Chapter 13
Bloodbath at 32196 Aberdeen Line
Kellestine’s visitors must have noticed that the first floor of his house at 32196 Aberdeen Line was decorated entirely in red and black, with swastikas, Iron Crosses and other Nazi memorabilia all over the place. He was obsessed with two things — guns and the Nazi party.
And he wasn’t the only one. Kellestine’s self-confessed “right-hand man” was a local character and truly massive full-patch Bandido named David “Concrete Dave” Weiche. He earned his nickname from his work at his father’s immense contracting firm. And his father — Martin K. Weiche — wasn’t just well known because he was wealthy and successful. The elder Weiche, like Kellestine, decorated the family house with Nazi memorabilia, including oil paintings of Adolph Hitler and an autographed copy of Mein Kampf, Hitler’s autobiography.
Virulently racist and thoroughly atavistic though they may have been, at least the elder Weiche came by his views somewhat honestly. He had been in the Hitler Youth and had fought for the Nazis in World War II. After emigrating to Canada and becoming very successful, he ran in the 1968 federal election in the riding of London East as a National Socialist. The word “Nazi,” it’s important to note here, is actually a short form of the German phrase “Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei,” which means “National Socialist German Workers’ Party” and was the official name of Hitler’s organization.
Under that red-and-black banner, Weiche received 89 votes. He was later connected to some violent clashes, a couple of local cross burnings and was alleged to have put up the money for Operation Red Dog — a failed coup attempt in Dominica, which was aimed at establishing a white supremacist government on the small Caribbean island after expelling all of its black residents.
Although the younger Weiche had been at the Peace Arch meeting with Kellestine, Sandham and Price, he had left Southwestern Ontario for Winnipeg about three months before Sandham and his crew showed up at the farm. There has been no evidence to indicate he had any involvement with or even any knowledge of what happened next.
Many locals who had no connections to outlaw motorcycle gangs knew about Kellestine’s attitudes. He had a habit of doing things like interrupting London’s annual Pride Day Parade by dancing around with the Confederate war flag (the familiar stars and bars) — but only, he told friends, because he could be indicted if he used a Nazi flag; he considered the Confederate flag to be a decent second choice.
His racist and anti-Semitic views were well known, but they were not considered bad enough to get him thrown out of or even disciplined by the club. Some sources have told me that, while his beliefs may have been flamboyantly displayed, they were hardly rare in his milieu.
But they caused some friction in Toronto. Because, while Kellestine was a constantly stoned, frequently violent arrest-waiting-to-happen, the club had a few promising prospects like Jamie “Goldberg” Flanz. His friends called him “Rogue,” but the Bandidos, particularly Kellestine, usually called him “Goldberg.”
Originally from Montreal, the strapping former hockey player was a well-liked and intelligent young man, but he had a habit of breaking laws. He was the son of a well-known and well-heeled Montreal lawyer and something of a computer expert. In 2003, Flanz had been hired by a big American company, but was fired because he had set up a website that was in direct competition with the one they paid him to establish. His wife left him, and nobody in the computer business was interested in hiring him. So, he took a job as bouncer at a bar in Bradford, Ontario, (about an hour north of Toronto) and lived in nearby Keswick.
Jamie “Goldberg” Flanz
Although Keswick had been a Hells Angels’ stronghold since the mass patch-over, the muscular Flanz shaved his head, grew a goatee and started running with the Bandidos. Police were well aware of it, too. When they found the beaten and burned body of Keswick-native Shawn Douse in Pickering on December 8, 2005, they arrested four Bandidos (two of whom were already in jail on other charges) and searched Flanz’s apartment. Douse was known to have been an active cocaine dealer, and was seen at a meeting at Flanz’s apartment earlier that week. They found no evidence of his involvement and Flanz was never charged.
As charming as Flanz could be, Kellestine hated him. Everybody knew that it was because he was Jewish. And so, at the start of April 2006, when Kellestine accused Flanz of being an informant, Muscedere and his crew attributed it all to Kellestine’s rabid anti-Semitism and his growing paranoia. So when he invited them to his farmhouse in Iona Station to discuss the matter, they agreed. Their plan was not to entertain Kellestine’s wild accusations, but to kick him out of the club.
So on Friday, April 7, 2006, the Toronto Bandidos, other than Kellestine himself and two others who were out of town, drove down the 401 from Toronto to Iona Station to meet Kellestine and the Winnipeg prospective chapter. Both sides were determined to take the patches of the other.
Paul “Big Paulie” Sinopoli
One of them, 400-pound Paul “Big Paulie” Sinopoli, tried repeatedly to beg off due to a bleeding ulcer that he claimed made him weak and nauseous.
Since the Douse murder, many of the Bandidos had had their phones tapped. Sinopoli — who lived in the basement of the Jackson’s Point home of his parents Onofuco and Antonetta — was the best source of information. The police listened as Sinopoli called Flanz to tell him he couldn’t go. Flanz said he should go out on the town instead — suggesting he go see a Tragically Hip cover band that was playing at a bar the Bandidos frequented. But Sinopoli claimed he was so sick that he couldn’t move.
Later, Kellestine called him and basically ordered him to go. Tape recordings of an April 7, 2006 conversation between the two included Kellestine singing an improvised version of Roy Orbison’s 1959 hit “It’s Now or Never” to the reluctant biker.
Kellestine sang: “It’s now or never, hold me close, kiss me, you homely little bastard, be mine tonight.”
Sinopoli was silent.
Kellestine stopped singing. “Howdy doody, whaddaya doin’, Big Paulie?” he asked.
“I could be better,” the obese and ailing Sinopoli replied.
“You’ve been sick,” Kellestine acknowledged. “You’re a sick man. Never mind you’re sick — I still love you.”
“I know, I know,” Sinopoli replied.
Kellestine then pointed out that — sick or not — Sinopoli had a responsibility to stay in touch. No matter how sick he was, even if he couldn’t visit the farm, he could have at least called.
“What’s up, buds?” Kellestine asked. “You don’t love me no more?”
Sinopoli went back to his only excuse. “I’ve just been sick, bro.”
Kellestine then basically ordered him to come to the meeting at the farm, noting that it was of utmost importance.
Then he added a detail that seemed to surprise Sinopoli. He mentioned that he may run into some visitors who had stopped by the farm. But he also indicated that they could be gone before he arrived. “There’s some people passing through town right now,” Kellestine told him. “They’re not gonna be around for much longer.”
Sinopoli then called his old friend Kriarakis. Kriarakis told him that he was attending the meeting but it didn’t seem to be about anything important, so Sinopoli could probably miss it without getting into too much trouble.
About five hours later, Francesco “Bammer” Salerno called Sinopoli from his house in Oakville to make sure he was going to make the trip. He told him his standing in the club was in great jeopardy. “Bro, uh, Boxer’s freaking out, bro. You’re on your last legs, you’re almost out the door. So if I was you, I’d get yourself to church tonight,” he advised.
Then he suggested that it was in Sinopoli’s best interest to bring a large sum of cash to the meeting. “You better bring it. Don’t come there empty-handed, brother, and don’t bother phonin’ him and telling him you’re sick.”
After Sinopoli again pointed out how ill he was, Salerno made his fi
nal argument. “I’m telling you what to do. If you don’t want to listen to me, that’s your problem. Don’t come crying to me after.”
Francesco “Bammer” Salerno
Salerno then called another full-patch member, Oakville-based Pierre “Carlito” Aragon, to underline the importance of the meeting: “Yeah, brother, I don’t know what the agenda is out there, but ... uh ... it’s not to have dinner at fuckin’ J.C.’s house [the house of Sandham’s second-in-command in Winnipeg, Jamie “J.C.” Korne], that’s for sure, ya know what I mean? I suggest you call this fuckin’ Taz fuckin’ piece of shit and order him as a Canada Rocker [full patch] to get his fuckin’ ass to where you are. What is this, a fuckin’ joke?”
He went on in this profanity-laden rant to point out that Korne was eight months behind in dues, “so whatever he’s fuckin’ got there fuckin’ that’s worth something, like his motorcycle, fuckin’ has to be fuckin’ grabbed.” He made it sound very much like Toronto had a lot of questions that Winnipeg had to answer or lose their patches.
Sinopoli reluctantly made the drive. Almost all of the chapter went — Muscedere, Salerno, Sinopoli, Kriarakis, George “Pony” Jessome, Luis Manny “Chopper” Raposo, Michael “Little Mikey” Trotta and Flanz.
Interestingly, the bikers weren’t alone on their trip down the 401. Two OPP agents, who had been investigating Muscedere for months, were on their tail. In an unmarked vehicle, they followed the bikers all the way to Kellestine’s farm. When they got there a little after 10 p.m., the cops were disappointed. They decided that all these Bandidos visiting Kellestine was unlikely to be anything more than a party and they didn’t have a search warrant anyway, so they figured there was no use in sitting on some lonely country road watching a bunch of idiots get drunk. They turned around and went back to Toronto.
After they got out of their cars, Muscedere took Flanz aside. Flanz knew Kellestine was an anti-Semite and that he didn’t like him, but he didn’t know that he had accused him of being a rat. Muscedere wanted to prepare him, but not spook him too much. “You’re going to have some kind of a bad reception over there,” he told him, “so you might have to stay outside.”
Before Muscedere and his cohorts arrived, M.H. testified, he, Kellestine, Sandham and the others made preparations. They sent away Kellestine’s wife and daughter, as well as Mather’s pregnant girlfriend. Aravena and Gardiner — unknown to the latest set of guests — were instructed to say they were from the nearby Oneida First Nations reserve. Gardiner was then ordered to search the property for old shotgun shells or anything else potentially incriminating.
And they had pizza, tons of pizza. Earlier that day, Kellestine and his friends had gone to the nearby Oneida First Nations reserve. Somebody had told them there was an unguarded trailer full of smuggled cigarettes in a field. They’d gone and opened up the trailer, but instead of smokes, they found about 200 frozen pizzas. Although the cash value of their prize was far lower than what they had expected, from all reports Kellestine was anything but disappointed. He and his men took the pizzas home and from that point forward there was a constant supply of hot pizza at the Kellestine farm.
They put on rubber gloves underneath their normal riding gloves. Then they went up to the roof of the back porch. Kellestine, M.H. testified, peeled up some shingles, revealing an impressive cache of weapons. They spent hours collecting, cleaning and loading the weapons. Someone asked what they were doing. M.H. said that Kellestine answered, “Just in case, let’s prepare for the worst.”
Aravena later testified he heard Kellestine telling Sandham that they might be able to “salvage Crash, Pony and Big Paulie.”
Things got a little tenser as the time for the party approached. Kellestine looked at the others and told them: “If we kill one, we kill them all.” Sandham put on a bulletproof vest.
Mather, Aravena and Gardiner were instructed to stay in the house. Mather had a gun. Aravena — whom Kellestine and Sandham had allegedly discussed executing earlier — was armed with a baseball bat. His job was to watch for the approaching Torontonians and tell the guys in the barn through a two-way radio Kellestine had set up earlier. Gardiner was told to monitor Kellestine’s police monitor.
Kellestine waited in the barn with a Lakefield-Mossberg .22 rifle. Mushey was with him. Sandham was hidden in the loft with a more deadly World War II-vintage Lee-Enfield .303 bolt-action rifle. M.H. was out back, armed with a Remington Wingmaster pump-action shotgun.
The Toronto contingent were lead into the barn and told to surrender their wallets and cell phones. They reluctantly put them in a pile on top of Kellestine’s old white freezer near the entrance. A space had been made in the middle of the otherwise cluttered barn. Things like mattresses, furniture, an old plastic kiddie pool and other detritus had been piled up to make room. The walls were made of pressboard and were adorned with busty young women dressed as construction workers or posing on Harleys along with Kellestine’s usual Nazi propaganda. An old aluminum stepladder led to a loft. The guests from Toronto were instructed to stay together in the middle of the cleared-out area.
Shortly after the Toronto Bandidos arrived, M.H. reported that he heard gunfire, which he said “sounded like popcorn.” Mather and Aravena rushed into the barn. Aravena later testified he left his post and ran to the barn because he “had a good friend in there.”
When they arrived, Kellestine ordered Aravena to get beer for him and water for his men. He then told him to tell everyone on the roof that everyone’s okay. Aravena wondered what he was talking about because there wasn’t anybody on the roof. He later attributed it to Kellestine’s predictably eccentric behavior.
Luis Manny “Chopper” Raposo
According to M.H., they saw all eight of the guests lying face down in the barn, except for Raposo. He had fallen, and was seated on the floor with his arm hanging from a couch he was propped against. M.H. reported that he could see wounds in Raposo’s neck and chest.
Sandham later tearfully testified that Raposo had seen him, armed, in the loft and fired at him with a sawed-off shotgun he had hidden under his jacket. Surprised by what he considered an unprovoked assault, Sandham said he “flinched,” which accidentally led to him firing back.
No matter how it happened, Raposo was dead. When the dust settled, Muscedere asked Kellestine to get his fallen brother some medical help. Kellestine refused, telling his old friend: “He’s already dead.” It was later determined Raposo died of wounds inflicted by two different guns.
Kriarakis had taken a shell in the abdomen. Sinopoli had been shot in his right thigh. Kriarakis, losing blood, started praying in Greek, and Sinopoli began crying and complaining about how his wound would complicate his diabetes.
Salerno, much older and tougher than the other victims and with holes in his own legs, shouted at them to keep their mouths shut. “We’re bikers,” he reminded them. “We’re not the fucking Boy Scouts — so stop your whining.”
Kellestine shouted up to Sandham, demanding to know who shot first. “Was it fucking Chopper, or was it you?” he demanded.
“Chopper shot first,” Sandham shouted back, pointing out that his bulletproof vest had saved his life.
Then things got a bit weirder. Kellestine starting singing “Das Deutschlandlied,” the national anthem of Germany. Or, at least, he sang the first line of the first stanza, “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles” (Germany, Germany above all else), over and over again.
German politics are tricky at the best of times, but since the first stanza of the song is strongly associated with the Nazis, it is rarely sung in Germany anymore. Kellestine also danced a celebratory jig, reminiscent of the one British propaganda showed Hitler doing again and again during the war.
While concerned with their own wounds, the bikers quickly recognized that Raposo was indeed dead. Muscedere led them in the Lord’s Prayer — Kellestine dropped to one knee and joined them. When they finished, Kellestine ordered Trotta and Flanz to wrap Raposo’s corpse up in an old are
a rug and take it out of the barn. They were instructed to put it in the cargo area of Muscedere’s silver 2001 VW Golf.
Sandham testified that he then surrendered his gun to Kellestine — whom he described at that point as “a man to be feared” — and went to the aid and comfort of Kriarakis in the belief that “they were all going home.” Except Raposo, of course.
Kellestine told those who were left that he was pulling their patches “by order of the States.” He kept his rifle trained at Muscedere, and told Mushey that he’d “shoot Boxer if he moves from that fucking spot.”
Then he approached Flanz. He hit him with the butt of his gun and accused him to his face of being a police informant. Then he laughed and said “I’m saving you for last, you fucking Jew.” Muscedere tried to reassure Kellestine that Flanz wasn’t an informant. He wasn’t listening.
All of the cell phones on top of the freezer had rung at least once during the ordeal. But one of them rang repeatedly. Muscedere admitted that it was almost certainly his wife, Nina. Kellestine told him he could answer it, but warned him: “Don’t say anything fucking stupid.”
Muscedere answered. He told his wife that he was at “church” and that he’d be home in an hour or two. He also told her he loved her. Then he hung up and started crying. He looked up at his old friend Kellestine and said through his tears: “Do me. Do me first. I want to go out like a man.”
Kellestine laughed and said he was going to let him go. Then he ordered Muscedere out of the barn. Aravena followed him. Outside, Aravena later testified, Kellestine led the way, Muscedere was in the middle and he brought up the rear. They walked from the barn to Muscedere’s VW Golf, which already had Raposo’s corpse in the cargo area. Kellestine warned his old friend not to get too close.
Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle Page 20
