Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk

by Neal Goldstein

  Regan took a long pull on his Harp, and continued, “Then things really got weird when Izzy finds a sophisticated surveillance hook-up at the Nooris condo where Larson was murdered. Nooris and his brother were involved in the court house deal. It turns out that Nooris is a former agent for the Mosaad. Neither Izzy nor I know where that fits in yet, if at all.”

  “It turns out Homeland Security had been watching Nooris, but they won’t tell us why. We had hoped that the surveillance video of the condo would give us a break in the Larson case. As of now, the Regional Head of Homeland is claiming national security prevents him from sharing that evidence. Izzy is working his relationship with the FBI agent assigned to babysit the Homeland guy. We’ll see where that goes.”

  “Then, when we thought we had a handle on things, Vito Junior pulls his publicity stunt with the help of our friend the Mayor, trying to finger you and me and Lt. Mathais. Whatever deal Junior thought he had with the Feds blew up in his face, and he turns to us with evidence that he promised could bring us some indictments in the court house case. Someone murders Vito, the timing is too close to his coming out to be a coincidence. So now we have a potential leak in our organization to deal with as well as everything else.”

  “Dad, what was originally a probe into public corruption is now a double homicide- no, make that a triple homicide case. I forgot to mention that Megan Larson was five months pregnant when she was murdered. And by the way, our friend the Honorable Bruce Peter Gallo could be the father of Larson’s baby.”

  “So who do you like for the Larson murder?”

  “Originally we liked Dorothy Wiggins, Larson’s boss. It seems that Wiggins and Larson had more than a professional relationship, and Larson wanted to break it off,” Jack replied.

  “So?”

  “Turns out, the time we have Wiggins leaving the Nooris condo pretty much eliminates her as a suspect.”

  “Do you have any others in mind?”

  “Sure: the Nooris brothers, the Mayor. Problem is nothing seems to fit. And now we have Vito Junior’s murder to contend with.”

  “Sounds like quite a mess,” the Commissioner said.

  “I guess we’ll have to see how Vito Senior’s gambit plays out,” Jack said.

  “Looks like Liam is trying to get your attention,” his father said.

  “Jack, we need a goalie,” Liam said and waived for Jack to join him.

  Patricia Regan and Kate O’Malley emerged from the kitchen and watched their sons defend the goal.

  Later that night, after they put Liam to bed, Kate O’Malley said, “Jack your family is wonderful. Your sisters were so sweet. They’re very protective of you.”

  “Yes, Annie, Pris and Callie make a formidable front line. I knew you would charm them.”

  “And your parents could not have been more gracious. O’Malley told me I should ask you about how the son of a policeman from Manayunk and a debutant from the Main Line managed to become the ‘First Couple’ of Philadelphia. Seems almost as unlikely as a single mother from Dublin and the favored son of what O’Malley refers to as the Royal Regans of Philly can be involved.”

  “Is that what he calls us?”

  She nodded and then he told her his parents’ story.

  In the autumn of 1969, John Hogan Regan, a recent graduate of the Philadelphia Police Academy, was assigned to foot patrol in Center City. His beat covered a twelve-block area west of Broad Street and south of Market. The beat included Walnut Street from Broad to Twentieth and south to Lombard, which encompassed the exclusive Rittenhouse Square neighborhood. The rookie police officer had survived two tours as a Marine in Viet Nam. He was six foot three inches tall and a lean 225 pounds of muscle. He walked his beat with a swagger that belied his lack of experience as a law enforcement officer.

  “Remember, you’re not in ‘Nam anymore. Just because you graduated near the top of your class at the Academy you still have a lot to learn. No one gives a damn about your pedigree. Don’t be foolish.”

  “Yes, Uncle Joe,” Regan said.

  Joseph Patrick Regan, was captain of the Philadelphia Police Department’s elite Highway Patrol Division. He was the titular head of the Regan family. John Hogan Regan was the third generation of Regans to serve with Philadelphia’s Finest. John’s father had been killed while on the job when John was thirteen years old. He had decided then, much to his mother’s distress, that he would join the “family business” and honor his father’s memory.

  It was a crisp October morning. The leaves on the trees in Rittenhouse Square had exploded overnight into a brilliant array of colors. It was a far cry from the base at Khe Sanh where his unit had withstood the onslaught of the Viet Cong’s relentless attacks last fall. Had it only been a year since he came home? As Regan made his way up Walnut Street he checked himself in the window at 1901, to make sure everything was in its proper place before he strolled past the Junior League consignment shop at 1907 Walnut Street, just in case the beautiful young woman he had noticed smiling at him yesterday happened to be looking out of the window.

  Regan nonchalantly turned his head in the direction of the shop and saw a man standing at the counter with his back to the window. He immediately noticed the young woman putting something in a bag. She looked frightened. Regan placed his right hand on his police special revolver and opened the door with his left hand. As Regan entered, the man turned towards him. He was holding a gun in his hand and pointed it at Regan. The young woman screamed, distracting the armed man.

  Regan realized that if he discharged his weapon the young woman could be hit by an errant shot. He made a split second decision and lunged at the gun man. Regan knocked the man to the ground just as the weapon discharged. The bullet grazed Regan’s right shoulder. Regan knocked the gun out of the gunman’s hand with his left hand and simultaneously delivered a right to the man’s jaw, knocking him unconscious.

  “Are you allright?” he asked the young woman behind the counter.

  She nodded.

  “Please call the police dispatcher and tell them it’s an emergency.”

  Regan kicked the pistol further away from the gunman. He checked the unconscious man’s pulse, flipped him over and cuffed him.

  “You’re bleeding,” the woman said.

  Regan looked at his right shoulder where the bullet had ripped through his uniform jacket. In the adrenaline rush of the incident he hadn’t realized he had been shot.

  He smiled at the young woman and said, “Why, yes I am.”

  Regan heard the sirens of the approaching patrol cars. Within seconds three cruisers pulled up on the curb in front of the shop. Five police officers, guns in hand, ran into the store.

  Despite his protests the EMT insisted that he be transported to the hospital for treatment. He was carted off before he had an opportunity to talk to the young woman. They rushed him to the Hahnemann Hospital ER. When he got there the Mayor, the Commissioner and his Uncle Joe were waiting.

  After he had been treated he was told by the doctor to wait until the x-rays confirmed that there was no structural damage to his shoulder.

  “Thank God you’re OK. Your mother would kill me if you had been seriously hurt,” his uncle said. “The Mayor and the Commissioner want to come in and get their photo opportunity with you now. So just smile and try not to say anything stupid. I’ll call your mother.”

  Afterwards, he sat there waiting for his transport back to the District and his debriefing by his commander. He was thinking about the young woman from the Junior League consignment shop. He figured her parents would never let her return there after the incident. He probably would never get another opportunity to meet her.

  His uncle came into the treatment room and said, “There’s someone here wanted to thank you.”

  He looked up and there she was. She was even more beautiful than he remembered from their brief flirting of the previous day and the chaotic events at the shop that morning.

  “Officer, I just wanted to thank you for wh
at you did,” she said and extended her hand.

  He extended his arm and winced.

  “Oh, you’re hurt,” she said.

  “I’ll be all right, Miss…”

  “Oh, that’s right. We haven’t actually met, I’m Patty Maxwell.”

  “Miss Maxwell, I’m John Regan. No thanks are necessary. I was just doing my job.”

  An older woman came through the door and said, “Oh, there you are.”

  “Mother, this is Officer John Regan. He’s the policeman who saved my life,” Patty said.

  “Well young man, thank you. I’m sure my husband will want to add his personal thanks to you as well.”

  “You’re welcome ma’am, but as I was saying to your daughter, I was only doing my job.”

  “Well, it seems to me you did more than that. Patty, we have to go now. Your father is anxious to see you.”

  “All right, Mother. But I would like to have a word with Officer Regan. Is that OK?”

  Mrs. Maxwell gave her daughter a look and said, “All right, but please make it quick,” and left the two of them alone.

  “Officer Regan…”

  “Please call me Jack.”

  She smiled and said, “Jack, here’s my number, please call me. I’d like to see you again, when you recover from your injury.”

  Regan blushed. “That would be great.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, and walked out of the room.

  A few minutes later, Regan’s uncle walked back in the room and looked at him and sighed. “Do you know who just walked out of your room?”

  “Patty Maxwell, the girl from the consignment shop.”

  “Do you know who the Maxwells are?”

  He shook his head.

  “Mr. Robert Maxwell is the publisher of the Evening Bulletin. The Maxwell family came over on the Mayflower. Mr. Maxwell owns paper mills, a bank, you name it. His daughter is a debutant. While I’m sure the Maxwells are appreciative of your savin their daughter’s life and all, I don’t think they really want the likes of you hanging around their only daughter. Now wipe the lipstick off your cheek and while you’re at it wipe that grin off your face.”

  By the time he got home the front page of the newspaper had several columns devoted to the heroic act of bravery by the rookie police officer, and a full story about the Regan clan and their commitment to public service, including the ultimate sacrifice of John Regan’s father.

  “Katey, my parents were married within a year. It’s the stuff they make movies about.”

  PART 2.

  THE MISSION.

  TWENTY

  The Strawberry Mansion section of Philadelphia was home to a number of Philadelphia’s wealthiest families; however, that was back in the nineteenth century. It eventually became a mixed income, predominantly Jewish neighborhood. Then, since the middle of the twentieth century, the neighborhood went into economic and social decline. Strawberry Mansion is now one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Philadelphia.

  The New Age Mosque is located at 3101 Ridge Avenue, in a building that had originally housed the Shara Zedek Congregation Synagogue. The synagogue had been built circa 1928 when the neighborhood was a thriving middle class Jewish enclave where most of the inhabitants spoke Yiddish and English was their second language. When the synagogue was built its neighbors on the block included a kosher butcher shop, a clothing store, the office of The Forward, a Yiddish language newspaper and several lawyers’ and doctors’ offices.

  At present the only occupied properties on the 3100 block of Ridge Avenue, other than the mosque, were a bodega and a laundromat. All of the other buildings had been abandoned and boarded up several years ago. The former synagogue, despite the efforts of its current occupants, prominently displayed the Star of David throughout the faded decorative masonry of the building’s façade. The juxtaposition of the Crescent and Star and the Star of David should not, however, be misconstrued as a sign of ecumenical enlightenment. The brand of Islam preached at this mosque would never be characterized as tolerant of their Jewish brothers.

  Malik Ben-Ali, the Imam of the Mosque, was known for his fiery excoriations of the State of Israel and the extermination of its people. Ben-Ali had a small but devoted following among the local Muslim community. His flair for the dramatic and his Internet savvy extended his reach far beyond the boundaries of Strawberry Mansion. Ben-Ali was a YouTube sensation. He was handsome and charismatic. He boasted a following of many thousands of like-minded individuals who were dedicated to the destruction of Israel and those who supported its continued existence, including the United States.

  Ben-Ali’s website rantings also attracted the attention of Homeland Security and the FBI. His activities were likely monitored by foreign agencies, most likely the Mossad and the British MI6 among them. It was rumored that he received financial backing from the Iranians and Hamas. Ben-Ali was accompanied by bodyguards twenty-four seven. He was driven in an armor-enforced Cadillac Escalade from his home in the suburbs to the mosque and back.

  FBI Special Agent Rico Valdez, who had worked undercover at the Morales Family Bodega at 1313 Ridge Avenue, immediately noticed the man who was greeted by Ben-Ali’s principal bodyguard as someone who had not been at the mosque previously. There was something about the stranger that caught his attention. Valdez noticed the man’s slight limp as he made his way into the mosque. Valdez assumed the high speed camera that had been placed on the electric power line affixed to the mosque would provide his superiors with a clear picture of the man’s face. Facial recognition programs would reveal his identity. Valdez pulled out his cell phone and made a note of the time the stranger had entered the mosque. He ignored the drug deal that was going down on the sidewalk immediately in front of him.

  “As-salamu Alaykum,” Ben-Ali said as he kissed his visitor on both cheeks.

  “Wa ‘Alaykumo s-salam,” the visitor responded in the traditional fashion.

  “Our friend in Peshawar informed us of your arrival.”

  The visitor nodded.

  Ben-Ali suddenly felt ill at ease as the man stared at him. He found the visitor’s penetrating stare unsettling. His green eyes gave away nothing.

  The visitor leaned close to Ben-Ali and whispered, “Your mosque has been compromised. They can hear everything you say.” He held up his hand - a signal that Ben-Ali was not to respond. Ben-Ali nodded.

  “Imam, thank you for seeing me,” he said. “I send greetings from the Imam of my mosque. He has watched your webcasts with great admiration. He has sent me to watch and learn.”

  “It is my honor to be your teacher,” Ben-Ali replied. “Please, you will be my guest for dinner at my home after evening prayers.”

  They continued their innocuous conversation in this manner until the call to evening prayers. Among the small group who had assembled at the mosque for the evening prayers was a relatively new member, Abdulah Mohamed. Since he joined the mosque Mohamed had become a frequent participant at the prayer sessions and was regarded by Ben-Ali as a potential candidate who could be cultivated for more important activities. Like most of Ben-Ali’s supplicants, Mohamed was young, poor, unemployed and embittered by what he perceived to be discriminatory treatment of Muslims by the U.S. government and the mainstream citizenry.

  Mohamed was not what he appeared to be. He was an agent of Homeland Security, who had been placed at the mosque to infiltrate Ben-Ali’s organization. Mohamed immediately noticed the tall stranger with green eyes who was given a prominent place in the sanctuary. At the end of the prayer session, Mohamed positioned himself close enough to the stranger to use the button camera on his shirt to get a full face picture of the mosque’s honored guest.

  When they were seated in the back seat of his car Ben-Ali asked, “How do you know that my mosque is not secure?”

  “Imam, you have powerful enemies. The Israelis and the U.S. Intelligence agencies have you under constant surveillance. I have been advised that there is a traitor inside the mosque as
well.”

  Ben-Ali shook his head. “No. That is not possible,” he responded. “My inner circle has been with me since the beginning. New members are carefully watched before we allow them access to our more important activities. How do I know I can trust you?”

  The man smiled and pulled up his right sleeve revealing the symbol that had been tattooed on his forearm. Ben-Ali pulled up his sleeve and held his arm next to his visitor. The symbols were identical. They continued their ride in silence.

  Special Agent Valdez walked past the security guard at the Federal building at 6th and Arch Streets. His identification badge was hanging from the strap around his neck. The Task Force was working out of an office on the twelfth floor. Howard Keel, the special agent in charge of the Philadelphia office was sitting at the head of the conference table. Three of Valdez’s colleagues who worked undercover on the mosque detail were also present.

  “Were you able to get a match on the facial recognition program?” Valdez asked his boss.

  “Negative. Whoever he is he must have suspected that the mosque was hot.”

  “Damn.”

  “Rico, we’ll have to ask our friend.”

  “Boss, I already did. He told me the Imam has not shared any information about the green eyed visitor with anyone except Bahsir, his chief of security. According to our guy, Ben-Ali has been expecting the visitor, whoever he is, for some time.”

  Salvatore DePalma, a/k/a Abdulah Mohamed, entered the Homeland Security Regional Office at 16th and Callowhill Streets through the service entrance in the alley at the back of the building. DePalma’s Semetic heritage and his olive complexion supported his cover identity. He took the freight elevator to the eighth floor and walked directly into Regional Director Simon Conway’s office. Conway had authorized DePalma’s undercover assignment, and no one else in the Regional Office had been apprised.