Lethal Guardian (6 page)

“Where did you go after you left your therapist’s?”

“I stopped in Old Saybrook to attend a recovery meeting, but then changed my mind, and went home to talk to my wife about what had happened during my therapy session.”

Before they asked, Charlie thought he’d better own up to something that might be important.

“I own five rifles and a thirty-eight-caliber handgun,” he said.

Silence.

Not much was known about the crime, but investigators were certain that Buzz had been killed with a .38. More important, though, was that they believed he had not only been killed by someone he knew, but by the hand of an expert shot—like a hunter or marksman.

“Where are the weapons?”

“My handgun is at home. My rifles are in my office.”

“Would any of your employees know anything about Buzz?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“We need a list of names. We also need a list of names of the people at your recovery meeting, people who can back up the fact that you were there. They may need to sign statements….”

“No way. Recovery is all about anonymity. I can’t do that.”

It was getting to the point where Charlie felt as if he had already said too much.

“I have to get back to work.”

“We may be back to talk to you, Charlie,” Wardell warned.

As they started to walk away, Charlie said, “Let me ask you something, Detectives. Did Buzz have his tow truck with him when he was killed?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“What car was he driving?”

“His car. The Firebird.”

“I don’t buy the tow truck scenario,” Charlie said. “If Buzz was going to sell his truck, I know him well enough to know that he would have had the truck with him.”

It had been a long morning for Charlie Snyder. He had been asked questions he thought were way out of line and had given answers, he now thought, that maybe he shouldn’t have. After all, the ED-MCS didn’t have a warrant.

At 4:45
P.M
. that same day, Wardell and Turner returned to Blonders. Charlie walked them outside again.

“What do you want now?”

“Had you spoken to Buzz over the phone lately?”

“No. I told you I hadn’t seen him in a while.”

“Tell us again why you didn’t go to that recovery meeting?”

“Listen, I’m cooperating with you guys. Don’t push it.”

“We need to know who was at the meeting, Charlie.”

“It’s none of your fucking business who was at that meeting.”

“Listen, we just—”

“No,” Charlie interrupted, “you listen to me. If you want me to talk to you, you had better change your fucking tone with me. There’s nothing that says I
have
to talk to you. I have an alibi. It’s locked. Do your fucking jobs.”

Charlie felt that if they had gone out and done their jobs, they would have exonerated him by now. It was a matter of doing the footwork. Charlie Snyder had no patience for lazy people, especially lazy cops, he said later. What was more, he was overwhelmed that he had told them about his guns, yet they dropped the subject as quick as they brought it up. Charlie didn’t know Buzz had been killed with a .38. Still, he wondered why they hadn’t come back with a warrant for his guns. Or even ask to smell the chambers.

The ED-MCS held an 8:00
A.M
. informal meeting every day. It was a time for detectives to get together before the workday began and discuss cases. Toss out ideas. Brainstorm. Confer about cases as a unit. “Gossip chat.” What each detective thought about a particular witness. Evidence. Hunches. Gut feelings. They were a team. They respected one another’s opinions. No idea was a bad idea. Homicide is an irrational act, and cops have to think irrationally to solve a case. The 8:00
A.M
. meetings were a time for that. No two crimes were ever the same; no two criminals were alike.

“How did we know,” Reggie Wardell said later, “that Buzz didn’t just piss someone off on the highway, and that guy decided to take out his anger by shooting him? We had to keep an open mind. It seemed that everyone we spoke to early on opened another door.”

The two most prominent suspects were Charlie Snyder and Rob Ferguson. And by March 15, each witness that detectives had spoken to seemed to bolster further the theory that one of the two had killed Buzz.

Marty Graham spoke to another former employee of Blonders who had some negative things to say about Charlie. It turned out that it wasn’t Buzz who had called the DEP on Charlie, but a guy named
Brad Riggs,
who claimed that Charlie not only had threatened his family when he found out he had made the DEP call, but also said he thought Buzz owed Charlie a lot more money than people were saying.

Kim Clinton, when she was reinterviewed on March 15, put Rob Ferguson’s feet closer to the fire by saying that Rob had called Buzz back in February looking for his rent money, and when Kim said that Buzz wasn’t around, Rob told her that “he will have more fucking problems unless he calls me back.” Then she indicated that she was positive someone had called on the night Buzz was murdered and wanted information about a “Toyota” or “Mustang” that Buzz had had for sale. There was even the chance, she said, that Buzz had gone off to meet the person who had called so he could show him the cars.

Buzz’s body had been released by the medical examiner’s office on March 16. The Clintons, nearly a week after Buzz had been killed, could finally put him to rest. Dee Clinton had already said good-bye to her son on the day he was murdered. The funeral, she later said, was just a way to say good-bye to his body.

Dee and her family were, of course, devastated by the loss. In many ways, Buzz had been the center of the Clinton family. Now he was gone. Just like that: one minute he was here; the next he wasn’t.

Interviewed by a local newspaper, Dee told a reporter that Buzz had visited her on the day of his murder only moments before he was killed. She claimed his “mood was upbeat” when he walked out of the house. He was especially happy, Dee noted, “about his wife’s pregnancy and a new job he was due to begin at a Groton convalescent home.

“Everything was wonderful. He was thrilled. His life was fine.”

On March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, as a slight rain fell and a cool breeze blew umbrellas out of people’s hands, a service was held at the Clintons’ parish, Christ the King Roman Catholic Church.

Earlier that morning, Cynthia Carpenter had called with some rather disturbing news. Dick had been in an accident. His car had slid off the road. Dick escaped without serious injury, but his car was totaled and he was shaken up a bit. Cynthia said she’d watch the children while Dee and the rest of the Clintons buried Buzz. On the surface, it seemed like a noble gesture.

Before family and friends headed off to the cemetery, near the end of the short church ceremony, Dee stood up and read from a eulogy she had spent days composing. Buck Clinton had been a staple on the wrestling circuit in state for years. He coached high-school wrestling and held on to a passion for the sport. When the Clintons showed up at the wake the previous night, it was a comforting feeling to see that Buck’s entire wrestling team, wearing their wrestling jackets, had been bused in to support the family.

Garbed in a black dress, Dee first addressed the crowd by stating that she was the person who likely knew Buzz best. A spiritual woman, Dee closed her opening by saying, “I believe God picks out special children to send to us so we can learn something.”

Attendees, drying eyes and whimpering softly, were captivated by Dee’s remarkable strength and candid demeanor. When she spoke, it was easy to tell where Buzz had gotten his strong disposition. Dee was a powerful person, not afraid of anyone. She was going to speak her mind today—regardless of what anyone thought.

This was Buzz’s day.

“I don’t think there is one person who has crossed Buzz’s path who doesn’t have a story to tell about him,” Dee said.

Some people nodded. Others broke into half smiles through their anguish.

“God has carried me over some bumpy roads, and He has granted my family with more miracles than we probably deserve.”

People who knew Dee weren’t shocked by her display of gratitude. She had always been a person who never took anything for granted. Here was a woman who had just lost a son to the hand of a violent murderer, and she was speaking of how lucky she and her family were. Her strength was astonishing.

Years ago, it was discovered that Suzanne, Dee’s middle child, had a bone tumor. The prayers from friends and family, Dee explained, had apparently helped “make another miracle possible.” Suzanne beat it. She was fine now. “Buzz would have given his life to save his sister,” Dee recalled later. “He was overwhelmed by Suzanne’s pain.”

Buzz had married and divorced before he met Kim. His first wife, Lisa, had bore him a son, Michael.

“The marriage ended,” Dee explained to the crowd, “but not our relationship—and Lisa is wonderful [for] letting us share in the joy of Michael.”

She second-guessed herself for having scolded Buzz for getting Kim pregnant shortly before he was killed.

“I read him the riot act,” she said somberly, looking down at her notes. When she looked back up, she revealed, “Now I wish I [had] kept my mouth shut.”

Then she tilted her hat to Kim, her daughter-in-law, a woman with whom she had just begun to bond. Since Buzz’s death, Kim had moved back into the Clintons’ house. Dee promised to build her a home of her own on a part of their fifty acres. There would be insurance money from a policy Dee had on Buzz. Dee wanted to be sure her grandchildren were taken care of with the money.

“Kim was his strength, giving him the will and desire to change his life. A quiet and gentle woman with unbelievable courage, whom I thank for loving my son.”

Dee finished by saying that she had confidence that Buzz was “in God’s presence and light…. I have to say good-bye to our son.” She ended with “…we’ll miss you.”

When the Clintons returned home after Buzz’s funeral, reminders of him were everywhere. His clothes were still hanging around the house. His shoes and sneakers lay in the hallway. His hat hung on the rack by the door. His smell lingered in the air, on his clothes. His favorite chair was empty. Indeed, everything was still the same as it had been on March 9, but Buzz was gone. It was as if he’d gone off to work, or gone out for the night…and just hadn’t come home yet.

Later, Dee Clinton, standing in her driveway next to a stone wall that Buzz had built years ago, remembered him.

“I can still see the sweat rolling off his back as he lifted each stone and placed it carefully next to one he had just put down. The sun was shining that day on his back. The glare. I can still see him….”

There was a tree to the left of the driveway that Buzz had planted. When he put it in the ground, it was about the size of a houseplant. Now it stood fifteen feet tall. It was a subtle reminder to Dee that life still went on, even though part of her world had been shattered.

Throughout the weekend of March 19 and 20, detectives laid out a plan for the next few days. It included visits to several of Buzz’s former friends, his ex-wife and a number of people he’d worked with throughout the years. Something was missing. Someone had it out for Buzz. There wasn’t really much more to it than that. The hard part was tracking down that one nugget of information that would eventually open up the floodgates.

Before detectives began interviewing people, they decided to visit Dee again. Some time had passed. Maybe she could remember something significant?

The basic premise of the second interview was to find out what she “thought,” Dee later speculated. They wanted to know how she felt about who murdered her son, and if she had any idea who it could have been.

Dee was adamant this time. She suspected that the Carpenters had had something to do with Buzz’s death. She didn’t believe anymore that a state trooper was responsible. It was after Buzz’s funeral, Dee said, that she began to develop her suspicions. When Cynthia brought the kids back after the funeral, Dee had said, “Thank you. You’ve been so kind to my family.”

Cynthia, befuddled and a bit disconcerted, said, “No, I haven’t.”

That was when Dee began to have a feeling of “discontent.” Something, she thought, was askew.

“I told those detectives when they came back,” Dee later recalled, “about the signs. They were there, especially since the last time I had spoken to them.”

Dee was referring to Dick Carpenter’s accident on the day of Buzz’s funeral and the fact that he had also lost a fight with his chain saw some days later when he fell off a ladder and cut off one of his fingers.

“There’s no way,” one of the detectives chimed in when Dee began insisting that one of the Carpenters had killed her son, “that Dick Carpenter had anything to do with your son’s murder.”

“Whatever,” Dee said. “But I told you last time to watch the signs. Buzz will lead you to his murderer.”

The way Dee saw it, her job was to keep her family intact and be the force of strength that held them together through their horrible tragedy.

“[The detectives’] job,” Dee later said, “was to find my son’s killer.”

If Charlie Snyder thought his days of being interrogated by the ED-MCS were behind him, he thought wrong. On the afternoon of March 23, Snyder looked out the cracked front windowpane of his office and saw Reggie Wardell and another detective walking from their state-issued blue Crown Victoria into Blonders for a third time.

As they walked in, Charlie once again stopped them at the door and led them outside, thinking,
What the fuck is this?

Standing atop of the hood of an old Chevy Caprice lying on the ground in the parking lot, Wardell looked Charlie squarely in the eyes and said, “We want you to take a lie detector test.”

Charlie became incensed, but he kept his anger in check, smiled coyly, then started walking toward his office door without saying anything. Then, “Come with me,” he said, gesturing with his hand as he opened the door. “Come on. Let’s go!”

The office Charlie kept was a tomb of stacked books on car parts and old customer files piled anywhere there was available space. There were alternators and distributor caps, old air cleaners and carburetors lying on chairs and filing cabinets. It was hard to tell what color the carpet had been because it was black and soiled with grime, oil and dirt. On the wall there was a gun rack with one shotgun set up in it. Charlie kept his .38 revolver in his top, center desk drawer, right next to a stack of cash, counted and banded.

Sifting through the rubble, he found the phone.

“Hold on one minute, gentlemen,” he said.

Wardell, undoubtedly knowing what was going on, just looked at his partner without saying anything.

After a few brief pleasantries to his lawyer, Charlie said, “Listen, this is the third time these cops have been here and they’re questioning me on a murder. What are my rights?”

“You don’t have to tell them a fucking thing! Hand the phone to one of them.”

Charlie gave Wardell the phone.

“Unless you have a warrant, leave the premises right away.”

Wardell motioned to the other detective and they left without another word.

Later, Charlie remembered how he felt that day.

“After two meetings with them, they still didn’t ask to do forensics on my thirty-eight, when they knew damn well it was the same caliber that had killed Buzz. They knew I didn’t have anything to do with his murder. They were just seeing what they could get away with. After that day, I never heard from them again.”

“The questioning of Charlie Snyder,” Reggie Wardell said later, “became more intense every time we spoke to him. We looked at Charlie as someone who was possibly involved in the murder of Buzz. We’re not just working on one case. We’re always worried that something will slip through the cracks. So it makes us be more thorough in our investigation. That’s why we interview so many people. We had to scratch people off our list. When Mrs. Clinton said she thought it might have been the state trooper who Buzz got into a skirmish with, even though he was one of us, we had to check it out. When people told us Charlie Snyder had threatened Buzz, we had to look at it.”

Asked if his final interview with Snyder had gone the way Charlie later described it, Wardell said, “Not quite.” Wardell had a smile on his face. “Charlie was much more cooperative.”

Days later, however, after talking with Charlie’s therapist and getting a statement that proved his alibi, the ED-MCS steered away from Charlie and set its sights on two other suspects who had recently been put on their radar screen.