Riverville Murder - Chapter 1

riverville cover lg

Preface

Kelly Adams boarded the bus from Riverville to Boston. She was finely dressed in a Irish tartan wrap-around skirt, a blue Angora sweater, and with minimally applied makeup. Her auburn, shoulder length, hair held in place by two barrettes, gently bounced as she made her way down the isle of the bus, attracting admiring glances as she went. At Twenty-three, Kelly edged just over five-foot two with sharp, yet attractive, facial features. She was born in Riverville to Agnes Murphey and Stanley Adams; Agnes being the sister of Kathleen, the wife of Detective Sargent Carl Hendersen.
Kelly reached up and pulled the cord as the bus approached her stop in Summerville, on the fringe of Boston. She exited the bus and walked the two blocks to the All Erin, an Irish Pub shipped piece by piece from Dublin in the late twenties and reassembled. She could hear the thump of a drum and the high pitch of a penny whistle mingled with a guitar as she approached the Pub. She started to skip to the music, throwing in a fancy jig step or two. She spotted her friend Mary as soon as she entered the pub. The atmosphere, music and people made her heart jump with happiness; the happiest she is all week considering she feels her life and job somewhat humdrum.

She and Mary sat opposite each other in one of the high-backed booths, ordered amber ale, and proceeded to bring each other up to date since last being together a week ago. A second ale later and Mary excused herself to visit the lady’s room. The band was also taking a break and for the first time Kelly heard two men in the booth behind her arguing in muffled tones. She paid little attention until one man raised his voice.
“Frank, I’m tell’n you. The shipment must leave Portland on schedule for two reasons; the weather is promising, and those arms are frantically needed by the movement. It has taken too long already to acquire the proper weapons and ammunition. And then there is the slowness of the small trawler and time to transfer the shipment to a larger vessel.”
“You’re the boss, Hurley. I just wish we had the remainder of the payment in hand. But if you have the faith that we’ll be getting paid, so be it.”
Mary returned to the booth and the girls continued their conversation just as the band started playing again. It was a fast jig and the girls got up, joined several others and started to dance with great skill. At the same time, the two men, surprised that the next booth was occupied, quickly left and went to the bar.
“Do you think she heard us?” Frank asked.
“How could she not; the little one in the blue sweater. I thought the booth was empty. The other one was away when we argued.”
Hurley called the bartender over, slipped a twenty across the bar and asked, “Who is that little girl in the blue sweater dancing so well?”
“Oh, that’s Kelly Adams. She’s a regular every Saturday night – not a local, comes all the way down from Riverville.”
“She must have been taking lessons for a long time, wouldn’t you say.”
“I’d say,” the bartender replied, and walked away.

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Chapter One

On his beat, Patrolman Francis J. Hendersen walks the very outskirts of Riverville, Massachusetts; a medium size community about fourteen miles north of Boston on what is locally known as the “North Shore”. He is a twenty-two-year-old rookie and the fifth Hendersen to proudly serve his community in that capacity. The fact is, his grandfather is Chief of Police and his father a Detective Sargent. His Great Grandfather retired as Chief four years ago. There are two younger brothers, one thirteen and one nineteen waiting in line, their father says. However, the boys have other ambitions and are frankly tired of the tradition. To them it seems everyone brings the police department home at night. There is seldom a conversation about anything else. Gang Busters, This is Your FBI, Official Detective and Calling All Cars are about the only radio heard in the home; other than the morning and evening news.

As Hendersen treads his way along Chandler’s Point, a strip of land about fifty feet wide separating tidal mud flats, he wonders if he will ever get used to the acrid smell of the flats at low tide; especially in summer. He generally walks to the end of the point scanning the flats on his right, and on the other side going back to the road. Today, halfway along the point, something about fifteen feet into the flats caught his eye; a roughly triangular muddy-white shape breaking up the monochrome grey-black of the mud. Wood walkways jut out over the flats about every twenty feet, a relic of earlier clam digging days before the flats became “sour”. Hendersen put one foot over the edge of the walkway and tested the mud. He touched solid ground about three or so inches down and brought the other foot down.

Laboriously, he worked his way to the object, each step making a sucking sound as his boots broke free of the mud.
The object, as he freed it from the glue-like mud, appears to be a sea bag with barely discernable letters, USN, stenciled near the top, a six-foot rope securely tying the opening closed. Hendersen, pulling on the rope, puffed and strained to drag the bag over the mud to the walkway. Once there, and greased with mud, it was relatively easy to move the bag along the wooden walkway. He estimates it weighs a hundred pounds or better. Once off the walkway, he made a quick inspection of the contents by feeling through the canvas and detected what appears to be a leg with a foot attached. A cold shiver came over him as he moved the sea bag to the tall grass bordering the flats, scrapes some mud from his boots and trots back to the road and the nearest police call box.

After calling in his discovery, Hendersen leans on the telephone pole, fishing his Canadian from inside of his uniform jacket, pulling a pouch of Prince Albert from his hip pocket and a match from his pistol belt. After packing the bowl, he raises his foot, out of habit, to strike the match, but thinks better of it after seeing the amount of mud still stuck to the bottom of his boot. He uses the pole as an alternative striker, and puts fire to the P A. Lingering against the pole smoking, he wonders if it really is a leg and foot, he felt in the sea bag or just his mind playing tricks on him. He popes back to the present with the whine of a siren coming into ear-shot; knocks his pipe against the telephone pole and stuffs it into his uniform jacket just as the police car, followed by an ambulance, approaches Chandlers Point.

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Ernie Whitenack was born in 1928 in Springfield, Illinois and moved to Massachusetts in the mid 1930's. He is a Korean War veteran, worked as a photographic illustrator for 43 years and is now retired. Oh, and in case you didn't notice.... he's a pipe smoker too.

Copyright © Ernest N. Whitenack 2019
All Rights Reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

Riverville Murder - Chapter 2

riverville cover lg

Case of the Riverville Murder

A Short Story by Ernie Whitenack

Chapter Two

Previously:

The object, as he freed it from the glue-like mud, appears to be a sea bag with barely discernable letters, USN, stenciled near the top, a six-foot rope securely tying the opening closed. Hendersen, pulling on the rope, puffed and strained to drag the bag over the mud to the walkway. Once there, and greased with mud, it was relatively easy to move the bag along the wooden walkway. He estimates it weighs a hundred pounds or better. Once off the walkway, he made a quick inspection of the contents by feeling through the canvas and detected what appears to be a leg with a foot attached. A cold shiver came over him as he moved the sea bag to the tall grass bordering the flats, scrapes some mud from his boots and trots back to the road and the nearest police call box.

Sunday dawned bright and clear and the Adams clan decided to walk the five blocks to Saint Michael’s church, arriving just as the Hendersen’s rounded the corner and approached them. For many years, the two families habitually shared the same third-row pew, and after mass take breakfast together. As is the case, the staff at the “Humble Mushroom” restaurant joins two tables and puts out place settings in preparation for the two families’ weekly visit. They joyfully chat among themselves while eating and when an occasional friend or relative stops by to say hello. All in all, it is a happy, carefree time for the two families.

As the families leave the restaurant, Kathleen approaches Agnes and says, “Remember sister, it’s my day for dinner and yours to bring dessert.” “No worries, I haven’t forgotten. We’ll see you at four, sharp.”

Somerville:
James Hurley and Frank Sullivan, are strolling along the street, enjoying the warmth of the sun after a filling breakfast, and discussing the urgency of getting the armament shipment, sitting in the trawler Dolphin at Portland, on its way.

“I just wish we had the balance of the payment. That fact worries me,” Sullivan told Hurley.

“You have to have some trust, Frank, me boyo. Its not like we haven’t done business with the New York group before. We’re all in this together; and then there is the great cause were all after. It’s not all about the money.”

“I’m aware of all that, Jim. Don’t I have an entire family decimated by the Prods and one of their bombs?” Sullivan replied.
“And sorry my heart is for you, and them. It is a terrible thing.”

The two walked along in silence for a while and Hurley suddenly turned to Gaelic and said, “What about the girl. Do you think we have anything to worry about if she happened to hear our conversation last night?”

“How should I know. Even if she heard, I doubt she knows what we really talked about. She’s a youngster and, more than likely, could care less.”

“Perhaps, but I’d like to know more about her, Hurley continued. I want you to get up to Riverville and find out what you can about Kelly Adams; where she works and what her family does. Follower her as much as possible and remember her habits. Give it a few days. That should be long enough to get a good picture. However, if you think you have been noticed, don’t take any chances. Get out of there quickly.”

Sullivan suddenly stopped walking, knocked his pipe against his heel to dislodge the ash, and turned to Hurley, “OK, Jim. You’re the boss and I’ll do it. I hope and pray you don’t have anything bad in mind for that young lady. We’re not animals, and remember, this is the USA, not Ulster. Besides that, these young American lasses aren’t interested in politics much less what’s going on in Ireland. Their life is a good time, parties, dancing and boys. She has probably already forgotten Saturday night, much less what she might have overheard. I wish you would call it off and leave her alone. But then, you are always bent on dramatics and violence. You should have left it all back in the old country.
At that very moment in the Catholic section of Belfast, in a run-down warehouse with CONDEMED notices nailed to the doors, Gus Malone picked up the phone, asked for long-distance and gave the operator Jim Hurley’s number. The warehouse, for the time, is the headquarters of the provisional IRA. Gus Malone sits at a makeshift packing box desk in a small hidden room. A green painted industrial light fixture hangs over the desk from a nail in a ceiling beam. Two scared kitchen chairs complete the decor. Holding the phone on his shoulder, Malone scoops tobacco from an old oilskin pouch into the bowl of a large, full-bent, Pot. Just as he scraps a kitchen match across the end of the desk, the operator returns to tell him the number he wanted is not answering. He thanks her and slams the receiver on its cradle and quickly discards the, nearly burned out, match. He lit-up again and, in a fit of anger, puffed furiously at the prospect of having to spend the rest of the day trying to contact Hurley.

Riverville:
In the Hendersen home, dinner is over and the women, gathered in the kitchen, are about washing dishes and tidying up. The men, with the Sunday paper divided among them, sit quietly in the living room reading; with after-dinner pipe smoke casting a blue hew to the shafts of late afternoon sun entering the large bay window.
Kelly Adams slowly enterers the room and sits on the arm of her uncle’s chair.

“Uncle Carl, I’m sorry to bother you but I heard something last night that is troubling me and I think you should know about it.”

“You’re not bothering me, dear girl, but don’t you think your father should know as well?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Good. Let’s go to the porch. Stanley, Kelly has something to tell us. Come to the porch with us, please.” Kelly related the conversation between Hurley and Sullivan, noting they were no longer in the booth when she and Mary returned from the dancefloor; that she didn’t get a good look at them earlier by intentionally avoiding looking in their direction.

“Kelly, I’ve warned you to be careful where you go in Somerville. There is a lot of trouble there between gangs,” her father scolded.

“Daddy, it is a safe place. People come there from all over. It’s a neutral place, not a neighborhood hangout. They don’t allow any politics or religious goings-on; no posters or fund raising. They hire people to enforce the rules if needed; although I’ve never seen the need.”

“She is right, Stanley. I know of the place. It’s more on the side of a tourist attraction than a hangout. The building is as much of an attraction as anything, having been shipped over from Dublin and reassembled. However, Kelly, I think you should stay away until I look into this bit about armament and shipping from Portland. I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.”

“OK, I’ll stay away if you think it’s wise, Uncle Carl,” she responded. “Daddy, I went to Uncle Carl because I don’t want you to worry about me, not to exclude you.”

“I understand, dear. It is best I know something like this. I want you to be aware of what’s going on around you from now on. If you feel uneasy about anyone or anyone gets too friendly, I want you to call Carl immediately. Do Not take any chances and don’t dally too long in any one place. Try to have someone with you as much as possible.”

“Good advice,” her uncle interjected with a smile. Now let’s get back with the family. I’ll let you know if I turn up anything.”

In the evening, after the Adams family went home, Carl Hendersen settles in his favorite chair pondering the information his niece gave him. I’ll have to take some action on this tomorrow, he thought. First to protect Kelly and then look into the armament part of what she overheard. I’ll call my father and set an appointment before rollcall, his thoughts turning to the implications of illicit shipments of guns and the troubles in Ulster.
Carl Hendersen entered the Riverville Police Station promptly at seven o’clock, bypassed the detective section, and the cubicle with his name on it, and continued another twenty feet to a frosted glass door on which was printed M. J. Hendersen – Chief. As Carl raised his hand to knock, the door abruptly swung open.

“Oh, good morning, Son. Have a seat,” his father said and continued out the door to his secretary’s deck.

“Katie, please see if my grandson is in as yet and ask him to come to my office, then, if you will be so kind, please bring us three coffees.” The coffee and Patrolman Francis Hendersen arrived at the Chiefs office almost simultaneously.

The three men settled in and the Chief turned to Carle and asked, “All right Detective Sergeant, now what is this all about?”

After Carl related Kelly’s story and interjected his theory about the armament being destined for Northern Ireland, he added, “I wanted to talk to you before rollcall. I believe Kelly to be in danger and want your opinion. Also, to discuss the possibility of asking off-duty officers to volunteer for a protective force, when she is not at home, discretely keeping an eye on her in perhaps teams of two. If you agree, I will present it at rollcall, and do so at all three shifts. Francis and I can organize the whole thing and, hopefully, not cut into our duty hours.”

“If your theory is correct this will have to involve a lot more than this police force. Chances are the ATF already has wind of this shipment. I have some contacts there and will make some inquiries. I have a feeling we’ll be hearing from, and perhaps seeing, someone ATF soon.

The three men entered the squad room, the chief making his way to the podium. The room became suddenly silent. “Men, it isn’t often that I take over rollcall but we have a situation brewing that warrants I do so.” The chief went on to explain the situation regarding the overheard conversation in the Somerville pub and the position in which it could put Kelly. “This involves our community, someone most of you know and my family. I now ask for volunteers, for off-duty hours, to shadow and protect Kelly Adams, while our detective division digs in and investigates these two men she heard talking. Report anything suspicious and don’t hesitate to intervene if it appears Kelly is in danger. Whatever your actions, they will be sanctioned and supported by this department.”

To a man, the shift raises hands to volunteer. The chief thanks them with a note of pride in his voice ending with an inaudible sigh of relief.

New York:
Just off Wall Street, in a pretentious, glass and stainless steel fronted, building befitting the area, the Global Mortgage and Loan Company hold offices on the fifth floor. The offices are fronted by the same stainless and glass with the theme carrying through in the interior décor. The company name, in flowing raised script letters decorate the window next to the entrance door. Global solicitates and brokers large real estate and construction mortgages throughout the country with huge amounts of money on the books. The “Loan” end of the business is not so well defined or visible. Money passes through Global to many, mostly dummy, corporations and businesses. The fact is, other than capital invested from the mortgage business, the money comes from private Irish Relief fund-raisers and bar-top collection cans in pubs across the country. A small portion is used for Irish relief and sent directly to relief organizations serving the underprivileged Catholic population of Northern Ireland. The majority goes out as loans to dummy companies and ends up supporting the Provisional IRA in either cash or armament.

The phone at Global does not ring, but blinks a light and emits a low buzz. “Global Mortgage and Loan,” the lilting voice said in Jim Hurley’s ear, “May I help you?”
Yes, this is James Hurley from Boston. It’s important I speak to Mr. Connors.”

“One moment Please.”

Hurley, waiting impatiently, finally hears a click followed by, “Good afternoon Jim. What can I do for you?”

“You can give me the remainder of the loan for the present transaction. The merchandise is together and waiting to be shipped. However, it can’t be shipped without pre-payment” he lied. “Now, you know this merchandise is badly needed by the customer. He can’t move forward without it.”

“Jim, I’m really sorry we have been amiss on our end with the payment. I promise that a courier will be on a plane to Boston within the hour. You can meet him at the usual place within two hours.”

“Thank you, Mr. Connors. I didn’t want to bother you but it was necessary, or our merchandise could be soon sitting on the sidewalk in Portland,” he lied again. “Please keep in touch. Looking forward to doing business again soon.”

“Yes. Good luck Jim. Talk to you soon.”

Riverville 4:30 PM:
Chief Hendersen, returning from a meeting at City Hall, picks up the large white envelope on his desk and runs a letter opener under the flap. The County Coroner’s report is succinct, stating that the cause of death was a single gunshot to the head of a, yet unidentified, male between the age of thirty-five and forty-five years. The body is in the first stages of decomposition and emitting gases. Papers on the body are being restored and examined, a report of which will follow.
The cloth bag, in which the body was discovered, is of sufficient density and tight weave as to retain air for a time, and give floatation to the body at some depth in salt water. Gases from decomposition further enabled the bag to float to where the tide deposited it at Chandler’s Point mudflats. No indication exists as to where the bag was put in the sea.
The chief noted the county seal embossed in the corner along with the signature of Donald E. Scott M.D., County Coroner. He places the report in a file basket as he scans the pink call messages. He tells himself there is nothing there that can not wait until tomorrow.

Chief Hendersen locked his office door and passed his secretary’s desk just as the phone rang.

“Chief, this is Dr. Scott. Glad I caught you still there. I have some news. The technicians discovered a cleaver hidden pocket in our Chandler’s Point corps’ wallet. From an ID folded in this pocked we have determined the body to be of an ATF agent. The ID does not contain a name however, some of the type being washed away. I thought you would want to know this information immediately. A report will follow tomorrow.”

“Thanks Doc, that is certainly important. Can you lift any fingerprints or is he too far gone”?

“We have applied a mild desiccate to his fingers to hasten drying. If the swelling isn’t too great, we might have a good chance. I’ll let you know if we’re successful, and then I’ll run them through the usual agencies. We might have an answer before the end of day tomorrow.”

“Let’s hope for the best, Doc. Good-by.”

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Ernie Whitenack was born in 1928 in Springfield, Illinois and moved to Massachusetts in the mid 1930's. He is a Korean War veteran, worked as a photographic illustrator for 43 years and is now retired. Oh, and in case you didn't notice.... he's a pipe smoker too.

Copyright © Ernest N. Whitenack 2019
All Rights Reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

Riverville Murder - Chapter 3

riverville cover lg

Case of the Riverville Murder

A Short Story by Ernie Whitenack

Chapter Three

Previously...

“Chief, this is Dr. Scott. Glad I caught you still there. I have some news. The technicians discovered a cleaver hidden pocket in our Chandler’s Point corps’ wallet. From an ID folded in this pocked we have determined the body to be of an ATF agent. The ID does not contain a name, however. I thought you would want to know this information immediately. A report will follow tomorrow.”
“Thanks Doc, that is certainly important. Can you lift any fingerprints or is he too far gone”?
“We have applied a mild desiccate to his fingers to hasten drying. If the swelling isn’t too great, we might have a good chance. I’ll let you know if we’re successful, and then I’ll run them through the usual agencies. We might have an answer before the end of day tomorrow.”
“Let’s hope for the best, Doc. Good-by.”

In the morning Kelly set out for work as usually. The walk is about four blocks and, other than in very bad weather, she enjoys it, often leaving home early and walks slowly. She followed routine this morning and took a deep breath as she turned onto the sidewalk, completely unaware of Frank Sullivan across the street and twenty feet behind her. Or, of the two off-duty cops, one on each side of the street, and noting Sullivan as the only other person close to her. Kelly decided to stop into a doughnut shop before entering her building and one officer followed. The other stopped and lit a small cigar as he kept an eye on Sullivan, who slowed down until he was across from the shop. He bends over and feigns tying his shoe then turns to look in an antique store window. He stayed that way until he saw Kelly, in the store window reflection, leave the doughnut shop and enter her building. The officer in the shop sat at a window table and watched Sullivan take a small notebook and pen from his inside pocket and start writing, presumably about Kelly, then start across the street toward the doughnut shop. The officer tossed his coffee cup in the barrel by the door and leaves just before Sullivan enters. The two officers walk toward the yacht club, where out on the public pier, they sit on a bench about half way to the end of the pier.

“What do you think of that guy who seems to be following her,” one asked.

“I got a good look at him from inside the doughnut shop. He stopped across the street and made notations in a book.  We will have to pass along a description to the other units. I think they will be seeing a lot of him for a while. I’m just not sure if it is enough to bring him in for questioning. Detective Hendersen will know and it doesn’t have to be us who nab him. Now what do we do until lunch when she might come out?”

“I can head back to the station and look up Detective Hendersen, and find out what else might have come up in the case. You hang out close by in case something causes Kelly to leave work before her lunch time. If these two bums are into gun-running, this whole thing is going to get bigger quickly.”

At the police station, he moves through the crowded desks and the detective cubicles, and spots Detective Hendersen as he enters the squad room, and follows him in.
The detective, at the podium, looking at the new arrival, said, “I didn’t expect you here, but as long as you are, sit down.”  Turning to the other two men in the front row, “OK, anything to report?”

The older of the two stood, “Yes sir; we followed Kelly to the home of her friend Mary. It appears another guy tailed her as well. After Kelly went in Mary’s house, he concealed himself behind the bushes, along the edge of the park, across the street. I stayed a half block back while my partner entered the park to watch this guy. We waited until ten forty-five. Watched the guy leave the park and follow Kelly home. We took up positions on both sides of the street and followed. The man made no attempt to approach her but did pause long enough to write something in a small notebook before he went on his way.”

“Thank you. Could you see this man well enough to describe him?” The sergeant asked.

“Yes sir, he is about five foot-eight, fair complexion. Wearing a shabby tweed jacket, brown cord pants and a green Trilby hat. As best we saw him, he wears no facial hair and no noticeable markings or scars.”

“Good job, you two. I’ll have your description circulated to the rest of the volunteers. I’m pleased to know your training stuck with you. Your surveillance is right by the book. Now, you in the back, come forward.”

“Why are you here? Aren’t you and your partner supposed to be on watch right now?”

“Yes sergeant, and my partner is watching Kelly’s work place and the man who follows her. From the description I just heard, our man today is the same man who was described following her last night. I came here primarily to ask if anything has come to light regarding the two men overheard at the All Erin last Saturday night.”

“There isn’t much I can discuss at the moment, but I’m pleased to know you are interested in the whole picture. What I can say, is that we are beginning to think there is a correlation between them and the body Patrolman Hendersen discovered at Chandler’s Point. The coroner is trying to get fingerprints from the body to substantiate identification.” Hendersen continued, “Are you sure the man described is the one you have been observing?

“Without a doubt, sir. I observed him in perfect light, and at one time passed within three-feet of him. Without seeing their man, I will bet my pension on it. One thing, sergeant, whomever he is, he can’t continue on the job putting in the hours he is. Soon there will have to be a change and we should all be highly aware of that. If the man described isn’t seen, that won’t mean there isn’t one tailing Kelly. Also, if they do take turns, they are idiots to wear their same clothing. I can’t believe they will not vary their wardrobe drastically, even resort to disguises and wigs. Wearing the same clothing leads to familiarity, and makes one wonder about the person.

“Good point, patrolman, the sergeant responded. Your thoughts will be included, and emphasized, with the description hand-out.”

Hendersen, indicating the first two men, says, “You can go now.” Then, pointing to the other patrolman, “You stay, please.”

As the door to the squad room closes, Hendersen moves away from the podium, steps down to the floor and takes a seat next to the remaining man.   

“What’s your name, patrolman?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, that’s corporal; Corporal Anthony Michael Marzano.”

“Thank you, corporal. Your initiative and interest in this case is commendable. Keep it up. That’s where promotions come from. Have you thought about taking your sergeants exam?”

“Naturally,” he answered. “I’m studying but I’m not quite ready yet.”

“That’s good, Anthony. I’ll be interested in your progress. Feel free to call on me if I can be helpful with your studies, or anything. Now, get back on the job.”
Back in his cubical, Carl Hendersen checks his mail and phone messages and reaches for the telephone. It rang before he touched it.

“Good morning, Carl,” the familiar voice of his father getting his attention. “Can you come to my office right now, please? I have some important news.”
“Be right there, sir.”

“Carl, I received a call from Dr. Scott. He told me it took all night to handle the finger-printing of the Chandler’s Point body. They successfully lifted a thumb print from the left hand and an index finger from the right as well as a partial from the small finger of the same hand. They were photographed, and scanned by a Wirephoto machine to the FBI fingerprint division in D.C. over the telephone The prints confirmed the body is that of FTA Special Agent, Clarence, Anderson. I’m waiting for the ATF director to return my call. Hopefully he will be cooperative and talk about Anderson, and what in hell he was up to in this area. I hope I don’t have to remind him that it is our murder investigation.”
“Dad, if he does balk, dangle the armament waiting in Portland and the connection to Somerville. Of course, he might be aware of it all. They are quite close-mouthed about things, unless they need local help.”

“You are so right.” Where the heck is Katie with our lunch? Oh, I ordered for you, Carl, an early lunch.”

As the two men come to the end of their lunch, Katie announces that patrolman Francis Hendersen would like a word with the chief.

“By all means, send him in. Hello Francis, what can I do for you?” The chief asked in an uplifting tone.

“Well sir, I was just thinking; now that we have a description of the guy keeping an eye on Kelly, that if we can keep an eye on him, when he isn’t watching her, we might just find his partner and get his description. It might help identify them by name and ultimately gather any evidence related to the Portland shipment.

“Good thinking my boy. I don’t know why this hasn’t been instituted already. What do you think, Carl?

“Yes, of course. That stage of the investigation may be just a little premature, but right on the nose. How do you propose this be accomplished, Francis?”
“If those two are really studying Kelly they will, more than likely, be together and looking for her Saturday night at the Sommerville pub rather than following her there. Although she won’t be there, I’ll be there, an unknown entity, with the possibility of getting close to them and even talking to them. I’ll have my Minox camera, the miniature spy camera. It can be attached to me so it looks through a buttonhole and is operated from a pocket. The pictures will be very valuable and this camera takes good high-resolution photos under poor lighting conditions. I would like some back-up there as well, just in case.”

“Who do you have in mind for back-up, son”? his father asked.

“Tony Marzano is my choice, a corporal on my shift.”

“Yes, I’ve met Marzano. A very bright young man, Chief. I want to talk to you about him sometime. Well, the plan seems solid,” his father replied, “But it’s the decision of the chief. I will be in favor of a bit more back-up however. Perhaps a sergeant named Hendersen.”

The chief laughed for several seconds, then said. “I’ll let you know later in the week. I’d like to talk to the FTA as well as see if the surveillance of Kelly continues and how many different people are involved.

Outside the building where Kelly works, down the street a half block or so, Frank Sullivan sits at a table outside of a sub shop finishing a small Italian sub with pickles and tomato. He washes it down with the last swallow from a can of Mountain Dew. He tosses the can and napkins in a large rubbish barrel and fishes his pockets for his pipe.
Corporal Tony Marzano, as he walks back from the station house to meet his partner, spots Sullivan and crosses to the opposite side of the street while removing his jacket and hat to reduce recognition. As he passes Sullivan, he notices he appears to be asleep at the table with his arms crossed and his hat somewhat forward over his eyes. A smoldering pipe is on the table in front of him. Marzano found it amusing and thinking, that’s what over-work will do to you. He can’t possibly keep it up. Cpl. Marzano and his partner meet across from Kelly’s work-place at eleven-fifty; then take up separate surveillance positions, suitable to follow in either direction and wait to see if Kelly leaves the building.

Sullivan can be seen still sleeping in front of the sub shop, but not for long. An ambulance passes along the street with siren howling and jolts Sullivan awake. He jumps from his seat, somewhat disoriented and starts off in the wrong direction. After several steps he turns back, picking up his pipe as he passes the sub shop. He starts to panic as he notices the time and the increase in pedestrians, several heading to the sub shop. He frantically scans the faces looking for Kelly but does not find her. Increasing his gait, to get to Kelly’s building quickly, he thinks; Heaven help me if I lose her. Hurley will have my skin. Hope I can pick her up when she returns to work. Just before one o’clock, people are crowing into the building and Sullivan is glancing from one to another in search for Kelly but never sees her. By now he is shaking with fear and praying she has not left for the day. I’ll just have to wait ‘till quitting time and see. Lord, I can’t keep this up forever, he tells himself. Hurley has got to swap off with me or go to hell.
The officers, knowing Kelly did not leave the building, watched Sullivan with great amusement at the panic on his face and his erratic actions.

“Won’t he be relieved when she walks out of there at closing,” Marzano says.

Laughingly, his partner replies, “I feel a little sorry for him. This kind of error isn’t tolerated in the gangs. But then, it was funny and he is a fool to accept one sixteen-hour day after another on his feet.

Somerville:
Hurley meanders up the stairs to the second floor of the building where he and Sullivan share an apartment. He hears the phone ringing and takes the stairs two at a time, turns the key and bursts through the door to grab the phone.

Puffing, he blurts out, “Jim Hurley here. Who be you?”

"Gus Malone, you idget. Who are you running from that makes you out of breath?”

“Didn’t want to miss the call, puff-puff, I, ran up the stairs.”

“Two things; did the money get to you OK and who in hell did you get to take care of that agent Anderson? They sure screwed this one up.”

“Don’t know his name. I called a friend in a South Boston bunch to find someone to take care of Anderson; paid him eight-hundred. Why do you ask, he’s dead?”

“That he is and is making headlines clear over here, as it must be there as well. My God, man, his body washed ashore not twenty miles north from you. A stupid and sloppy job. Any investigation will certainly be centered in Riverville and cover all of New England. He should have buried or burned or, at the least, dumped Anderson far at sea.”

“Gus, I don’t know what to say. The Southie bunch are considered the experts in this area.”

“Well, if you must say something, tell me the shipment is on its way.”

Hurley cringed and started to sweat, then replied, “It’s the weather, it is. They tell me it could be two more weeks. There is bad weather stirring to the north and heavy North East winds coming from the south and bringing rain. They say, if the two fronts meet, there will be nothing small moving from New England to the North Sea for a while.”

“That shags it then. I’ll have to spread word of the delay.  A lot of Provisionals will have to change their plans and lay low. They aren’t going to be happy, and I have to notify the freighter’s skipper. This will definitely cost more money for his delay. You be sure to let me know the minute that boat leaves Plymouth. Anything else I should know?”

Hurley thought several seconds about the Adams girl and replied, “Not a thing. All else is calm here. I’ll check on any investigation of Anderson’s death and keep you informed.”

“I’ll probably see it in the newspaper here in Ulster, or on the tele, before you know what’s going on.” The phone went dead.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Ernie Whitenack was born in 1928 in Springfield, Illinois and moved to Massachusetts in the mid 1930's. He is a Korean War veteran, worked as a photographic illustrator for 43 years and is now retired. Oh, and in case you didn't notice.... he's a pipe smoker too.

Copyright © Ernest N. Whitenack 2019
All Rights Reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

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Keeping the smoking lamp lit since 1989