A Rose From The Executioner

by Edward Izzi

  I also did something on my own that afternoon that probably would have gotten me in trouble, had my Commander been aware of my inquiries. I called Detective Max Palanti at the Twenty-First District and asked him to meet me at a local Starbucks nearby. I asked him if there was a possibility of talking to him in confidence regarding these ‘Pedophile Priest Murders’ and the current status of this case. I mentioned my suspicions regarding his boss, Detective Sergeant Paul Russo and inquired about the possibility of tracking his whereabouts daily.

  “There’s no way you’re going to be able to ‘put a tail’ on him without his knowledge,” Palanti mentioned. “Russo is pretty well connected in the Chicago P.D., and will eventually find out about any inquiries or surveillance you may be putting on him.”

  “Doesn’t he have his own squad car which he uses on a daily basis?” I asked. “Maybe we could put a GPS tracking device on it.”

  “There already is. All the squad cars in the Twenty-First have GPS devices on them, and the desk sergeant can pretty much trace where all the police squad cars are. Besides, if Russo was going to do something unlawful, illegal, or something very stupid, he’s not going to do it using a Chicago P.D. squad car,” he reasoned.

  “So, do I have to start ‘tagging’ this guy myself?” I asked, knowing that this was really a silly question.

  “Either that or hire your own surveillance team on the ‘down low’, without the Chicago P.D. knowing about it. But even if you do, Russo is way too smart to allow himself to be followed. He looks for that shit. He’s a pretty sharp, careful guy, Phil,” the detective remarked of his boss. This conversation only left me even more frustrated.

  ”Can you at least let me know if you see or hear of anything that’s suspicious concerning Russo and his actions? I’ve got a sick feeling that Russo knows more than what he’s letting on regarding these murders,” I requested.

  “Will do, Phil,” he said. Palanti then gave me his ‘scouts honor’ that he would be discrete regarding my suspicions and our conversation.

  We began the surveillance of the former Fr. Mark Ryan, hoping that within the next several days, the ‘secret society’ would try to get to him. I also decided to spend a few nights following and putting surveillance on Russo, using my personal car, a late model blue Ford Escape. I figured Tommy and I could take turns and keep an eye on this guy, hoping we could find some clues.

  I also decided to do some digging on Sal Marrocco, the family consigliere. I researched all the police records and information that was available on him. He was a married man, with three grown college age children, and a long-time resident of Burr Ridge, Illinois. He had no priors, no violations, and no arrest record of any kind. Not even a speeding ticket.

  The only thing that was unusual about Marrocco was that he liked to accumulate a lot of parking tickets. One would think that a powerful, mobbed up guy like Marrocco, who likes to stay under the radar, could at least make sure his car was legitimately parked.

  Typical wise guy, I thought to myself. Marrocco probably thinks he’s too much of a spaccone or a big shot to feed the ‘green box’ and get a parking receipt. He probably waited until he accumulated enough of them, and then got them fixed or adjusted by whoever his police connection was in getting these parking violations abated. I decided to look up the specific details of those parking tickets, license plate numbers, addresses and dates. He had accumulated over twenty parking tickets over the last six months, some of them sporadically to different addresses downtown.

  But I thought it was unusual that six of those parking tickets were issued at the same West Division Street address. When checking the dates of those violations, I noticed something even more unusual. Those parking tickets seemed to always be issued on the third Thursday of each month. Very unusual, I thought to myself. I decided to take a ride over to the area of where the parking violations were regularly issued, around the West Division and Ashland Avenue areas.

  In looking around the area, there wasn’t anything that I thought was unusual. There was a dry cleaner on the corner, a Mexican taco joint, an auto repair shop on Ashland Avenue, a small pizzeria facing West Division and an abandoned old, brownstone church on the corner. The church had an old, very antiquated sign in front of it. “Calvary M.B. Baptist Church’ was all it said, and the church looked like it hadn’t been occupied in years. There were a few broken stained-glass windows, and one of the windows was boarded up on the side of the old, antiquated building.

  Something came over me, and I had a hunch. I knocked on a few of the neighbors surrounding the old building. One old man, who didn’t want to give me his name at first, said that he thought the building was rented out ‘once a month’, and saw various, well dressed guys going into the building.

  “Does this usually happen on the third Thursday of each month?” I asked the old man.

  “Eh…yes, I think so. Come to think of it, you’re right. The third Thursday of each month, a bunch of well-dressed guys, looks like they’re wearing tuxedos, meet there for a few hours once a month at night,” the old man recalled. He then told me his name was ‘Gus’, and said he didn’t want me ‘to write nuttin’ down.’

  “Anything else unusual, Gus?” I asked him.

  “Well, yeah, if you think this is unusual…”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s kinda’ weird. They don’t all go inside at once, ya’ know. I noticed ‘dem one night…that only one guy, well dressed, looks like he’s wearin’ a tuxedo goes, into ‘da church, and then, after a little bit, another one goes in, one at a time. They never all go in at once, ya’ know. And then after a few hours, one by one, they’s all leave,” Gus recounted, in a very thick Chicago accent.

  “Guys in tuxedos, going into the old church late at night, one at a time?” I repeated.

  “Well, yeah…I don’t know if you think that’s weird or not. But it seems like ‘des guys are very careful about how they enter and leave ‘da building,” said the old man.

  “Thanks Gus. If you think of anything else or notice anything, please give me a call,” as I gave him my card.

  I realized by looking at my calendar that we were in the second week of June, and that the third Thursday of the month was coming up next week. I noted it in my calendar that I needed to return there next week and stake this place out.

  The next evening, Tommy and I decided to do some surveillance on Detective Paul Russo. He lived in a red bricked bungalow in the Logan Square area on 3431 West Lyndale Street. I knew that just following him around wasn’t going to do us a whole lot of good or get us a significant amount of information. I realized that we needed to search his home but knew getting a search warrant from a judge would alert him to our suspicions. We needed more evidence, even if it wouldn’t be admissible on its own. We needed more information that would tie him directly to this ‘secret society’.

  We waited for him to leave his house, which was approximately 8:00 o’clock. Tommy Morton followed Russo in his unmarked car, while I broke into his house using the back door. I had one of those lock picking kits that the locksmiths use, which easily works on older and over-the-counter hardware store locks. When I got inside, I looked around his house, spending about five to ten minutes in each room, until I got to his bedroom upstairs. Going through his bedroom, I found several serrated knives in the upper left-hand drawer of his dresser. I took pictures of them on my iPhone and looked around and took some other photos of some other items which I thought were important. Remembering my conversation with ‘Gus the neighbor’ the night before, I decided to go through his wardrobe closet. There, I found all the information that I needed:

  Hanging in a Nordstrom garment bag was a black tuxedo with an attached white plastic sack. Inside the sack was a folded red cover which looked like a red, Klu-Klux-Klan mask, with holes cut out for the eyes. Upon further inspection, I found even more direct evidence: Attached to his tuxedo label, was his ‘secret society’ name tag, still pinned to his tuxedo jacket.

/>   Bingo…the Las Vegas jackpot machine was spinning triple-sevens, with all the bells and whistles going off loudly in my head.

  I took some more pictures, then decided to ‘high-tail it’ out of there before Russo returned home. I called Morton and told him of what I found. I met him at the nearby coffee shop not far away and discussed my investigation results with him.

  All we needed now was to connect him to the next, planned execution.

  ___________________________________________

  I had arrived home late that night and only had some pasta leftovers that Olivia had made over the weekend for dinner. I was literally standing in front of the microwave in my underwear when my cell phone loudly rang.

  “What’s up, stranger? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

  “Sorry…I just got home,” noticing that it was already past eleven o’clock. I was still happy to hear Olivia’s voice over the phone, even though I had some reservations.

  “Is Chicago still a safe place under your watch, Detective?” she playfully asked.

  “Well, we haven’t got our man yet if that’s what you’re referring to. Still following leads,” I replied. I decided earlier that I was not going to be very forthright with any information regarding the ‘Pedophile Priest Murders’.

  We exchanged a few pleasantries and talked about each other’s day, as I tried to leave out as much information as possible regarding the investigations. I tried to change the subject several times, talking about the day’s current events while CNN was blaring loudly in the background.

  “What’s wrong, Phil? You sound distant.”

  “Oh, nothing honey. I’m just tired. It’s been a very long day.” Olivia probably picked up on my apprehensiveness over the telephone, but she decided not to push it.

  “Are we still on for Friday night? Can I stay at your place again?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I replied, feeling as though I didn’t have any choice.

  “Great. We’ll talk before I get into town. I can’t wait to see you. Ciao!” as she blew me a kiss over the phone.

  As I ended the phone call, I realized the quandary I was in. I had to be the greatest actor in the world, hiding my feelings, my reservations, my disappointment and my anger towards Olivia. I realized that I couldn’t trust her, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue our relationship anymore. Not until I could, at the very least, get some straight answers out of her. I’ve never been an actor, and hiding my feelings has never been one of my stronger personality traits.

  Maybe after Friday night, I’ll be nominated for an Academy Award.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Last Supper

  The traffic on Grand Avenue was backed up to North Milwaukee Avenue, as I was maneuvering my squad car going west bound to Bella Luna Ristorante that Friday evening. Olivia had called me on her drive into Chicago and was running late. Rather than meeting her at my loft, we agreed to get together at the restaurant, as she had left her office in Detroit late that afternoon and was still on the road.

  I had stayed behind and worked late at the precinct. There were some additional files and paperwork that I needed to catch up on. Although it was Friday, I was in no hurry to go home, and I wasn’t that excited about getting together with Olivia. To be honest, I was very apprehensive about getting together and seeing her that evening. My emotions had run the gambit for the last couple of days, from missing her and our intense relationship, to disappointment, anger and betrayal. The possibility of her withholding information and conceivably, going behind my back and around me in these Pedophile Priest Murder investigations irritated the hell out of me.

  I found parking at the hot dog stand across the street on the corner of Grand and Noble Streets, and noticed Olivia’s white BMW with Michigan license plates, parked directly across from the restaurant. I was wearing a new Brooks Brothers dark tweed sport coat that evening, which I had picked up a few days ago after work.

  It seemed that all the stress of these homicide investigations had produced at least one good result: I had lost some weight. I was down a few sizes all the way around, and dating Olivia lately gave me a good excuse to run out and buy some better fitting, more fashionable clothing. I strolled into the checker clothed Italian restaurant, noticing Olivia sitting towards the back of the cute little ‘trattoria’. The dim lights and the soft, crooning music seemed to provide an excellent backdrop as I made my grand entrance.

  “Hey baby!” Olivia exclaimed as she got up from the table, giving me a warm, wet kiss and a long, intense hug. As I smiled and kissed her back, I could hear Frank Sinatra’s “Witchcraft” song playing softly in the background.

  How appropriate, I thought to myself.

  “It’s so nice to see you again. I love your sports coat.”

  “Thanks. Just picked it up the other day,” I replied.

  “The dark tweed looks good on you. You’re looking more and more dapper every day, Mr. Dorian,” she said, flattering me with endearing compliments.

  I didn’t know what to believe anymore. I was questioning her sincerity, her honesty and her integrity, as I was totally conflicted. There was a part of me that wanted to forget whatever I had heard or found out from the Detroit Police Department, and to just make incredible love to her right there in the middle of the restaurant.

  She was wearing a smart, dark gray Burberry jacket, with a dark red blouse, short gray skirt and black, high heeled shoes. Her wavy, curly shoulder length hair complimented soft red lipstick, as she was wearing very light makeup. Olivia had a natural beauty, as her dark olive skin made her look so much younger than her years. From a distance, she could have passed for Jennifer Lopez’s double, with her soft brown eyes and sexy smile. She looked and smelled totally amazing.

  “I missed you,” she said, as we received our wine glasses of Pinot Noir. I looked at her and smiled, as I was trying so very hard keep my disappointment and my anger under wraps.

  We continued to make small talk, as she told me her activities for the week and the various problems going on in her office. We talked about her family and her friends, as I reciprocated, trying to keep up with the conversation. She looked at me intently at times, as if she knew something was awry.

  We continued to converse as our dinner entrées arrived, and I nervously tried to keep our table discussion from lagging. I was doing my very best to keep my ill feelings under wraps, but I could tell Olivia was getting suspicious. As I was taking the last bite of my veal scaloppini, she finally confronted me:

  “Phil, you’re not yourself tonight. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, honey. Everything is fine,” I denied.

  “No, Phil. I know you a lot better than you think, and you have been very cold and distant all night. What’s going on?”

  I tried not to look up, as I knew my anger would be written all over my face.

  “Is it this investigation? Is there something going on? What’s going on with these ‘Pedophile Priest Murders?” she pressed.

  I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  “I don’t know, Olivia. Why don’t you ask Detective Palanti over at Intel? I’m sure he can give you an update,” I angrily replied.

  Olivia’s expression turned three shades of white, as she suddenly had that shocked look on her face.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were working directly with another CPD detective on these claims? Why didn’t you tell me you had hired a private investigator last week?”

  “Phil, these life insurance claims are my job. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to get in the way of your investigations. Besides, I don’t owe you any explanation regarding anything concerning my job or how I do it,” she defensively replied.

  “Really? Is that why you hired this P.I…what’s his name? Michael Lemanski? You hire a private investigator behind my back and you say nothing? Here, we have been trying to get Intel at the Twenty-First to get us information on these investigations and Palanti is feeding info to y
our guy instead. And then you say you don’t ‘owe me an explanation’?”

  My anger started to build up, and then I exploded. “You and I have gotten so close, and you stayed at my place and set up shop in my living room. You were working in my house and behind my back on this investigation, and you said absolutely nothing.”

  “I didn’t want to get in your way, Phil. And yes, I do NOT owe you an explanation!”

  “Really Olivia? You couldn’t be honest and tell me what you were up to? And besides, I asked you to come into my district office and fill out a police report on this ‘Gleason visit’ that you received at your office in Detroit. I asked you several times, and each time you made up an excuse. Why Olivia? Did you not want to go on record? Did this visit really happen? What else do you know, Olivia?” I started to press her hard, and I could tell she was getting aggravated as the steam started to come out of her eyes. Her expression was turning into total anger.

  “I owe you nothing Phillip, and yes, I really did get a visit from ‘Gleason’, and the reason I told you about it was to assist you in your investigation. I’ve told you everything, Phil. I’ve told you the truth,” she insisted, her voice starting to get louder and louder.

  “You’ve told me everything, Olivia? Really?”

  “Yes…really,” as her eyes were starting to well up.

  “Then why would you open a Comerica Bank safe deposit box on the same day as this ‘Gleason’ visit? What was so important that you had to open up a box on that day and then come to Chicago the very next day?” I was asking her hard-hitting questions, and I wasn’t holding back.

  She looked at me in total shock as she began to explode.

  “How would you know about a safe deposit box? You’ve been investigating me?” she started yelling.

  “You son-of-a-bitch! Boy, once a detective, always a fucking detective, huh, Phil? ” She started to throw her napkin on the table as she got up and grabbed her car keys and her purse.

  “What was so important that you needed a safe deposit box on that day, Olivia?” I interrogated, as though she were sitting in my holding room at the precinct and being examined by a room full of coppers.