Chapter 21

"Well," Charlie said, rubbing his chest absently, wincing, "it looks like we are lacking the data to make a determination of Agent Galster's motives. How about we get back to Johnny Damiano? Amita, I like your idea about comparing the sketches, but police sketches sixteen years ago were nothing like they are now."

"True," she said, "but the sketches combined with the transcripts of the witness interviews might give us something. I wonder if we could get a sketch artist to come up with something based on the old statements..."

Don nodded. "We could try. I've asked Agent Galster to start trying to track down the witnesses, though after all this time, their memories aren't going to be very accurate."

Larry nodded, "That is true, Don. I recall reading an article not too long ago about the unreliability of eyewitnesses' memories, especially after time passes. If I remember correctly..."

I couldn't stop myself from giggling. I tried to cover by reaching into my purse for my notebook, but Larry looked up, questioningly. "I'm sorry. That just struck me funny. You were talking about memories being unreliable, and then..."

Larry nodded, "And then I started my next sentence with 'If I remember correctly.' Poor choice of idiomatic phrasing. But my point is that as time passes, eyewitnesses tend to incorporate new information into their memories. As they hear people talking about the case, or see photographs, or even, I would imagine, begin to try to fill in gaps out of their own imaginations, their memories become diluted with new information."

Don nodded, chewing on his lower lip, "So these witnesses aren't going to do us much good."

"I wouldn't think they would," Larry said. "There are also studies that show if a weapon is used in a crime, the witnesses will not remember as much about the criminal, because they're looking at the weapon, not at the person holding it."

"Well, that wouldn't apply here." Don said. No weapons were seen during the burglary. The thieves were dressed as Boston police officers, and got into the museum by telling the security guards that they had a report of a disturbance inside the Gardner compound. Once they were inside, the two thieves overpowered the two guards..."

Charlie interrupted. "Two thieves with no weapons overpowered two security guards? The guards didn't fight back?"

"Remember, Charles," Larry said, "the guards thought they were dealing with police officers. They were probably surprised and unable to react until it was too late."

"That makes sense." Charlie said. So, Don, what did the two thieves look like? Either of them sound like Damiano?"

Amita handed the description sheet back to Don, and he read it to Charlie, "Okay, both subjects were white males. First suspect was late twenties to mid thirties, five foot seven to five foot ten. Medium build, dark eyes, black hair, fair to medium complexion. Narrow face. Wearing a fake mustache and gold framed glasses. Possible Boston accent. The second suspect was early to mid thirties, six foot to six foot one, one eighty to two hundred pounds. Broad shoulders, lanky from waist down. Dark eyes, black hair, fair to medium complexion, round face." As he read, I began trying to take notes, but had a hard time keeping up. Finally, I resorted to doodling. Don handed the paper back to Amita and said, "Not much help."

"Okay," Charlie tapped his chalk on the board. "What do you know about Damiano?"

Don picked up the folder and pulled out a couple of sheets of paper. "Okay, if you're going to be doing your social networking thing..."

"Just give me all you have. Anything and everything. I need data." He reached to start writing at the top edge of the board, winced, and moved his hand down a little lower.

Amita looked at him, concern furrowing her brow. "Charlie, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Still a little sore. I keep forgetting not to move certain ways. So, Don, what do you have?"

Don shrugged. "Okay. Damiano's forty four. Six feet tall, dark hair, brown eyes, medium build."

Ben interrupted, "Don, he has blond hair and blue eyes."

Don grinned, "When you saw him, he did. Criminals are doing wonders these days with bleach and contact lenses." He continued, "He lived in Boston his whole life. He was a known associate of David Turner, who was convicted of attempting to rob an armored car in 2001. Turner and his co-defendants were questioned about the Gardner theft." He looked up from the paper. "I don't have the transcripts of those interrogations, but I should have them tomorrow. The co-defendants were an interesting bunch, too: Carmen Merlino had strong mob ties, and there was a former Boston police officer, among others."

Charlie had been listing the names on the blackboard. But when Don mentioned the mobster and the cop, he started writing something completely different. He noticed Don had stopped talking, and glanced back at him, "Keep going. I'm listening."

Don looked doubtful, but he continued, "It doesn't look like Damiano was involved in the armored car robbery, but he was involved in several other crimes with Turner."

"Is he directly involved with the mob?" Charlie asked without turning from the board.

Don flipped through the file. "I don't see anything connecting him with the mob."

Charlie erased and changed part of what he had written.

"But through Turner, he may have been acquainted with Merlino. Merlino was an associate of the brother of a mob boss."

Amita shook her head. "That sounds a little tenuous, Don."

Charlie turned and said, "Tenuous or not, I want it all. I'll assign weights to the different values as I go along. This is just giving me something to start with. Now, you said earlier that the police suspected a mob connection with the Gardner theft, right? Were there any other organizations they looked into?"

"Yeah, they looked into the Irish Republican Army, too. Boston was a hotbed of IRA fundraising, and the IRA had started using stolen art to raise money," Don said without consulting his notes.

"Okay," Charlie said, tapping the chalk on the board. "There are a lot of avenues we can follow." He rubbed his chest again and glanced down. His shirt had a spot of red on it. "Crap," he said softly. "I think I popped a stitch."

Alan was on his feet immediately. "Let's have a look."

"Not here," Charlie said, backing away. "I'll go upstairs and put a bandaid on it." Alan started to follow him, and he turned and held up his hand. "Dad, I'm fine. I promise I'll call you if I need help." He grinned, "Stay!"

Alan reluctantly watched his son run up the stairs. "Well, would anybody like anything to drink while we're waiting?"