Under the Knife: A Beautiful Woman, a Phony Doctor, and a Shocking Homicide (20 page)

Dean left San Jose by way of the country’s roller-coaster
roads. He traversed miles of bumpy terrain before reaching the main highway, where vendors hawking sunglasses, cell phone accessories and baseball caps lined the sides of the road.

He left the ring of mountains surrounding the Central Valley on the Pan-American Highway, the same road that connects Tierra del Fuego at the southernmost point of the Americas to Alaska at the north. He passed through a mosaic of forest, pasture, and farmland.

Leaving the Pan-American highway, Dean caught the route built in the 1800s to transport coffee beans by oxcarts from farms to the ports on the coast—and from there to the cities of Europe.

He entered an active geological fault zone with deep depressions in the road bed, approaching and then crossing over the crest. The highway then descended toward the coastline of the Gulf of Nicoya.

A couple hours after leaving San Jose, Dean had entered Esparza—one of the oldest towns in Costa Rica, just twenty kilometers inland from Puntarenas. It was a sleepy little village with clean streets and laid-back town-folk. The quaint village square was lined with cobblestones and featured an octagonal gazebo and a bust of the founder of Esparza, Diego de Artieda y Cherino—a Spanish Governor of Costa Rica.

He rented a home there under the name Diego Faiello. After spending a few days relaxing in an atmosphere far removed from the crowded streets of San Jose, Dean moved on, farther north to the Pacific Coast and the Villas Playa Samara, a beachfront hotel with spacious Mediterranean-style villas where the heady scent of tropical blooms blended with the tang of the ocean air to create a fragrance like none other. The lush, manicured grounds echoed with the brazen squawks of exotic birds and the mournful cries of howler monkeys.

Dean requested the best accommodations possible when he checked in, paying cash in advance for three nights. At the doorstep of his three-bedroom villa, a seven-kilometer stretch of virginal white sand beach lay at his feet, with ground-hugging vines of beach beans and matapalo. Unlike much of Costa Rica’s Pacific Coast, where wild waves pound the shore, this spot was not a haven for surfers. A long coral reef protected this stretch of waterfront, making the waves kiss the sand with a gentleness that felt as timid as an apology.

Villas Playa Samara was heaven for nature lovers. Iguanas struck noble poses in the sun. Dolphins arced into the air on the horizon. Endangered giant sea turtles laid eggs on a nearby patch of beach, and scenic boat trips on the nearby Tempisque River offered an adventure in wonder. Every evening, the sun descended into the Pacific Ocean in a breathtaking medley of color.

Dean, however, spent the greater part of his days sunning by the pool and getting refills at the swim-up pool-side bar. He downed Coronas, piña coladas, Cuba Libres and double vodkas with melon juice, running up a daily bar bill of $200 or more.

He found Leo the bartender very attractive, and night after night invited him back to his room. However, Dean’s charming, seductive ways did not win over Leo.

“Where are you from?” Leo asked.

“New York.”

“What is your profession?”

“Well, I am a doctor.”

“Really?”

“I am a man of mystery. I have a lot of problems. Don’t ask me too many questions.”

DEAN MAY HAVE BEEN ABLE TO SUPPRESS THE CURIOSITY OF
a staff devoted to pleasing him, but he couldn’t stop the queries that Detective Della Rocca was making miles away back in Manhattan. Greg Bach’s story from the previous May gave birth to a lot of questions in Della Rocca’s mind.

Two case files—one for a fugitive from justice that had sent Investigator Ford looking for a phony doctor, and the other for a missing persons complaint about the baffling disappearance of a young woman—were now blending into one. As they pushed their puzzle together, the two detectives found that all the pieces seemed to fit.

On February 13, 2004, Detective Della Rocca drove out to Newark and spoke with Jeffrey Ransom and a woman named Loretta who both lived at 212 Elwood. He asked if he could take a look inside the adjacent carriage house at 214 Elwood. They gave their consent.

His visual inspection confirmed Greg Bach’s story of a hand-troweled concrete slab of recent vintage. He looked around but saw no blood. He stood still and sniffed the air—a little mustiness, but no whiff of decay. And that would make sense. It had been nine months since the body was sealed up in its concrete tomb. Della Rocca looked at the rough-poured slab in the back and suddenly
knew Greg’s suspicions were true.
So far, so good
, he thought.
Maybe the long wait for the Cruz family is finally over
.

But in Newark, Della Rocca was out of his jurisdiction—in another state under a different legal authority. So he enlisted the assistance of the homicide squad in the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office. Investigator Christopher Smith and Assistant Prosecutor Thomas McTigue walked Della Rocca through the unfamiliar paperwork needed to obtain a search warrant for the carriage house.

New Jersey Superior Court Judge Michael Petrolle authorized the search. New York authorities could not go in alone. On February 18, investigators Della Rocca, Smith and Ford, and Della Rocca’s partner T. J. Marony came to the scene with the Newark Police Department. The police called in for the assistance of the New Jersey troopers. En masse, a team of forensic technicians and detectives descended on the unsuspecting neighborhood of Forest Hill to tear apart the concrete and gather evidence in the case of Maria Cruz.

It was impossible for this many people and vehicles to go unnoticed. Just two and a half years after 9-11, in a community not far from the collapse of the twin towers, it was not surprising that the most popular rumor involved Islamic extremists. Word spread that the authorities were busting a terrorist cell. The first news helicopter headed to Newark and in no time, every media outlet with an air crew was there. Even the Department of Homeland Security and the FBI sent agents to the scene.

At the center of the circus, techs got to work dismantling the concrete mound by the carriage house steps. The digging began at noon. Concerned about the destruction of Jeffrey’s property, Loretta questioned the police officers.

“We’ll dig up the whole floor of the garage if we need
to,” they told her. “If we find nothing there, we’ll dig up your whole yard.” Then they threatened her with arrest if she interfered in any way.

As Loretta left the carriage house, she heard one officer mention Greg Bach’s name. She headed for the telephone. She didn’t have his phone number, but she knew who Greg was. She wanted to talk to him and find out what the heck was happening.

Two hours later, techs removed a suitcase from Dean’s concrete creation. News photographers snapped photos as officers carried two bundles from the building to the awaiting vans. Officials continued to search for evidence implicating Dean Faiello in the death of Maria Cruz.

Maria’s Uncle Jose in Queens held out hope. He told
The New York Times:
“Everyone is so very sure that it’s Maria. I’m still clinging to the hope that it’s not really her. They’ll be doing the autopsy tomorrow morning.”

Nonetheless, Irenea and Rudolfo Cruz, along with their two oldest children Tes and Jun, boarded a plane in Manila for their sorrowful flight to Newark Liberty International Airport. With confirmation of Maria’s death, there would come the demise of all their hopes and all their dreams.

DR. DAVID GOLDSCHMITT, EMERGENCY SERVICES DIRECTOR AT
New York University Downtown Hospital, backed out of his driveway to head to work. Looking up Ridge Street, he saw the yellow crime-scene tape circling a major portion of the block. His first thoughts went to a friend of his whose home was enclosed inside the police barrier. As soon as he arrived at the hospital, he sent an email to her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

The response contained a grisly truth, one that churned
in his stomach and made bile rise in his throat. The telephone conversation he’d had with Dean ten months ago raced through his mind.

Did he overhear a murder?
It couldn’t be connected
, he thought, then called one of his neighbors. As he listened to a story about the body recently removed, he encouraged himself not to think the worst.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid
, his cautious side argued. But David’s sense of responsibility and respect for life—any life—drove him to the Newark police station after work to tell them what he knew.

JEANE MACINTOSH HAD TRAVELED OUT TO NEW JERSEY THAT
morning to cover another story. Finishing her assignment, she turned back to Manhattan. As she approached Newark, Jeane noticed the flash of helicopters flitting through the sky. Curiosity danced in her mind, but she continued on toward the office.

Before she hit the river to cross over to New York, her cell phone rang. It was the assignment desk. “Jeane, does the name Dean Faiello mean anything to you?”

“Yeah,” Jean said, “that’s my fake doctor.”

“They’re looking for a body at his house in Newark. They think he murdered Maria Cruz.”

Jeane turned her car around and headed back toward the hovering helicopters.

LETICIA FRANKS, DEAN’S NEIGHBOR ON RIDGE STREET, RE
turned from a shopping trip to discover her whole block closed off by strips of yellow crime-scene tape. There were more police vehicles gathered in her block than she’d ever seen in one place at one time.

She had to park a distance from her home and walk, lugging her packages to the house. From her porch, she
saw the bustle of activity in the carriage house that faced Ridge Street. She didn’t know her new neighbor Jeffrey Ransom that well and wondered what he had done.

Then she learned that her new neighbor wasn’t the problem at all. It was the polite young man who passed the time with her, helped her out with her porch and tantalized the neighborhood girls—he was responsible for the police and media attention. Even worse—a body had been found only yards from her front door. She sat in silent disbelief, rebuffing every media representative who darkened her door.

LINDA BURKE HEARD THE NEWS OF THE GROTESQUE DISCOVERY
in New Jersey. Then she heard the suspect’s name—Dean Faiello.
Why did that name sound so familiar?

For days, the question lingered in the back of her mind until her memory sparked.
Wasn’t that the name of the dermatologist who treated me when I first moved to New York seven years ago?

The revelation sent her scurrying to her financial records. She dug deep and there it was—the receipt for services rendered. She was right: It was Dean Faiello. She had lain down on a table and placed herself at the mercy of someone capable of burying a patient in concrete. She was horrified.

BARBARA NEVINS TAYLOR WAS SHOCKED WHEN SHE HEARD THE
news. She had seen Faiello arrested and taken away in handcuffs. His arrest was supposed to end the charade—to stop him from performing risky procedures and posing as a doctor. And if he didn’t do so on his own, she was confident that the cops would act to protect the public.

“You think if you expose a problem and show a bad guy doing something wrong, those in authority will prevent him from harming others,” she said. “I can’t believe
they didn’t keep an eye on him. He had a prior record—his past behavior foreshadowed his future actions. They should have known that.”

When Channel 9 announced the discovery of Maria’s body, they reprised their previous investigation of 2002. It was an indictment of the inefficiency of a vast, unwieldy bureaucracy. Barbara believed that if the authorities had acted more expeditiously, Maria Cruz would still be alive.

DANI SAMUELSON, A FORMER TRANSEXUAL CLIENT OF DEAN’S
, watched NY1, the 24-hour local news channel, on February 18. Three times an hour, reporters recapped the news from Newark. When the story was repeated several times without any new information, Dani walked away, leaving the television on.

She sat at her computer tapping away, the news a constant, quiet hum in the background. Then she heard the announcer say, “Dean Faiello.” Or at least that’s what it sounded like. Dani’s fingers froze over the keyboard. Was she imagining things? She rushed back to the television and turned up the volume, waiting for the news from Newark to cycle through again.

She was right. The announcer did say “Dean Faiello.” He buried a woman’s body in concrete at his house in Newark. Charming, gracious, good-looking Dean Faiello a killer? Unbelievable. Or was it?

Did the sinister truth always lurk beneath that attractive façade? The more she thought about it, the more believable it became. She recalled Howard Stern’s reaction to the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. After the incident, every time Stern said an Arab name, he’d say “Guilty.”

Dani now felt the same way about Dean. Whenever she heard his name, “Guilty” pounded through her head. Sometimes, she said it out loud.

DR. LAURIE POLIS WAS STAGGERED BY THE DISCOVERY OF A
body at Dean Faiello’s former home. She could barely set down the receiver before the phone rang again. Every member of the media she’d ever heard of—and a few she hadn’t—called, wanting to know the back story of Dean Faiello.