by Robin Yocum
“He did. You should see how he’s acting. It’s like he’s in the Mafia or something. I thought he was going to kill me last night, and you should have heard how he talked to Mr. Majowski. He’s got a lawyer and everything. It’s scary.”
“You know it’s against the law to set someone up for an arrest, like you were trying to do to Smoochie. You could be arrested for that.”
She licked her lips, leaned over my desk, and whispered, “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Francis, and I know you still want me. You could never arrest me.”
She was right, dammit. “Maybe not, but I’m also not going to arrest your husband on some trumped-up charge.”
“It’s not a trumped-up charge now. Okay, it was last week, but now I’m sure he did it. You should see the change in him. I’m telling you, he did it.” She stood there for a moment, tapping one toe on the floor. “Well?”
“I’ll talk to the investigators, Dena Marie. But you have nothing more than a hunch, and you can’t send a man to prison for that.”
“Look, I know what I saw last night. I heard him talk. He did it. Trust me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JOHNNY EARL
“He’s not as stupid as you think.”
Even in the haze of my sleep, I recognized the voice of the Reverend Wilfred A. Lewis. I sat up on the edge of my jailhouse cot and rubbed my eyes. “What?” I asked.
“You think General Himmler is stupid, and there are times when I’ll admit that he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s smart enough to know what you’re up to.”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. All those theatrics in the courtroom. You’re not fooling anyone. You’re trying to stay in jail. He knows that. He knows you’re not dedicated to the cause. You’re trying to stay in jail and hide so you don’t have to give up your money.”
“Let’s reiterate that last point. It is my money.”
He shrugged. “If you didn’t want to give it to the cause, you shouldn’t have told him about it.”
I jumped off the cot, and the preacher moved quickly away from the bars. “Let’s review. I didn’t tell him. You did. Remember, padre?”
He smirked. “Oh, yeah. That’s right.” He looked around the cell. “You can’t stay in here forever.”
“How in the hell did you get in here, anyway? The sheriff said I’m not supposed to have any visitors.”
“He can’t keep me out. Law says even the most despicable prisoners are entitled to meet with their spiritual adviser. That’s me, remember? You said so yourself in the courtroom the other day.” He smiled wide. “Tell me, how can I be of assistance, my son?”
“Step a little closer, father. Let me whisper it in your ear so everyone in the jail doesn’t hear.”
“Go fuck yourself, my son. I’m not getting any closer than I am right now.”
Fritz Hirsch came out of the utility closet, pushing a stainless steel bucket on casters across the floor with the mop inside the bucket. His daily job was to mop the floor, which he did while broadcasting into the mop handle.
“Not much of a spiritual adviser, are you?” I asked the preacher.
“What I came down here to advise you of is that your ass is grass. Right now, the general is upstairs talking to the judge, trying to have you released on your own recognizance.”
“He won’t do that.”
“Don’t bet on that. The general is telling him that was all a big show up there in the courtroom. He’s telling the judge that you owe him money and you staged that act so you could hide in jail. The judge thought he was punishing you by keeping you locked up. He’ll take one look at the general, and he’ll realize that the best way to punish you is to let you go. With any luck, it will be into the protective custody of your spiritual adviser.” His lips pursed in an evil smile.
“Oh my, sounds like the man of the cloth is really a scam in the cloth,” Fritz broadcasted loudly, standing right behind the Reverend Lewis. The broadcast startled the preacher, and he leapt away from Fritz. When he did, I thrust my left arm out of the cell and grabbed the reverend by the front of his black shirt and pulled him forward. He was off-balance and wide-eyed, his face wedged hard between two bars, and I buried my right fist in his nose. Blood squirted down his face and onto my left hand.
“You motherfu—” I hit him again. “You wait until the general hears about this,” he sputtered through the blood. I hit him again. “He’ll beat your ass, you damn river rat.”
I hit him a fourth time—this time in the mouth. And again and again. “He might beat my ass, but he can’t watch me forever,” I hissed. “The first time he turns his back, your ass is mine.” One of the sheriff’s deputies was running down the hall, keys jangling, when I released the little preacher and he slumped to the floor, leaving bloody streaks on the bars of the cell.
Fritz was broadcasting. “You can’t believe the excitement here, ladies and gentlemen—what a fight, what a fight! Touchdown Johnny Earl, the defending Jefferson County Jail heavyweight champion, has landed a right, and another right, and another. Down goes the preacher. Down goes the preacher. Down goes the preacher.”
The deputy was Reed Nevel. His nostrils were flaring like an angry bull’s as he ran down the corridor. “Goddammit, Johnny, you’re going to get my ass in trouble for this,” he growled, snatching up the barely conscious preacher with one huge hand and pulling him down the hall.
Fritz continued, “One, two, three . . . the referee has stopped the fight! It’s over, it’s over! Johnny Earl successfully defends his title! The crowd is going wild!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SHERIFF FRANCIS ROBERSON
I had just stretched out on the leather couch in my office to take a nap. The headache that had lodged behind my right eye since the day the corpse of Rayce Daubner was found at Jefferson Lake State Park had refused to subside. My stomach was in knots, too, partly from the ulcer that Alfred Vincenzio was giving me, and partly from the aspirin that I’d been munching like after-dinner mints.
I was awake, but my eyes were still closed when the skidding of the lobby door brought me to attention. I could hear Allison talking to someone. A minute later, footfalls closed in on my door. Allison peeked in, then pushed the door open for Buzzy Crowley, a volunteer fireman who was wearing his rubber boots and tracking ash and dirt across my office floor. “Sheriff, Battalion Chief Fair sent me down here to get you. We’ve got a situation over at the Daubner place.”
Why doesn’t that surprise me? I thought. “What is it?”
“There are these two guys who say they’re FBI agents, one black guy, one white, and they’re over there bossing around the chief and trying to take over the investigation.”
Buzzy was still talking when I ran past him and out of the office. I jumped into my car and headed toward the Daubner place, arriving no more than ten minutes from the time Buzzy walked into my office. When I pulled up, the chief and a few other firemen were sifting through ashes. There was no sign of Alfred Vincenzio and Elvis Norwine.
“Where are they?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Left. They told me I better not miss anything or screw anything up or they’ll bring me up on conspiracy charges. And they said I had to tell them about anything I found before I told you.”
My face started to burn. “Chief, the only person you talk to about this case is me. Period. Are we clear?”
“I understand, but I don’t like having them feds out here. J. Edgar’s boys make me nervous.”
“J. Edgar Hoover died during the Nixon administration.”
“Maybe so, but them federal boys got some power, that’s for dang sure.”
My jaw tightened, and I started to grind my teeth. “Chief Fair, in Jefferson County, Ohio, there is no more powerful law enforcement officer than the one you’re talking to right now.”
“Well, they’re up here barkin’ orders and tellin’ me what to do and threatening to throw me
in jail. What am I supposed to do?”
“Just do your job. No one is going to put you in jail, except me if you find anything of substance and don’t contact me immediately.”
“But they’re the feds, Sheriff.”
“And I’m the law in Jefferson County. When they cart their sorry asses back to Pittsburgh, I’m still going to be here. Remember that.”
“All right. Just keep ’em off my butt.”
I didn’t respond. By the time I had walked the few steps to my cruiser, the stomach acid was gurgling in the back of my throat. I radioed Allison. “Is Toots back?”
“He just walked in.”
“Ask him to meet me at the diner.”
“Ten-four.”
Toots loved the diner. He usually ordered the kielbasa, which came with sauerkraut, sliced tomatoes, and a heaping mound of fried potatoes. “I can hear your arteries clogging up as you’re eating,” I would tell him. He rarely responded. Once a plate of food was placed in front of Toots, his knife and fork didn’t stop moving until the plate was clean. He would cram food into his cheek until it looked like he was working over a quid of tobacco, all the while continuing to talk, chew, gesture with his utensils, and reload. If I made it to the governor’s office and brought Toots along, I would have to get him etiquette lessons.
I slid into the booth across from Toots. “Let’s squeeze Smoochie Xenakis,” I said.
He looked up from his plate, a slice of tomato dangling on his fork an inch from his lips. “You’re kidding, right?” he offered. “What for?”
“I think he might be our guy. He’s smart enough to know that no one thinks he’s capable. He knew he could kill Rayce, then act pathetic, act innocent . . .”
“Hide in plain sight?” Toots offered, grinding on his kielbasa.
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s exactly what I think he might be doing.”
Toots stopped shoveling in the food and pointed at my face with his fork. “You know what I think?”
“No, but I feel confident that you’re going to tell me.”
“I think those FBI boys got you pissin’ down your leg, and you’re thinking that if you go after Smoochie it’ll draw the attention away from you.”
“I hate you.”
“Sorry. I’m a cop. I’m trained to look for ulterior motives.” He grinned and went back to stabbing at his potatoes. “That’s my job. That, and making sure you don’t make any career-ending mistakes. Like, for example, arresting Smoochie Xenakis for murder.”
“I still want to talk to him. Let’s call him in for more questioning.”
“I already tried. I called him the other night. He doesn’t want to play ball.”
“What does that mean?”
“He said I had to talk to his lawyer.”
“That’s interesting.”
Toots nodded, stabbing at the last morsels of kraut and potatoes. “He was talking like a wiseguy—said his lawyer had advised him not to speak further.”
“Jesus, there must be something there. Why else would he get a lawyer?”
“Because he’s enjoying the negative attention.”
“Explain.”
“Smoochie Xenakis has been kicked around his entire life, and now he’s got a chance to make people think he killed someone—make ’em think he’s dangerous. Maybe he wants his wife to think he’s dangerous, too. He’s just having some fun playing a role. He went to Carmel’s the other day and bought a new black pinstriped suit. I just saw him; he’s hanging out at Dago Sam’s—new suit, sunglasses, chewing on a toothpick, hair slicked back.”
Dago Sam was Samuel Di LaGreca, who owned the bait and magazine shop on Railroad Street near the marina. He sold night crawlers, minnows, newspapers, and smut magazines. He also kept a sports book for the Antonelli crime family of Pittsburgh. Sam had been running a small-time gambling operation for decades—the numbers, late-night poker games, horses, and ball games. He didn’t try to keep it a secret. He lived in a magnificent home a mile outside of town that everyone knew he couldn’t have afforded just by selling bait and magazines. In his shop, the weekly sports spot sheets were right on the counter, next to the stacks of newspapers. They were marked “For Entertainment Purposes Only.”
“Smoochie Xenakis is hanging out at Dago Sam’s?” I asked. Toots nodded. “My world is spinning off its axis. Now I’ve got a social worker who thinks he’s a member of the Gambino crime family. Well, give him a call. Let’s see when he and his attorney can grace us with their presence.”
The following afternoon, Smoochie followed attorney Daniel Sabatino into my office. The attorney was dressed in a navy suit and a gold patterned tie; Smoochie was wearing a shiny red nylon sweat suit, a thick gold chain, and reflective sunglasses, all while working over a piece of gum with exaggerated motion. “I’m bringing my client in for questioning against my better judgment,” Sabatino offered, setting a briefcase on the conference table and deliberately avoiding eye contact with Toots and me. “However, he insisted on clearing his good name.”
I said, “If he has nothing to hide, then—”
“Spare me the cop jargon, Sheriff,” Sabatino said. “If you have questions to ask, ask them.”
Toots looked up from his notepad, and for a moment I feared he would plant one of his massive fists square in the middle of Sabatino’s face. He began drumming his fingers on the table, a sign that his patience was wearing thin. I began, “Smoochie—”
“Excuse me,” Smoochie said, leaning forward and propping both elbows on the table. “My name is Vincent Xenakis. In these proceedings, I would prefer to be called ‘Mr. Xenakis.’”
“I see,” I said. Now I was the one straining to keep my temper in check. “Very well. Mr. Xenakis, the last time we spoke, we established the fact that you and the deceased, Mr. Daubner, had been in an altercation. Was that your last contact with Mr. Daubner?”
Smoochie leaned toward his attorney, who whispered in his ear. Smoochie nodded, then leaned back in his chair and said, “Under the advice of counsel, I respectfully decline to answer the question.”
“What? Why?” I asked Sabatino. “That’s a simple question.”
“Sheriff, I’m sure you’re familiar with the Fifth Amendment, which protects suspects against self-incrimination.”
I turned back to Smoochie. “Mr. Xenakis, do you own a thirty-eight-caliber handgun?”
Again, he leaned toward his attorney, received his instructions, and said, “Under the advice of counsel, I respectfully decline to answer the question.”
And so it went. For the next fifteen minutes, we repeated the routine of me asking the questions, Smoochie and Sabatino whispering back and forth, and Smoochie “respectfully” declining to answer each question. Finally, I asked, “Did you kill Rayce Daubner?”
“You’re way out of line, Sheriff,” Sabatino said. “And my client is finished answering questions.”
“He hasn’t answered a single question. I thought he wanted to clear his good name.”
Sabatino stood and led Smoochie toward the door. “If you have any additional questions, contact me. I don’t want you talking to my client again.”
Alfred Vincenzio was on the phone. “I heard an interesting rumor today, Francis. I heard that one of your primary suspects, that Xenakis fella, is the husband of your little lover from the grocery store. Is that a fact?”
“Sounds like you already know that it is.”
“We’re going to give him a good look,” he said. “We think he might have killed Daubner.”
“That’s laughable,” I said. “He’s the mildest guy in town.”
“We’ve got motive. Everyone in town is talking about his transition from social worker to wiseguy. What do you think would happen if we arrested him?”
“Nothing. It’s all circumstantial. He’d beat it. He’s got a good lawyer, and you have no evidence.”
“That isn’t what I mean, Francis. What would happen if we arrested Xenakis and had a trial in which your lit
tle girlfriend testified? Think anyone’s reputation would take a hit?” He chuckled.
“You’d put an innocent man through a murder trial to get back at me?” I asked.
“In a New York minute, Francis. In a New York fuckin’ minute.”
Okay, here’s the truth. I know Smoochie didn’t kill Daubner. I never even considered arresting Smoochie until I saw the look on my dad’s face when he was in my office. It made me think that somehow Dad knew everything that went on in my office. If that was so, then he knew that Daubner had been blackmailing me.
Remember earlier when I said that little Mildred Goins had demanded a lawyer and wouldn’t talk to us about shooting her husband? That was true, but I was the one who put the idea in her head. I felt sorry for her and tried to cut her a break. Allison said that move would someday come back to haunt me. She had been right.
Mildred got drunk in the Starlighter Bar one night and ended up giving Daubner head. He videotaped it. But that wasn’t the only thing he got on camera from Mildred. He started squeezing me for cash about a year ago, after he gave me a copy of a tape of her telling the entire story of how I let her off the hook in the murder of her husband. “Boy, how terrible would it be for this to fall into the wrong hands?” he said. It might not have been enough evidence to get an indictment against me, but it would certainly have sunk my political aspirations.
Ohio sheriffs have access to the Furtherance of Justice Fund, which they can use at their discretion. I pretended that I was using Daubner as an informant, but the payments were actually hush money. Allison knew something was wrong, because she takes care of my books, and she could see there was more money than usual heading out of the department. She asked me about it a couple of times, and I dismissed it.
I had destroyed my copy of the videotape immediately. The reason I was so thorough in going through Daubner’s house was to find the original. I couldn’t find it.
I knew the FBI was going to show up, and if the tape was hidden in that house, I didn’t want it falling into their hands. That’s why I slipped back later that night and torched it.
