Was it worth getting excited about? After all, most of what the CI said was public information. Anyone could have learned those details from reading the newspapers, following the case. Was it possible the CI was in trouble? Perhaps he was setting up an information swap. Maybe he wanted a reward?

  A few weeks later, on May 13, Felber and Whiddon paid a visit to Helen Rohr, Cynthia’s mother. They’d had no luck the previous year when they reached out to Helen via telephone. For the most part, they had stayed away from Helen and Cynthia’s sister ever since. But why not give it another try?

  Whiddon and Felber drove up to Canton this time. It was a raw day, 45 degrees. Raining. When they pulled into the driveway, they noticed two cars, one of which was Cynthia’s sister’s.

  Great, they’re both here. Lucky break.

  Helen answered the door and looked disgusted to see them.

  “Can we talk to you a minute about Jeff Zack, Mrs. Rohr?” Whiddon asked.

  “I never really knew him. He was a friend of Cindy’s and was at one of the kids’ baptisms. But that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Was that Ruby’s baptism?”

  Whiddon and Felber were waiting to be asked inside the house. They were standing on the porch in the rain. It seemed awkward that Helen wasn’t inviting them in.

  “No.”

  Cynthia’s sister then came from around the back of Helen and presented herself at the door next to her mother. She, too, had a look on her face that implied, You again!

  “We’d like to ask you both about Jeff Zack,” Felber said, breaking what was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Look,” snapped Cynthia’s sister, “we don’t know anything about him…and you’re really upsetting my mother.” According to Whiddon and Felber’s report, she was livid. Seething. Obviously disturbed by the surprise visit and equally appalled by the questions.

  “Listen,” Felber said, “the last thing we want to do is upset your mother. Is there somewhere private we can talk for a little bit?”

  Helen spoke up. “Stay there on the porch,” she said.

  “Mom, it’s raining,” Cynthia’s sister said. Felber and Whiddon looked on. Hello, it’s pouring on us here. How ’bout a little hospitality?

  “Go over to the screened-in porch on the side of the house,” suggested Helen, pointing.

  Whiddon and Felber walked into the slanted rain, onto the lawn and around the side of the house before stepping into a porch area. Now, at least, they were out of the rain. Helen met them by walking through the house. She stayed inside, behind the screen door.

  Cynthia’s sister spoke first. She was standing by her mother’s side again. “I talk to my sister regularly,” she said. “We’re close.”

  Whiddon asked about Cynthia and Jeff’s relationship. “[Cynthia’s sister] feigned ignorance,” Felber wrote later in his report of the conversation. She acted as though she knew nothing about it. Like it was a shock to them.

  So Whiddon came out with it: “Did you and your mother know that Cindy and Jeff were having an affair?”

  Both Helen and Cynthia’s sister said they didn’t.

  “Did you know that one of Cindy’s children was fathered by Jeff Zack?” Felber asked, directing his question toward Cynthia’s sister.

  Helen spoke, offering, “She looks like her grandfather.” Meaning Cynthia’s dad.

  Cynthia’s sister said, “We didn’t know that.”

  Neither Helen nor Cynthia’s sister, however, looked all that surprised by the disclosure, Felber reported later. It was apparent they knew. And that grandfather remark; where’d it come from? Helen seemed proud of the resemblance.

  “How did Helen know which child I was talking about?” Felber asked. He had never mentioned which of Cynthia’s seven children was Zack’s. Helen acted as if she knew.

  Cynthia’s sister responded, “You said the affair was seven years long.” She implied that, while standing there, they had calculated the simple math. Ruby was the only child young enough to fit the criteria.

  Both Cynthia’s sister and Helen asked how they knew “for sure” Ruby was Jeff’s. Neither detective said the CAPU had done a paternity test; instead, they ignored the question.

  “Is my daughter a suspect?” Helen demanded to know.

  “No,” Felber said. “But we have no idea why she won’t speak to us.”

  “It’s Bob Meeker. He won’t let her.”

  Felber threw up his hands. “It’s Cindy’s decision, not Bob’s. If a friend of mine had been murdered, I’d want to do anything possible to help. We don’t get it.”

  “I agree with you,” Helen said.

  “Cindy never told me that she was having an affair with Jeff,” Cynthia’s sister added, “or that one of the kids was fathered by him. She never said she had a fight with Jeff.”

  Felber asked about the affair, the child and if Cynthia had ever mentioned Jeff’s murder.

  Cynthia’s sister said no.

  “Cindy and Ed have a wonderful marriage,” Helen added. “They never fight.”

  As the wind picked up behind the two investigators, Cynthia’s sister chimed in and said, “I’m going to my attorney and telling him about this interview.” She became hostile. Then appeared as if she was going to cry, adding, “I have nothing more to add,” putting her hand over her mouth and walking away.

  Whiddon and Felber left.

  Felber was determined to break the case. He knew from experience it was a matter of talking to people. Beating them down, in a fragile way, and getting them to open up. Helen and Cynthia’s sister weren’t going to crack—and there was some question about how much they knew, anyway. As far as the Rohr family was concerned, Cynthia and Ed had a great marriage, which the detectives knew was a stretch.

  At nearly the same time Felber and Whiddon were driving back from Helen’s, another CAPU detective made contact with a CI by the name of Tim Gardner, who the detective had heard might have some information about Jeff’s murder. When he ran into Felber later that afternoon, the detective gave him Gardner’s name and telephone number, saying, “Call this guy.”

  Felber looked at the name. “Thanks.”

  On May 15, 2002, Felber made contact with Gardner. “I’m a detective with the persons unit,” he said over the phone. “I need to speak with you immediately.”

  “I can’t talk right now,” Gardner said. He sounded anxious. It was clear he was uncomfortable talking to a cop on the telephone. “I’ll call you back.”

  Felber waited, but Gardner never called.

  It would be five days before Felber tracked Gardner down, but Felber’s dogged determination to locate Gardner would pay a huge dividend. Almost a year after Jeff Zack was murdered, a break was in the works—all generated by a routine telephone call to a confidential informant.

  52

  Felber kept calling Gardner. And kept getting no answer. But on May 20, Gardner finally picked up the telephone. “What do you want?”

  Felber was quick: “Listen, I’m interested in a motorcycle you told [one of our detectives] about.”

  Gardner had originally explained that a guy had given him a Ninja motorcycle as a payment for drugs. A well-known local dealer, Gardner didn’t want to incriminate himself by freely giving the information to Felber. Admitting to taking personal property for drugs was a mistake; if the motorcycle had been stolen, it would fall on Gardner’s shoulders, not to mention the drug sale. Plus, there were people, Gardner claimed, that if they knew he was talking to the cops, weren’t going to be happy about it. He was scared.

  Felber was more concerned about where Gardner got the bike than why he had it. “I thought you wanted me for something else,” Gardner said. “If I knew it was about the bike, I would have called you back sooner.”

  “That’s OK,” said Felber. “Tell me about that bike.”

  “This guy who owed me money gave me a clean black-green-and-purple-Ninja-style motorcycle instead of the money. There wasn’t any plate on the bike. It was last year, June sixteenth.”

  The date of Jeff’s murder.

  And although the color purple didn’t match with the descriptions they had, investigators couldn’t be sure if the bike was purple or black—the colors were interchangeable, and they could be one and the same as a blur driving by.

  “How do you know it was that date?” asked Felber.

  “I heard about the Jeff Zack murder…you know, and here’s this bike in my possession. So I broke it down into parts and had them crushed and scrapped inside of some junk cars.”

  Son of a gun.

  As Felber began to sulk, Gardner came back with some good news. “Listen,” he added, “I kept the engine block with the VIN number on it. I can get that for you.”

  A few days later, a CAPU detective picked up Gardner and one of his friends, Fred Abers, and brought them down to the CAPU to meet with Whiddon and Felber. The CAPU was onto something, for sure. Whiddon and Felber could feel it. There was a certain authenticity to the information. It made sense. Gardner and Abers were scared, sincerely reluctant about meeting at the APD, which told them something about how credible the information could possibly be.

  Felber and Whiddon wanted the name of the guy who had given Gardner the bike.

  “We’re afraid,” Gardner said as they sat down in a CAPU interview room. Gardner was looking around timidly, fidgeting with his hands. “This ain’t no shit, man, we’ll be seriously hurt if anyone knows we’re here. You have to do everything possible to keep our names out of this.”

  Felber promised he would.

  Gardner began by telling the same story: the bike in exchange for the drugs, the VIN number on the engine block. This guy, he added, who had given him the bike, he was sure the guy couldn’t ride a motorcycle. He knew it was stolen. “His name’s [Marcus Dooby].” Felber and Whiddon had heard the name a few days before. They had been to Dooby’s house already, but his brother and sister said he was running scared and thought they were going to arrest him. Dooby’s sister promised she’d try to talk him into coming forward. Continuing, Gardner said, “Dooby told me to get rid of the bike a few days after giving it to me. He didn’t know anything about Jeff Zack’s murder, but once he found out a bike like the one he gave me was used in the murder, he told me to get rid of it.”

  The story seemed plausible. The two guys were incriminating themselves. Beyond them believing that a reward for twenty-five thousand dollars existed (which was untrue), what purpose was there, what motive existed, for them to lie at this point?

  Sitting, listening to his friend talk, Fred Abers was sitting on—whether he realized it—the break the CAPU had been waiting on for nearly a year. Speaking up, Abers told Whiddon and Felber he knew something about Jeff Zack’s murder. He had been holding out.

  Whiddon and Felber asked what it was he knew.

  He gave them two names: Christine Todaro and John Zaffino. Todaro lived in Cuyahoga Falls. Zaffino had two addresses, one in Akron and another in a little town called Rittman. “Zaffino,” said Abers, “was married to Todaro for about a year and a half. He hit her and, on one occasion, I heard he broke her arm. They’ve been divorced for over a year, but Zaffino still calls her.”

  “How does this fit into the Zack murder?” Felber wondered.

  “Todaro told me that Zaffino was crazy. He bragged to her one night about two people he killed—one in Pennsylvania and the other was”—he paused, stared at the two detectives—“well, the other was Jeff Zack.”

  This was the first time the CAPU had someone admitting to the murder, actually saying he or she had done the job. But Abers wasn’t finished. He had more.

  “What else did she say to you?”

  Abers made a point to explain that he wasn’t saying any of the information was true; he was simply repeating what he had been told, adding, “She (Todaro) said Zaffino told her that he used a motorcycle to kill Zack. He had researched Zack on his computer and later threw away his hard drive in order to cover it up. He was following Zack around until an opportunity came up to kill him.”

  Although quite groundbreaking on the surface, it proved nothing. During the interview, neither Felber nor Whiddon ever brought up Ed George.

  “She told me,” explained Abers, meaning Todaro, “that Zaffino told her that an ‘Ed’ had hired him to kill Zack. Zaffino said he had beaten up Zack before, but then ‘Ed’ decided he wanted him dead.”

  “We’re curious,” asked Felber, “why you were talking to”—he stopped for a moment and looked down at his notes—“Christine Todaro about…John Zaffino?”

  “Zaffino kept calling her, sometimes while I was there at her apartment. Listen, this Zaffino drives a truck or owns a trucking company…. I’ll talk to Todaro and get you guys some more information.”

  Within the next few days, the VIN number from the stolen bike came back and Felber found its owner. There was no way the bike could have been used in the homicide, the owner said, because it was in his garage during the murder. It was stolen two weeks later, near the end of June.

  Still, Felber needed to track down John Zaffino and Christine Todaro. Having been fingered in a murder-for-hire scheme, it was clear that both had some explaining to do.

  53

  Forty-year-old Christine Todaro had grown up on a farm and lived in and around Akron her entire life. It was back in the mid-1990s when Christine worked as a receptionist for North Canton (Ohio) Transfer, a fuel and oil tanker company. She was beautiful and outgoing, and had been married once, but it hadn’t worked out. Through that marriage, however, Christine had two children, a boy, Tony, and a girl, whom she loved and adored more than anything. “They are my life,” Christine told me later.

  One day, while shuffling paperwork at North Canton Transfer, in walked John Zaffino. Christine saw a spark. He was quite good-looking. He had a rough edge about him, but she liked that. Zaffino drove his own truck and did subcontract work for NCT. He would stop in the office at certain times and pick up and drop off paperwork. For a year, Christine said, Zaffino tried to get her to go out with him, but she brushed off his advances. Finally, after Zaffino kept persisting, she agreed, which was, she knew, against her better judgment. “I knew he was unstable, but I said, what the hell.”

  What Zaffino saw in Christine is rather obvious: a sweet, phone-sex-type voice, sexy lips and a streetwise pulse about her that spoke of a sociable, “not afraid to tell you how she feels” woman. Christine was tough. Her own person. Zaffino fit the protector role; he wasn’t afraid of anyone, that much was rather obvious to Christine right away. He loved her long, flowing, curly blond hair and perfect model figure. She was a catch, for sure, especially for a brute like Zaffino.

  They dated for eighteen months before settling on marriage. During that time, Christine saw a different man emerge. Zaffino could turn violent, she claimed, with the drop of a hairpin. One of those guys who, even if you thought you were saying the right thing, would twist it into something that offended him. Their marriage, from its earliest days, was filled with violent outbursts by Zaffino, generally brought on by an overwhelming, uncontrollable jealousy he couldn’t shake, mixed with a large appetite for, Christine said, booze.

  Lots of alcohol.

  The marriage ended, for the most part, one night when Christine saw Zaffino knock her son down and bloody the boy’s mouth. As she told it, Christine and her son were eating with Zaffino and his parents one afternoon. “John and his father had a very violent relationship,” she insisted. “It’s like a love-hate type of thing, but that doesn’t even begin to describe it well enough.”

  Christine’s son, Tony, was thirteen at the time. A good kid. Well behaved. Adored his mother and considered himself her protector. At the time, Tony was around the age where he was starting to worry about his appearance. Before they left for the restaurant, Tony decided to wear a hat. He didn’t feel like combing his hair or tidying up. He wanted to roll out of bed and go to lunch. Typical teenager. As they sat down at the restaurant, however, Zaffino’s father told the boy, “Take that hat off.” He thought it disrespectful for the kid to be wearing a hat at the dinner table, especially out in public.

  Christine rolled her eyes. She knew the family. Here we go.

  Tony didn’t want to remove the ball cap. “My hair’s all screwed up, Ma. I don’t want to do it.” The kid had worn his hat at the dinner table plenty of times around Zaffino and Christine. All of a sudden, because Zaffino’s father was present, it turned into what Christine later described as some sort of “big issue.”

  “John had this thing about his father…. He was always trying to impress him and seemed to act different around him.”

  Because she knew Zaffino could go from “zero to Mach ten in seconds and was likely to blow a gasket,” Christine encouraged the boy to take the hat off. “For me,” she said softly to Tony as they sat waiting for their lunch. “Come on.”

  Albeit begrudgingly, Tony obliged when Christine snatched the hat from his head and put it on her knee.

  Although Tony acquiesced, the incident ignited a set of circumstances that would have grave consequences for Christine as the night wore on.

  Zaffino looked at Tony after he took the hat off and said, “Nancy boy.” Teasing him. Taunting. Nancy boy. It had always been a joke between them. Zaffino had said it before and nothing ever came of it. On this night, however, the boy didn’t want to hear it.

  “Shut up,” Tony said.

  When they got back to the house, Zaffino’s mother used the downstairs bathroom while Christine went upstairs. This, of course, left Zaffino, his dad and Tony alone in the kitchen.

  When Christine returned, Tony was on the floor, his mouth, she said, “full of blood.” Zaffino had whacked him good. The boy was moaning, calling out.

  “What the f- - - happened?” she screamed, getting nose to nose with her husband. “What did you do?” When her child’s welfare was at stake, Christine said, she didn’t care how big Zaffino was, or what he could do to her. “I was going to defend my child no matter what.”