“What happens to the staff?”
“Well… most of the staff is let go. They know this coming in. We get lots of floaters.”
“Floaters?”
“Locals and some out-of-towners who just work for the summer. Teachers, students. Also professional staff who follow the seasons and head south after Labor Day.”
“I see. Do you get the same staff back every summer?”
We reached the top of the stairs, and she replied, “A lot of them. The money is good, and they like it here on their days off.” She looked at me and asked, “Is there a problem?”
“No. Just some routine stuff.” FYI, when a cop says “routine,” it’s not.
There were numbered guest rooms along a wide hallway, and off a small side corridor was a door marked PRIVATE-STAFF ONLY, which Ms. Corva opened. We entered an outer office where four ladies were sitting at computer stations and answering telephones.
Ms. Corva led me to another door, knocked, opened it, and motioned me inside.
Sitting behind a big desk was a man of late middle age wearing a dress shirt open at the collar with a brightly colored tie hanging loose. He stood and came around the desk, and I saw he was tall and thin. His face looked intelligent enough, though there was a slightly worried look in his eyes.
Ms. Corva said, “Mr. Rosenthal, this is Mr. Corey from the FBI.”
We shook hands, and I said, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Not a problem.” He said to Ms. Corva, “Thank you, Susan.” She left and closed the door. Mr. Rosenthal said to me, “Have a seat, Mr…?”
“Corey. John Corey.” I didn’t offer him my card, but I did show him my credentials to get him in the right frame of mind.
I sat across from his desk, and he went back to his big wing chair and said, “How can I help you, Mr. Corey?”
The FBI trains you to be very polite to citizens, which is a good thing. They also want you to be polite to suspected criminals, spies, illegal aliens, and foreign terrorists, which is a challenge for me. But the FBI has an image to protect. Mr. Rosenthal was a citizen, not suspected of anything, except owning a bad tie-it had little whales on it. I said to him, “I’m doing some follow-up work on the TWA 800 crash.”
He seemed relieved that it wasn’t something else, like employing illegal aliens. He nodded.
I said, “As you know, sir, it’s been five years since the tragedy, and this anniversary has been marked by a great deal of news coverage, which has, in some ways, renewed public awareness and concern about this event.”
Again, he nodded and said, “I’ve been thinking about it myself in the last few days.”
“Good.” I looked around Mr. Rosenthal’s office. He had a college degree on the wall from Cornell University, plus dozens of civic and professional awards, plaques, and citations. Through the big window behind his desk I could see the bay and the new two-story Moneybogue Bay Pavilion, which still looked like a motel. To the right, along the road that went down to the beach, I saw the parking lot for the motel wing, nearly empty at this hour during prime beach time.
I turned my attention back to Mr. Rosenthal and continued, “In order to address some of these concerns, we are revisiting some of the issues.” Sounded like bullshit to me, but Mr. Rosenthal nodded. “As you recall, two possible witnesses to the crash stayed at your hotel on July 17, 1996, the day of the crash.”
“How could I forget? Did you ever find those two?”
“No, sir, we have not.”
“Well, they never came back here. At least not as far as I know. I would have called you.”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a contact name and number?”
“No… but I know how to call the FBI.”
“Good.” I said to him, “I’ve read the file report from the agents who were here at that time, and I’d like you to clarify a few things for me.”
“All right.”
Mr. Rosenthal seemed like an okay guy, straightforward and cooperative. I asked him, “Is the desk clerk still here who checked in this possible witness?”
“No. He left shortly after the crash.”
“I see. What was his name?”
“Christopher Brock.”
“Do you know where I could find him?”
“No, but I can get his personnel file for you.”
“That would be helpful.” I said, “There was a maid here, a Hispanic lady, named Lucita Gonzalez Perez, who saw this possible witness and a lady come out of their room. Room 203. Is this maid still with you?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her since that summer. But I’ll check.”
“Would you have a file on her?”
He seemed a little uncomfortable now and replied, “We keep photocopies of their green cards if they’re guest workers. All our foreign-born employees need to be citizens, or here on a work visa-otherwise, we won’t employ them.”
“I’m sure of that, sir. The issue is not this woman’s status in this country. She is a material witness, and we’d like to speak to her again.”
“I’ll check on that.”
“Good. There was another cleaning lady. The one who entered Room 203 at noon the next day and reported that the guests had left and that the blanket was missing. Is she still here?”
“No, I haven’t seen her since that summer.”
I was seeing a little pattern here. I asked him, “But you remember her.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you have a file on her?”
“I’m sure we do. She was a college kid. Came here every summer to work at the hotel. Worked hard and partied hard.” He smiled and added, “I think she was doing graduate work the last summer she was here.”
“What is her name?”
“Roxanne Scarangello.”
“Is she local?”
“No. She lived down around Philly. Went to Penn State. Or maybe University of Pennsylvania. It’s on her application.”
“And you keep those?”
“We do. Tax stuff. Also, we rehire the good ones, so we sometimes phone them in May.”
“Right.” Roxanne the college kid was not a prime witness, and neither was Christopher the desk clerk nor Lucita. So, what the hell was I doing here? Sometimes you just need to work the case, walk on the terrain, and ask questions of people who seem to know nothing. It’s like a maze where you become an expert in false trails and dead ends, which is Step One in finding the way out of the maze.
I asked Mr. Rosenthal, “Do you recall the names of the Federal agents who came to your hotel inquiring about the person in Room 203?”
“No. I never really got their names. Some guy came around earlier that morning… it was Friday after the crash, and he wanted to know if any of the staff had reported a missing bed blanket. Someone got the head housekeeper, and she said, yes, there was a blanket missing from Room 203. Then this guy asked to see me, and asked permission to speak to my staff, and I said, sure, but what’s it all about. And he said he’d fill me in later. Meanwhile, these three FBI guys showed up, and one of them said it had to do with the crash, and he had this blanket in a plastic bag marked Evidence, and he showed it to me and to the head housekeeper and a few maids, and we said, yes, that could be the blanket missing from Room 203. Then they wanted to look at my registration cards and computer records and speak to the desk clerk who was on duty that day.” Mr. Rosenthal added, “But you know all of this.”
“I do. Did you remember the name of this agent who initially came to the hotel inquiring about a missing blanket?”
“No. He gave me his card, but then later took it back.”
