Doctor Dealer (57 page)

But Larry had already decided.

In early April of 1986, “Brian” piloted a fishing and diving expedition forty-five miles offshore.

Loaded down with beer, crabs, bait, air tanks, and diving equipment, he eased through the Lynnhaven outlet with his friends Lee, Wally, and Barry before sunrise. Only the glow of all the electronic equipment in the cabin illuminated the blackness of the ocean. The water was still and flat. As dawn approached, the sky and ocean glowed a deep reddish orange that slowly faded until the first blinding flash of sun edged over the rim.

Their destination was the sunken remains of the
Morgan,
a U.S. Liberty cargo ship from World War II that had carried tanks, tank parts, Harley-Davidson motorcycles, and 70-mm shells. The
Morgan
had crashed into a commercial freighter on its maiden voyage out of Norfolk harbor. Larry’s electronic gadgetry located the sunken wreckage easily, and buoys were thrown overboard to mark its location. It took about forty minutes to maneuver the vessel directly over the wreck. Larry and Lee took turns with Wally and Barry diving down 120 feet, exploring the remains of the cargo vessel. That afternoon, Larry located the sunken remains of the
Cayahoga,
a 125-foot Coast Guard cutter that had taken seventeen trainees to their deaths when it sank. Larry anchored over the wreck and took a nap while his friends fished.

When he woke two hours later, a thick fog had rolled over the boat. He had planned to dive down to the wreckage, but the fog would make it impossible to see the buoys for an anchoring run. They decided to head back. Negotiating the fog with the boat’s electronic equipment was easy.

As the vessel got under way, Larry climbed back down into the
cabin to warm soup for himself and his friends. He had installed a small microwave oven in the cabin, and found occasion to use it on every outing. As he worked in the cramped space below, Larry shouted up to his friend Barry, asking how far they were from land.

“The monitor says six miles,” Barry shouted.

But before the last words were spoken, there was a crash and Larry was thrown against a cabin wall.

In an instant, he and his friend Lee exchanged a terrified glance, expecting to hit water. But nothing happened. The vessel was oddly stationary, as if it had suddenly been lifted out of the water.

Larry dashed up from the cabin and climbed directly out to the bow.

Not more than six feet away, an amazed jogger stood staring up at Larry from the beach!

“Well, we’re here!” shouted Larry.

Few surprises compare with hitting the beach when you’re supposed to be six miles at sea. Larry realized immediately what had happened. It was his own stupid fault. The electronic navigator had originally been programmed to guide them out of Lynnhaven, through the channels and out to sea. It followed a sequence of coordinates from Point A, Lynnhaven, to Point F, the longitude and latitude of the sunken cargo ship. When they had turned around, Larry had neglected to reverse the instructions. So instead of automatically proceeding from point F back through the coordinates to Point A, the Wellcraft had steered directly to Point A. The shortest distance to Point A, Lynnhaven pier, was a straight line that traversed, unfortunately, a decidedly solid stretch of Virginia Beach.

Larry swam out and anchored the vessel, then unloaded all of the valuable gear from the boat, and accepted a ride home. There he changed into dry clothes, told Marcia what had happened, and then drove back out to spend the night sleeping in the cabin.

He awakened to the voice of a small boy yelling, “Hey, Mom! There’s someone inside!”

Larry climbed back out on deck into the morning light. A crowd of about thirty people had gathered on the Seventy-eighth Street beach to inspect the accident. The tide was out, so there was a good five feet of beach between the rear of the boat and the water. A photographer from the Virginia Beach newspaper was taking pictures. Larry thought,
Just what I need.

A reporter approached him and began asking questions. What could Larry do? He answered the questions, and then he begged the guy not to take his picture or use his name.

“Look, I was playing hooky from work yesterday. I’ll lose my job,” he said. And the reporter obliged.

The story, with a picture of his boat under the headline “High and Dry,” ran on the front page of the next morning’s newspaper. It took most of the next day to free his boat and have it towed back to Lynnhaven pier. His picture went up at the Lynnhaven boat house, and for the next few weeks he was ribbed everywhere he went about running aground.

The boat was badly damaged—the props, the rudder, the engine mount. It was the beginning of the good season for fishing and diving, so it pained Larry to be spending the first weeks of May trying to get his vessel seaworthy. After weeks of work, it was due to be shipshape by May 16.

Through it all, Larry had laughed. His friends were impressed.

“Brian, you’re too much,” said his friend Lee. “Anybody else would have been furious.”

Larry said, “Lee, this is nothing. I’ve fucked up a lot worse than this in my life.”

When an investigation is successfully resolved, the steps to that happy end seem obvious. But no answer is the obvious one until the hunt is done.

So there were many months of work left for Chuck Reed and Sid Perry after they intercepted Larry’s phone call to Ken and Marcia’s letter to her mother. In addition to preparing and giving testimony at the trials of all those charged in the expanding cocaine investigation, and to continuing to build evidence against others, the agents gradually took steps to further narrow their search for the ringleader. By summer of 1986, they were convinced that Larry and Marcia were living under assumed names somewhere along the Maryland-Virginia coast, most likely in Virginia Beach or Norfolk. There were hundreds of active and retired FBI agents living in that region. So one of the steps they took was to have color photographs of Larry and Marcia enlarged and mailed to everyone on the FBI’s mailing list.

And so it was that one morning, just weeks after Pat O’Donnell had helped “Brian O’Neil” rock his beached thirty-two-foot Wellcraft into the water, and then helped him down a few beers to celebrate, two photographs dropped out of an envelope from the FBI regional office in eastern Pennsylvania.

There was no need to even look twice. The long neck and green eyes and thick mop of black hair were unmistakable.

Dr. Lawrence W. Lavin, fugitive cocaine dealer. That certainly explained his wealth and leisure. What a shame. What a damn shame.

Marcia had a bad dream when they were in Virginia Beach. In the dream, she was being led away from her house by men in suits,
and Chris and Tara were being taken off in a different direction. Brown-haired Tara was a year old and not yet walking, wearing the pretty blue plaid dress she had worn Easter Sunday when Marcia had insisted on getting everyone dressed up and going into Norfolk for the afternoon. Chris had just turned four. He was wearing his shorts with his suit coat and tie. In the dream, Marcia knew as her children were led away, Tara cradled happily on the stranger’s arm and Chris holding his hand, both with their back to her, that the separation was going to be permanent, that her babies would be raised by strangers.

She had learned in late April that she was pregnant again.

On the morning of May 15, a bright blue-sky Thursday, Larry and Marcia made love before the children awakened. As they lay in bed afterward, Larry explained that he was going to spend the day getting rid of an accumulation of documents he had been keeping in a briefcase in the crawl space over the ceiling in the garage. When he prepared tax returns for his various identities, he had assembled records of all his identities and accounts. It wasn’t a good idea to have them all there in the house. If he got caught, then the feds would know how to track down all of his resources. Not that Larry ever expected to get caught. But there was no harm in playing it safe. He told Marcia that his boat would finally be shipshape the next day, so he wanted to get the papers squirreled away safely before then. He said it would take him most of the day to drive around to his various postal boxes and safe-deposit boxes. Marcia often came along on these trips.

Then the children were up. There were diapers to be changed and outfits to be pulled on. Marcia went straight to work and Larry went down to the kitchen to get himself breakfast.

As Marcia prepared breakfast for the children, the phone rang. It was Roy Mason, one of Larry’s fishing friends. She heard Larry agree right away to go out fishing with him that morning. So much for the earlier plan.

“Is it all right with you?” Larry asked.

“Yeah. Just stay here with Tara while I run Chris to nursery school,” she said.

Marcia finished feeding the children and then walked Chris out to her station wagon and drove him the few blocks to the nursery school. When she got back, Larry had Tara outside watching as he loaded up his van with a cooler and his fishing gear.

It was a typical quiet morning. Marcia took Tara for a swim out in the pool, and did household chores as the baby napped. She picked Chris up at the nursery school at noon, and then fed both children lunch. Chris went over to play in the backyard of a neighbor’s house, and Marcia drove up to the Giant supermarket to get a Smithfield
ham for supper. When she got home she put Tara down for her afternoon nap and put away the groceries. She had never fixed a big ham, so she went over her recipe and started preparing it. At about three-thirty, after Tara woke up, she walked across the street to bring Chris home.

She was in the kitchen preparing dinner, Chris was lying on his stomach on the couch in the den watching his cartoons, and Tara was rolling around the kitchen and foyer in her wheeled walker, when the doorbell rang. Marcia thought it must be Girl Scouts selling cookies. She had seen girls out in the neighborhood earlier that day. But from the kitchen she could see, through the long narrow windows on either side of the front door, that there were a man and a woman waiting.

She knew immediately who it was.

Should I open the door now or should I try to get out the back?
she thought, but realized immediately that the idea was ridiculous. She crossed the foyer and opened the door.

“Yes?”

“What’s your name?” said the man.

“Marcia O’Neil.”

“What’s your husband’s name?”

“Brian O’Neil. What do you want to know this for?” she asked.

“We’re with the FBI,” he said. “We’ve arrested your husband as he came off a fishing boat out at the Lynnhaven pier.”

Marcia just stood there frowning.

“I think you better let us in,” the woman said. “Or the neighbors are going to see what’s going on.”

“Do I have any choice?”

“No,” said the woman quietly.

So Marcia opened the door and let them in. Tara came wheeling down the foyer to the man, who stooped to pick her up. Marcia quickly gathered up her daughter.

“Larry gave us the name of a neighbor who can take the kids,” the male agent said. “You are under arrest. Let’s get your kids out of here so they’re not exposed to this.”

Marcia could see there were agents on the back porch. Out the front window she could see more in the yard and driveway. She walked back toward the kitchen with Tara and, without even thinking about what she was doing, inspected the ham, set Tara down, took a big knife from a drawer, and started slicing it.

“I’m sorry,” said the female agent. “You can’t move around the house freely anymore.”

“Well, who’s going to feed my kids?” asked Marcia, turning with the knife in her hand.

In the other room an agent switched off the TV and Chris started
to cry. Marcia set down the knife and turned off burners on the stove. Then, with permission from the agents, she let the dog, who was barking loudly in the basement, out into the backyard. Chris was still crying.

“Who are these people?” he asked.

The house was filled with agents, who had begun searching every surface and drawer upstairs and down. The lead agent, whom she had met at the door, started reading Marcia her rights. She felt she was in shock.

Nancy Payne, her next-door neighbor, entered through the front door with another agent. Nancy was crying.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

“Please take care of the kids,” said Marcia. “How long am I going to be held?” she asked the agents.

“Maybe three or four days, maybe more,” the agent answered.

Nancy took Tara, and her daughter Beth, a teenager, came in behind her to take Chris. Beth was escorted upstairs to get some diapers and clothes for the children. Then Marcia was alone in the house with the agents.

They finished reading Marcia her rights, and she said she understood. She signed the statement, pausing to say, “Well, I guess I can use my real name now, huh?” She signed, for the first time in eighteen months, “Marcia Lavin.” Then they showed her another document, this one turning over the house and all its contents to them.

“I’m not going to sign this until I talk to a lawyer,” she said.

“Okay,” the agent said. “You don’t have to sign anything right now. We’ll get you to do it tomorrow.”

“Where is the false wall?” asked one of the agents.

“What wall?”

“We had reports that there might be guns and drugs,” he said.

“There’s nothing like that here,” said Marcia.

Marcia asked if she could change clothes if she was going to be taken out. She was escorted upstairs, and in the bathroom, with an agent waiting outside the door, she pulled off her shorts and top and put on blue jeans and an Oxford shirt. She collected her real I.D. from her jewelry box, her Pennsylvania driver’s license, her old Penn I.D., and her Social Security card. She was asked to remove her diamond earrings and wedding ring, and they gave her papers to sign turning her possessions over to them.

Again, Marcia demurred.

“I’d like to talk to a lawyer before I sign this,” she said.

Marcia thought it peculiar that she felt so strangely emotionless.