In August, the cops obtained a search warrant from the state of Delaware to search Jay Smith’s blue Capri, now in the custody of his brother.
Joe VanNort, Jack Holtz, a Delaware state cop and another trooper went to the home of the assistant attorney general of the state of Delaware to get a warrant drawn up. The next day it was signed by a magistrate and they waited until Jay Smith’s brother returned home in the evening to serve it. They’d brought a deputy attorney general with them.
Mr. Smith was clearly embarrassed by the presence of all the cops and protective of his niece, the twenty-three-year-old daughter of Jay who was without a real home. The cops searched through all of the belongings that he was holding for his imprisoned brother.
In a filing cabinet, Joe VanNort found another bogus Brinks identification card with Jay Smiths picture on it. The deputy attorney general didn’t think it fell under the scope of the search warrant, and Joe VanNort handed the card to Mr. Smith.
That bothered Jack Holtz Maybe they couldn’t use it in a subsequent court case against Jay Smith, but maybe they could. In any event, why give away potential evidence or contraband? They were outside at the time and he spoke to Joe VanNort about it. He knocked on the door and asked for the card back.
But Jay Smith’s brother had already burned it on the kitchen stove. He said that all of that theft business had humiliated his family.
Jack Holtz later felt troubled that Joe VanNort had lost that card. In the old days Joe VanNort would never have done something so careless. Jack Holtz didn’t say a word to anyone, but he was concerned.
“I hated to think it at the time,” he later said. “But I was starting to feel that Joe was losing it.”
In the blue Capri they found more red fibers, but all that proved was that he could have used the Capri to haul away the carpet remnant they believed had been in the basement on that weekend last year.
The interior of the trunk had been painted with a sticky substance that looked like some sort of rust inhibitor or sealant, and the car had been outside in the weather. The cops were very disappointed with the search.
Then Trooper Dove of the identification unit walked up to Jack Holtz and said, “I found this pin under the right front passenger seat.”
It was dusted for prints but they couldn’t lift anything from it. Jack Holtz took it in his hand and examined it.
It was just a little lapel tab. A green metal pin with a white P on it. At first Jack Holtz thought it might be something they handed out at the ballpark, but it wasn’t the right color and the P was wrong to be part of the Philadelphia Phillies logo.
He didn’t know what it was, but his investigator’s intuition told him that it didn’t belong in this car. Something about that pin wasn’t right.
For two weeks he worked on it in his spare time. The more he looked at the little metal tab, the more he believed it was something a child would keep. He went to the residence of Susan Reinert’s neighbor Donna Formwalt and talked to her eight-year-old daughter.
The little girl said, “Karen wore a pin like that. I think she got it on a school trip.”
Jack Holtz started devoting more than spare time to it. He found another neighbor who told him that the pin looked like something she’d seen at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
It was a hopeful cop who arrived at the museum that afternoon in August and climbed the steps made famous in Rocky. He talked to the director who verified that the pins had been in use in June of last year, and were given to show that admission was paid. They were handed out by museum guards who used eight different colors on various days.
Jack Holtz went to Karen Reinerts neighborhood school and learned that the fifth- and sixth-grade classes had gone to the museum on a field trip in the spring of 1979. The principal informed Jack Holtz that Karen Reinhert had, in fact, attended school on the day of the museum field trip. Then he learned that four boys from her class remembered the pins. They’d been green. Two remembered Karen being along on the trip. One boy had saved his pin and turned it over to the police. It was identical to the one they had.
Their chain was getting longer. Not long enough to bind. But longer.
The last real duty Chris Pappas ever performed for Bill Bradfield had to do with closing out the safety deposit box. He did an extra-swell job on that mission.
When the bank teller had concluded their business and told him to have a good day, she’d left the signature cards on the counter. Chris Pappas leaned over and snatched three of the four signature cards, so that if the authorities found the box they wouldn’t be able to prove that Bill Bradfield had anything to do with the rental.
His mentor was very proud of him.
Chris Pappas was at Shelly’s house when he saw a news report that detailed Bill Bradfields testimony in Orphans Court. Chris was stunned. Bill Bradfield had lied under oath about everything.
An hour later, Bill Bradfield and Chris and Shelly were strolling through Valley Forge Park having a little rehearsal. Bill Bradfield was positive that when the grand jury sat in September, they’d all get a subpoena. He asked Shelly if she’d take a walk and let him talk privately with Chris.
When they were alone Bill Bradfield asked, “How do you feel?”
“Okay. I feel okay.”
“Will you stand by me?”
“Haven’t I always?”
“Vince deserted me. I think Sue might desert me. You won’t, will you?”
“Desert you? No.”
“Will you keep your silence about certain things?”
“What things?”
“The money? All the other things?”
“I’ll try to stay loyal. Greeks’re stubborn,” Chris Pappas said.
Bill Bradfield didn’t look too happy about the evasive reply.
As they walked, Bill Bradfield made notes on a checklist and scratched things off. And Chris was getting sick to his stomach as he realized that Bill Bradfield was not only trying to maintain his allegiance but was letting Chris know how strong and dangerous was this bond between them.
They sat on the grass, on the ground consecrated by the Revolutionary patriots, and Bill Bradfield handed Chris a brief on what to tell the grand jury. It was actually a scenario. The dialogue didn’t sparkle, but it made its point:
Bill told me that this Smith is really a bad person with a bad character. He said, “I wish I hadn’t seen him at Ocean City but I did, so I’ll have to testify to that because it’s true.”
Smith talked about getting the police and other people. Wishing, thinking, they ought to be dead, wanting to kill them.
Bill said, “I don’t know whether he’s serious or not. I sure hope no one kills Susan Reinert.”
Bill Bradfield must’ve thought that was a wee bit self-serving so he crossed out the last line. He also deleted a reference to Jay Smith wanting to kill the cops, possibly figuring it might not play in Peoria.
That woman has told me she’s leaving her children to me and all sorts of crazy stuff. She’s sure chasing me. She says she’s dating some real weirdos too. I told her she’s going to get herself beat up or killed.
If she gets herself killed and leaves me her children, if she pushes her children on me, I’ll fight it in court. That’s illegal.
But that also seemed a bit over the top for a budding scenarist, so he crossed out the part about her leaving him the children.
That’ll sure put me in a horrible mess. I wish she’d leave Upper Merion, leave the area all together.
They both scribbled changes in the script, which continued with lines that Chris was supposed to say when asked for opinions:
Bill seemed pissed off at Mrs. Reinert and concerned about the weekend and vacation.