Chapter 30

Willie Davids needed to get as far away from Lee, Massachusetts as possible, as soon as possible. He was sorry for killing that little girl, but he wasn’t going to do time for it. Won’t bring her back if I do. He knew that this thing was not going to blow over; the guy he hit with his Mustang, and who had come onto his property and snooped around, had seen to that. Davids was not coming back. He needed to change his name and get a job as an automotive technician exclusively, no more auto body work. His legendary paint jobs had to come to an end.

Davids talked to his neighbor Russ Kirvin, who had driven the trailer truck used to hide Davids’ Mustang and escape the police, and told him he was leaving and wasn’t telling anyone where he was going. Davids promised him twenty-five percent of the profits from the sale of his house and garages for his help then, and for taking on the duties of power of attorney now.

Kirvin agreed and didn’t ask why; but did ask how he was supposed to get Davids his money if he didn’t know where he was. An offshore bank account, he was told. What was he supposed to say when people asked him where Davids was? Tell them he had a nervous breakdown and was at a treatment facility. Tell even his boss Mickey that story? Yeah, even him. Kirvin figured that the police would not be able to arrest him for anything he was going to do, and they hadn’t arrested him, yet, for helping Davids before.

Davids closed his bank accounts, taking the money in cash and putting it in the offshore account. He hadn’t yet figured out how he was going to get the money out of the Roth IRA accounts set up for his retirement through his boss’ business; he’d likely never see it.

Davids had already sold three cars, including the Mustang, and a motorcycle, giving him $93,000 in traveling money. His remaining vehicle was a 2008 Audi A4 wagon; he owned it since 2012 and thought it to be the best foreign car he ever had. He had to sell it. He could be identified by it, plus it was not big enough to hold his two large toolboxes, car lifts, and other equipment he owned. He brought the Audi to the dealership in Pittsfield, got them to pay his asking price, and got an Uber ride home. Then he jogged to his bank and deposited the dealer’s check.

That afternoon Davids asked Kirvin to buy him a van he’d seen at a local used car lot, but show Kirvin as the owner.

“I’m gonna own it? Right, and you crash it sometime and I get involved with the cops? No thanks.”

“Thirty-three percent. That’s what I’ll give you.”

It took only a minute for Kirvin to agree.

Ninety minutes later, at 10:30, he drove the van into Davids’ yard.

“As soon as I’m packed, I’m leaving,” Davids said as he accepted the keys.

“Where you heading?”

A smile. He wasn’t going to say. “Someplace where no one has any idea who I am.”

“Nice knowing you,” Kirvin said.

“Yeah.”

By 11:15, the van was full. Davids wasn’t able to fit a compressor into it, so he left a message to Kirvin to take it. Checking both his wallet to make sure he had the fake driver’s license that cost him $500, and inside the center console for the fake passport that cost $1,000, he took one last look around and left with a pensive look; this was the only place he had ever called home. Once he put the van in gear, he never looked back.

That morning, Pat Jamieson, the father of the little girl badly injured by a hit and run driver, got a call from Stanley Lewis claiming to have information about the driver of the Mustang. Lewis wanted to talk only to Jamieson, even though he was not the officer in charge of the investigation. They were to meet in two hours, at 11:00.

Lewis knew in his heart that Davids was the driver; he hoped the information he had would be enough for Jamieson to arrest him. It was not. But it was more than enough for the police to check the Department of Motor Vehicle records for vehicles owned by Willie Davids, and for Jamieson to get approval from Lieutenant Mercher, his boss and the lead investigator on this case, to go with him to make an unannounced visit to Davids. They left right after the meeting with Lewis, and sped to Davids’ house with lights flashing.

When they drove onto Davids’ property, the house and garages appeared to be locked up. They were.

Mercher and Jamieson drove to Davids’ closest neighbor to see if he knew anything about his whereabouts. No one answered the doorbell. In the back yard they saw a hauling truck with a name and phone number painted on it. Mercher called the number and spoke to the company owner, Russ Kirvin.

Mercher got the address and told him to sit tight, they wanted to talk to him.

“What about?” Kirvin asked.

“I’ll explain when we get there,” Mercher replied.

While Kirvin knew what it was about, he didn’t expect to get contacted by the police so quickly, for Davids had left only a few minutes earlier. The police arrived and knocked on the door of the trailer that served as the office.

A slightly built man with short dreadlocks opened the door. Lieutenant Mercher identified himself and Officer Jamieson and they were welcomed into the small trailer. It was a tight fit. A desk and chair, a small table strewn with papers, two filing cabinets, a window air conditioner sticking out into the room, and a small safe bolted on the floor to the trailer’s frame meant that the officers had to stand. That was okay with them—it made them look more intimidating.

Mercher asked Kirvin about Davids. Where is he? When was the last time you saw him? Were they friends? Was he having any problems? He was told that he had no idea where Davids was, the last time he saw Davids was yesterday, they were friendly but not friends, and that Davids told him that he had suffered a nervous breakdown and he was going away for treatment but wouldn’t say where. Davids asked him to sell everything.

“My daughter was badly injured by a driver of a yellow Mustang,” Jamieson told him, “and I believe that car was owned by Davids. That car seems to have fallen off the face of the earth. When’s the last time you saw that car?”

As prepared as he was, the sequence of the question and the way it was phrased caught Kirvin off guard. For one thing, why wasn’t the news about Davids’ nervous breakdown and him having no idea where Davids is of more interest at the moment?

Kirvin was getting rattled. He tried his best not to show it. He concentrated on answering the question asked.

He hauled the yellow Mustang in his trailer the day Davids killed the young woman and injured two people, including Jamieson’s daughter. But he had never seen it again.

“I saw Davids leave for work driving that car on the day the young woman was killed by a hit and run driver. That’s the last time I saw it.”

Noting the delay in responding, Jamieson said, “You seem uncertain. Are you sure it was that day?”

“Yes.”

Jamieson looked at Mercher for dramatic effect, telling Kirvin that he didn’t believe him. Then he said,

“You must have keys to Davids’ house. You need to come with us now and let us in.”

Hearing of the nervous breakdown and finding out that Davids whereabouts were supposedly unknown by Kirvin had indeed caught the officers off guard. However, by placing the emphasis of their discussion on the yellow Mustang, and their belief that Kirvin had something to do with its vanishing shifted the dynamic of the conversation more to Kirvin than Davids, a fact Kirvin could not ignore. Jamieson felt that that would work to their advantage.

Stay calm. They don’t know anything.

He thought about asking if they had a search warrant but decided not to. Instead, he fished the keys out of his pants pocket and said cheerily,

“Follow me.”

Davids house looked like the owner was on vacation, not like he had left for good. The house was furnished, lukewarm coffee was in a pot, the day’s newspaper was on the table, food was in the refrigerator and the cupboards, clothes hung in the closet, and towels were in the bathroom. There was nothing to talk about; nothing was said.

The garages, on the other hand, were, with the exception of an air compressor, empty.

“What more can you tell us about the yellow Mustang? How long did he have it? Who do you think he sold it to? Were you involved in transporting it to the buyer?” Mercher asked as the three of them exited the garages, wanting to keep Kirvin on the defensive.

But the tour of the property gave Kirvin a chance to recover much of his lost sureness, and he responded confidently, calmly, and sarcastically, albeit falsely.

“He never showed me the bill of sale, but he had it for two or three years. Maybe more. Could be less, though. I think he sold it to someone who liked yellow Mustangs, but he never told me. For all I know, it was someone who didn’t like yellow Mustangs, like an investor or someone. As far as I know the car was still drivable after I saw it last, and since I never met the buyer, if there was one, he could have junked or bartered it also, you know, in which case I could not have transported it, like you said.”

For now, this line of questioning was pointless. Mercher moved on.

“When did he tell you about the nervous breakdown?”

“Two days ago.”

“When did it happen?”

“Don’t know, within the past few months I imagine.”

“Think so? You’re not being much help. When was the last time you saw him before two days ago, to talk to?”

“I don’t remember. Might have been a few months ago, maybe less.”

“What’s he driving now?”

“Not sure if he is driving. Like I said, maybe he sold the Mustang and bought an airplane ticket.”

“You didn’t see him leave?”

“Nope.”

Mercher couldn’t take any more of this.

“You two are friendly but not friends, yet your friendly neighbor asks you two days ago to sell his stuff because he had a nervous breakdown, and this is news to you, even though he would have needed treatment for at least a week before he could function again. It’s a small town. Somebody would have found out about his breakdown and word would have gotten around. Let me explain how we see this. You knew all about Davids’ problems; you helped him hide and get rid of his yellow Mustang, and you know where he is or is headed. I suggest cooperating with us before you wind up doing serious time.”

“I told you what I know. I’m not talking to you anymore.”

With that, Kirvin headed back to his trailer.

There was nothing the police could do.

“We need a wiretap and someone to keep an eye on him,” Mercher told a frustrated Jamieson.

“Yeah.”

They drove away in silence, both focused on how they were going to break Kirvin down and get him to divulge what he knew. Nobody can hide nowadays; Davids would be found. They put out an alert telling all police forces, transportation companies, and citizens to be on the lookout for him.