Riverville Murder - Chapter 7

riverville cover lg

Case of the Riverville Murder

A Short Story by Ernie Whitenack

Chapter Seven

Previously:

“What are you doing?” Hurley asked.

“Me? I’m taking shots of the pier for the town. They plan to expand the pier this fall and need photos for the engineers. I’m sure glad the rain stopped. I’m on a short deadline as it is. Have a good day” Maxwell lied, turned and returned to his car. 

AT 11:00 a.m. the same morning, Allan Rockford guided the state police Lincoln carrying Scott and Mic, into a “GUEST” spot of the Riverville Police Department parking lot.

A loud knock on the office door brought Carl Hendersen sharply to his feet with; “Come in please.”

“Scott! What a surprise. I don’t think I’ve seen you for a couple of years. Strange thing, but I was going to call you in a day or two.”

“Well, I’ve saved you the effort,” Scott said and proceeded to introduce Mic and Allan.

“To what do I owe this visit?” Carl asked as he emptied his pipe on a cork knocker?

Scott explained Mic’s position at Swenson’s Plumbing Service and asked Mic to tell the story. When Mic finished Scott added, “I have a list here of the men on the shift that was recalled. The underlined names have a police record. I hope it is helpful.”

“Thanks for being so alert, Mic. And, your efforts as well, Scott. We are aware of this situation and Kelly is being protected. This whole thing is tied in with illegal gun sales, the murder of an ATF agent and Kelly overhearing two men talking about a shipment leaving from Portland. We expect an ATF agent here soon to work with us out of this station. There is a constant tail on Kelly and we have men, all volunteers, watching the whole thing. In fact, our photographer has been photographing the two guys that alternate following her. I should have some shots today. I intended to call you and ask if you could run them through your I.D. people. I’ll also send them to the FBI. We have a feeling they are members of the Compton Hill gang in Somerville. That’s where the murdered ATF agent was working undercover.”

Another knock on the door interrupted their conversation and Charley Maxwell came in, apologized for interrupting and Handed Carl an envelope saying:

“Here are three sets of the pics I took of the guys following Kelly. One shows a holstered revolver when the guy’s jacket slipped open. I hope they prove useful.”

“I’ll let you know, Charley, as soon as I know. Thanks for delivering them.”

“He’s a good man,” Carl told them after he left. “He and I go back a long way and he is as concerned about Kelly as the family.”

The three men looked over the pictures before Carl pulled out a set and gave them to Scott. 

Rockford asked before they left, “I’m a sergeant in the state police and I’m surprised I haven’t heard of this before. Regardless of the job we have, every state officer is kept informed. Don’t they know about this murder and the harassment of Kelly?”

“No, not yet,” Carl replied. “Because of the complexity of it all, and the safety of civilians, we are holding off on other agencies being involved. However, that is about to end with the distribution of the photos. The ATF and FBI, and I suppose The Maine State Police, will all be working on this case. Well, it’s about that time. Can you join me for lunch? We have a very good cafeteria for a small-town department.”

Carl, upon Scott and Mic leaving, prepared the envelope with the photos for posting to the FBI. He left the mail-room and started back to his office when he heard his name called.

 “Sergeant Hendersen. Hold up please.” shouted the Desk Sergeant who hurried toward Carl with a civilian following closely behind.

“Carl, this is Henry Reichmann from the ATF. I was bringing him to your office when I spotted you. He asked to see you and the chief.”

Meanwhile, Scott, on the way to the parking lot, lit his pipe filled with Royal Blend. His thoughts being completely about Kelly Adams, and the fear she must be feeling, walks right past the Lincoln. Mic grabs Scott’s arm and directs him to the car.

“Mic, is there any way you can keep an eye on the men with records who work for Swenson’s Plumbing Service? It seems to me the Riverville cops have a hard road ahead with this case.”

“Yea, I can give it a try. I have pretty much of a free reign, concerning what I do and where I go, as long as the job comes in on time with a profit. The delay of the Commercial Street job gives me a reason to keep a close eye on its progress, and the men in question.”

“Any little thing you think, even remotely, might be important you call me. Give your name and you will be put through immediately.”

In the Chief’s office, Carl and ATF agent, Henry Reichmann, sit in front of the desk waiting for the chief to speak.

The chief sat his pipe in an ashtray and said, “The department is happy to have you here. I am hopeful that between us, we can shed some light on the murder of Clarence Anderson, and who is behind the illegal gun shipment out of Portland. I realize the latter is beyond our jurisdiction, however it fits right in with local problems here in Riverville.”

“I’m sure it will all come together soon. In fact, it is crucial before this spell of nasty weather ends, allowing the boat slips out to sea.” Reichmann replied.

“On another subject,” Reichmann continued. “You know we have a man in South Boston. Well, he has been there for five years, working on the fringe of the mobs and gaining their confidence. The ATF feels it is time for him to get out. At last report, now that he is doing odd jobs for them, the mobs are starting to ask a lot of questions regarding his background. He has a solid fictional background to answer with that is fully documented. However, slip-ups can happen and we want to get him home ASAP, both for his safety and his accumulated information. Perhaps you, with your Boston contacts, can help us make it go smoothly.”

“I’m sure we can, Mr. Reichmann. Just before you arrived, I was talking to Scott Wadsworth who heads the Massachusetts Attorney’s Investigative Department. He is an esteemed attorney and skillful investigator who has worked, on several occasions, with the FBI, Interpole, Massachusetts State Police and Boston P.D. He is the man to figure out the safest way to get your man out of South Boston. He, and an associate, are currently watching a couple of men who are likely to have been involved in the murder of Clarence Anderson.”

Carl Hendersen went on to explain how Scott and Mic became involved, the problem surrounding Kelly, and how it’s all intertwined.

“OK, we’re further along than I hoped. Oh! and please call me Henry or Hank. We will be seeing a lot of each other, and it will simplify things a lot.”

“Can you have Wadsworth come here soon? I want to get our man out of the state. Sooner or later there will be a slip-up and he’ll be in big trouble. They will assassinate him if they have any doubts about him at all.”

Carl responded, “I’ll call him this afternoon. I’m not sure how busy he is, but we can hope for the best.”

“Do you have any questions of me, chief?” Reichmann asked.

“Not today. Carl can show you to your office. Have you had lunch?”

“No, and I also need a place to stay.”

“Carl, please help Hank with lunch, and see if there are available accommodations at the “SeaSide”.

“It’s a nice place and they have a coffee shop; if you are a breakfast-eater.” The chief said, turning to Reichmann.

Once back in his office, Carl called Scott Wadsworth. Almost immediately after giving his name, Carl was put through. “That was quick. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.” Scott said.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Scott. Henry Reichmann, an ATF agent on this murder case, has taken up residence here in the station to work with us. I think you can be of immediate help if you have some time. It’s in the best interest of the Commonwealth. We would like to meet with you in the morning, if possible, and talk it over. I realize it’s Saturday, but I can only stress how crucial it is”

“I can do that. I’ve nothing planned until the afternoon. I have tickets for me and the boys for a Celtics game. Unfortunately, I have no transportation on weekends.”

“That’s OK. I’ll send a car to your house. Is eight-o’clock too early?” Carl asked.

“No, eight is fine. I’m still on Walnut Street; number fifty-eight.”

Sporadic heavy rain along the coast made the drive to Riverville a slow one, and at nine-fifteen Scott entered Chief Hendersen’s office.

The chief walked from behind his desk to greet Scott. “Good morning Scott. Sorry to bring you out on a day like this. It must have been a tough drive. I’d like you to meet Henry Reichmann of the ATF. He is assigned to work with this department on the murder of Clarence Anderson and the weapons shipment out of Portland.”

“I’m happy to meet you,” Reichmann said. “Your reputation as an investigator is well known in the ATF. That international case involving a stolen ancient artifact, a gourd pipe, is used as an example during training.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” Scott replied, somewhat embarrassed. “I’m happy to help if I can.”

The three men thoroughly discussed the predicament of the undercover agent in South Boston, and the apparent danger he is facing. Reichmann went over every detail of the agent’s documented, and fictitious, background and arrest record.

Scott, after listening intently said, “I agree, considering all the questions addressed to your man, he is under some sort of suspicion. Despite that, it appears his I.D. will hold-up, at least for a while. That’s not to say we should hesitate in removing him from danger. I have a lot of resources at hand, so a well-planned extraction can be easily executed. Give me a couple of days to come up with some ideas. I’ll see you first thing Tuesday morning, if it is convenient for you, and we’ll kick around a plan or two.”

 “We are very grateful, Scott, and look forward to hearing what you come up with. I feel certain it will be a very solid plan.”  Reichmann said, as Carl left the chief’s office.

That evening, Francis Hendersen is in his room preparing for his Saturday night appearance at the All Erin Pub. He just finished checking his 32cal. ankle revolver and Minox Camera and decided to add one more item; a one-pound, leather-wrapped, Black Jack. As he attached the camera behind a button hole at the front of his jacket, Carl knocked on Francis’s bedroom door before entering.

“Son, I don’t want to spoil your evening, but as things have progressed, I don’t believe this trip to the All Erin is relevant. We have sufficient photos of those men, and there is no other reason to enter into a potentially dangerous situation. I want you to abandon the idea and inform Tony Marzano of my decision. If, after this case is resolved, and you want to have a night out, get Tony and go. According to Kelly, it sounds like a fun place.”

“OK, Dad. you are the boss. I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I was looking forward to something other than walking a beat. It does get a bit tiresome, especially out on the flats.”

“I know, I know, Son. We have all been there at one time or another. It is an unofficial initiation for rookies. You will be out of there soon.” Carl said as he left the room with a grin on his face.

South Boston:

In a dingy bar, hidden away on a back street under the expressway at the edge of Southie, two men sit at a bare wooden table in a back room; each with a bottle of Smithwicks Ale. Jerry Mc Dougal and John Byrne are handy-men for the various mobs working out of South Boston.

Byrne takes a swallow, puffs on his pipe and says, “Seems there is a suspected mole or spy working here, according to the C street boss. His name is Sean Keogh, or so he says. Could be anything, really. We are to keep an eye on him and investigate his background, as much as we can, without raising suspicion with any authorities. I’m to pick up a dossier on him tonight. We’ll meet here tomorrow at one-o’clock, look it over and decide where to go with it.”

“I suppose they will want us to arrange his disappearance should we find out he’s dirty,” Mc Dougal responds.

“Now, let’s not be think’n of that as yet. A heap of work comes first. Then it’s the boss’s decision not ours, thank the good Lord.” 

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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 8

riverville cover lg

Case of the Riverville Murder

A Short Story by Ernie Whitenack

Chapter Eight

Previously:

Byrne takes a swallow, puffs on his pipe and says, “Seems there is a suspected mole working here. according to the C street boss. His name is Sean Keogh, or so he says. Could be anything, really. We are to keep an eye on him and investigate his background, as much as we can, without raising suspicion with any authorities. I’m to pick up a dossier on him tonight. We’ll meet here tomorrow at one-o’clock, look it over and decide where to go with it.”

“I suppose they will want us to arrange his disappearance should we find out he’s dirty,” Mc Dougal responds.

“Now, let’s not be think’n of that as yet. A heap of work must be done first. Then it’s the boss’s decision not ours, thank the good Lord.”

Boston:

Monday morning, amidst a drenching rain, Scott Wadsworth made the trek, so often made before, from his home on Beacon Hill, down Walnut Street, across the common and on to his office at Charles Street south. A large umbrella, protecting him, and his Oom Paul pipe, from the weather.

As Scott entered the office, Annie rushed to help him shed his raincoat and hat, took the umbrella to an ornately tooled brass stand and wiped the moisture from his briefcase.

“No calls this morning, Annie, unless it’s the governor. I have some heavy thinking to do.”

“Yes sir. Shall I bring your usual coffee later?”

“Oh yes, please. I think I will need it,” Scott said with a smile and sat at his desk. He lifted a yellow legal pad from a desk drawer. Methodically, he retrieved three, newly sharpened, number two, pencils from a ceramic mug and placed them next to the pad. He sat there for several minutes staring at the rain making abstract patterns as it as it ran down the glass. He looked away and selected a pipe from the rack on the credenza behind his desk, then returned attention to the window while fumbling with the pipe. Scott puffed, tamped and relight several times over the next ten, or so, minutes. Finely, he placed the pipe in an ash tray, picked up a pencil and started to write.

Annie gave a quick knock on the door and walked into Scott’s office with his mid-morning coffee.  Scott glanced at the wall clock across the room and was surprised that the clock read ten-thirty.

“Thanks, Annie. I sure lost track of time.”

“From the look of your pad, you’ve been writing steadily for two and a half hours. You need a break.”

“You’re right, Annie. Thanks for remembering the coffee,” Scott said, as he removed a dozen pages from the pad and handed them to her.

“Please transcribe these for me; double spaced. I’ll have more by noon.”

“What do you have against the Dictaphone? It’s brand new and you have had lessons using it.”

“Old-fashioned, I guess. I just can’t get used to talking with no one listening.”

Annie smiled and retreated, with the pages from the legal pad, to the outer office.

Scott continued working on a plan to rescue the ATF investigator and save his life. The hope is, the extraction can be executed within a couple – three at the most – days and without any fuss or conflict. Finally, he removed another pipe, long since without embers, from between clinched teeth, laid down his pencil and pressed the button used to summon Annie. Glancing at the wall clock, he was surprised to see the day had passed and the clock read five-thirty.

Annie appeared almost immediately and handed Scott the typed transcription from the morning.

“Oh Annie, I’m so sorry. I know I told you I would have more by noon. The day just slipped away from me, and here it is a half-hour after your quitting time.”

“Well, its nothing I didn’t expect. I know how important this is and I don’t mind staying late for something like this. You are forgiven,” Annie said with a smile. “It looks like another hour, or so, to transcribe what you have in front of you. And, you should call home and let Alma know you’ll be late.” Annie said as she swooped the pile of papers from Scotts desk.

“I owe you, Annie, and don’t let me forget it,                                                                                                                           

Riverville:

The next Morning Scott, and his driver Sgt. Allan Rockford, arrived at the Riverville Police Station, as promised, to go over the plan with Carl Hendersen and AFT investigator, Henry Reichmann.

After discussing the plan several times to extract agent Martin Wolfe from South Boston, Scott interjected:

“As you can see, I have called on the state police detective squad exclusively to execute this operation. This doesn’t mean you aren’t welcome to participate. However, it’s essential, to totally pull off this charade, that uniformed officers, and plain-clothed detectives, make the arrest. Starting last night, detectives are observing Wolfe’s movements in an effort to determine just when and where the phony arrest will be made. Unfortunately, this will take a couple of days. Even then, there is no guarantee agent Wolfe will not change his pattern at the last minute.”

“What safeguards will be in place to react to a change in pattern by Wolfe?” Henry Reichmann asked.

“Radio communication,” Scott answered. “All cruiser and personnel radios will be tuned to an exclusive radio frequency that cannot be detected by a scanner. This way everyone can move instantly. It’s like a last-second signal change by a quarterback. All involved will know just where to go, and do so on command. The only difference is that the quarterback can be anyone who spots a change in Wolfe’s movement.”

Henry Reichmann stood from his chair and stretched. “Seems as if you’ve covered all contingencies, he said as he walked around the room. “I, for one, want to be there. I’ve worked with Wolfe several times. It will be reassuring for him to see a friendly face, and will quickly understanding what is happening.”

“Fine with me,” Scott replied. “How about you, Carl. Do you want in as well?”

“I don’t see the need, and there is a remote possibility that I might be recognized if there are civilian observers. Having someone connected see the arrest, and report the incident back to the gang, is the whole point in the arrest. I don’t want my presence getting back to the Somerville bunch. It might just put too many questions regarding the whole thing in the minds of the wrong people.”

“I’m glad you see that, Carl. That thought came to mind last night as I was going over the operation. The possibility is quite remote, as you say, but remote possibilities have a way of coming to life. I can recall several that almost destroyed careful plans.”

“OK, where do we go from here, Scott?” Reichmann asked.

“I’ll call and give you a report daily. When the time seems right, I’ll have you picked up here by Sgt. Allan Rockford, whom you know. I suggest you be armed. We will be in one of the detective’s cruisers for the operation.”

Carl Hendersen escorted Scott to the parking lot, said hello to Sgt. Allan Rockford.

“Carl, how is it going with Kelly?” Scott asked as he was about to get in the car.

“She has permission for a leave of absence from her job, and her father and I will be getting her to Vermont very early Saturday morning. Those goons following her don’t show up until late on Saturday. We hope they will think she is just staying home. By the time they discover she isn’t around, she will be well entrenched at her aunt’s house and well protected by four male cousins. The boys are all six-foot bruisers. Three did military police work in the U.S. Marines at one time or another. The fourth, and oldest, served 12 years; most of them as a hand-to-hand combat instructor. Farm work, along with a small lumbering operation, keep them in top shape.”

“Sounds like an ideal hide-away. I hope she enjoys her stay in Vermont.”

Scott returned to his office at the state house to find a pink phone message on his desk telling him Detective Cpl. Mark Simmons called, and a number where he can be reached after three o’clock. A second message sheet, from Michael Mitchell, asking him to meet for lunch at the Parker House, that he has important information.

Scott made a few necessary calls, before leaving his office and making his way down to the Parker house.          

In Parker’s Restaurant, filling rapidly at twelve-ten, Scott spotted Mic, about in the middle of the room, at a table for four. The two exchanged greetings, placed their order and waited for the waiter to bring their drinks, Parker’s Single Malt, a famous fifteen-year-old single malt from Islay.

“So, Mic, what do you have”

“I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open on the Commercial Street job; even been hanging around for the second shift. Yesterday, just as the first shift was ending, Albert Nunsay, one of the men from the list with a record had a couple of visitors. They stayed talking after the second shift came to work. I selectively asked around to see if anyone knew who Nunsay was talking to. A person I trust said, “No one you want anything to do with.” I pressed him and he told me they were Jerry Mc Dougal and John Byrne, a couple of Southie hoods and suspected killers. I casually walked close to them but could not hear a thing because of work and traffic noise. I asked Nunsay if he is working a double shift and if the two with him were new on the job. He told me he was through for the day and his friends just happened by.”

“Good work, Mic. The more names we can gather and investigate the closer we will be to solving one murder and preventing a couple more. The ATF is attempting to track the arms shipment and the money that paid for it. If a discovery there coincides with arrest here, we might just clear up everything. I’ll get moving on these three names this afternoon. Let’s eat.” 

At three-ten Scott called the number for Detective Cpl. Mark Simmons, “Cpl. Simmons, Wadsworth here. What do you have for me?”

“I’ve been observing Martin Wolfe, alias Sean Keogh, for several days regarding suspicious activities. This is prior to your request for an observer. Naturally, I did not know he was under-cover. Well, his movements have changed considerably. Previously, he was all over Southie, moving from business to business and occasionally visiting several bars, as if running errands. For the last three days, he has been late leaving his apartment and only a couple of times has he repeated any visits. Mostly, he goes out to take meals, and then lingers longer than usual. He hits a pub or bar in the late afternoon and nurses a couple of drinks. Sometimes he eats where he drinks and other times he goes to a cafeteria or a Chinese restaurant. It appears to me that he has been cut him off by whomever he was doing erands. I’m thinking the mob is getting suspicious, and thought you should know about this change.”

“Good work, Simmons. This is exactly the type of info we need. I’ll see that you stay on this job. Soon you’ll be issued a radio and given instruction regarding the frequency. We are about to enter into a rather large operation to extract him, via a phony arrest, out of what has turned into a dangerous situation for him. We are afraid the mob will assonate him. You will be notified of a strategy meeting in the next couple of days. In the meantime, stay with him and be aware of anyone else who appears to be observing him. An attempt on his life can come anytime. I received some information earlier today that will hopefully shed some light on other aspects of this complicated case.

“Yes, Sir. I’ll stay with him and keep my eyes open for anything else. I have a better picture of the situation now. Thank you. I look forward to the strategy meeting.”

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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 9

riverville cover lg

Case of the Riverville Murder

A Short Story by Ernie Whitenack

Chapter Nine

Previously:

“Good work, Simmons. This is exactly the type of info we need. I’ll see that you stay on this job. Soon you’ll be issued a radio and given instruction regarding the frequency. We are about to enter into a rather large operation to extract him, via a phony arrest, out of what has turned into a dangerous situation for him. We are afraid the mob will assassinate him. You will be notified of a strategy meeting in the next couple of days. In the meantime, stay with him and be aware of anyone else who appears to be observing him. An attempt on his life can come anytime. I received some information earlier today that will hopefully shed some light on other aspects of this complicated case.”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll stay with him and keep my eyes open for anything else. I have a better picture of the situation now. Thank you. I look forward to the strategy meeting.”

Back at his state house office, Scott handed the names of Jerry Mc Dougal, John Byrne and Albert Nunsay to the supervisor of the clerical department, asking her for all information, both state and city, about the three men. At the last minute, he made the decision to add Nathan Goddard, another man on the list Mic provided. He really didn’t expect more on Nunsay that he already had, two years for possession of an unregistered hand gun, but the gamble could be worth the extra time to look him up again. Goddard also did time for a gun violation in Pennsylvania, and thinking something else might pop-up on Goddard.

An hour-and a half later a messenger brought the information to Scott. As he suspected, in addition to what he already had, little more than traffic offences came back on Albert Nunsay. As for Mc Dougal and Byrne, there was no record of legal entry into the United States; enough in itself to have a warrant issued. However, the FBI and ATF investigated them three years ago on suspected gun smuggling. There was not enough solid evidence to arrest them at that time. As for Goddard, the new search showed him under arraignment for assault with intent to do great bodily harm.

Scott sat for several hours mulling over all the new information and decided that with the Riverville murder, the harassment of Kelly Hendersen by Frank Sullivan and James Hurley, the impending attempted murder of Martin Wolfe, alias Sean Keogh, and the boat laden with armament in Portland, enough evidence could be put before a federal judge to obtain arrest warrants for the whole bunch. It could be supported by any results from the ATF concerning the source of funds for the armament, and a connection to Sullivan and Hurley or the Somerville gang.

Lighting a fresh pipe, Scott started to put all of the data to paper in a chronological order prior to presenting a formal request for warrants. An hour or so into his work, the phone rang loudly and startled him.

“Scott, this is Henry Reichmann. How is it going?”

“Quite good. I may have enough to get arrest warrants for everyone involved in this mess. I was wondering if anything has come of investigating the source of finances for the guns, etc. waiting in Portland.”

“Odd you should mention it. That’s the very thing I’m calling about. Going over Frank Sullivan’s phone records, we discovered several calls to the Global Mortgage and Loan Company in New York. The principle is an Alfred J. Connors. We are giving him a very close look and digging deeply into his business and associates. So far, he is looking very shady – could be laundering money from Irish Relief groups through to the PIRA. And, possibly involved in guns and ammunition purchases. We know that Global has brokered several legitimate charity transactions with Northern Ireland; which leads to suspicions about illegitimate deals.”

“Very encouraging, Henry. If this turns into anything solid, the warrants will be a cinch. When do you think the investigation will conclude?”

“Hard to say, Scott. It’s my feeling it will be very soon considering the number of agents at it, and the amount of solid info they already have.”

“You let me know the minute you know anything. I’m preparing a partition for warrants right now and I would like to add whatever information you have to it. I realize any arrest in New York will be by ATF investigators, but it will solidify the warrants I’m after, and hopefully close the murder of Clarence Anderson. That will make both the ATF and Riverville Police Department happy.”

“Best of luck with your warrants, Scott. Talk to you soon”

“Before you go Henry, what’s going on in Portland. Does the ATF and Maine State Police have things in hand?”

“And the US Coast Guard,” Henry answered. “This spell of bad weather turned out to be a blessing, as far as keeping that boat in port. Let’s hope it doesn’t clear up soon. Agents and cops are ready to jump in and impound the cargo the minute it all comes together. I doubt the crew will be arrested, unless there is evidence, they were involved in the acquisition of the stuff.”

“Ok, Henry. Please relay what I have told you to Chief Hendersen and Sergeant Carl Hendersen. Tell them we are close to a big roundup, as well as removing the ATF under-cover man, Martin Wolfe, from harm’s way. I’ll soon be calling all concerned regarding a strategy meeting. You take care.

Vermont:

Kelly Adams is nicely settled in at her aunt’s farm, having left Riverville at four-o’clock Saturday morning. The trip was uneventful and expertly driven by Patrolman Frances J. Hendersen and Corporal Anthony Marzano. The only time the car had to slow, other than a coffee stop in New Hampshire, was about an hour and a half into the trip. Heavy fog in the valleys, perpetuated by the warming sun just creeping into the lower areas of the state, made reduced visibility a problem.

Upon arrival, they were greeted by two very large men in work overalls stationed on either side of the door, and each carrying double-barreled shotguns at port arms. The two recognized Frances Hendersen but looked suspiciously at Marzano. After Francis introduced Marzano as a friend and fellow police officer, the atmosphere changed.

Inside the farmhouse they were greeted by the smell of biscuits baking and bacon frying and a super-sized peculator bubbled on the stove. Kelly’s aunt Hellen added to the whole picture, Appetites became instantly stimulated. As the group settled at the large kitchen table. Kelly’s other two cousins returned from milking. Spotting Kelly, they quickly approached her, welcomed her and gently kissed her on the cheek. Kelly, surprised at the gentleness of the big men suddenly felt safe; finally.

Scott, anxious to finish the warrant partition, worked steadily through Saturday. Finally, he slipped the papers in his briefcase and went to the sideboard in the dining room, used as a home bar, and poured a large scotch followed by two ice cubes. He sauntered into the kitchen where Nancy was preparing dinner, placed one arm firmly around her waist from the rear and slowly kissed her on the neck.

“The petition is finally finished,” he said. “I hope it’s good enough to get the warrants. I’m sorry I had to be so distant the last couple of days. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh, Scott. You know I don’t mind this kind of thing; as long as it isn’t continual. Darling, I understand how important it is, so there is no need to apologize; although it is sweet of you.”

Scott and Nancy had been very close at one time, but due to reestablishing himself after World War One, and the depression that followed, Scott didn't feel it prudent bringing the relationship any further along and they gradually drifted apart. Nancy was secretary to the Boston FBI chief for many years, and with Scotts close association with the FBI, it was inevitable that Scott and Nancy talk and exchange pleasantries.  On occasion, when Scott felt flush, he and Nancy would meet for dinner at the Parker House and spend a few hours catching up. At those times Scott would think, maybe someday when the world is in better shape.

They married in 1937 after gradually spending more time together, and the continual prodding of Scott’s father to “make an honest woman of her”. (The Crooked X)

Somerville:

That same evening, Frank Sullivan and Jim Hurley finished their dinner at a local family restaurant, and were sitting enjoying coffee and a pipe:

“Frank, me boy, what do you say to a Saturday night at the All Erin. We will lift a few and enjoy the music. If that Hendersen girl hadn’t gone out by the time I left Riverville, she isn’t going to.”

 “That’s how come you left there so early. You wanted a night out and you had it planned,” Sullivan replied.

“So what, Hurley erupted. Nothing ever happens. Just the same old thing day after day. We know enough of her comings and goings that anyone could grab her, or knock her off in the street, whenever ordered. Yes, we are entitled to a bit of cheer once in a while.”

“You’ll have to leave me out of it; as much as I’d enjoy the music. I have to be in Riverville in time to follow that crowd to Sunday Mass, so I want to get a good sleep tonight. You go on without me. You might even get lucky.”

Later, at the apartment of Hurley and Sullivan, Frank Sullivan scurried about trying to remember where his large suitcase is stored. After several minutes, he remembered and retrieved it from a back shelf of a storage cubicle on the rear porch. Dusting it off quickly, Sullivan began to pack, leaving behind just enough that Hurley might not notice his absence until he was well on his way to Ireland. Sullivan quietly walking down the two flights, staying as quiet as he could, making sure his suitcase didn’t collide with anything. It was dark enough now, so he stashed the suitcase under the stairs leading from the street to the front door. He returned to the apartment and was sure no one saw him go up or down the stairs.

Sullivan arose at five the next morning and quickly showered and dressed. Hurley, in the nest room, wakened by the noise shouted, “Frank! It’s hardly light out. What in hell are you doing?”

“Go back to sleep Jim. I have to be in Riverville early. That crowd always goes to seven o’clock Mass, and I want to be there on time to follow that Adams girl,  just in case she does something new on a day off.”

Before Sullivan finished talking, Hurley was asleep again, and making strange noises into his pillow. Sullivan put on his suit jacket and carefully checked for his wallet, passport and ticket. He scooped up his raincoat from the bed, and for the last time descended the stairs of the tenement. Removing his suitcase from its hiding place, he walked until he found a cab cruising for a fare in the early morning.

As the eight A.M. British Airways flight lifted into a bright and clear sky, Frank Sullivan made a silent prayer that he be spared from anything to do with criminals and the PIRA, and that Kelley Adams live a long and fruitful life. He landed, and passed through Heathrow without emigration problem. Then, he transferred to a train for the final leg to Dublin.

In Boston, Scott carried his first cup of coffee to the front door in search of the Sunday Globe newspaper. As usual, it sat, in a plastic bag, about half-way between the door and the gate to Walnut Street. Returning, he noticed the manila envelope pinned to the door. The boys, running to meet him, demanding the comic pages. Scott handed over the entire bag and, with his handkerchief, removed the envelope and went to the sofa, placing his coffee on the end table. He examined the envelope and wondered at the perfect penmanship of his name centered on the front.

“Nancy,” he shouted. “Please bring me a paring knife,”

“What in the world do you need this for in the living room?” Nancy said as she handed him the knife.

Showing her the envelope, Scott replied, “To open this. I found it pinned to the door and have a hunch it’s important to the Riverville case.”

Nancy, sitting next to Scott said, “I surely hope so. Can I help you?”

“No, you can’t touch it. If it’s important, I’ll have it dusted for fingerprints.” Scott replied as he gingerly slid the knife blade around three sides of the envelope, and allowed the contents to fall out onto the coffee table.

Using the knife and handkerchief-covered fingers, Scott separated the pages and lined the up. One by one he read all six, single sided, pages.

“Nancy, please get me a large envelope from my desk and bring me the phone. I have to call Reichmann at his hotel”

“Henry Reichmann here, who’s calling?”

“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 the gun running case.”

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

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

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