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.”

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

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.

Riverville Murder - Chapter 10

riverville cover lg

Case of the Riverville Murder

A Short Story by Ernie Whitenack

Chapter Ten

Previously:

“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~  
Inspector  

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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Keeping the smoking lamp lit since 1989