Unpunished

by William Peter Grasso

  “I don’t know, Ally. We both live very busy lives in different cities.”

  “If I can get Professor Gelardi to agree, could I interview the two of you together…maybe even on the air?”

  Pola considered that for a moment before nodding in agreement. “Yes, Ally, I’d be very happy to do that. Very happy, indeed.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Clouds of soot belched from the smokestacks of Pittsburgh’s steel mills, darkening the dull daytime sky. Max Pilcher stood at his office window and searched in vain for a ray of sunlight, but none leaked through to lift his spirits. There was nothing uplifting in the news Tad Matthews had just delivered in person, either.

  “So this Swedish woman in New York,” Max said. “She’s still alive?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” Tad Matthews replied.

  Max muttered to himself, mimicking Tad’s words with exaggerated, lispy inflection: I’m afraid so, sir…I’m afraid so.

  After a frustrated pause, Max said, “This was all 16 years ago. Isn’t there some statute of limitations in Sweden?”

  “Yes, sir…but it’s 25 years for murder.”

  The sky outside the window only seemed to be getting darker. “Shit,” Max said. “So what do we do if the Swedes indict?”

  “We ignore it.”

  “Excuse me? Ignore it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Matthews said, his eyes scanning an open file folder. “There is no extradition treaty in force between the US and Sweden…probably won’t be one for years. They can’t touch him, even if they could manage to cobble together an indictment. Of course, there is another possibility to consider.”

  “And that is?”

  “If Leonard was suspected of a crime while in uniform, it could be argued that American military law applies to internees, and there is no statute of limitations on murder in the UCMJ.”

  “What the fuck is the UCMJ?”

  “The Uniform Code of Military Justice…the law of the armed forces.”

  That stunned Max Pilcher. Suddenly, he seemed more than an older man—he had become an aged man, bewildered and unsteady. He seemed lost as he tottered to his desk and dropped awkwardly into his chair. After a moment, the aged man reverted to the powerful older man Tad Matthews had always known. The look of bewilderment had vanished.

  “You mean the Army would try to court martial my son?” the elder Pilcher asked.

  Tad replied, “Yes…and the penalty could be death.”

  The roar of laughter that escaped from Max Pilcher was something Tad Matthews had never heard from any human being before. It was not an expression of mirth; it was a sonic assault, an acoustic threat. The laughter subsided quickly. The malevolent atmosphere it created did not.

  “The Army will do no such thing, not to my boy,” Max Pilcher said with absolute certainty. “Let’s get back to the question of a Swedish indictment. We should just ignore it, you say? And then we go into a presidential election with a candidate under indictment for murder in a foreign country?”

  “That’s right, sir. It hasn’t mattered so far…the polls in Wisconsin show it.”

  Tad could feel the explosion coming. He could not imagine what he had done to provoke it; he had said nothing but the truth. He braced himself as Max Pilcher’s verbal onslaught began.

  “SURE! AND ALL THAT HAPPENS IS I’M OUT THE ONE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS IN BUSINESS I DO WITH THE SWEDES EVERY GODDAMN YEAR! DID YOU THINK OF THAT POSSIBILITY?”

  The force of those words rolled over Tad like a shock wave, pinning him to his chair. His voice strained as he tried to offer a defense. “But surely, sir, with Leonard in the White House, we can easily make up the lost business…”

  Tad had to duck quickly to dodge the heavy paperweight Max Pilcher flung at him. It barely missed his head, then dropped to the carpeted floor beyond and rolled a few turns with a muted thump…thump…thump—like a severed head bouncing from the guillotine—before coming to a stop. He almost wished the paperweight had done him in. The physical blow might have provided welcome relief from Max Pilcher’s tirade, which was obviously not finished.

  “IS THAT SO? I DON’T NEED BUSINESS ADVICE FROM SOME FAGGOT LAWYER! NOW GET OUT OF MY SIGHT…AND GET YOUR CANDY ASS BACK TO WISCONSIN AND DO YOUR DAMN JOB!”

  Tad Matthews was too mortified to utter a word as he fled the office.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  The cab ride from lower Manhattan to midtown was taking forever in the thick midday traffic. I could have walked faster than this, Allegra thought while fuming in the cab’s back seat. Who am I kidding? I should be running!

  At 50th Street and Madison Avenue, seven blocks from her destination, she could take no more. “Let me out here,” she said to the cabbie, throwing a five-dollar bill into the front seat for the $1.30 fare. “Keep the change.”

  Before the cabbie could offer a word of thanks, Allegra was barreling up Madison Avenue on foot. Shit! I just gave away my lunch money! But hey…if this meeting goes as it should, this girl won’t be eating lunch at the Automat ever again.

  Once inside the network building, she made a quick stop at the ladies’ room to freshen up. Then she barged right past the producer’s secretary, straight into his office. Breathlessly, she said, “Sid, I’ve got the scoop on the Swedish national. I just interviewed her.”

  He sat, saying nothing, arms tightly folded, his look of annoyance made more ominous by the clouds of cigarette smoke that floated before it every time he exhaled. She tried to catch her breath, waiting for his disapproving glare to crack into a smile of approval. That smile never came.

  “I told you, Ally…you’re off the Pilcher story.”

  “Didn’t you hear me, Sid? This is the scoop that’s going to blow Pilcher right off the map!”

  Scowling, Sid shook his head dismissively. “Are you sure about that? Did you bother to do any background on this woman?”

  “Not yet, but I can tell you she’s the real thing.”

  “Let me guess…some broad with a Swedish accent feeds you a line of bullshit and you swallow it whole?”

  “Actually, boss, she speaks with a Scottish accent.” Instantly, she felt foolish to have offered more ammunition for his suspicions.

  Sid threw up his hands in exasperation. “Ahh, for crying out loud! Now I’m telling you for the last time, Ally…touch this story again and you’re canned. Fired. Terminated. Understood?”

  “YOU DON’T EVEN WANT TO HEAR IT? THIS’LL WIN THE GODDAMN PULITZER, SID!”

  “Keep your voice down, lady. And no…I don’t want to hear it. Not from you.”

  That was Allegra Wise’s breaking point. All the years of being disrespected, passed over, and shunted to scut work coalesced and erupted into a display of defiance and determination that surprised even her.

  “Then fuck you, Sid. I’ll just take it someplace else. Any network would kill to put this on the air.”

  She turned to storm out of the office but collided with a well-dressed older man who had just entered. She recognized him instantly; the likeness to the portrait in the building’s entry hall was unmistakable. He was so much shorter than she imagined; Allegra found herself staring down into the inquisitive eyes of the chairman and president of the network, T. Homer Paulsen.

  Standing by Mr. Paulsen’s side was Wally, the most trusted man in America, happily puffing on his ever-present pipe.

  “Any network would kill to put what on the air, my dear?” Mr. Paulsen asked.

  Sid stepped from behind his desk. “This isn’t worth your time, Mr. Paulsen. I was just…”

  A glare from T. Homer Paulsen was all it took to silence Sid.

  “No, I think I’d be very interested to hear this young lady’s story,” Mr. Paulsen said. “As will you, Sidney.”

  Mr. Paulsen held a chair for Allegra. “Have a seat, miss…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  Before the astonished Allegra could say a word, Wally provided the introduction. “Homer, I’d like you to m
eet Allegra Wise, one of the brighter lights in our newsroom.”

  “Shut the door, Sidney,” Mr. Paulsen said as he and Wally settled onto the plush sofa. “Now, my dear Allegra…tell us exactly how we’re going to win this Pulitzer.”

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  They thought they would never make it to the surface.

  Escaping from an airplane that had crashed in deep water and was rapidly sinking took every ounce of your mental and physical abilities. Although the adrenaline had made their minds razor sharp, Fred O’Hara and Lou DiNapoli were both badly injured. Fred’s leg, braced for the plane’s impact with the water, had its shinbone fractured when that impact crushed the plane’s nose. Lou’s hands and face were burned from his struggle with the thermite fire and severed control cables.

  They were not sure exactly how they escaped the broken, submerged airplane. At first, they only remembered the searing pain in their lungs as they struggled upward from some murky depth for what seemed like an eternity. Once they broke the surface and took that first sweet gulp of air, the pain of their injuries returned and took center stage. In a few moments, that stage would be shared with the imminent prospect of death by exposure in the frigid water. Miraculously, a nearby Coast Guard vessel had heard Fred’s SOS.

  Now, a day later, they rested in a Connecticut hospital room. Two of Lou’s men had driven up from the Bronx and stood guard in the hallway. Fred was in traction for his broken leg. Lou’s hands were swathed in bandages, his face badly blistered. The reason for the doomed flight to Massachusetts dominated their thoughts.

  Fred O’Hara dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle. From his chair by the window, Lou asked him, “So what did Joey the Professor have to say?”

  “He said he’s on his way. Should be here in about four or five hours.”

  Lou pondered those words for a moment, then rose from his chair. “I can’t wait that fucking long, brother.”

  “Where’re you going, Louie? What’s the big rush?”

  Fred had never before seen the look that came into his friend’s eyes, not even when they had stared down the muzzle of some German’s submachine gun. Usually sparkling and impish, they were now narrowed and lifeless. Like snake eyes, Fred thought. His facial burns made the look all the more sinister.

  The coldness in Lou’s voice was startling, too. “Unless you’ve got some more enemies you’re not telling me about, that son-of-a-bitch Pilcher just tried to kill you. How he got at your airplane beats the shit out of me…but he almost got me, too, so now I’ve got a score to settle…and I ain’t waiting no sixteen fucking years to do it, Freddy.” Pointing to the huge bodyguard in the doorway, Lou said, “Tiny’ll stay with you until your people get here. And Freddy…tell Joey I’m sorry I couldn’t hang around for him.”

  Lou summoned the other bodyguard. “Ralphie, help me get dressed. We’re getting out of here.”

  The phone call from Fred O’Hara had badly shaken Joe Gelardi. Just hearing from his old war buddy, whom he had not spoken to since that fateful day in the skies over Germany, was startling enough. To find out that Fred—and by coincidence, Lou DiNapoli—had nearly died while traveling to talk with him about a matter that could not be discussed over the phone had Joe in his car and driving toward Connecticut within an hour.

  Now, standing beside Fred’s hospital bed, their conversation flowed easily. They still felt the strong bond of warriors, even after all the years. Joe pointed to the adjacent, empty bed and asked, “Where’s Louie?”

  “I’m not real sure,” Fred replied. “He left this morning…just checked himself out, third-degree burns to the hands and all.” His voice dropped. “Just between you, me, and the lamppost, though, I know what he’s doing.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “He’s going to pay a little visit to our mutual friend, Congressman Pilcher.”

  Joe did not get the implied threat in those words. Puzzled, he asked, “Little visit? What on earth for?”

  Fred found Joe’s bewilderment amusing. He made a hand motion like an airplane diving straight down, then pointed to his leg, hanging in its traction device. “Who do you think did this, Joey?”

  “Wait a minute…if Pilcher did that to you and your plane, can’t you go to the police? The federal authorities?”

  Fred found that amusing, too. “They ain’t on our side, Joey.”

  Joe’s mind flashed back to the encounter at his home with the state police. Detective McGinty’s words rang in his head: You know, Doctor…if you really care about your little girl…you should think about keeping a real low profile for a while. Maybe running your mouth to reporters ain’t such a hot idea, is it?

  From that moment on, Joe Gelardi was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt. There could only be one person behind all this deadly mayhem: Leonard Pilcher. And Leonard Pilcher must be stopped. By any means possible.

  And if IBM doesn’t like it, the hell with them.

  “Yeah…I’ll bet you’re right, Freddy, I’ll bet you’re right,” Joe said, then paused to bask for a moment in the exhilaration his newfound wisdom brought. An awkward silence ensued; Joe clumsily sought to fill it by asking, “What kind of business did you say Louie was in?”

  “I didn’t…but you know what a cop is, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s just say he’s the opposite, Joey.”

  There was another awkward silence as those words sank into Joe’s mind. Fred finally broke it by addressing the bodyguard at the door. “Hey, Tiny…give us a minute, will you?”

  With Tiny gone, Fred asked, “So tell me, Joey…how did Davey Linker really die?”

  Joe was surprised at the sweet relief that began to flow through his body, for the time had finally come to unburden his soul of the awful secret. He pulled up a chair and started to tell Fred O’Hara the story of what happened in Sweden.

  An hour later, after the telling was done, Fred looked relieved, too. He nodded with satisfaction as he said, “Guess I had that lousy son-of-a-bitch Pilcher figured out all along. You know he tried to put a hit on Tony Moscone, too? Got some lowlife dirty cops to try and do him in.”

  “No…I didn’t know that, Fred. Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. Louie’s got him covered. He even set him up in a TV and radio repair shop up in the Bronx, real close, so he can keep right on covering him.” Fred scribbled something on the notepad by his side. He tore off the page and handed it to Joe. “You’re going to be in New York City, right? Look Tony up…there’s the address of his shop. He’d love to see you.”

  As Joe rose to leave, Fred snapped a crisp, military salute and said, “You watch out for yourself now, Joey. Do you and that lady friend of yours need some help from Louie, too?”

  “No, I think we’ve got it covered,” Joe replied, proudly returning the salute.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  She was not listening to the crooner on the morning wake-up radio show lamenting his lost love. Clad only in bra and panties, Allegra Wise was too busy rummaging through her bedroom closet, searching for just the right outfit for today’s important business. Nervously, she selected—then rejected—one suit or dress after another.

  Finally, she came to the sky blue suit. The plain white blouse she usually wore with it hung alongside. She lifted the garments from the closet rod and laid them on the bed.

  I always thought this get-up made me look like a stewardess...But maybe that’s not such a bad thing today. Men always cotton up to stews right away…It’s that perception of the easy lay.

  Quickly, she struggled into the girdle, slid into stockings, donned the white blouse, and slipped into the tight skirt. She stood before the full-length mirror as she pulled on the jacket and stepped into smart black pumps. As she pivoted back and forth for the quarter and side views, she was not unhappy with what she saw.

  All I need now is a set of wings and a matching cap…I could be flying for Pan Am.

  Allegra made her way to the
kitchen, shut off the stove burner beneath the chattering percolator, and poured herself a steaming cup of coffee. As she sipped it, the music on the wake-up radio show ended. It was time for the morning news; a male voice boomed from the speaker:

  Tomorrow’s Wisconsin Primary is shaping up as a showdown between Vice President Nixon and Congressman Leonard Pilcher. A victory for Mr. Pilcher could make him unstoppable in his bid for the Republican nomination…

  Allegra clicked off the radio. “Unstoppable, my sweet ass,” she muttered. She sorted the stacks of handwritten pages from yellow legal pads scattered across the kitchen table. Most of the pages were transcriptions of previous interviews. She sorted them into piles bound with paper clips, their top pages labeled in bold letters MATTHEWS, MOSCONE, O’HARA, and MACLEISH. The files were then placed into a folder labeled PILCHER/WWII.

  The yellow pages that remained on the table were a fresh list of interview questions. She shuffled through the pages, stopping to cross out something here or add something there, until her furrowed brow relaxed and a contented smile crossed her face. She savored the sweetness this day had finally brought. The top page of this last pile was labeled GELARDI. Joe Gelardi had—at long last—agreed to be interviewed about that murder in Sweden.

  What a difference a day can make, Allegra thought, as she clipped the pages of questions for the Gelardi interview together. Here I was, calling his office, calling his home…and he’s never there. I’m thinking the guy’s ducking me…and out of the blue, he calls me! From just up the road in Connecticut, yet! Tells me he’s on his way to Manhattan…and now he wants to talk. What changed his mind? His lady friend, I’ll bet…Doctor Pola Nilsson-MacLeish.

  The radio announcer reported the time. Allegra checked her wristwatch against the radio time and her kitchen clock. All were in agreement: 8:05 a.m. In one hour and fifty-five minutes, she would meet with Joe Gelardi at CBS headquarters in midtown Manhattan. Pola MacLeish would be there, too. With her bodyguard, Mr. Happy Hands, no doubt.