A Deadly Secret: The Story of Robert Durst (4 page)

Here, on the West Side, everyone was prominent.

“Mr. Durst, how old is your wife? And can you give me a description?”

“She’s twenty-nine. Sandy hair, hazel eyes. About five feet, five inches tall, one hundred and twenty pounds,” said Durst.

Durst told Struk that he and his wife had been married for nine years and had two apartments, the penthouse on Riverside Drive and a smaller apartment at 12 East Eighty-sixth Street near Fifth Avenue. As far as Durst knew, there hadn’t been any ransom demands.

“And you say there aren’t any marital problems?”

“No, not really,” said Durst. “She just has a problem drinking. She was seeing a therapist for a while but stopped.”

He handed Struk a photo of Kathie. She was very pretty, he thought. Long, straight hair, a nice full smile.

Struk took down Durst’s home and business phone numbers and the number to the medical school. He also asked for phone numbers to speak with Kathie’s relatives.

“I don’t have those,” said Durst. “Her maiden name is McCormack. Her mother, Ann, lives in New Hyde Park, Long Island. Her brother, Jim, lives in Queens.”

Durst signed a single missing-persons form, then got up from his chair.

“Okay, Mr. Durst. I’ll be in touch. There’s a criterion that has to be met for this to become an official missing-persons investigation, and I don’t think we’ve met that yet. I’ll make a few calls and get back to you. Of course, should you hear from or see your wife please give us a call,” said Struk.

The two men shook hands and Durst quietly left the building, his dog, a Norwegian elkhound, following at his heels.

Struk knew plenty of guys like Durst who walked meekly into the precinct all the time claiming their wives were missing. He also knew, in most cases, the women had either shacked up with another guy or had had enough of their beloved and jumped a bus.

After seventeen years on the force, Struk would know if someone was missing.

He reviewed his notes and filled out an initial report, or a “scratch,” which was really nothing more than a blank sheet of paper with a name and address and phone number.

This wasn’t a missing-persons case, he reasoned, but he’d make a few phone calls, at least make some effort to see where this woman was.

After all, the work would keep him busy, and keep his mind off of his family.

—

The walk back to Riverside Drive and Seventy-seventh Street took less than fifteen minutes, and Robert Durst walked past the doorman and boarded the elevator.

As the doors closed, another tenant entering the building called out to hold the elevator, but Durst offered a quick glance to the elevator operator, who knew to ignore the plea.

He arrived at the door of his sixteenth-floor penthouse apartment. Once inside, he opened a bag of dry dog food and filled a bowl, placing it on the kitchen floor.

He calmly walked into the living room, sat on his sofa, and picked up the phone, dialing a familiar number.

“Hi, it’s Robert. There’s something I have to tell you. I just came back from the police station.”

—

The paint chips hanging from the ceiling caught Mike Struk’s attention as he sat with his head back. The squad room, which had been empty the last two hours, was now coming to life. Two detectives led a handcuffed teen wearing a green parka and black Jefferson Starship T-shirt into the room. One detective stayed with the teen, the other, Eddie Regan, walked over to his desk, which was behind where Struk sat.

“Wake up,” said Regan. “You working or you sleeping?”

“No, I’m just thinking,” said Struk, who lifted his head up and pulled his chair closer to his desk. “What did you bring in?”

“Remember that break-in last week at the music store on Eighty-ninth? We found the kid, sixteen. Got him hanging out in Central Park. Anything going on here?”

“Just some guy, came in with his fucking dog to file a missing persons on his wife. Can you believe these people? He brings a dog here? Anyway he tells me he thinks his wife is missing, I take down the details, he leaves, and I make a few calls. Turns out the guy didn’t tell me everything, and I’m sitting here figuring who to call next.”

Struk picked up a yellow legal pad and pointed to his notes from an interview he completed minutes earlier with Dr. Jean Cook, the dean of the Albert Einstein Medical School in the Bronx.

Struk had circled several words, including “failing” and “marital difficulties” and “stressed.”

“The guy comes in here with the dog and tells me everything is all right with the world, that his marriage is okay, and his wife may have a little drinking problem. This dean tells me a different story. Says she was supposed to repeat a class on Monday but called in sick and hasn’t been heard from since.”

“When did the husband last see her?”

“On Sunday.”

“That’s five days. He waits five days to report her missing? What’s his name?”

“Durst. Robert Durst. Says his father is some big real estate guy.”

“Shit, he is. You know who his father is? Seymour Durst.”

“He said that, said his father’s name was Seymour.”

“Did he also tell you that his family owns half of Manhattan?” said Regan, walking away from Struk to attend to the teen, who was taken downstairs to the holding pen.

As Regan left the room, and with the police radio squawking in the background, Struk decided he would call Larry Cohen, a suggestion made by Dr. Cook.

Cohen was a medical student at Einstein whom Cook knew to be friendly with Kathie.

When he picked up the phone and learned he was talking to a New York City detective, Cohen seemed disturbed, not with Struk but because he hadn’t spoken to or seen Kathie in over a week.

Cohen was also perturbed when he learned that it had been her husband who reported her missing.

“Why is that bothering you?” said Struk.

“Because he was beating her. He scared the hell out of her.”

“He was hitting her?”

“Yeah, a lot, from what I could tell.”

“You ever see any marks on her?”

“No, but she’d call me late at night, sometimes crying, telling me she was slapped or punched. She was pretty scared of him.”

“Did she ever say she was planning to leave him?”

“She was talking about divorce. But she’s scheduled to graduate this summer, so I told her to sit tight, finish school, then take care of her marriage.”

Struk wanted to ask Cohen if he was involved with Kathie. Cohen wasn’t married, and Struk was old school. In his world, men and women didn’t confide in each other unless they were sleeping together. The words were there, rolled on the end of his tongue, ready to spit out.

But he didn’t ask the question. He hung up and circled Cohen’s name on his pad, then wrote “boyfriend?”

Before breaking for dinner, Struk decided to make two more calls—to Ann McCormack, Kathie’s mother, and the New York State Police.

Ann McCormack was a widow, she said, her husband passing from cancer in 1966. Kathie was the youngest of five children; having moved into Manhattan when she was only nineteen, renting an apartment in a building owned by the Durst Organization.

She met Robert Durst one morning while paying her rent. They’d had but two dates when she decided to move with him to Vermont, where he was going to run a health-food store.

Ann said at the time she wasn’t pleased with her daughter’s decision, reminding her that Catholics marry, they don’t cohabitate.

She told Struk she wasn’t fond of her son-in-law. He rarely socialized with Kathie’s family and, despite his wealth, lived on the cheap. He drove old cars, wore old clothes, and hovered over Kathie’s spending, watching every penny.

“That’s why she’s in medical school,” said Ann. “She needs her own career. She needs her own money.”

Ann hadn’t spoken to her daughter in a week or so, but said she had been in good spirits.

“Did your daughter have any problems with her marriage?” said Struk.

“We all have problems with our marriages sometime or another,” said Ann.

“Yes, we do,” said Struk, who thanked Ann for her time and said he’d be in touch.

He then made his second call, to the New York State Police, and spoke to a Sergeant William Kidney.

Kidney knew all about Kathie Durst, thanks to her friend Gilberte Najamy, who had called Thursday night insisting on filing a missing-persons report.

“I told her we could only take a report from a family member, but this woman wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I sent two troopers to the South Salem home Friday morning.”

Kidney said Robert Durst answered the door and invited the troopers inside. Although they didn’t search the house, they later reported nothing out of the ordinary.

Kidney said one of the troopers asked Durst when he’d last spoken to his wife. Sunday night, after she returned to New York, he replied.

When Durst was told the call could be traced, he said he spoke to his wife from a pay phone off of Route 35, which was three miles away.

“Why would he walk that far to make a phone call?” said Struk. “It was raining that night.”

“And snowing up here,” said Kidney. “The Najamy woman said some other friend, a Michael Burns, told her that Kathie had taken off, that she’d had enough.”

“Enough of what?” said Struk.

“Don’t know. He told Najamy to leave Kathie Durst alone, that she didn’t know Kathie as well as he did. What do you make of that?”

“Sounds like he’s doing her,” said Struk. “And it sounds like she took off.”

“That’s what it sounds like to me,” said Kidney.

—

Struk went to the Dublin House on West Seventy-ninth Street around 10
P.M.
, the corned beef always a good choice. Struk sat alone, saying little to the waitress. He left her a three-dollar tip for a seven-dollar meal.

Upon his return from dinner, the squad room was still devoid of any activity. Regan was back at his desk filling out paperwork for his arrest.

Struk said nothing, hung up his black trench coat, sat down, and began typing his report, using only his two forefingers.

An hour later he called missing persons and gave them Kathie Durst’s name, address, and phone number.

On his notepad, he scribbled, “Wife took off . . . or possible suicide,” before signing out at exactly 1
A.M.

The steam rose slowly from the manhole covers that line the middle of West Eighty-second Street, the cold morning air biting Mike Struk’s face as he walked up the front stairs of the Twentieth Precinct.

It was 8
A.M.
and he was back in the office, greeted with the smell of fried eggs. It was Regan. Like Struk, he’d been working a stay-over, only he’d decided to spend the night on a bunk in the back of the squad room. Regan was cooking breakfast on a hot plate. Along with the bed and hot plate there was a small TV and a refrigerator.

Regan motioned to the eggs. “Want some?”

Struk shook his head, held up a brown paper bag, placed his coat in his locker, and sat at his desk, opening the bag and pulling out a fresh coffee and hard bagel.

The morning winter sun was bright, casting long shadows that filtered over one side of the squad room through the broken window blinds and illuminating the half-inch of dust that lined the sills.

Two other detectives walked in just after 8
A.M.
and Struk pointed to his watch.

“I told you guys you have to get home by five
A.M.
when you work a stay-over, not stay out all night and stumble into work,” he said, smiling widely.

The two detectives didn’t appreciate the humor. They needed coffee, and a lot of it.

Struk was in better shape. He’d been in bed by 2
A.M.
and up exactly five hours later. He could function on limited sleep. If he had been out drinking until dawn like his two cohorts, he’d be sitting at his desk, eyes closed, praying no one would bother him and the next nine hours would somehow whiz by.

Struk had come to work with the Durst case on his mind. He tried to reason why a young woman, married to a millionaire, six months away from being a doctor, suddenly takes off. It didn’t make much sense. Struk was sure Durst had lied to him when he said their marriage was fine. But what self-respecting man would acknowledge that there were problems in his marriage? Struk himself wasn’t exactly standing out in the middle of Broadway announcing to the world, or even his close friends, that his marriage was over.

And if Durst was hitting his wife, as was suggested, was there a reason? Durst spoke softly, gently. He didn’t appear to be the violent type. Maybe she was sleeping with another man, maybe this guy Burns, or Larry Cohen, and Durst had found out about it.

Struk realized the real problem he had with the story: Why would Kathie Durst leave a husband who was a member of a wealthy family? Struk could glean from the conversations of the previous night that Durst had money, and lots of it. He even put together the bit with the magazine, the picture of the five guys and the brazen title that spoke of ultimate power.

Durst was trying to tell Struk who he was and what family he came from.

“Tread lightly here, boy” was the unstated message.

The squad commander, Lieutenant Robert Gibbons, had Saturday duty, and was sitting in his office toward the back of the room reading Struk’s initial Durst report.

Unlike most supervisors, Gibbons was well liked by those under his command. In fact, the word throughout the precinct was that Gibbons had taken a step back when he made lieutenant. Everyone thought he was a hell of a detective.

Struk finished off his bagel and walked over to Gibbons’s office.

“Not much happened last night, eh?” said Gibbons, who was now scanning the Friday-night log.

Struk told Gibbons about the visit from Durst, the missing-persons report, the interviews.

“I think she took off,” he said. “The only thing that’s bothering me is why leave the golden goose? This guy has money.”

Gibbons looked at the name again on the report. Robert Durst. The last name sounded familiar.

“His father’s name is Seymour,” said Struk. “This little puke actually showed me a magazine with his father on it. Says he’s one of the most powerful men in the city.”

Gibbons nodded. “I know this guy. They own a lot of property in the city. Some very big buildings.”

Gibbons signed the report. He saw that Struk had only phoned in the bare essentials to missing persons; her name, address, age, and physical characteristics.

“She’s not missing, at least not yet, from what I can tell,” said Struk.

“I agree,” said Gibbons. “You going to stay on it?”

“Yeah, I want to make a few more calls. She wasn’t born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Blue collar, from Long Island. They were married for nine years. You don’t just leave this kind of money. Fucking rich people. You think they have it easy, but in reality they’re more fucked up than we are.”

Struk spent the morning at his desk, talking to New York State Police trooper John Harney, one of the two troopers who’d entered the Dursts’ South Salem home on Friday, to Gilberte Najamy, and to Jim McCormack, Kathie’s older brother.

Harney repeated what Sergeant Kidney had said, a friend of Mrs. Durst’s phoned in a missing-persons report, and he visited the house Friday morning. But following the conversation, Struk turned to his notes from the night before. Something had occurred to him, and there it was, midway through his report. Robert Durst said
he
had called the state police.

Struk made a note of that discrepancy and called Gilberte Najamy, who seemed surprised, and relieved, when she answered the phone and learned she was talking to a New York City detective.

“Something is wrong, something is really wrong,” she blurted. “I’ve been trying to call Kathie all week and I can’t find her. She was supposed to meet me Monday night and she never showed. Oh, God. Oh, God, what did I do?”

“Excuse me?” said Struk, who was baffled by Gilberte’s ramblings. “Why don’t we start from the beginning. You are her, what, a friend?”

“I’m Kathie’s best friend,” said Gilberte. “She was at my house last Sunday. I’m a caterer and I have my Christmas party at the end of the month; it’s mostly family. We planned to meet for dinner the next evening, Monday, at six-thirty at the Lion’s Head Restaurant in Greenwich Village. But she didn’t show up.”

Struk asked about the Sunday party, and Gilberte said it was a small affair. She explained that Kathie had called earlier that day and asked if she could come over. She was in South Salem with Bobby, and they were arguing. She needed to get out of there. It was a forty-five-minute drive from South Salem to Newtown, Connecticut, where Gilberte lived, and Kathie arrived early in the afternoon.

“Bobby?” said Struk.

“Yes, Bobby. Everyone calls him that,” said Gilberte. “The minute Kathie arrived at my house, Bobby called, demanding that Kathie return home.”

Struk asked if Kathie had had any alcohol, and Gilberte said just a few glasses of wine.

“Any drugs?” asked Struk.

“No. It was a family party,” said Gilberte.

Bobby called several more times through the afternoon, and by 7
P.M.
Kathie’d had enough, calling him back and telling him she was leaving. Gilberte said she expected to see her the next night at the Lion’s Head. The dinner at the dark and cozy restaurant would be a celebration of sorts for Gilberte, who’d closed a deal to cater the postshow party for Johnny Carson’s new NBC special.

Kathie’s sister, Mary Hughes, was an account executive with the Mahoney & Wasserman public relations firm and in charge of the party. Hughes and Gilberte had met for lunch that Monday afternoon and Gilberte couldn’t wait to break the news to Kathie. She told Struk that she had sat at the bar near the Lion’s Head front door, ordered a Bloody Mary, and waited for her friend, making small talk with the bartender and a couple of patrons waiting for a table. The restaurant, which was shaped like a railroad car, was crowded. The dining area was toward the back.

By 7
P.M.
Kathie had yet to arrive. Gilberte said she grabbed some change and walked over to the pay phone tucked away near the restrooms between the bar and the dining area. She called the penthouse on Riverside Drive, but there was no answer. She called Kathie’s apartment on East Eighty-sixth Street, but again no answer. Both times she left a message.

Gilberte said Kathie had never stood her up before. And if she couldn’t make a dinner or planned meeting, she always called. But Kathie had been an emotional wreck these last few months. And with the added burden of finishing medical school, Gilberte figured her friend wasn’t herself, especially after Kathie told her that Bobby wasn’t going to pay the rest of her tuition.

Sunday had been especially bad. Kathie was really out of sorts, complaining about Bobby. That’s all she talked about, her problems with Bobby. He had already cut her off financially, leaving her with no money. Gilberte said Kathie had to borrow money from friends.

“I understand his family has millions,” said Struk.

“Tell me about it,” said Gilberte. “I had to cash a check for Kathie for one hundred fifty dollars on Sunday.”

Kathie was also upset over an incident that had occurred a year before when Bobby kicked a friend of hers, Peter Schwartz, in the face because he thought the guy was having an affair with Kathie.

“Was he?”

“No, he was just a friend, a photographer. We had a small party at the East Eighty-sixth Street apartment, then we all went out dancing at Xenon. Kathie and Peter stayed behind. Bobby got pissed, so he went back to the apartment and bashed him in the face. Broke his jaw.”

Gilberte said Schwartz pressed assault charges and filed a civil suit against Bobby, but the charges were later dropped and Schwartz settled the litigation.

“Kathie couldn’t believe Peter did that, settled with Bobby. She was so hot about that. Said the Dursts always win,” said Gilberte.

By Wednesday, Gilberte said several other friends, including Kathy Traystman and Eleanor Schwank, left messages with Gilberte wondering where Kathie was. No one, it seemed, had heard from Kathie since Sunday. Did she have an exam no one knew about? Was she with another man? Was she just looking for some quiet time alone? None of the friends had any answers.

She had to be somewhere, they agreed.

On Thursday, around 3
P.M.
, Gilberte said she called Kathie’s number at the South Salem home. No one answered, so she left another message, telling Kathie that her friends were a little concerned since no one had seen her since Sunday. Five minutes later Gilberte said her phone rang.

It was Bobby.

“He said he hadn’t seen Kathie all week.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Yeah, I did. There were times they’d go days without seeing each other. But there were never instances where days would go by and Kathie wouldn’t talk to one of her friends.”

Gilberte paused for a moment.

“Listen, Detective. Bobby called her Sunday night at my house and Kathie turned to me and said she had to go. I walked her out onto my front porch and she gave me a warning. It was something she said to all of her friends.”

“What was that?”

“She said if anything ever happened to her, suspect foul play. Suspect Bobby.”

Struk could hear Gilberte weeping. The story didn’t make much sense to him. If Kathie Durst was that scared of her husband, he reasoned, why in the world had she been spending the weekend with him?

“Oh, one more thing,” said Struk. “Do you know a Michael Burns?”

“Not really. I mean, I know of him, but I don’t really know him.”

“The state police tell me he’s the guy that told you to leave Kathie alone, that she’s had enough. Is that true?”

“Yeah, he did. But I didn’t know what he was talking about. I don’t think Kathie really knew him that long. Listen, I have to run, I have an appointment. You have my number. You can call me anytime.”

—

Jim McCormack sounded groggy, explaining he had been up half the night with his newborn daughter. His wife, Sharon, had given birth two weeks earlier. It was their first child.

The call from Mike Struk was greeted with surprise. Jim said he had heard from Bobby Thursday night.

“He asked me if anyone knew where Kathie was, which was pretty unusual.”

“Why is that?”

“Bobby never called me. Ever.”

Jim said the conversation with Bobby lasted maybe two minutes, if that.

“He didn’t sound especially concerned. I know he and my sister were having problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“A year ago, Christmas, they were at my mom’s house on Long Island and Bobby wanted to leave. He never liked socializing with my family, and when he did it was only for a special event. Kathie was enjoying herself and wanted to stay. Bobby went outside, started his car, then came in and said they were leaving. Kathie said no. So Bobby walked behind where Kathie was sitting and pulled her off the sofa by the hair. He had chunks of hair in his hand,” said Jim.

“What did you do?”

“I know what I wanted to do, and that was grab him by the neck. But Kathie said she was all right and that they were going to leave.”

“Any other incidents?”

“Not really. I mean, Kathie didn’t really confide in me. My wife just had the baby, so we’re preoccupied with our stuff. My sister Mary would know more. She and Kathie talked all the time.”

—

It was noon, midway through his shift, and Struk was busy typing up his second report on the Durst case.

He had decided that Kathie Durst had run off, only he didn’t know with whom. As he finished up his report, Gibbons called out.

“You have a phone call. It’s Robert Durst.”

Struk picked up the phone with the thought that Durst’s wife had returned home.

“Mr. Durst? Detective Struk.”

“Detective, there’s something I think I should have told you last night.”

“And what was that?”

“My wife has a friend, a man. His name is Michael Burns.”

“Who’s he?” said Struk, pretending he never heard the name.

“A cocaine dealer,” said Bobby. “I know he and Kathie have become friendly over the past few months.”
*

“Is your wife using cocaine, Mr. Durst?”

“Yes. About two, maybe three grams a week.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

“I was hoping that she’d have come home by now, and I could save her the embarrassment. As it is, I’m beginning to worry.”