Riverville Murder - Chapter 12

riverville cover lg

Case of the Riverville Murder

A Short Story by Ernie Whitenack

Chapter Twelve


Scott and the others run after Nunsay. Scott shouts, “You two, stop. You are under arrest.”

Nunsay stops running as he reaches the waiting van, pulls a revolver and fires at Scott. Scott winces as the round grazes his ribs, but gets off two shots at Nunsay’s legs. Nunsay goes down writhing in pain from the sting of the 45 Caliber slug buried deep in his right thigh. Nunsay’s partner, unknown to this point, stands shaking beside the van. The driver sits silently with his hands placed on top of his head.

As soon as the situation cooled down, Martin Wolfe, his handcuffed hands behind his back, was roughly escorted by two detectives to one of the unmarked cruisers and rushed off to Massachusetts State Police headquarters. His hands were freed on the way, and an explanation given of the fake arrest.

Scott and Albert Nunsay, in separate ambulances, were rushed to Beth Israel Hospital, while the van driver and Nunsay’s, yet unidentified accomplice, were hauled off to Boston City Jail.

Sgt. Allan Rockford, in Scott’s car, followed the ambulance transporting Scott. On the way, he radioed Riverville PD to inform ATF man Henry Reichmann and Detective Hendersen of the recent events. At the hospital, he walked along with the gurney carrying Scott to the E. R. 

“That’s not much more than a very painful scratch,” the E.R. doctor told Scott as he injected a pain killer near the wound, and applied a compress. “You can wait. The other guy is in worse shape.”

Rockford pulled a chair close to the Gurney. “That’s good news. You will probably be out of here in a couple of hours. I’ll just hang around. That was a close one, wasn’t it? We got there just in time. A minute later and they would have had Agent Wolfe in that van. Would you like something to drink, Sir, Coffee – a Pepsi?”

“Yes, actually I would like a nice hot cup of coffee -- black. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I’ll have one as well,” Rockford said as he hooked his badge over the breast pocket of his sport jacket, and headed to the nurse’s station; knowing the coffee there is better than out of a machine.

Returning with the coffee to Scotts cubicle in the ER, Rockford encountered the doctor attending Nunsay.

“How is Mr. Nunsay’s wound, doctor.”

“The slug almost went entirely through his thigh, but missed the bones. He’s lucky in that respect, but he’s not going to be walking for quite a while. I hate it when I see a wound by a “45”. There is always a lot of deep clean-up and closing associated with them. Smaller slug wounds are much cleaner unless they go through and leave a jagged exit hole. He is in the process of being stabilized. We have controlled the bleeding, but he won’t go to surgery for a couple of hours. Tell Mr. Wadsworth I’ll be in to see him soon. Where his wound is not serious, I think we can get him patched up without going to a surgical suite. However, to be on the safe side, I want him to stay here for a couple of hours to make sure there is no residual shock to his system.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll pass this on to Mr. Wadsworth.”

While handing Scott his coffee, Rockford related the information from the ER doctor and asked, “Should I call Mrs. Wadsworth for you?”

“Oh no, it’s better I tell her in person. Otherwise, she will be here before I can leave. She often gets over anxious.”

“One thing you can do is radio Carl Hendersen in Riverville and tell him what happened. He’s expecting me there today. Also, tell him I’ll call him as soon as possible.”


Kelly Adams’s Aunt Helen, with much effort, finally has the family seated at the table for lunch and make an announcement. “I received a phone call from your uncle Carl this morning, Kelly. He asked me to tell you that things at home are being finalized and cousin Francis will be here to take you home tomorrow about two in the afternoon.”

“Really!” Kelly responded. That’s wonderful. Not just for me, but that they are close to closing a very complicated case. I’ll miss you all very much. However, you aren’t getting rid of me. To be truthful, I dreaded spending time in the country, on a farm, with no friends and nothing to do. I was so mistaken. My time with you all has been delightful and I love you all, and I’ll be returning as often as possible to Vermont.”

The family applauded Kelly as she sat and the oldest of her cousins said, “Kelly, you have brought a ray of sunshine into our lives. We love you as well, and welcome you into our home whenever you wish to come.”

Kelly’s cousin Francis, accompanied by Anthony Marzano, parked the car near the rear door at one-forty-five the next afternoon. The sight of Marzano caused Kelly’s heart to jump, and it frightened her. She is strangely embarrassed, bringing an instant blush to her cheeks, and an awareness that this is the first time anything like this has happened to her.

“I hardly know this man,” she scolded herself.

South Boston:

Setting in their favorite bar, under the expressway at the edge of Southie, Jerry Mc Dougal and John Byrne, who quickly got word of Nunsay’s arrest and the apprehension of Sean Keogh, are wondering how it happened

Mc Dougal draws on his pipe and says to Byrne, “And they got Nunsay in the act of trying to grab Keogh from off the street. From what I heard, it was an actual pinch of Keogh, handcuffs and all. Do you think we could have been wrong about Keogh? Maybe he was on the up-and-up, and not an ATF man after all.”

“Well, we’ll never know the whole story for sure. I just hope no one ties us in with Nunsay. You know, we were quite free with meeting him where others were around. We could be in those handcuffs soon. Maybe we should talk to the boss about getting out of town for a while.” Byrne replied before he downed the last of a bottle of beer.

That evening Nancy Wadsworth is barely speaking to Scott, but after the boys are in bed she settles in beside Scott on the sofa, looks at him sternly and says, “What were you thinking? Obviously, it wasn’t about the boys and me. A couple of inches to the left and that bullet would have punctured your lung. You could be dead by now.

“Nancy, please. I’m tired and I hurt. Can we put this off until tomorrow?”

“I am sympathetic about your situation, but no. I need an answer.”

“OK, I was thinking of the same thing my job has caused me to consider for a while now; the murder of a Federal Agent and the potential killing of a second one. Also, the fatal peril of an innocent twenty-two-year-old girl, and daughter of a friend. Then there is the shipment of illegal arms to the Irish Republican Army, to ostensibly be used to kill innocent people in a fight that in actuality could be settled by some serious and truthful talking, and eventual legislation. All this because of two gangs of mobsters. One ruling Somerville and the other South Boston. But it goes much deeper. The money collectors across the country who badger folks to support this Irish conflict under the guise of charity, and the financiers who launder this money and dispense it for illegal activities. This is my duty as an attorney, an officer of the court, a member of the state police as Chief Investigator for the State’s Attorney. Most of all, because I am a loyal American who wants to see that we have an upstanding and impartial view of foreign affairs, but to intervene when a faction of society sends this goal off-track. In no way does this detract from my duty to you and our boys. In a way, it is part and parcel of the same duty men have honored since the American Revolution.”

“Well, that was some speech, Mr. Investigator. I should know better than to argue with the best lawyer in the state,” Nancy said before she grabbed Scott in a bearhug and kissed him. “I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have come at you that way. It’s just that you frightened me, getting wounded in a fire fight. Please wear some protection when you think there will be a possibility of gun fire.”

“I promise. The force recently purchased bullet proof vest. I’ll put in a requisition tomorrow for my driver and myself.”

Sgt. Allan Rockford turned the car onto Walnut Street at seven A.M., just as Scott closed the gate to his front yard.

“Good morning Allan. I have good news. I’ve put in a verbal requisition this morning for bullet proof vest for us and got the OK. I’ll send in a written requisition from the office later. We might be the first to have them, but all state troopers will have them in a week or so – a big step forward.”

“That’s great, sir. I was thinking about that last night. It would have saved you a lot of pain. Where to today, sir?”

“Riverville, please. Now that Nunsay is in custody, it’s time to confront James Hurley and then set up a meeting with Chief Grant of Somerville in preparation to clean up the Compton Hill gang. I have state detectives and Boston cops on everyone we know is, or might be, associated with Nunsay and that gang in Southie.”

About half way to Riverville, Scott phoned Carl Hendersen.

As soon as Carl heard Scotts voice, he interrupted. “Scott, are you OK? I heard, on the news last night, about Nunsay’s arrest and you being wounded.”

“It’s just a scratch, Carl. I’m fine and on my way to Riverville. I want to talk Hurley first and then to you and the chief, as well as Henry Reichmann regarding Somerville. I think it’s time to clean them out. Between The info Sullivan sent me, whatever we can get out of Hurley and anything Chief Grant has, we should be able to do a thorough job of it.”

 “Looking forward to it, Scott. I’ll alert the chief and Reichmann that you are on your way. By the way, Hurley has been silent. I think he figures we don’t have much on him, but he is obviously scared to death – doesn’t eat much and paces around in his cell all the time.”

“Then we have a big surprise for him,” Scott said with a chuckle.


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 2020
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 11

riverville cover lg

Case of the Riverville Murder

A Short Story by Ernie Whitenack

Chapter Eleven


Scott returning to his chair, recognized the hurried footsteps of high heels behind him, and turned as the Judge’s secretary approached.

“Judge Millstone is ready for you, gentlemen. Please follow me.”

Passing the office entrance, and stopping several yards beyond, the secretary opens a door to reveal a large conference room with the judge sitting at one end of a large table.

“Sit down please,” the judge said somewhat sternly. “I have the proverbial good news and bad news.”

“Unfortunately, Your John Doe warrant has no credence, so I can’t issue it.  It is too vague. Had you associated it, in some way, to any of the other requests, it could have been issued. I realize this is important to you so I’ll give you an out. Make your arrest “on grounds of suspicion.” Considering the importance of this case, I doubt any judge will dismiss the arrest without very solid evidence of it not being relevant.”

“As far as the rest of the warrants go, excellent work. Your Dad would be proud of you; the way you have progressed over the years.

“My clerk is already working on the warrants, the judge continued, and you will have them by early afternoon tomorrow. They will be delivered by courier to your state house office. Scott, I’ll be watching the conclusion of this case closely. If you hit any snags, give me a call and I’ll do what I legally can for you. I fear, all of this illicit aid to foreign factions is becoming a blot on our great country and will eventually be politically harmful. I’m for stomping it all out.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. I certainly hope this will enable us to end it, at least in this situation, quickly and efficiently. Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Scott. Please convey my best to your family.”

As Scott and Henry Reichmann descend the front steps of Boston Federal Court, Reichmann’s driver brought the car to a stop at the curb.

“Do you have a phone or radio in this car?” Scott asks.

“Yes, Sir, both.” the driver replied.

“Good, get me Sergeant Hendersen on either,” Scott demands.

“Carl, Scott here. I have the federal warrants. Assuming James Hurley is still looking around Riverville for Kelly, I want you to pick him up on suspicion of something. You will have the warrant tomorrow afternoon. If he isn’t there, make arrangements with Somerville police, along with you and Agent Reichman, to grab him in Somerville. I think it is time to bring Somerville into this case. Let me know if you want state police help, and make sure he is jailed in Riverville. I’m hoping to sweat enough information out of Hurley to clean up the Compton Hill Gang, and get a line on the murder of ATF agent Anderson, who unfortunately showed up in a sea bag on your back door.”

“OK, we’ll work it out, Hendersen replied. I think bringing in Somerville is a good move, but doubt we will need the state police with the ATF involved and Federal warrants in hand.”

“I agree. However, I will call Somerville and tell them to cooperate with you and that they are ATF federal warrants and ATF arrests. Coming from the State Attorney’s office will carry considerable weight.”

Later that day, Sergeant Carl Hendersen replies to a telephone page and is informed that the Somerville chief is calling. Hendersen hurries to his office and picks up the phone.

“Sergeant Hendersen here. May I help you?”

“Chief Grant, Somerville Municipal Police. I received a call from Scott Wadsworth, State Attorney’s office, telling me of your situation and asking me to cooperate with your department and the ATF. I’m confirming that we will be proud to do so. We have been watching Hurley and Sullivan for some time, attempting to find out what they are up to. We know their affiliation here in Somerville and have also been keeping an eye on other known members of that Compton Hill bunch; a real bad collection of thugs there, I’ll tell you, and very secretive.”

“At the moment we are interested in Hurley and confirmation, regarding the Compton Hill leaders,” Hendersen replied. “Sullivan is no longer in this country. He returned to Dublin, and here’s one for you, also returned to his office as Inspector Sullivan, of the Interpol National Central Bureau, and work with the National Police on illegal fire arms entering both North Ireland and the Republic. Sullivan has filled us in on a lot of the activities of Hurley and fire arms, but we need information from Hurley to confirm what Sullivan told us about the Compton Hill gang and its leaders. It is they who orchestrated the murder of ATF agent Anderson who washed ashore in our town. Please keep track of Hurley. He has been around Riverville and I think we can grab him here. He and Sullivan have been tailing a young woman who overheard a conversation regarding an arms shipment. The subject of the tail is secreted away and out of danger, so when Hurley doesn’t see her, he might give up looking. If that is the case, I’ll let you know and you can pick him up and we will collect him from you.”

“Agreed,” Grant replied. “In any case we need to discuss the rest of the gang and figure out where to go from here. But that depends on what you get out of Hurley. Please keep me informed.”

“Absolutely,” Hendersen promised and hung up.

Late that evening, along the coast from Maine to Rhode Island, a stiff wind from the West pushed the clouds and rain out to sea and the crew of the Dolphin set about checking the secureness of the cargo of arms, and readying the boat for sea. At the same time, the Coast Guard moved a chase-boat to the mouth of Portland Harbor and slowly traversed the area. This went on until dawn, when a shift in the wind brought the rain back to shore with increased intensity. As the wind increased, the crew of the Dolphin gave up hope of heading to sea. The Coast Guard, about seven A.M., figured the small boat didn’t stand a chance and returned to port.

About the same time, Hurley donned a raincoat and hat, and grabbed an umbrella as he left the apartment and made his way to Riverville, He hid in the park across from the Adams home. He watched the Adams folks all leave for work, but no sign of Kelly.

“What’s going on?” he asked himself in frustration.  “Is she ill? Is she going in later? Is she even home?”

After waiting twenty minutes, Hurley left the park and walked across and down the street to a phone booth. Reading from a small book, he dialed the Adams’s phone.

“Hello. This is Misses Adams. Whose calling, please.”

“It’s Mr. Smith from Kelly’s work. I noticed she isn’t in today and we are concerned. Will she be in at all, or is she Ill?” Hurley lied.

“I was just about to call and let you know she has a slight cold and thought it best not to go out on such a damp day. Sorry I didn’t call earlier.”

“OK” Hurley replied trying to hold his temper.

Immediately upon Hurley disconnecting, Agnes Adams called the Riverville police and was immediately put through to Sergeant Hendersen.

“Carl a man just called asking why Kelly wasn’t at work today; said they were concerned. I told him she has a cold. I think you had better get over to this neighborhood quickly.”

“Thanks Agnes, good thinking. I’ll dispatch men there immediately.”

On the intercom, Hendersen announced he wanted six armed men, no uniforms, in two unmarked cars to meet him immediately at the front of the building. He quickly explained the situation and they left for the seven-minute ride to the Adams’ neighborhood. On the way he communicated over the radio.

“Keep this frequency open and follow my lead. This car will cruise the street to the building where Kelly works and a bit beyond and start back. Car two, commence cruising in three minutes. You all know what Hurley looks like. It’s him we are after.  Report any siting immediately.”

The radio in car two suddenly came alive. “We have him. He just went into the coffee shop across from Kelly’s work. We are on the opposite side of the street heading back. I’m sending two men in the shop. Two from your car, station yourselves on either side of the door. When he gets out of the shop, apprehend him. I’ll be crossing the street and make the formal arrest.”

By chance, it was Corporal Anthony Marzano and Patrolman Frances Hendersen who entered the coffee shop and first put hands on Hurley as he walked out the door. The two friends had just entered the station from the rear parking lot, when Sergeant Hendersen made the announcement on the intercom. They, and another patrolman made their way, in car one, to the front of the station just as Carl came down the stairs.

In the car, Hurley in handcuffs, and sitting in the back seat between Marzano and Frances Hendersen, heard Carl radio the state police asking them to relay a message to Chief Investigator Wadsworth that Hurley is in custode in Riverville.

Scott, in his State Street South office to check up on things in his private practice, received the call informing him of the apprehension of James Hurley and immediately called Riverville P.D.

“Chief, this is Wadsworth. I just got the news about Hurley. I’m at my State Street office to take care of a few things. However, I’ll get to Riverville as soon as I can. Is Henry Reichmann there?”

“Yes, but he hasn’t talked to Hurley yet. Hurley is locked in an interrogation room, and Henry wants him to think about being arrested on a federal charge for a while. Hurley, still in cuffs, is already pacing the floor and fidgeting.”

“Good, I’ll be there as soon as I can; perhaps in a couple of hours.”

An hour later, Scott, about to leave for Riverville, opened the outer office door just as Annie answered the phone. “Hold on Mr. Wadsworth. I have Mic Mitchell on the phone. He has vital information for you.”

“Mic, what do you have.? I’m just on my way to Riverville.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but this is important. I visited the Commercial Street work site yesterday, to check a couple of things, and happened to see Jerry Mc Dougal and John Byrne in a corner talking to Albert Nunsay. If you remember, Nunsay has a police record. They talked for several minutes and then separated, Mc Dougal and Byrne heading my way. I turned to the wall and pretended to take measurements.”

“As they passed, I heard Mc Dougal say: “Old Nunsay will be an expert at knocking off ATF agents once he does away with Sean Keogh, if that’s really the bugger’s name.” They both laughed and kept walking.  Hearing the voices without seeing them, makes me think they are the two I overheard talking in the men’s room. I don’t know why they are around so much. This is the second time I have found them on a job site, and they have no business being at the Swenson’s Plumbing Service building either.”

Scott, lighting a large Billiard as Mic talked, removed the pipe and said, “What a lucky break. Mic! I’ll up the surveillance of the ATF man, his name is really Martin Wolfe, and hope we can get him out of this in time. Then we’ll grab the other three on conspiracy to commit murder, and a few other charges I can think of. We might even learn why Jerry Mc Dougal and John Byrne are around your building and job sites so much.”

Just before Scott left his office, he calls the phone in his car and quickly heard the voice of Sgt. Allan Rockford answering.

“Where are you Allan. We have to get to South Boston quickly.”

“I’m just turning onto Beacon Street. If you are at your business, I can be there in five minutes. If you are at the State House, I estimate ten to fifteen.”

“Great, I’m at the State Street office” Scott responded, I’ll be waiting down stairs.”

While strapping on his shoulder holster housing his Colt 1911, Scott pressed the intercom button of the phone and instructed Annie to call Riverville P.D. and tell them not to expect him today. He grabbed a couple of pipes, from rack that sits on the credenza behind his desk, and left to meet Sgt. Allan Rockford.

On the way to South Boston, Scott radioed the state police asking to be put through to Detective Cpl. Mark Simmons.

“This is detective Simmons – over.”

“Scott Wadsworth here. Where are you, Simmons? – over.”

“I’m parked on D Street, about a mile up from Dorchester Avenue, waiting for Martin Wolfe to come out. – over.”

“Ok, there is an independent gas station near there. I forgot the name, but they have large oil tanks on the property. Do you know it? – over.”

“Yes, I’m only a block from the gas station. Do you want me to go there? – over.”

“Yes. We need to talk. I’ll be there in about 10 minutes. Get one of your back-ups to fill in for you at Wolfe’s apartment. — out.”

Scott sees Simmons standing beside the black Ford, common to all unmarked state cruisers, and directs his driver to pull in close. As Simmons climbs into the back of Scott’s car, Scott relates the news about Alfred Nunsay and Mic’s discovery regarding Jerry Mc Dougal and John Byrne.

Scott continues, “Our prime objective is to get Martin Wolfe out of harm’s way today, then grab Mc Dougal and Byrne, at leisure, and get them out of circulation,”

“OK. Take a left out of the station and proceed a mile-and a-quarter. He lives in the yellow brick building on the right, number 243.”

The radio crackles as they turn onto D Street from the gas station. “Wolfe is on the move; North on D Street – over.”

Retrieving the microphone, Scott instructs, “Stay with him on foot while we get ahead of him. Closing in on him from two directions, and making a fake arrest, will look ligimete if anyone is watching – over.”

“Will do – out.”

The three from Scatt’s car, and the two from the back-up car, are all about fifteen feet from Wolfe as a green van stops on the other side of the street and Albert Nunsay, and another man, jump out and run across the street to grab Martin Wolfe. The police move in, weapons drawn, and Nunsay retreats back to the van.

Scott and the others run after Nunsay. Scott shouts, “You two, stop. You are under arrest.”

Nunsay stops running as he reaches the waiting van, pulls a revolver and fires at Scott. Scott winces as the round grazes his ribs, but gets off two shots at Nunsay’s legs. Nunsay goes down writhing in pain from the sting of the 45 Caliber Slug buried deep in his right thigh. Nunsay’s partner, unknown to this point, stands shaking beside the van. The driver sits silently with his hands on top of his head.


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 2020
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 10

riverville cover lg

Case of the Riverville Murder

A Short Story by Ernie Whitenack

Chapter Ten


“Hank, Scott here with a case-breaker. I found an envelope on my door this morning. Inside is a list, by name and rank, of the Compton Hill gang in Sommerville. Also, their money contacts and murder contracts, with a couple names tied to Anderson’s death. For a clincher, it appears the FTA is on the right track with Global in New York. There is also information on gun suppliers. I’ll be at Somerville P.D. early tomorrow. I’d like them to dust the pages and envelope for prints. I want to know who is supplying this information. Can you arrange that with the chief?”  

“Absolutely. What a break! We might be able to close this up in one big coordinated effort.”  

“My thinking exactly. See you in the morning,” Scott said and hung up, then immediately called Sgt. Allan Rockford.  

“Allan, sorry to bother you on Sunday morning, but it is important. We have to be in Riverville by eight-o’clock tomorrow morning. There is a big advancement in this Riverville murder and gun running case.”  

“No problem, Mr. Wadsworth. I’ll be there at seven.”  

James Hurley, lifting himself from his bed Monday morning, walked slowly to the kitchen expecting to find the coffee machine on Keep Warm, and a couple of cups of coffee left by Sullivan. Looking around the kitchen, Hurley realized that Sullivan didn’t have breakfast at all. Perplexed, he checks Sullivan’s bed room but finds only a rumpled unmade bed and a shirt lying on the floor of the closet. While hanging up the shirt and noticing the near empty closet, he says to himself, “Now what’s this, the coward ran out on us. Never thought I would see that from a Paddy.”

Coffee in hand, Hurley begins to call the unpublished number of the Compton Hill gang’s, boss, but thinks better of it and quickly cradles the handset, thinking, “What if I’m wrong and he’s just taking a load to the laundry, or going to Goodwill. He does change wardrobes often. I better wait ‘till I’m certain.”

Lighting his first pipe of the day, Hurley silently smokes and sips coffee while he tries to get his mind around things. He muttered to himself, “A simple shipment of arms has escalated to the murder of a federal agent, and potentially, of a young girl. Gus Malone in Ulster is angry with me. Mr. Connors, at Global Mortgage and Loan Company, is hinting he wants his money back if the arms don’t get to the Provos soon. Rumors say another ATF agent, this one in Southie, is going to end up in the harbor. And now, it looks like Sullivan has defected to God knows where. The state and federal police are probably investigating it all at this very moment. To top it off, the weather, this damned weather, is holding up the shipment.”

Hurley grabbed an umbrella and headed for the door just as the phone rang, 

“This is Western Union. I have a cablegram for Mister James Hurley. Is he present?”

“This is James Hurley.”

“Mister Hurley, I can either read the message for you, or mail it special delivery. What do you prefer?”

“Read it please.” Hurley replied impatiently.

“Yes, Sir:” 

“James, by now you must realize that I have left and will never return to serve the Compton Hill gang. I’m fed-up with our business and what it represents. I’ll not tell you where I am, and do not wish to be contacted. I intend returning to an honest and useful life and lead it decently.”

It’s signed, Frank Sullivan. Would you like me to repeat the message?”

“That isn’t necessary. But I would like a copy mailed to me, please”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

“Well, what do you know,” Hurley mutters, again talking to himself, as he unfurls his umbrella, “Good, he was always a softie. Never could have made it anyway. Now, where shall I go for breakfast?”

In Riverville, Scott and Sergeant Rockford are assembled around a conference table with Chief, Sergeant Hendersen and Agent, Henry Reichmann.

About the same time in Dublin, Frank Sullivan is leaving his apartment, located just behind Castlenock College, and hails a taxi on College Road. He is relaxed and enjoying the ride, and the familiar sights as the taxi carries him along College road to White’s Road and on to Chesterfield Avenue in Phoenix Park. Sullivan gets out and strolls leisurely through the park until he comes to the building housing the “Garda” or “An Garda Siochána.” Garda is a national police force; not military, but completely civilian, and the name translates to, Guardians of the Peace of Ireland.

He enters the building, showing ID to a sergeant at a reception desk, goes to the third floor and enters a door marked “Interpol National Central Bureau.” Then, he continues along a wide corridor and opens an office door, the window of which is embellished in gold leaf with:

~Frank Sullivan~  

Sullivan walks up to his desk and stands looking at the familiar sight and feeling happy to be home. He finally sits down, takes his favorite Peterson from his pocket, fills and lights it, before removing the pile of material from his “IN” basket. Quickly shuffling through it, he puts the material back in the basket and reaches in his jacket pocket for his address book.

Picking up the phone, he tells the operator; “I want to place an international, person-to-person, call to the US. To Police Chief,Michael J. Hendersenin Riverville, Massachusetts.”

The operator confirms the number with Sullivan and the phone goes silent for a few seconds.

“Chief Hendersen here, may I help you?”

“No, but I can help you. This is Frank Sullivan. You undoubtedly know who I am from the photos you had taken of me and the men who followed me, as I was following Miss Adams. Your officers are very professional, I might add.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Sullivan,” the chief said as he flipped the switch that turns on the recorder. “And just how can you help us”

“I thought you would know how by now, seeingit was I who left the envelope at Scott Wadsworth’s home. I made sure to leave good finger prints all over it, and the contents.”

“I guess we are just not that fast Mr. Sullivan. Your document and envelope are undergoing the finger print process at this moment. Now, let’s get on with it, shall we? Just why did you call?”

“I was undercover in the Compton Hill gang. All of my buffoonery, such as falling asleep at the sub shop, and so on, was simply an act for both James Hurley and your men. In actuality, I am an Interpol Inspector working out of the Interpol National Central Bureau in Dublin. We work closely with the National Police in Ireland. I became involved in this case because we assist them in cases of gun running, smuggling, and any other criminal activity that is considered internationally centered. As you have probably found out, I came, legally to the US four years ago. We received information out of Ulster, through the National Police, that US money was being collected for an armament shipment to the PIRA. I slowly worked my way into the gang in Somerville, with the help of phony criminal records. Ijust happened to be assigned the task, along with Hurley, of making the arrangements for the purchase, payment and shipping of guns and ammunition. I can probably help you if you hit a block in your investigation or need information about the gang and its members. I am available to be a witness in any trials that come along where substantiation of fact or persons is needed. Simply call.”

“One question right now. How is it that you and Hurley were assigned the task of watching my granddaughter?”

“That was punishment for allowing someone, Miss Adams, to overhear a conversation about the guns and shipment from Portland; as if we didn’t have enough to do.” 

“I guess that was difficult for you, but to tell you the truth I find it funnier than hell.  We’ll certainly call should it become necessary. Mr. Wadsworth is about to submit a partition for arrest warrants that should clean up this whole thing. This is due partly to the information you have furnished. We are grateful. Incidentally, the “we” I refer to, in addition to myself is, Detective Carl Hendersen, States Attorney Chief Investigator, Scott Wadsworth and ATF agent, Henry Reichmann. They are all here with me this morning.”

Sullivan, assuming all were listening said, “Top of the morning, gentlemen,” and returned the hand-set to its cradle.

It was a relatively short meeting. Wadsworth explained each name on the partition and about the one in the name of John Doe, and how it works, if the federal judge will allow that kind of warrant.

“Would it be out of line if I went with you, Scott?” Reichmann asked.

“No, I don’t think so. You’re a representative of the legal arm of the federal government. In fact, it might add credence to what I am attempting to accomplish.”

“The Boston Federal Court is at Sleeper Street and Northern Avenue. It is best reached via the Tobin Bridge, when you’re coming from the North.”

“Can you provide a driver, Chief?” Scott asked.

“Certainly, and a driver who knows just where the court house is.”

“Good. Meet me at nine-o’clock at the front entrance reception desk. The appointment is for nine-thirty and I will have to find out which judge I’m seeing. You guys figure out a departing time.”

The judge turned out to be Carlton Millstone. Scott and Reichmann, entered the judge’s office, led by his secretary, to a flamboyant, “Scott, my boy, how good to see you! The last time was your Dad’s funeral, wasn’t it? How are the boys and Nancy doing?”

With a smile and while shaking the judge’s hand, Scott replied, “Yes it was the last time, and the family is just fine, thanks.” 

“Judge, I’d like you to meet ATF agent Henry Reichmann. He on assignment to the Riverville Police department on a murder and gun-running case we are about to close. I’m involved as an employ of the Massachusetts State’s Attorney’s office. I have partitions for several arrests and search warrants, and a John Doe partition for the same. I think you will find the evidential affidavits sufficient to grant the warrants.”

As the judge retrieves the envelope from Scotts out-stretched hand, he says, “Well, I’ve heard rumbles about this case. Sit down, gentlemen. I’d like to take a preliminary look at these before I can say they deserve greater consideration.

The judge, upon sitting at his desk, turns to Scott and asks, “Just how did you get involved with this, Scott?”

“I am Chief Investigator for the State’s Attorney and was informed of a potential murder attempt on the niece of Detective Sergeant Carl Hendersen, of the Riverville Police department. Both he and his immediate family are personal friends. Upon talking to the sergeant and chief, I learned they are aware of the situation and requested state police aid in the case. That is a summary. You will find a more detailed account in the affidavits.”

I understand. Give me a few minutes to skim over the affidavits and I’ll give you an answer. There is a coffee and doughnut vendor in the lobby if you would like to pass the time. I should be a half hour or so. I’ll send someone for you.”

Scott and Henry, consuming coffee and doughnuts, sit quietly at a small table, each wondering what the judge’s opinion will be. Suddenly Scott stands up and walks back and forth while checking his watch every few minutes.

“What is he doing in there,” motioning to the judge’s office with his head. “It’s been almost forty-five minutes. He’s had time to read them twice!”

“There is a lot there, Scott, involving many proposed bad people, and a considerable amount of state resources, to say nothing of the ATF and Coast Guard. I’m sure he is considering the money involved along with the rest of it. Try to calm down. We are at the judge’s call; not him to ours.”

“Of course, you are right, Hank. I’m not usually this way. It’s just that this whole thing is close to me, what with Kelly Addams and Mic Mitchell involved.”

Scott returning to his chair, recognized the hurried footsteps of high heels behind him, and turned as the Judge’s secretary approached.

“Judge Millstone is ready for you, gentlemen. Please follow me.”

Passing the office entrance, and stopping several yards beyond, the secretary opened a door to reveal a large conference room with the judge sitting at one end.

“Sit down please,” the judge said somewhat sternly. “I have the proverbial good news and bad news.”


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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