Under the Knife: A Beautiful Woman, a Phony Doctor, and a Shocking Homicide (6 page)

In addition to the scandal of divorce and rumors of multiple torrid romances with composers and others, Jeritza had an additional claim to fame. In 1937, she and her second husband transported the first Lipizzaner horses—two stallions and two mares—from Austria to America
for a movie based on Felix Salten’s book,
Florian
. The couple later divorced—making room for husband number three.

To fill that role, Maria chose umbrella man Irving Seery, who purchased the Newark mansion for his bride. Irving and Maria undertook immediate changes to the property. Inside the home, they added a theater, creating a stage where Madame Jeritza could entertain her friends with her glorious voice. A more dramatic alteration came to the home with the erection of a fence to encircle the property. A five-foot-high concrete barrier topped with a ten-foot wrought-iron fence robbed the elegant structure of its openness and gave it a forbidding, almost ominous, look.

At Christmas time, though, it was the brightest spot in Forest Hill. The couple filled the property with lights and Christmas decorations. On foot and by car, families made the pilgrimage to Madame Jeritza’s home, filling children with delight. Many homes had holiday pictures of their families posed in front of the elaborate mansion’s display.

In 1967, they built a clumsy second-story addition on the carriage house, giving it the gawky look of a teenager in the midst of a growth spurt. Jeritza, wrapped in mink coats and adorned with her trademark diamond-studded sunglasses, filled the mansion with opera music until she passed away in July 1982 at the age of 94. She was laid to rest in the Seery family plot at Holy Cross Cemetery in North Arlington, New Jersey. As she lay in peace, her well-loved Newark mansion lay dormant for a few months—begging for the attention and maintenance that Jeritza, in her advanced age, had neglected for years.

John Caprio had no plans to return to Newark after his graduation from Arts High School years earlier. Nonetheless, when the director of music for the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York heard that Madame Jeritza’s mansion was on the market, he had to see it.

The asking price was $250,000. The gloomy ambiance and shabby exterior put off many prospective buyers. John, on the other hand, saw beneath the run-down condition to the splendid, sound bones of the structure. The disinterest of others was a godsend for John. He and Robert Tornquist purchased the home in March of 1983 for a song. They paid less than half the listed price.

They made a tidy profit on September 29, 1986, when Dean purchased the home for $170,000. His mother and grandmother helped with the down payment, and his mother co-signed the loan. At that time, the gentrification of the neighborhood was still more a concept than a reality. Many of the homes begged for rejuvenation—or a simple demolition to put them out of their misery.

But Dean saw beyond the dreary façade of some of the homes around his. He envisioned a community graced by tall old trees, mature landscaping and stately homes. He knew Forest Hill was on the verge of reclaiming its lost glory, and he wanted to play a role in the neighborhood’s beautification.

When he bought the house, he gained the services of Elizabeth, a Hungarian housekeeper in her sixties. Elizabeth began cleaning the home when Madame Jeritza established residence there three decades ago. She quickly grew fond—and very protective—of Dean, whom she treated like a son.

By day, Dean labored hard in the construction business, but on nights and weekends, he donned the persona of Lord of the manor. He was an instant magnet for the young teenaged girls in the neighborhood. They gathered in each others’ second-story bedrooms, following his every move from the windows. He epitomized glamour in their eyes.

On New Year’s Eve, 1987, a bevy of 15- and 16-year-old girls gathered in Tara Franks’ second-floor bedroom.
They were at that awkward age—too young to celebrate the night at parties where champagne ruled over the festivities, and too old to go to bed and pretend it was just any old night of the year.

They sat on the bed and on the floor with bowls of popcorn, plates of cookies and all the soda they could drink, talking about boys, school and hopes about what the new year would bring. One girl served as look-out, eyes trained on Dean’s house as she reported the arrival of each new person to the mansion.

“A limousine—a limousine just pulled up,” the lookout squealed.

All the girls rushed to the windows. Noses pressed to the glass as they sighed into each other’s ears. In moments their vigilance was rewarded with the sight they’d anticipated—Dean emerged from the house and headed down the sidewalk. He was surrounded by an entourage of men, but the girls only had eyes for him. In a tuxedo with a formal overcoat and a flash of white scarf around his neck, he was the stuff of dreams.

They watched in paralyzed delight as each man slid into the luxurious car. They did not move their eyes from the sight until the vehicle glided away from the curb, down the street and out of sight.

The girls had no idea that Dean was gay, but even if they had, it might not have mattered. He was exquisite eye candy. They loved to look at him and fantasize about the future.

When Halloween rolled around, Dean enchanted younger children in the neighborhood, too. Groups of Forest Hill’s kids, bedecked in costumes ranging from the scary to the sublime, gathered by the wrought-iron gate at 212 Elwood. They gazed up at the spooky old house and set their imaginations free. They peered into the shadows, conjuring up visions of ghosts, witches and monsters.
They crept up the steps to the sidewalk, relishing the terror they felt as only children could—with the safety of knowing there was really nothing to fear.

They walked up to the porch and clustered near the door. After whispered exhortations and exchanged elbow jabs, one brave soul reached up, pressed the doorbell and jumped back into the comfort of the pack.

They gasped as the large front door flung open, and squealed at the first sight of the stuff of nightmares—Count Dracula. In a flowing black velvet cape, with piercing fangs, bloody lips and a sinister laugh, Dean Faiello acted the role to perfection, thrilling the neighborhood kids as he dropped treats into each sack. The giggles of the fleeing trick-or-treaters echoed in the trees as they bolted down the sidewalk and back to the street, heading out to claim their plunder from the next house in their path.

Dean charmed his adult neighbors as well. He was polite, pleasant, and always knew the right thing to say. He participated in block yard sales and community social events.

One afternoon, Dean sat on the front porch of his neighbor Leticia Franks’ house sipping tea, chatting and watching the world go by. On the side of her house opposite Dean’s place was one of the rattiest homes in the neighborhood—an affront to others whose work on their historic homes revitalized block after block.

Someone emerged from the home and stared at the two as they sat on the porch. Leticia’s nose crinkled in distaste and disapproval. “They drive me crazy,” she said. “They stare over at me whenever I sit on the porch like I was a storefront display set up for their enjoyment, or a caged animal performing for their amusement. And I hate having a view of that ramshackle place day after day.”

“They are rude and that place is an eyesore,” Dean sympathized.

“I wish I had something to block that side of the porch without blocking the breeze so I could sit on my porch in peace.”

“No problem. I’ll take care of that for you,” Dean said, patting the back of her hand.

“You will?”

“Sure. Don’t worry about it anymore.”

Leticia eyed him as he finished his tea. When he excused himself, he went down her walk and through his back gate. She watched him, hopeful that he was serious, but fearful that he was only making polite conversation with no intention of following through on his promise.
People can be so phony
, she thought.

She was delighted a couple of days later to discover that her skepticism was totally unfounded. Two guys arrived on the scene with a sheet of lattice. They installed it on the far end of her porch, blocking the full view of the dreary structure next door and returning to her a measure of privacy. Dean had a new friend for life—or so it seemed at the time.

IF DEAN’S LIFE HAD REVOLVED AROUND HIS NEIGHBORLY IN
teractions, it would have been a lot brighter for him. But the dark side of his lifestyle—the frenetic social swirl of a hyper-attractive gay man in Manhattan—overtook him. Dean fell under the seductive spell of excessive alcohol consumption, cocaine use and parties with no end. Then, he stepped onto the path that led to his destruction. Pretty boy Dean abandoned construction work to make the world of beauty his occupation of choice.

IT STARTED INNOCENTLY ENOUGH. IN 1988, DEAN WALKED
down Christopher Street in Greenwich Village and on impulse stepped inside The Beach, an oasis of white—walls, floors, chairs, table and uniforms—to Dean, it seemed like a beacon of purity in the midst of a strip of garish debauchery. He felt awkward and unsophisticated as he stepped up to the service counter. On the other side, Dean saw Michael Hart in a white tank top, “a blond Adonis with piercing sapphire blue eyes and a smile that could light up a midnight sky.”

Michael was a savvy businessman who built a personal care salon with a sexy advertising campaign and long hours of hard work. He normally put in 16-hour days and ate his breakfast and lunch while he worked. He closed only twice a year: on Christmas, and on the day of the Gay Pride Parade, because the mob outside his door made it impossible for employees or customers to gain access to his business. Because of his success, Michael had a constant need for contracting work and hired Dean to do renovations for his new business. Soon, Michael and Dean were an item.

Dean abandoned his licentious lifestyle of serial boyfriends and made a commitment of exclusivity with
Michael. They split their time between Michael’s apartment in Manhattan and Dean’s house in Newark.

Michael, a reformed drug dealer, provided the discipline Dean needed. He didn’t allow Dean the addict’s refuge of denial. Michael made Dean face up to his addiction and enter a drug and alcohol rehabilitation program. He poured all the liquor in Dean’s home down the drain to eliminate the temptation that can overwhelm a recovering addict. He made sure Dean attended AA meetings every few days without fail. Now Dean got high taking in Broadway shows and dining at good restaurants with his partner.

For Michael as well as for Dean’s other gay friends, going out in public with Dean was a heady experience that bordered on the bizarre. He was an obvious focal point, attracting attention no matter where he was. People stared at him when he entered the theater. They couldn’t take their eyes off of him when he sat in a restaurant. Women dropped phone numbers on him with hope twinkling in their eyes. Gay men approached him with the subtlety of mating sharks. Eating at an outdoor café was out of the question—the endless disruptions made it impossible to concentrate on a meal. Inside, at least, the audience was limited.

At times, Dean saw the reaction of those around him as a curse. He grew suspicious of people’s motives and hidden agendas. He wanted to be accepted as himself—for his contribution—not just because of his façade. Some acquaintances said that he expressed a yearning to be one of the Gay 500, an informal A-list clique of wealthy gay men in Manhattan from a diverse range of professions. Dean was bound to be frustrated in the desire. The Gay 500 was just another urban legend in a city that gives birth to myths quicker that it can debunk them.

Dean found a few refreshing friendships with those who had no desire to bed him, but simply enjoyed his company. They were the rare people in Dean’s life who found him a great listener and entertaining conversationalist—the men and women who shared his curiosity about life and everything in it. Michael was a newer and even more refreshing experience for Dean—a sexual partner whose interest was deeper and more genuine than that of simple lustful infatuation.

Michael noticed that Dean was unhappy in the construction field and encouraged him to attend electrolysis school.

Dean received his CPE—Certified Professional Electrologist—status from the American Electrology Association in 1993. At first, he worked two days a week at The Beach and continued with his carpentry work. Two days expanded to four, then, in no time, he was booked solid—six days a week—at $100 an hour. He had a large and loyal following who recognized and appreciated that Dean loved his work. He enjoyed taking care of his clients, nurturing them and making them happy.

Nonetheless, working at The Beach caused a lot of stress in Dean’s life. Though his relationship with Michael continued to flourish, his interactions with his fellow employees were strained. Dean’s good looks stirred up jealousies and his status as more-than-just-another-employee generated resentment. His friends said The Beach was a “den of vicious queens.” Dean never felt he fit in there—but he stayed to work with Michael.

Dean then discovered the new technology of laser hair removal. He took classes to learn how to use the strange wand-like instrument. He learned how to sear individual hairs down to their roots. He used his own body to practice his technique. In time, he removed every strand of hair from his torso and his limbs, with the exception of
his lower left leg. He left that hair growing in anticipation of new technological advances that would require future personal experimentation.