need to be treated with street respect. She was going to be a great asset to the Jeff Zack investigation, which was going to need a tenacious investigator like King. Ed Moriarty knew from the evidence they had already uncovered that the branches of the case were going to spread far and wide. With King knocking on doors, tracking leads and utilizing her boisterous, loveable manner, getting people to open up, Moriarty was confident she’d come up with something significant very quickly.

“It’s just the way she works,” Moriarty said later. “Tina”—short for Bertina—“is the best. I have never worked with a detective like her.”

“There’s no one else like her,” said another colleague. “She has her own way of getting things done. And she
always
produces results.”

Sitting with Ashton, King made the boy feel at ease best she could under the circumstances. There was nothing to hide. She was there to find out information that could lead to catching Jeff’s killer. She could sense the boy wanted to help.

“How’d you and your dad get along?” King asked Ashton.

“Great. We have our moments, but only because I don’t sometimes listen to my dad when I should.” The boy was thirteen, in the seventh grade. He loved his father. It was sad, really, to sit and listen to him talk about Jeff. “He always supported me with my sports. I play basketball. My dad went to all of my practices and games. He wanted me to be very good at whatever I did.”

After that, Ashton got up and walked into the other room and returned a moment later with some sort of electronic device he said he wanted King to have. The device would explain a lot, he said. But there were three specific phone numbers the boy said he wanted to give King that were on his dad’s cell phone. “Those numbers belong to Cindy George,” he said.

King was curious. A name already. “Who’s that?” she asked.

“My dad and Cindy were good friends,” Ashton said. He looked disassociated, upset by the comment. King knew there was more to it.

“How so?”

“I know Cindy and my dad had a physical relationship. I know he once spent three days at her house and Ed didn’t know.”

Ed? Who is Ed?
wondered King.

“Ed is Cindy’s husband,” Ashton offered.

“Let me ask you, Ashton, how would you know that?”

Ed George was indeed Cynthia Rohr-George’s husband. And the CAPU—hell, most everyone in Akron—knew who Ed George was. Ed was a wealthy restaurateur, the owner of the Tangier restaurant, bistro, club and banquet facility in downtown Akron on Market Street. The restaurant and its accompanying nightclub has been a staple in Akron since the late 1940s. The Copacabana of Ohio. The one nightclub every major entertainer stopped at during his or her national tour. Ed had made millions over the years. He and Cynthia had seven kids. A gorgeous woman, with long, flowing blond hair, she had been a contestant in the 2001 Mrs. Ohio contest and had, the previous year, finished third runner-up. Cynthia was a knockout. A bombshell. Men were drawn to her like rainwater to a wildflower.

But, as the CAPU would soon learn, Cynthia appeared to have a problem with men.

“I can tell you,” said one man in town who knew the Georges fairly well, “you’d need a page of paper to list all the men Cindy has been with while married to Ed George.” The investigation, however, would turn up only two such men.

Count Jeff Zack among them.

“Well,” Ashton continued to King, “me and my dad were close. He told me everything. He mentioned this about a month ago.”

King asked several more questions about the Georges’ relationship with Jeff. How did they meet? How long had Jeff known Cynthia and Ed?

Ashton said he had first learned of the Georges about six years ago. He was seven at the time. Jeff was a handyman at the Georges’ mansion in Medina County, a wealthy suburb of Akron where the upper echelon in the community built homes the size of warehouses. Ed and Cynthia’s house was a massive structure, and the joke about town was that the garage attached to the George estate was bigger than the house where Cynthia had grown up.

Jeff Zack’s son knew the George mansion because he had been there with Bonnie, Jeff, and both of them together, many times. The Georges had even been over to his house, he said. They had spent Christmases and Thanksgivings with one another. He liked the George kids and recalled playing with them throughout his childhood.

King had a sense she was onto something. There was a fine line, though, between pushing a kid to dish on his father’s affair and writing it off as part of a murder investigation. But Ashton seemed fairly forthcoming with information, as if he had wanted to talk about it, so King didn’t stop him.

“My mom didn’t like the relationship between my dad and Cindy,” Ashton said.

“What makes you say that?”

The boy described an argument he had heard his mother and father having about six weeks ago.

“My dad wanted Cindy to come to the house to talk to my mom. My mom said, ‘I don’t want to see her…. She’s not welcome!’”