meetinghouse for cops who track down eastern Connecticut’s “most wanted.”
Detective John Turner was assigned to the ED-MCS as a member of the Major Crime Squad back in 1987; he joined the force in 1982. Since becoming a detective, Turner had investigated murders, rapes, child abuse cases and violent crimes of all kinds.
The Buzz Clinton murder investigation, however, had Turner baffled. He knew the answer—or at least some of the answers—was right in front of his face, if only he could put his arms around the motive. Every murder has a cause: jealousy, revenge, robbery, money, drugs, hate. The reasons are endless.
In Buzz’s case, though, something seemed to be missing.
Then it happened—that “break” they’d been waiting on all along came in the form of a phone call that would change everything eventually.
Turner received a message on May 25, 1994, that a woman had called the state police barracks in Montville and stated that she knew who “killed the man on the Rocky Neck connector in East Lyme.”
It was heaven-sent. The detectives had exhausted just about every single lead, and now a potential killer was going to be delivered on a silver platter?
It seemed too good to be true.
While waiting on the line to be transferred to where Turner and the rest of the ED-MCS were attending a meeting, dispatch lost the caller. For the next ten minutes, Turner and the ED-MCS waited nervously for their new witness to call back. Finally the phone rang. After trying to be cryptic, hiding who she was, the woman identified herself as Catherine White.
Thus far, this was a name unconnected to Buzz’s murder in any way.
White told Turner she was scared that her boyfriend, who was involved in the murder, would find out about the call. She had called Troop F because it was the closest station to her apartment. No long-distance charges would show up on her phone bill.
After running a background check on White, Turner’s initial jubilation was short-lived. Catherine White was a convicted prostitute. A rather well-known “lady of the evening” around town, she was also a heavy drug user.
Nevertheless, she might know something.
After sending a few troopers to fetch her, John Turner and Marty Graham sat down with White and began to hear a story that made little sense at first blush.
“It was my boyfriend, Joe Fremut,” White explained, “and his friend Mark Despres who planned and committed the murder.”
Turner was curious about why White had waited so long to come forward.
“I can deal with a lot of things in my life,” she said, tears falling, “and I have done a lot of things I’m not proud of—but I can’t be part of a murder. Just knowing about it, well, I can’t sleep at night.”
At thirty-three, Joe Fremut had followed in the footsteps of his father, James, who had owned and operated Fremut Texaco Service Station on South Main Street in Deep River for most of his life. Fremut, at five feet eight inches, 160 pounds, had worked at the Texaco station, it seemed, since he was a child. In recent years, Fremut Texaco had also gotten into the used-car market and had a parking lot full of used cars. Former customers viewed Fremut as nothing more than “the guy you went to in town to buy a used car.”
Others, however, remembered him differently.
One former acquaintance said he was the kind of guy you left alone. In pretty good physical shape, slim, but built solid, Fremut had a look about him that spoke of a hard life. With his short-cropped black hair and cocky grin, he resembled actor Robert Blake during his Baretta days. He always seemed intense, as if on edge.
“No one went out of their way to mess with Joey Fremut,” a former friend said. “That’s for damn sure.”
Some said he was a quiet guy who liked to shoot darts at the local pub. He fixed cars, kept to himself and never really bothered anyone. In fact, if someone brought trouble to him, he usually walked away without incident, or
Detective John Turner was assigned to the ED-MCS as a member of the Major Crime Squad back in 1987; he joined the force in 1982. Since becoming a detective, Turner had investigated murders, rapes, child abuse cases and violent crimes of all kinds.
The Buzz Clinton murder investigation, however, had Turner baffled. He knew the answer—or at least some of the answers—was right in front of his face, if only he could put his arms around the motive. Every murder has a cause: jealousy, revenge, robbery, money, drugs, hate. The reasons are endless.
In Buzz’s case, though, something seemed to be missing.
Then it happened—that “break” they’d been waiting on all along came in the form of a phone call that would change everything eventually.
Turner received a message on May 25, 1994, that a woman had called the state police barracks in Montville and stated that she knew who “killed the man on the Rocky Neck connector in East Lyme.”
It was heaven-sent. The detectives had exhausted just about every single lead, and now a potential killer was going to be delivered on a silver platter?
It seemed too good to be true.
While waiting on the line to be transferred to where Turner and the rest of the ED-MCS were attending a meeting, dispatch lost the caller. For the next ten minutes, Turner and the ED-MCS waited nervously for their new witness to call back. Finally the phone rang. After trying to be cryptic, hiding who she was, the woman identified herself as Catherine White.
Thus far, this was a name unconnected to Buzz’s murder in any way.
White told Turner she was scared that her boyfriend, who was involved in the murder, would find out about the call. She had called Troop F because it was the closest station to her apartment. No long-distance charges would show up on her phone bill.
After running a background check on White, Turner’s initial jubilation was short-lived. Catherine White was a convicted prostitute. A rather well-known “lady of the evening” around town, she was also a heavy drug user.
Nevertheless, she might know something.
After sending a few troopers to fetch her, John Turner and Marty Graham sat down with White and began to hear a story that made little sense at first blush.
“It was my boyfriend, Joe Fremut,” White explained, “and his friend Mark Despres who planned and committed the murder.”
Turner was curious about why White had waited so long to come forward.
“I can deal with a lot of things in my life,” she said, tears falling, “and I have done a lot of things I’m not proud of—but I can’t be part of a murder. Just knowing about it, well, I can’t sleep at night.”
At thirty-three, Joe Fremut had followed in the footsteps of his father, James, who had owned and operated Fremut Texaco Service Station on South Main Street in Deep River for most of his life. Fremut, at five feet eight inches, 160 pounds, had worked at the Texaco station, it seemed, since he was a child. In recent years, Fremut Texaco had also gotten into the used-car market and had a parking lot full of used cars. Former customers viewed Fremut as nothing more than “the guy you went to in town to buy a used car.”
Others, however, remembered him differently.
One former acquaintance said he was the kind of guy you left alone. In pretty good physical shape, slim, but built solid, Fremut had a look about him that spoke of a hard life. With his short-cropped black hair and cocky grin, he resembled actor Robert Blake during his Baretta days. He always seemed intense, as if on edge.
“No one went out of their way to mess with Joey Fremut,” a former friend said. “That’s for damn sure.”
Some said he was a quiet guy who liked to shoot darts at the local pub. He fixed cars, kept to himself and never really bothered anyone. In fact, if someone brought trouble to him, he usually walked away without incident, or
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