see?”
Marelli got the name he sought—McAlister, an insurance agent who had been trying to sell people in Hudson since May. Marelli hadn’t seen him, but many had. He’d get a picture perfect description of the man in short time. That description would be on every newscast in America in the next hour. He also learned from the hotel manager what McAlister was driving. A light blue ’02 Nissan Sentra. The car was no longer in the parking lot. The make, model, description and plates had been emailed to NYSPIN, the New York State Police Information Network and radioed to the officers at each of the intersections Marelli ordered blocked.
He remembered how quickly Lee Harvey Oswald had been caught in 1963. The same with Sirhan Sirhan in 1968. “We’ll get this McAlister,” he promised the mayor at the foot lobby stairs. “Christ, the whole damned country will be looking for him.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Roger Waterman said as he squeezed by Marelli. Waterman’s hair was still wet from his shower that he’d been taking when police officers entered his room. “I was told to come down here.”
The police chief acknowledged the antique dealer with only a nod, directing him into the dining room. As he joined the hotel guests and staff waiting to be interviewed he spotted Carolyn Hill. She looked dazed. She’d returned to the hotel right after the shooting. Tears still streamed down her eyes. “Carolyn,” he said. She turned to his voice and then rushed to him. For some reason Carolyn needed to feel his touch.
“Mr. Waterman, it’s so awful,” she cried, falling into his uncertain arms, hugging him tightly.
“What? What’s going on?” he asked. There was comfort in his voice. “I was in the shower when police came in and told me to get dressed and come down stairs immediately.” He gently lifted her head back a few inches, still cradling her face in his hands. He was aware of how nice she smelled and how good she felt.
She looked at him, needing him. “You don’t know? You mean you haven’t heard?”
Waterman looked baffled. “Know what? What’s wrong?”
Carolyn broke down again. “Oh my god. Mrs. Lodge. Someone killed Mrs. Lodge!”
CHAPTER
5
E ven before the FBI arrived, they one-upped Marelli and declared the St. Charles and the park a federal crime scene. A team from the Forensic Science Research and Training Center (FSRTC) was already in the air from the laboratories at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. They would be on ground within two hours.
Everything the FSRTC people needed traveled with them in a black van, flown in the belly of a Lockheed-Martin C-130E transport, on loan from the Marines. The plane’s cargo hold with its rear loading ramp, was perfect for quick response agency use. It rolled on at Quantico Marine Corps Air Base in Virginia and off at Columbia County airport eight minutes north of Hudson on Route 9H. The plane used every inch of the 5,350 foot-long runway before it came to stop.
Seven FSRTC team members followed their vehicle down the ramp. They each had their expertise and instructions from FBI Director Robert Mulligan. “Make no mistakes. We want this killer.” If anyone could piece the puzzle together, they could. The agents—scientists as much as criminologists—had remarkable tools at their command. They operated on the cutting edge of forensics technology. They developed, tested and applied the latest breakthroughs in latent fingerprint and footwear identification, DNA analysis, firearms identity, thread examination and computer imaging.
Case Officer Roy Bessolo was in charge. He looked and sounded like a Marine; tough, all business, with a deep voice and a monotone delivery. He kept his hair closely cropped. His clothes were always pressed and his shoes were never a day away from their last polish.
Bessolo looked military, but he was a career FBI man, one of the most respected forensics investigators in the bureau. He lived by facts and made
Marelli got the name he sought—McAlister, an insurance agent who had been trying to sell people in Hudson since May. Marelli hadn’t seen him, but many had. He’d get a picture perfect description of the man in short time. That description would be on every newscast in America in the next hour. He also learned from the hotel manager what McAlister was driving. A light blue ’02 Nissan Sentra. The car was no longer in the parking lot. The make, model, description and plates had been emailed to NYSPIN, the New York State Police Information Network and radioed to the officers at each of the intersections Marelli ordered blocked.
He remembered how quickly Lee Harvey Oswald had been caught in 1963. The same with Sirhan Sirhan in 1968. “We’ll get this McAlister,” he promised the mayor at the foot lobby stairs. “Christ, the whole damned country will be looking for him.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Roger Waterman said as he squeezed by Marelli. Waterman’s hair was still wet from his shower that he’d been taking when police officers entered his room. “I was told to come down here.”
The police chief acknowledged the antique dealer with only a nod, directing him into the dining room. As he joined the hotel guests and staff waiting to be interviewed he spotted Carolyn Hill. She looked dazed. She’d returned to the hotel right after the shooting. Tears still streamed down her eyes. “Carolyn,” he said. She turned to his voice and then rushed to him. For some reason Carolyn needed to feel his touch.
“Mr. Waterman, it’s so awful,” she cried, falling into his uncertain arms, hugging him tightly.
“What? What’s going on?” he asked. There was comfort in his voice. “I was in the shower when police came in and told me to get dressed and come down stairs immediately.” He gently lifted her head back a few inches, still cradling her face in his hands. He was aware of how nice she smelled and how good she felt.
She looked at him, needing him. “You don’t know? You mean you haven’t heard?”
Waterman looked baffled. “Know what? What’s wrong?”
Carolyn broke down again. “Oh my god. Mrs. Lodge. Someone killed Mrs. Lodge!”
CHAPTER
5
E ven before the FBI arrived, they one-upped Marelli and declared the St. Charles and the park a federal crime scene. A team from the Forensic Science Research and Training Center (FSRTC) was already in the air from the laboratories at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. They would be on ground within two hours.
Everything the FSRTC people needed traveled with them in a black van, flown in the belly of a Lockheed-Martin C-130E transport, on loan from the Marines. The plane’s cargo hold with its rear loading ramp, was perfect for quick response agency use. It rolled on at Quantico Marine Corps Air Base in Virginia and off at Columbia County airport eight minutes north of Hudson on Route 9H. The plane used every inch of the 5,350 foot-long runway before it came to stop.
Seven FSRTC team members followed their vehicle down the ramp. They each had their expertise and instructions from FBI Director Robert Mulligan. “Make no mistakes. We want this killer.” If anyone could piece the puzzle together, they could. The agents—scientists as much as criminologists—had remarkable tools at their command. They operated on the cutting edge of forensics technology. They developed, tested and applied the latest breakthroughs in latent fingerprint and footwear identification, DNA analysis, firearms identity, thread examination and computer imaging.
Case Officer Roy Bessolo was in charge. He looked and sounded like a Marine; tough, all business, with a deep voice and a monotone delivery. He kept his hair closely cropped. His clothes were always pressed and his shoes were never a day away from their last polish.
Bessolo looked military, but he was a career FBI man, one of the most respected forensics investigators in the bureau. He lived by facts and made
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