“That works. I totally get the trust issue. We ‘locals’ always get a kick out of that since law enforcement is a lifetime commitment for most of us as well. Just a matter of perspective. There’s a few ‘bad apples’ in every police agency in this country, whether local, county, state, or fed. By the way, would this be a good time to tell you about the Top Secret and other clearances I held as a captain in the United States Marine Corps and that I still hold as a major in the Marine Corps reserves? Except now I’m just an intel wienie, not a recon ranger. Life goes on, I guess. You remember what Maverick said to Kelly McGillis’ character in Top Gun? ‘I can tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’”
“Haha. Great movie, loved the action.” She settled into her chair, taking a sip of her coffee. “Ahh. Excellent.”
“Great location, great coffee, and present company I am hoping will also turn out to be great. It’s only ten o’clock, and my day is made already.” He looked into her eyes. “I’m a big team player, Anne. Don’t mind co-investigating anything, but I really don’t have a clue what I’m stepping into yet—only that a good friend of mine was seriously hurt and nearly killed. What can you tell me?”
“Okay, and I apologize. I respect your clearances and your commitment to our country. Let me give you what we have. We received information several months ago from an anonymous source who contacted our Chicago field office. They spoke of a partial conversation they overheard in a North Side Chicago restaurant between four or five bald white men. Said they were wearing black leather jackets and had tattoos on their necks, but kept the jackets on during their meal. The men spoke of causing explosions at public buildings in Chicago and Milwaukee. Called themselves TMB.”
“Never heard of them. We definitely witnessed some of their handiwork. But how does a Milwaukee-area cemetery enter into the equation?”
“The guy reported hearing them talk about defacing headstones in a Milwaukee cemetery to make it look like cult stuff, but their main purpose was getting back at ‘the pigs, dead or alive.’ Those were the exact words, whatever and whomever they meant by that. The report mentioned nothing about causing an explosion or leaving that bogus bomb. If they had, I would have had Kevin Cleary’s butt in front of mine checking for it. Can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear about Detective Lemke. We just didn’t expect this. I’m figuring Harold Schlundt was the target since his headstone was defaced and damaged the most. Do you have any idea who he was?”
“Not yet. My follow-up is to contact his daughter out in Brookfield. I’m calling her when we’re through here to see if we can connect this.”
“I’d like to go if that’s okay. Definitely domestic terrorism related as I see it. We both know this is just the beginning of what could be a nightmare. I’ll notify Jimmy Hill I’m going with you.”
“You know he’ll go insane if he can’t be in the lead on this. He knew when he was assigned to the JTTF he wouldn’t be as busy, but wanted to make a difference in other ways.”
“Jimmy’s treated me the best of all the task force officers who work there. I love the guy—in a professional kind of way, of course.” She had to laugh, knowing that many crazy street cops were full of testosterone and aware of the endless array of connotations that might be construed with the word love.
“Okay then. Hope you’ve told his fiancé, Meg. She might have some say in the matter.”
“You know what I mean,” blushing at the thought of even opening the door for him to comment. “Have you set up a time to interview the daughter?”
“I’ll make the call right now.” Tomczyk dialed the number he had been given by Detective Roblewski.
“Hello,” an older, male voice answered.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Detective Tomczyk from the Milwaukee Police Department. I’m trying to reach Fay Pavalko concerning an investigation.”
“Oh, a detective you say?” said the man. “And what investigation would that be? Fay is my wife.”
“It has something to do with her father’s headstone at Holy Cross Cemetery.”
“Not again,” Erv Pavalko responded with genuine concern registering in his voice. “Hang on for just a minute. Fay, a Milwaukee police detective wants to talk to you.”
Again? Tomczyk appreciated the man not telling her the reason before he had a chance to speak to her. This doesn’t sound good already.
A few seconds passed, and a woman answered. “Hello, this is Fay Pavalko. Can I help you?”
Tomczyk sensed the nervousness in her voice. “Good morning, ma’am, I’m Detective Declan Tomczyk. I’m following up on a criminal damage investigation that occurred at Holy Cross Cemetery in Milwaukee. Headstones were damaged, and one belonged to a Harold Schlundt. I understand he was your father?”
“Yes, he was. This is very disturbing to me. My father died over thirty years ago. Why would someone do this to his headstone? This is the third time, and I’m at my wit’s end.”
Tomczyk’s ears perked up. “Mrs. Pavalko, this is very important. Can I come out to talk with you today?”
“Sometime this morning would be fine. I just can’t think of how or why this is happening. It makes no sense … no sense at all. Everyone knew him and liked him. He was well respected. I just don’t know how I can help you. My father worked for the Milwaukee Police Department for forty years and retired over fifty years ago.”
“He was on the Milwaukee Police Department?” Tomczyk asked with obvious surprise. The word PIG flashed into his brain in black block letters.
“Yes. He retired as a captain in 1962. He died in 1982.”
“Mrs. Pavalko, I can be there within the hour. The cemetery provided me with an address of 18710 Capone Court in Brookfield. Is that still current?”
“Yes. Will you be able to find it?”
“My closest friend is a GPS. I can find anything.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
“Fantastic, see you soon.”
Tomczyk looked over at Anne and smiled. “Perfect. She’s home and expecting us. Are you ready to go? This is getting just slightly convoluted. An investigation of defaced headstones, an attempted homicide of a detective from an explosion in a cemetery, and I’m going with an FBI agent to interview the daughter of a dead police captain who lives on Capone Court. Anything just a little ironic going on here? You okay if we take one car? I’ll drop you off when we’re done.”
“No worries. And no, nothing ironic to me.” She rolled her eyes at him while climbing into the passenger seat. “If the moon isn’t full tonight, it should be.”
Chapter 6
BROOKFIELD, WISCONSIN
It was eleven fifteen in the morning when they pulled up in front of a modest brick and beige two story house set among other larger ones. Down the block was a much older, two story brick home that looked out of place. The city of Brookfield was a large and upscale suburb located west of Milwaukee in Waukesha County. During the 1960s, as in many major cities around the country, Milwaukee suffered “white flight” and other issues, causing a sizable constriction in population. From a high of 747,000 in 1960—then widely known as a blue-collar, industrial city—Milwaukee shrunk to a population just under 600,000. Meanwhile, Brookfield and the rest of Waukesha County recorded substantial increases. Waukesha County was also known as one of the more conservative, Republican strongholds in the country, unlike the more liberal oriented Milwaukee County.
Tomczyk rang the doorbell, and an older white male in a brown flannel shirt and blue jeans greeted him. The man carried himself well for someone in his seventies. “You must be Detective Tomczyk? Come in; I’ll get my wife. Erv Pavalko,” he said, politely reaching out his right hand.
They stepped into the foyer. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pavalko. I’d like to introduce you to Special Agent Anne Dvorak from the FBI. We’re working together on this.” As he spoke, a large, brindle-colored Akita scampered down the staircase on his way to conduct his own investigation.
“Take a break, Rocky. Me
ss with these people, and they’ll be hauling you out in paw cuffs to the dog pound. That’s where you belong anyway,” he joked.
“He’s a beautiful dog, Mr. Pavalko. Helen Keller sure knew what she was doing when she brought this remarkable breed over from Japan—bear face and all.”
“So, you know the history of the breed, Detective?”
“Yes, sir. Our family had one when I was a kid. My wife and I bought a black and brindle right after we were married. Unfortunately, he developed severe problems at seven years old, and we had to put him down. Broke our hearts. Maybe one day I’ll get another.”
“Sorry to hear that. We sure love our Rocky.” He looked over at the female agent. “Glad to meet you, Special Agent Dvorak.”
“Thanks. Please, call me Anne.”
A minute later, Fay Pavalko stepped down the open staircase, grabbing on to the beautiful oak and black wrought iron railing.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Pavalko,” Tomczyk responded. “This is FBI Special Agent Anne Dvorak. We’ve already been introduced to Rocky.”
“An FBI agent! This must be important.”
“We’d like to think so.” Anne warmly shook her hand.
“Please, come into the living room and have a seat.” Fay Pavalko ushered the two law enforcement officers into a large and ornately decorated room, with a floor to ceiling stone fireplace. “Thanks for driving out here. Other than someone scaring me half to death with what is happening to my father’s gravestone, is there anything I can help you with? Pardon my manners. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water, if it’s not a problem, ma’am.”
“None at all. Would you care for some water as well, Anne?”
“Please. We enjoyed the ride out here. Have to admit, I’ve never heard of Capone Court before.”
“That goes for me too. I’ve lived in Milwaukee my whole life, except for my time at college and in the military.”
Erv interrupted. “If you don’t mind me asking, in which branch did you serve?”
“Marine Corps, sir; seven great years. I was born to be a jarhead, but complications in my life forced me to come back home.”
“Semper Fi! I served from ’53 to’76—tail end of Korea and a whole lot of Vietnam. Not a pretty ending to either story. Wars where politicians thought they were smarter than professional soldiers. Just a bad mix.”
“Can’t disagree with that. I was raised to kick ass and take names, pardon my French. My father pounded it into me.”
“I certainly could tell that. I’ll shut my mouth now, but happy birthday to you, Marine. It’s been a long and glorious road from Tun Tavern in Philadelphia to here.”
“Hoo-rah.”
Every member of the United States Marine Corps, past and present, knows November 10, 1775, as the birthdate of their proud branch of service. It is implanted into the DNA of who they are.
“Oh, boy, here we go again. All that testosterone in one room. Erv, can we get to the matter at hand and why these people are here?”
“Sorry, honey.” Erv waved off his wife’s comment. She’d heard it for their fifty-two years of marriage and never tired of ribbing him about it. “And about Capone Court,” he started, “you apparently weren’t aware that Al Capone had a house built in the 1920s just down the block. It’s that older brick house you might have seen on your way in. Capone supposedly used the property as a still, distillery, and hideout during Prohibition. At one time, this was one big chunk of land with just his house and a couple outbuildings. You could only access it from a long driveway off Brookfield Road. There’s always been a rumor of a secret tunnel between the house and the barn so the gangsters could escape if the feds came snooping. We were inside the house some years ago. There’s a terrazzo floor in one of the large rooms with rusty metal rings on the floor, supposedly to chain up the kegs of whiskey. Back then, Brookfield was a sleepy town way out in the sticks from Milwaukee and ninety miles from the rattle and hum of Chicago—a perfect getaway for the most famous gangster in the country. We’ve always been big Depression-era history buffs, so we bought a lot and built when they subdivided the land into lots. Not as big as the other houses here, but it fits our needs.”
“That is some story.” Tomczyk took a sip from the bottle of water. “Never knew Capone even lived here.”
Fay gave her husband “the eye.” “So, how can I help you with your investigation? And how can you help soothe my nerves?”
“Why don’t you start by telling us about your father, Mrs. Pavalko?” Agent Dvorak was trying her best to put the obviously distressed woman at ease so she would open up to them.
Fay sat down on the love seat next to Erv, took in a deep breath, and grabbed a piece of tissue from the pocket of her knitted sweater. “My father became a police officer for the Milwaukee Police Department in 1922 when he was twenty-two-years-old. He spent the next forty years doing what he loved most. He finally retired in 1962. Always told us it was his lifelong dream. Dad worked out of the Fifth District Police Station when it was on Third and Hadley. He was promoted to detective sometime in the late ‘20s, after being ‘lucky enough’ to have a good ranking. His favorite term was ‘lucky enough.’ ‘Lucky enough’ to make this arrest, to complete this or that investigation, to get a promotion or be assigned with certain partners. He used to drive my two brothers and me around the city, showing us different places and telling us unbelievable stories of the investigations he was ‘lucky enough’ to be involved in. Boy, did he ever love telling us about the old times. We always laughed about how those were some of our best memories with him.” She dabbed at the tears that occasionally trickled down her cheeks.
Fay opened the drawer of the antique wooden side table next to her and pulled out several items, placing them next to her on the chair. “I’ve been going to the cemetery for over thirty years, since Dad died, to talk to him and share what was going on in our lives. Strange maybe, I know, but I loved him so. Even though he worked nights and odd shifts, he spent as much time as he could with us in so many other ways. We feel so fortunate to have had a father like him. I’m sure Erv can tell you how ‘lucky enough’ he was to have a father-in-law like that.”
Tomczyk glanced over at Erv who readily nodded. “You’re right there, honey. Any man who would share his Packer season tickets with me, especially during the Vince Lombardi glory years and all those memories, will be my friend for life. That, along with so many other countless things he engaged our sons in.”
“I’m there with you, sir.” Tomczyk looked back over at Fay. “What do you have there, ma’am?”
She picked up a plastic envelope and removed a copy of a newspaper article showing a picture of three men. “When I went to the cemetery in August, a clear plastic bag containing a manila envelope with this clipping was attached to my father’s headstone. There was some disturbing, derogatory language written on the envelope, so I told the police they could keep it. I refuse to keep any memory of something like that in my home.”
“What police?” asked Tomczyk, as Fay passed the newspaper clipping over to him.
“I drove straight to the Seventh District police station when I left the cemetery and told them about it. They made copies of everything, gave me a copy of the article, and said they would have it fingerprinted. They took my fingerprints to match up since I touched everything. It was probably a dumb thing to do, but I was shocked someone would write something so vile on an envelope and attach it to my father’s headstone.” She handed Tomczyk a small, yellow Milwaukee Police Department Form PP33, property receipt, labeled with a police officer’s name and property inventory number.
“May I keep this? I want to track this down and will mail it back to you in a day or so.”
“Please do, if it will help you in some way.”
Both investigators looked closely at the August 1, 1934, issue of the Milwaukee Journal. Agent Dvorak recognized one of the men immediately. “Your father got an award from Melvin Purvis?” she blurted in dis
belief.
“Dad was always so proud of that. As I’m sure you know, Mr. Public Enemy Number One himself, John Dillinger, was committing bank robberies throughout the Midwest during 1933 and ’34. He and his gang even robbed one in Racine. They took hostages, including the bank president, and later tied them to a tree out in the country. The gang also got the jump on responding police officers, wounding one and disarming the others. The ‘Tommy Gun’ that Dillinger took from one of the Racine officers, and later autographed, is still on display at the Racine Police Department. Here’s a picture of it.” She opened the black scrapbook to the page that contained her father’s memorabilia.
“Unbelievable! But what did your Dad have to do with it since the robbery happened in Racine? Do you know who this other man is in the picture?”
“Remember when I told you he was ‘lucky enough’ for this and that? Turns out one of Dad’s informants called him the morning of the robbery and said he saw Dillinger and one of the other gang members at a hotel in downtown Milwaukee. By the time my father and his partner got there, they were gone. Some things were left behind, verifying that they had stayed there, such as the address and drawing of the inside of the bank. When Dad called Racine PD to tell them about it, Dillinger had already hit the bank and fled. The other man was ‘Big Stan,’ as Dad always called him. They were best friends and squad partners for years. I could never remember his long last name, but it started with an ‘S’ and ended with ‘ski.’ How embarrassing is that? Dad loved the guy like a brother, and I can’t even remember his last name.”
“No worries, ma’am,” said Tomczyk. “I can’t pronounce half of the names I run across.”
“Thanks for that. Dad and Stan were assigned to a small unit of Milwaukee and Racine detectives to look into other sightings of Dillinger in the area. He said they’d drive down to Chicago every week to attend meetings with the ‘Dillinger Squad’ the Chicago Police Department had formed. They’d receive updates and offer any information they had. They learned that Dillinger also spent time in Milwaukee after the Racine bank robbery. Dillinger’s girlfriend at the time was Billie Frenchette, a Menominee Indian from northern Wisconsin. They were seen in a downtown restaurant on New Year’s Day, something Frenchette verified after she was arrested and questioned. She and another woman who traveled with the Dillinger gang bought a car in Milwaukee in January, 1934. When Dillinger was arrested in Arizona later that month, Wisconsin license plates were on the car. Racine authorities were sent to Tucson to have Dillinger and the other arrested gang members brought back to Wisconsin to stand trial for the robbery, but Indiana authorities won out. You know the rest of the story. It’s been in every Dillinger movie ever made. Believe it or not, Mark Harmon even played him in a movie filmed in Milwaukee.”
Circle of Terror Page 5
