Marge’s neighbors lived in the bigger houses surrounding her modest home. Thirty years ago she and Jack had bought their small Cape Cod on this curving, heavily treed property. Their neighbors had been like them, hardworking people in similar homes. Over the last twenty years the neighborhood had gone upscale. One by one the neighbors had sold their small homes to developers for double their value. Marge was the only one who had decided to stay. Now she was surrounded by more expensive homes, and the people who lived in them—doctors, lawyers and Wall Street businessmen—were all well-to-do. They were all pleasant to her, but it wasn’t like the old days when she and Jack had been good friends with their neighbors.
Marge joined her neighbors and listened as some said they had heard the music from the party and seen a number of cars parked in the driveway and on the block. But they agreed that the kids who had gone to the party hadn’t been very noisy and were all gone by eleven o’clock.
Marge slipped away back to her house.
I can’t talk to anyone now, she thought. I need time to think, she said to herself. The clunk-clunk sound of Jamie’s sneakers in the washing machine made her even more frantic.
She left the house for the garage, then pushed the button to open the garage door and backed out of her driveway. Careful to avoid making eye contact with any of her neighbors, she pulled away from the crowd of people gathered in her backyard and the increasing number of police who were on the patio and in the yard behind the Dowling home.
5
When Steve pulled Kerry’s body out of the water, he laid her on the ground, frantically tried to resuscitate her and shouted to Aline to dial 911. He continued to try to force Kerry to breathe, stopping only when the first police car arrived and an officer pushed him aside and took over.
Agonizing and praying, Steve, Fran and Aline watched as the police officer knelt over Kerry, continuing to administer CPR.
Less than a minute later an ambulance came screeching up the driveway and paramedics jumped out. Steve, Fran and Aline looked on as one of them knelt over Kerry to take over the CPR. Her lips were closed and her slender arms extended away from her chest. The red cotton sundress was crumpled and soaking wet on her body. They stared down at Kerry unbelieving. Her hair was still dripping down on her shoulders.
“It would be easier for all of you if you went inside,” they were told by one of the police officers. Silently Aline and her parents walked toward the house. They went inside and huddled at the window.
Working swiftly, the paramedics attached leads to Kerry’s chest to transmit her vitals to the local emergency room at Valley Hospital. The attending physician quickly confirmed what everyone at the scene already believed. “Flatlined.”
The medic who had taken over the CPR application noticed a trace amount of blood on Kerry’s neck. Following his suspicion he lifted her head and saw a gaping wound at the base of her skull.
He showed it to the police officer in charge at the scene, who promptly called the Prosecutor’s Office.
6
Homicide detective Michael Wilson, of the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office, was on call that day. He was settled with the newspapers on a chaise lounge at his condominium complex’s swimming pool in Washington Township. Just starting to doze, he was startled by the ring of his cell phone, but quickly became alert. He listened as he was given his next case. “Teenage girl found dead in swimming pool at 123 Werimus Pines Road in Saddle River. Parents were away when she drowned. Local police report signs of a party at the property. Unexplained head trauma.”
Saddle River borders Washington Township, he thought. I can drive there in ten minutes. He got up and started walking back to his unit, the feeling of chlorine on his skin. The first thing I’ll do is shower. I might be working for the next two hours, twelve hours or twenty-four-plus hours straight.
He grabbed a freshly laundered long-sleeved sports shirt and khakis from his closet, tossed them on the bed and headed to the bathroom. Ten minutes later he was out of the shower, dressed and on his way to Saddle River.
Wilson knew that at the time he was called, the Prosecutor’s Office also would have dispatched a photographer and a medical examiner to the scene. They would arrive shortly after him.
Saddle River, a borough of just over three thousand residents, was one of the very wealthy communities in the United States. Despite being surrounded by densely populated suburbs, a bucolic atmosphere pervaded the town. Its minimum two-acre zoning for homes and easy access to New York City made it a favorite of Wall Street titans and sports celebrities. Former President Richard Nixon owned a home there toward the end of his life.
Mike knew that as recently as the 1950s it had been a favorite site of local hunters. In the early days small ranch houses were built. Almost all of these were later replaced by much larger, more expensive homes, including its share of McMansions.
The Dowling home was a handsome cream-colored Colonial with light green shutters. A cop was on duty on the street in front of the house and had cleared an area for official parking. Mike chose a spot and walked across the lawn to the back of the house. Spotting a group of Saddle River police officers, he asked who had been the first to respond. Officer Jerome Weld, the front of his uniform still wet, stepped forward.
Weld explained that he had arrived at the scene at 11:43 A.M. The family members had already pulled the body from the water. Although he
