Fishtown: A Jack Regan/Izzy Ichowitz Novel

by Neal Goldstein

  “Spoken like a true prosecutor,” Coratelli replied.

  Ichowitz listened to the two lawyers in disbelief. “Doesn’t it trouble you that Heilman as horrible a human being as he is could be executed for a crime that he might not have committed?”

  “Juries have rendered incorrect verdicts many times. Now that the state of the science is so sophisticated, a number of individuals who were wrongfully convicted have been exonerated. What can you do?” Coratelli responded indifferently.

  “Do you think this will get him a new trial?”

  “I’m sure his attorneys will try to convince the court that it should give him a new trial and permit a jury to consider this evidence, however, as Jack observed, it does not necessarily establish proof that Heilman didn’t kill Lee and Sukarto.”

  Jack nodded. Ichowitz shook his head, “And we call that justice?”

  Chapter 19

  Flynn nodded at the bartender as he made his way past the crowd and walked to the unmarked door next to the dartboard in the back of the room. Duffy’s Tavern in Northern Liberties was the local hangout for Irish expats in Philadelphia. Although it was not a private club anyone outside the Irish community who happened to enter the establishment without a special invitation would be politely told their presence was not appreciated and asked to leave. Flynn knocked on the door and waited while the bar patrons studiously ignored him. Everyone there knew that it was in their best interest not to take notice of whatever was going on in the back room where Duffy held court.

  When he was granted access, Flynn found Duffy seated at his customary place at the head of a beat up conference table accompanied by six of his cohorts. The men, who Flynn thought of as ‘Duffy’s Disciples’ varied in age from twenty-something to sixty plus. All of them gave Flynn the hard stare as he stood waiting for Duffy’s acknowledgement.

  “I thought ya told me ya would never come back to our luvly city,” Duffy said by way of greeting.

  “That I did, but circumstances have unfortunately compelled me to change my plans,” he replied. “I thank you once again for your gracious indulgence.”

  “Ya won’t be blowin up the town again or stealin any of our treasures will ya?”

  Flynn smiled and shook his head.

  “All right then, take a load off,” Duffy nodded to the empty chair at the opposite end of the table. Without any visible signal, the Disciples stood up and made their way out of the room as Duffy and Flynn sat silently.

  “I assume yer uncle conveyed my message regarding the Jews,” Duffy said.

  He nodded.

  “Can ya believe those eejits letting those scoundrels loose?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, do ya have any thoughts about how ya plan to deal with this development?”

  “I seem to recall that Nooris was keeping company with some high society woman when I was last here. I was wonderin if you know who his girlfriend is and where I might encounter her. My thinking is that when Nooris comes back to Philly he’ll be lookin to hook up with her.”“So you think he may be comin back to town?”

  “I’m not certain, but I don’t want ta leave anything ta chance. So do ya know the whereabouts of Nooris’ girlfriend?”

  Duffy gave him a knowing smile, “She’s a hot number fer sure, but I’m thinkin she’s out of yer league me bucko.”

  “Perhaps, but nevertheless, she may be the best lead to finding Nooris and his pal.”

  Duffy took some time as he contemplated his response. “Her name’s Courtney Wells. She’s from the manner born, what the toffs here call the Main Line. She was married to some knob jockey for a while,” he shook his head amused at the thought of a beautiful, sexy woman like her marrying a queer to hold on to her family’s money. “The highborn in these parts like to keep a hold of their money so they arrange marriages like corporate mergers to assure that generations who follow will be rich. Anyways, Miss Wells found keepin up the pretense was too much fer a woman of her needs, if ya get my drift. I suggest ya might find her at one of them wine bars around Rittenhouse Square. Ya won’t be findin her hangin around the likes of this place, that’s fer sure.”

  “How about Nooris’ assistant, Shona. Do you know where I might find her?”

  “Nah. Ya better keep yer socks up around that one. Word is she’s deadly.”

  “I will, thanks for the advice.”

  Flynn told him he would be making a courtesy call on Mike O’Malley to let him know the intentions of his return were not to intrude on Kate and Liam’s lives, only to insure that neither of them came to harm in retaliation for his actions. “Liam’s a Flynn and we take care of our own.”

  Duffy nodded and handed him the keys to the apartment in Northern Liberties he kept for special visitors.

  Shona detected the sickly sweet odor of Jerry Kastanski’s cologne the moment she entered the vestibule of her apartment. What the hell she thought; had he been snooping around her place? As she approached the second floor landing she could sense his presence. She sighed realizing that her Carrie the college student persona prevented her from making it unmistakably clear that Kastanski’s advances would not be tolerated.

  When she entered the apartment she found him sitting on her sofa. She gave him a look of contempt and asked, “What are you doing here?”

  He stood up and moved towards her, “I was just checking the unit to make sure everything was OK. Is there anything you need?” he asked moving even closer.

  She stepped back and replied, “Yes, I need you to get out of my apartment, and never come back unless I invite you.”

  “Geez, you don’t have to be so unfriendly. If you check your lease you’ll see I have the right to inspect the premises. I’m just trying to be a good neighbor,” he whined.

  The door to the apartment was still open and Carrie turned as she heard someone coming up the stairs. It was Bill Myers. He stopped as soon as he entered the room.

  “Jerry what are you doing here?” Myers asked.

  “I was just checking to see if everything is OK with the apartment.”

  “And I was just explaining to Mr. Kastanski that I can take care of the apartment without his help.”

  “I think Ms. Sloane is politely asking you to leave her alone. OK?”

  “Sure Mr. Myers.”

  After he left Shona asked Myers about Kastanski.

  “He’s a rather sad case. Lived in the neighborhood his entire life.” Myers paused. “Something must have happened to him when he was a child.” he paused again contemplating his response. “I guess he’s just another poor soul looking for companionship. Anyway, he lives with his mother, she’s a horrible person. Don’t worry about him. I’m sure he’s harmless.”

  “He gives me the creeps,” Shona said when she heard the door slam shut behind him. She smiled and said, “I thank you kind sir for your gallantry.”

  Myers blushed. They stood there looking at one another and he realized he had not explained the purpose of his visit. “You left your Mets cap at the Cup I thought you might want it,” he said handing her the cap.

  “Thanks Bill, but it really could have waited until tomorrow.”

  He looked away, “I really wanted to see if you would join me for dinner tonight. The cap was just an excuse.”

  She kissed him on his cheek, “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

  Michael Flynn waited on the sidewalk across Main Street until he was certain the last patron had left the Grape Tavern before he approached. “Danny Duffy told me ya’d be comin by to pay yer respects,” O’Malley said when Flynn entered. He pointed to the stool at the end of the bar directing Flynn to take a seat.

  When he sat down O’Malley turned and reached for something behind the bar. “I hope you’re not reaching for that sawed-off shotgun again.”

  O’Malley turned with a bottle of Tullamore Dew in one
hand and two glasses in the other. “I thought this would be more hospitable,” he said as he poured a generous portion in each glass and offered one to his guest, “Sláinte.”

  “Sláinte,” Flynn replied and clinked glasses with his host.

  Flynn emptied his drink, “How’s Kate and my son?”

  “They’re both doin fine. Jack Regan’s a good man, ya can count on him to do right by yer boy.”

  “I know, I know, but nevertheless the boy’s my blood and I need to make sure he suffers no harm in retribution for my deeds. Besides, Regan’s not like us. He thinks the world’s a place where people play by the rules and no one would ever hurt a woman or a child.” He gave the old man a knowing look and said, “We know better.”

  O’Malley nodded, poured them both another drink and waited for Flynn to continue.

  “Here’s how I see things,” he began. “Nooris and his henchman will come back to even the score with me. I’ve dealt with his kind before. Nooris is not a bloke who lets things lie.”

  “So what’s your play?”

  “I’m going to look up the Wells woman and see if she’s heard from him. I figure that after he was locked up for a spell, he’ll be seekin female companionship.”

  “I’m sure he can find someone to scratch his itch for a price,” O’Malley said.

  “Not his style. Anyways, if you hear anything, or see them let Duffy know.”

  O’Malley nodded.

  “Have you seen any signs of Shona Cohen?” Flynn asked.

  “No.”

  “Keep an eye out for that one. She’s far more dangerous than either of those two chancers.”

  “Aye,” O’Malley replied and downed the remainder of his drink.

  Chapter 20

  Ichowitz could not shake the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that Aron Heilman might have been wrongly convicted. Although he was certain Heilman had kidnapped Jinjing Lee and Bayani Sukarto, he was never completely satisfied that the investigation had cleared Kastanski from involvement in their murders. Now that DNA evidence revealed the bodies found in the church cellar were not Lee and Sukarto he didn’t know what to think. He went out for a walk to get some air to think over the implications of what he had been told

  “What’s wrong?” Ida could read her husband’s troubled expression the moment he walked through the door. He told her about the report he had just received from Larry Jackson.

  “It was so long ago. I know you did your very best. Now almost every day there’s a story about how some innocent person who sat in jail for most of his life had been wrongly convicted. It wasn’t your fault. Besides, Heilman tortured those other women, and probably did a lot of other horrible things. He might have killed them.”

  “I know, but he was convicted of murdering the two girls whose bodies were found in the cellar. I testified that the bodies were Lee and Sukarto and the jury relied on my testimony to convict him. Turns out I was wrong. If his appeal isn’t successful, he’s going to be executed and I’m responsible.”

  “Izzy, you weren’t the only one involved in the case. Whatever happens it’s not your fault,” she said and hugged him. “You have to let go of it. Please.”

  “I’ll try; I promise.”

  After she released him from her embrace she said, “Oh, I almost forgot, Larry Jackson left a message for you to call him. He said it was important,” she squeezed his hand. “And I thought you retired.”

  “We may have come up with something on one of the other skeletons we found at the construction site in Fishtown,” Jackson began. “The remains of a ring were found on one of the bodies. It was a confirmation ring from St. Laurentius Church class of 1960. There was also the remains of a barrette imbedded in the skull. We didn’t get anything back on the hair remnants from the lab in Virginia, probably nothing in their data base,” Jackson told him. “Anyway, I asked the Cold Case guys to look into the ring. One of your old pals, Dave McElroy heads up the unit. Maybe you can touch base with him and see if you can get a lead on who else was buried there; and Izzy, stop beating yourself up over the Heilman case.”

  Ichowitz wasn’t able to reach him until that evening. McElroy was thrilled to hear from his old friend, and welcomed his offer of assistance. “You know my group does the Lord’s work down here. We give people closure when they’ve lost all hope. See you tomorrow.”

  “Let’s hope He’s on our side this time,” Ichowitz replied.

  He thought it would take a miracle to get a positive identification on the body buried in the slaughterhouse yard over 40 years ago. But at least they had something to look into.

  The next morning, by the time he got to the Cold Case unit McElroy had already contacted Father Stefanski, the Pastor at St. Laurentius and had made arrangements to review the parish records of young women who had been confirmed in 1960.

  St. Laurentius’ majestic gothic spires and stained glass windows dominated the Fishtown skyline and could be seen for blocks looming high above the two and three story row houses and commercial properties that surrounded it. The church had been built in the late 19th century by Polish immigrants who no longer wanted to feel like unwanted interlopers in the predominately Irish parish in West Kensington. Their donations paid for master craftsmen from Germany who built the ornate wooden altar, pulpit and statues that adorned the sanctuary and the elaborate cut–glass windows that were reminiscent of European cathedrals.

  Ichowitz and McElroy were ushered into Father Stefanski’s office by an elderly nun. “Thank you Sister Marta,” the young priest said as he stepped from behind his desk to greet his guests. The priest looked young enough to have been the nun’s grandson.

  “Thank you for seeing us Father Stefanski,” McElroy said accepting the priest’s handshake.

  “Please call me Frank. And you must be Detective Ichowitz,” Stefanski said as he offered Ichowitz his hand.

  “Izzy,” he replied accepting the handshake and explained he had retired and was there to help McElroy with the investigation.

  “Yes it’s been the talk of the parish,” the priest replied. “How can I be of assistance?”

  They told him about the confirmation ring and barrette that had been found on one of the skeletons. “Frank we were thinking that we might find a lead from the parish records of the 1960 confirmation class.”

  “Yes, I have them here,” and handed Ichowitz a folder. “I’ve a suggestion, since I’ve only been at St. Laurentius for a few months, Sister Marta, the nun who brought you to my office has been here for over fifty years. Sister has a wealth of knowledge about the parish and the people who live here. Why don’t you ask her about the 1960 confirmation class?”

  Ichowitz and McElroy looked at one another. “Do you think she’d agree to speak with us? She didn’t seem particularly friendly,” McElroy asked.

  Stefanski sighed and replied, “I’m not sure. You see, Sister Marta hasn’t quite welcomed me with open arms. She was very close with Father Majewski, who was the pastor here for many years. I don’t think the good sister believes I’m a worthy successor.”

  McElroy and Ichowitz reviewed the parish records of the 1960 Confirmation Class. Nine young women had been confirmed that year. McElroy emailed the list to the unit with instructions to determine what had happened to them in the intervening years while the priest arranged for them to meet with the old nun in the Rectory.

  She was waiting for them in the dining room. She gave the priest a withering glance and said, “Thank you Father Stefanski, I think I’m still capable of showing hospitality to our guests without your assistance.”

  He bowed and left the room.

  Ichowitz smiled as he accepted the cup of tea the nun offered him. She was a small woman, he judged her to be in her late 70’s perhaps early 80’s. Her face was virtually wrinkle-free, at least the part that was visible under the old fashioned habit she wore. She smiled
when the young priest left the room, her eyes sparkled mischievously. “I have to keep the puppy priest on a tight leash so he doesn’t think he can run the parish without me,” she told them.

  “He seems like a nice young man,” Ichowitz replied.

  “Perhaps, but he has big shoes to fill. Father Majewski was a saint,” she said with a shake of her head.

  “Sister I’m sure you heard about the grim discovery at the construction site on Delaware Avenue,” Ichowitz said.

  She took a sip of her tea and waited for Ichowitz to continue.

  “Well, it turns out that one of the bodies may have been a parish member. We recovered the remnants of what appears to be a confirmation ring with the inscription ‘St. Laurentius Class of 1960’. We have a list of the nine girls who were in the class. Can you tell us what happened to these girls?”

  She took another sip from her cup as she considered the question.

  After several moments she responded, “I can do better than that. I think I can tell you who you found buried there.”

  She ushered them into one of the rectory’s sitting rooms and walked over to the far wall on which dozens of framed photographs had been mounted. Each one portrayed groups of girls wearing white confirmation gowns with nuns standing behind them. On every photo the confirmation year was prominently displayed on a banner behind the class and their instructors. She pointed to the photograph for the 1960 confirmation class.

  “Do you see that beautiful girl standing immediately in front of me? Her name is Kathleen Blutarski. All the boys in the parish chased after her. Word was that one of the Irish boys from the Holy Name of Jesus parish had his way with her. She disappeared shortly after that picture was taken. Her parents said they sent her to live with her cousins somewhere upstate. I never believed that. Her father was a mean drunk with a violent temper. He drank himself to death in 1985. I’m fairly certain his passage to the other side has not been a happy one.”

  She paused and glanced back at the photograph. “At first, I suspected that Kathleen’s father had killed her, but one of the other girls in the class told me he threw her out of the house when he found out she was pregnant. I tried to find her. I’ve long suspected she came to a tragic end. I’ve prayed for her soul ever since. She was only 16 years old. Such a shame,” the nun grasped her rosary beads tightly, “such a shame.”