Chasing Phil

by David Howard

  Then Wedick and Brennan were on a plane in the early afternoon of February 15. It was a little surreal. Brennan sat quietly with his thoughts while Wedick fidgeted. Somewhere over the northern prairielands, Wedick looked at Brennan in alarm. A thought suddenly hit him: He’d spent so much time scrambling to get ready, he wasn’t sure they were adequately prepared for their conversation with Kitzer. They were supposedly connected with Brennan’s grandfather’s insurance company—but what did they really know about that field? Meanwhile, Kitzer was an expert in high finance. What if he tested them?

  Brennan told him to relax. As someone who had bought and sold commodities, he could bluff his way through whatever Kitzer threw at them. He explained a few basic terms and concepts, like stock market puts and calls.

  Wedick, unconvinced, didn’t necessarily see how one field translated to the other. “World’s number one white-collar criminal, and I don’t know squat,” Wedick grumbled. “This is just great.”

  Then they sat in silence. It was too late at that point; either it would work or it wouldn’t. If the investigation had been launched a decade later, the FBI would have provided a psychological screening to determine their readiness, plus in-depth training, new identities, and housing to safeguard their families, among other provisions. Brennan and Wedick weren’t just going out there cold, using their real names, without much of a grasp of the insurance industry—they were, by almost any standard, an oddball pairing.

  They needed Kitzer to believe that Brennan, the quiet, easygoing southern introvert, and Wedick, the chatty, high-energy New Yorker, were good friends and business partners.

  Was this plausible? They couldn’t be fully certain until they tried it.

  Just one meeting.

  Part II

  THE GAME

  The devil appeared like Jesus through the steam in the street

  Showin’ me a hand I knew even the cops couldn’t beat

  —Bruce Springsteen, “It’s Hard to Be a Saint in the City”

  5

  The Thunderbird

  FEBRUARY 15, 1977

  Wedick held his smile, hoping it didn’t look nearly as belabored as it felt, while Kitzer watched his reaction.

  You guys look like a couple of feds.

  There was no time to analyze the statement, to try to discern whether Kitzer was accusing them of something or just being provocative. Wedick’s mind pinwheeled: Should they have dressed differently? Should they have anticipated this and had an answer ready? Would they set a record for the shortest undercover operation in FBI history? At least he had a mustache; Hoover had banned them during his reign.

  Brennan stood next to him, grinning forcefully. Howard had told him that Kitzer was whip-smart, uncommonly perceptive, and dexterous in conversation. He reads people, Howard had said. Maybe, then, they should have expected Kitzer to test them—but the agents had assumed they’d have at least a few minutes to settle in first. For a couple of seconds that seemed like eons, they willed every muscle in their faces to hold steady.

  Then Kitzer laughed, and stood and shook their hands, and the agents also laughed, they hoped not too enthusiastically. Kitzer said he might have suspected that Wedick was in the FBI if they hadn’t spent the past few weeks trading phone messages.

  “Jim Wedick,” Kitzer said, “you’re all over the place! I could never get ahold of you!”

  Wedick shrugged as if to say, Yeah, sorry, you know how it is, but he felt relieved. He’d made an impression. Kitzer invited the men to sit, asked them what they were drinking—each wanted a Jack Daniel’s—and put in their order. “Of course, Mr. Kitzer,” the bartender replied.

  Brennan and Wedick settled on either side of him at the bar and began to breathe again. Kitzer was drinking Scotch. His highball glass sat on the bar next to a pack of cigarettes and a gold-plated lighter with the word DUNHILL engraved on the bottom.

  Kitzer asked about Howard, and Wedick said he was doing well and that he was a good guy who had helped them out, sprinkling in details about his pizza shop. Having Howard vouch for them was crucial—he was as solid a reference as they could hope to find. To build on their underworld bona fides, Brennan mentioned some organized-crime contacts in New Orleans he knew from having worked with them as an FBI agent.

  After a half hour of this, the threesome circled around to the evening’s business: Brennan’s grandfather’s insurance agency. Brennan explained that they were looking for stolen bonds to pump up his portfolio.

  Kitzer leaned back, exhaled a stream of smoke, and fixed the men with a steady gaze. Then he shook his head. “That’s a good way to go to the penitentiary,” he said.

  There was no time for the agents to feel disappointed. Wedick, in fact, had almost expected that answer—Kitzer was that cagey.

  “Can you suggest another option?” Brennan asked.

  Kitzer appraised them. Wedick unconsciously fidgeted with the remote control in his pocket. After a pause, Kitzer suggested that they go to dinner and get to know each other better.

  —

  They already had two drinks in them when they climbed into their rental car. Kitzer offered to drive, this being his turf, and Brennan idly wondered what the bureau might say if the cops pulled Phil over and slapped him with a DUI.

  Kitzer drove out to the main road from the motel complex, then abruptly made a sharp right. They were now on a street that stretched the length of a city block before ending in a cul-de-sac. There were no restaurants—or any kind of businesses—in sight, and as they cruised toward the dead end, Brennan felt his chest tighten: What is this?

  Brennan was about to ask where they were going when Kitzer swung into a three-point turn and headed back the other way. By the time Kitzer had merged back onto the main road, Brennan knew what Kitzer was doing. If someone had been following them—say, a surveillance team—Kitzer would have gotten a good look at them after turning around. There was no other reason to have made that maneuver.

  Kitzer looked over and said, “Oops, wrong turn.” And smiled.

  Brennan thought, Thank God we told the local agents not to provide cover.

  After dinner they returned to the Thunderbird, where they’d taken rooms for the night. At Kitzer’s behest, they headed back to the Pow-Wow Lounge for another round. He seemed relaxed but not tipsy, despite ordering a steady stream of cocktails. The agents nursed their drinks and tried to gulp water.

  Kitzer finally circled back to Jack’s grandfather. He said there was one possibility: He knew some guys in Cleveland who might have stolen municipal bonds. Maybe Brennan and Wedick wanted to go there tomorrow and find out? He lifted his palms upward in a universal gesture of invitation. The agents looked at each other, then at Kitzer.

  That sounds good, Brennan said.

  Wedick immediately thought: Cleveland? There’s no way the FBI will let us go to Cleveland.

  Brennan said they would need to call their fence in New Orleans—an organized-crime contact who handled paper for them. Hoping to buy a little time.

  Anyway, it was well after midnight. The agents said they were going to turn in and would firm up their plans in the morning.

  —

  Wedick was relieved to temporarily get away from Kitzer. He’d navigated an evening with him unscathed, but the pressure of staying in character, of mentally analyzing everything before saying it, was exhausting. The alcohol and stress had left him with a jackhammer headache.

  Still, their night wasn’t over. As planned, Wedick and Brennan left their room, slipped out of the motel through a side door, and walked to a nearby disco, where they’d arranged to meet with a Minneapolis-based FBI agent. There, they handed over the tape from the Nagra so their colleague could mail it back to Gary. Wedick was glad to get rid of it. They toppled into their beds around two a.m. Pulling off his clothes, Wedick ran a finger through the hole he’d snipped in his pocket before tossing the pants aside.

  The next morning, they found Kitzer in the motel’s Bow and Arrow Coffee Shop,
wearing a different suit and tie and sipping coffee. He had news: His Cleveland contact had confirmed having some $100,000 municipal bonds from Arizona. The agents nodded and said they were waiting to hear from New Orleans.

  Back upstairs, they locked their door and phoned Jim Deeghan in Indianapolis. Both Deeghan and Lowie generally had Wedick’s back. They had history going back to when Wedick first arrived in Indianapolis, straight out of the academy, and they invited him to their regular after-work beer at the Knights of Columbus hall directly behind the office. Deeghan, who was about a decade older than Wedick and also from the Northeast—he was born in Pennsylvania and attended Rutgers—immediately liked the kid. Wedick, in turn, ingratiated himself over the next couple of years by volunteering for crap work they needed done, including some tasks connected to the Patty Hearst kidnapping case. He also offered his spare room to one of Deeghan’s bureau friends who had been sent to Indianapolis for several months.

  Still, Lowie who was not thrilled to hear about this new development. He’d agreed to a single day in Minneapolis; he now also needed to obtain clearance from his counterpart in Cleveland—again at the last minute.

  Deeghan and Lowie called back on speakerphone, and Brennan answered. Lowie was unequivocal: “Do not get on a flight to Cleveland,” he said.

  Then he told Brennan to put Wedick on. Wedick knew why: They were worried that Brennan would board a flight regardless. Brennan was known to plow forward on cases in ways that didn’t fully adhere to bureau protocol.

  “Hey, J.J., listen to me: You are not getting on that plane,” Lowie barked. “And tell Jack: He ain’t getting on that plane either, okay?”

  But Lowie said he would see what he could do. Wedick hung up and looked at Brennan. “They’re having a heart attack,” he said. “What do you think?”

  Brennan rolled his eyes. When you needed a quick answer for anything outside the playbook, the default posture was: Don’t make me make a decision. “It sounded a little squishy to me,” he said.

  Wedick stared at him. He didn’t see how they had any leverage. In San Francisco, a new, extensive undercover operation had started up that featured a phony corporation complete with office space and a secretary. Brennan and Wedick were just a couple of young upstarts, and the vibe was: You guys have no chance. “That bureaucracy is big and tall, Jack,” he said. “I don’t know that they can get this cleared.”

  He also wasn’t sure whether the trip to Cleveland made sense strategically. Maybe Kitzer’s contact there was worth it—but maybe it was better for Kitzer to think they weren’t so eager. An FBI agent would jump on the plane in a second, so Wedick thought it might be a good idea to do the opposite. He also felt like they should regroup, think things over.

  The phone clanged to life. Deeghan had a friend in the Cleveland office who had helped smooth the way for the last-minute trip. Lowie told them to get back to Indiana right after that. Brennan nodded and snapped his suitcase shut. Wedick felt ambivalent, but now they were going.

  The agents brought their luggage down and checked out, then returned to Kitzer’s table. The threesome made plans for Cleveland while eating breakfast; then Kitzer turned to Wedick.

  “Why don’t you put your luggage in my room until we’re ready to go?” he said. “Here’s my key.”

  Wedick stood and looked at his bag, and two realizations crashed over him. The first was that his suitcase contained the recording equipment he’d used the previous night. And the second: If he left his and Brennan’s stuff in Phil’s room, Kitzer might find a reason to go up there to rifle through it. To see what he might learn about his new friends.

  —

  Wedick hesitated, but he couldn’t think of any plausible reason to say no. This was precisely why he’d wanted to hit the pause button: There were so many different things that could happen, and they didn’t really know what they were doing, and Jack just wanted to plow ahead. Wedick picked up the two satchels and headed to the elevator.

  Upstairs, he opened Kitzer’s door, looked around, and tried to think the situation through. He immediately ruled out asking the motel staff to hold the Nagra for him; Kitzer, a regular, undoubtedly knew many of them and tipped them well. Wedick walked around the room. The closet was empty, and too obvious, and Kitzer might check it for forgotten items. The bathroom contained no hiding places. Under the bed? That seemed ridiculous.

  Wedick gazed at the bed. On it lay a brown leather suitcase. Kitzer’s bag looked far nicer than Wedick’s boxy, clunky model. Kitzer had clearly packed already—there was not a stray sock lying around. While Wedick stared at the bag, a thunderclap of inspiration hit him. If Kitzer was already packed, he wouldn’t go back into the suitcase, right? At first Wedick dismissed the notion—too crazy, too risky. But then he thought: Anyone got a better idea?

  Moving quickly, not wanting to be gone too long, Wedick unzipped Kitzer’s bag, trying not to think about all the ways this could go bad. He retrieved his Samsonite from near the door and tossed it onto the bed, snapping it open as it jounced on the mattress. He scooped out the recorder and accessories and slid the gear into the bottom of Kitzer’s bag, underneath the clothing, smoothing out the shirts on top. Then he closed both, repositioned Kitzer’s case where it had been, and hurried out, switching off the light.

  Back downstairs, Kitzer was talking about Armand Mucci and Bob Bendis, the Cleveland promoters looking to peddle the bonds. The three men sipped coffee, and Kitzer suggested they get a haircut before leaving the motel; the barber was excellent and Kitzer himself immaculately groomed. After about ten minutes, he excused himself to make a call from his room.

  Holy shit, Wedick thought. I knew it.

  After Kitzer left, Wedick told Brennan what he’d done. He suggested they give Kitzer ten minutes before going back up—enough time for Kitzer to search their bags and satisfy his curiosity. But they didn’t want to allow him much more time than that. They needed to get the recording gear back soon in case Kitzer was the type to double- and triple-check his suitcase before checking out. The agents came up with a plan, and after an agonizingly long ten minutes, they headed upstairs.

  When Kitzer answered their knock, Wedick asked to use the phone to check his messages. Brennan, meanwhile, said he needed to use the bathroom. (They figured they both needed an excuse to be up there.) Kitzer nodded but said he was just finishing up in there. When Kitzer returned to the bathroom and closed the door, Wedick lunged at Kitzer’s bag, whispering to Brennan to distract Kitzer if he came out too soon. He unzipped the suitcase, removed the recording equipment, and was just closing it again when he heard Kitzer turn the doorknob. Kitzer was saying “Okay, Jack, it’s all yours” as Wedick stuffed the Nagra inside his jacket.

  Wedick made small talk until Brennan emerged from the bathroom, then suggested that they take the bags downstairs and arrange for a cab. Kitzer agreed to this, and just then, the phone rang, and he turned to answer it. Wedick pantomimed that they would see him downstairs. As they stepped inside the elevator, Brennan looked at Wedick and said, “That’s some balls, Jimmy boy. Some balls.”

  Maybe that had been a close call, or maybe Wedick had just imagined that Kitzer wanted to check them out. It didn’t matter now. All Wedick could think was that they just had to get in and out of Cleveland in good shape, and that would feel like a significant accomplishment on its own.

  6

  Hello, Cleveland

  FEBRUARY 16, 1977

  By the time he buckled his seat belt for the flight to Ohio, Kitzer was bantering with the people seated next to him. He chatted up the stewardesses when they passed and asked neighboring passengers where they were from and offered jokes or questions or stories in response. You’re from Miami? You know that deli, Wolfie’s, the place that makes pastrami sandwiches the size of my head? One time…

  The threesome had been unable to get seats together; Kitzer sat a row in front of the others and a few seats over, next to the window. As the airplane arced eastward, he torqued himself ar
ound and chatted with Wedick over the people sitting between them. This was partly by design: Seated between them was an attractive woman in her twenties. Kitzer worked to loop her into the conversation, eventually eliciting the information that her name was Cheryl and she lived in Bozeman, Montana.

  Although Wedick, too, was naturally outgoing, he squirmed as Kitzer flirted. Phil claimed they were businessmen negotiating a major transaction and seemed utterly unself-conscious about sharing all of this with everyone in earshot. His folksy humor and good looks—highlighted by his easy, dimpled smile and his hair, combed back into a wave that morning but now tousled by the airplane seat—seemed to disarm. By the time they exited the plane for a layover in Chicago, he’d persuaded Cheryl to join them for a beer. Wedick had by then eased into the conversation, joking with both of them while the quieter Brennan hovered on the fringes, listening and laughing.

  After asking for Cheryl’s phone number, Kitzer invited her to accompany them to Cleveland, offering to pay to change her ticket. The agents were astonished by his brashness and spontaneity—and relieved when she declined, saying she had to get home. As if their situation weren’t complicated enough.

  As Cheryl waved good-bye and headed off to catch her flight, Kitzer grinned at Wedick and issued a challenge. “I’m going to get a date with her first,” he said, adding that when they reached Cleveland, he would send her flowers.

  Now that they weren’t in danger of dragging along an unwitting accomplice, Wedick warmed to this bluster, the sort of thing that had been a staple of his life in the Bronx. Seeing a chance to deepen his connection with Kitzer, he suggested that they ramp up the competition by sending her a bouquet immediately, making sure it reached her front door before she returned home. Kitzer loved the idea, and they jumped up and headed for a bank of pay phones. Wedick, relying on an operator using the Montana Yellow Pages in the days before the Internet, was connected to a florist in Billings. When Wedick asked about delivery options, Kitzer interrupted to tell him to arrange for a taxicab to take the flowers to Bozeman, if necessary.