Kindred Killers: A Stanford Carter Murder Mystery

by Gary Starta

  Johnny hated the Lamperti’s, not only because they exploited many illegal business opportunities costing Johnny Cinelli a small fortune—but because they had gone high tech and high profile. Turning the FBI’s own weaponry against them, Vito Lamperti stole surveillance devices like boom mikes to not only hear the approach of police footsteps, but to break the most cardinal and sacred rule of honor among men in organized crime, Lamperti used the equipment to spy on the competition, namely the Cinelli’s. Despite his anguish, Johnny nearly cackled recalling the time young Donnie stopped in mid sentence—sure the Lamperti’s were listening in on their poker game—to shout” “Vito you might want to try shoving that boom mike up your fat wife’s ass, I hear its capable of giving birth to another universe, all she has to do is rip a fart.” He had a brass pair, disparaging Vito’s wife like that. Nobody made fun of made men, much less their wives, no matter the bloodlines, simply because the family’s all were considered to have come from the same cloth. And despite the feuds, the ultimate goal was to bring peace among the families. The elders preached this doctrine to their children who had now become dons themselves. And despite Johnny’s urge to splatter Vito’s fat guts all over his white leather couch, Vito was really no different from him. So he used his smarts to gain an edge. It was the mark of a good businessman. Johnny had even given Vito a virtual tip of the cap in his mind; but that was before yesterday. Despite the Lamperti’s massive wealth, Johnny Cinelli was proud his family managed to make a decent profit by honoring the tried and true methodology for making a buck; buy a lucrative business and then exploit it for all it’s worth, buying favors with men in high offices to make excessive gains and then use that leverage against those very men to keep that foothold. Year after year, the Cinelli’s won the state contract to maintain and pave Massachusetts’ highways and byways. It had kept bread on the table, maybe not the kind of gourmet fare the Lamperti’s ate, but good enough to allow Donnie Cinelli to buy a new sports coupe year after year and to dress in the most impeccable high end Italian apparel. Shit, why did they want to start a blood feud? The fucks knew we’d never be able to patch this up, taking my fucking son from me like this. Why and for what purpose—especially when they already had an edge on us and we were no threat to their import business? Johnny now segued from pensive contemplation to righteous anger.

  The men around him were bracing. They inched backwards. The silence before the storm; it always happened this way. My freaking anger is so predictable.

  One of the men nearly laughed, drowning it with a phony cough. This man—the one Johnny called Bull Dog—knew the man in the chair was in for a world of pain. Johnny had figured out the red haired man’s lie. It was doubtful the Lamperti’s had ordered the hit on Donnie. And Bull Dog was just itching to take the red puppy for its last walk around the block.

  “So red man,” Johnny finally said. “You want details. You little fucking shit. How bout I let Bull Dog reenact Cruz’s death for you? Hah? You’d like that you sadistic mother fucker?”

  “Hey, hold on now,” Auerbach answered.

  “What da fuck? Hold on? We trusted your Intel at face value—and you haven’t even given us your name.”

  “My name is not important. I relayed what I heard to you—that’s all—as a favor.”

  “As a favor? And why are you such a fucking Good Samaritan?”

  “I think the Lamperti’s are scum, disrespecting family honor and all.”

  “How d’ya mean?” Johnny said, speaking patiently, yet he massaged his right fist in his left palm as he spoke.

  “I mean they chose high profile. And with all due respect, I think they baited Donnie to choose a high profile lifestyle. I think they planned this all along.”

  “So why wouldn’t they do Donnie themselves? Can you explain this to me, you red haired fuckin’ gnome? Because if you don’t give me a sound theory soon, I’m going to have Bull Dog take you for a little walk.”

  “It’s ingenious if you think about it.”

  “How dare you?” Johnny mumbled. His eyes were on the ceiling and he cupped his hands heavenward as if receiving communion.

  “No disrespect Mr. Cinelli, please forgive me,” Sid said. Bull Dog approached from behind and laid a fat hand on Sid’s right shoulder.

  “You see because they hired outside the family, they won’t ever be prosecuted for it. It’s not even a gangland style murder for Christ sakes! I mean the pussy shoots poor Donnie from behind no less, no warning, with a piss poor handgun. The cops will never see this as a mob hit.”

  “And how would you know that?” Bull Dog asked. He took his hand off Auerbach’s shoulder and Sid flinched. But Bull Dog ignored Sid and headed toward the only exit of the room. The rest of the men wore sadistic smiles on their faces as if they knew what Bull Dog’s intentions were.

  ***

  Sid sweated profusely, not only from the stale heat pent up in expansive warehouse, but also from fear. He knew the Cinelli’s would eventually question his tale. But it didn’t stop the bastards from taking out Esteban Cruz—did it? They probably marched right over to that little identity stealing shit’s house and ripped him apart without one shred of evidence that he was the one who put a bullet in Donnie Cinelli’s backside.

  He’s probably lying at the bottom of the ocean right now. Cruz was probably stuffed in a bag and weighted down. But it was not fear of dying that made Sid sweat bullets. He wanted to right a wrong before he checked out, and he was going to need to stay alive a while longer for his plan to succeed.

  Some minutes passed in silence. Johnny Cinelli had stopped talking again and his crew of three men—not counting Bull Dog—formed a full circle around Auerbach now, it was as if they were some kind of pack waiting instruction from their master. They waited casually, one arm resting on the other with no expressions on their faces as if they were sentries guarding fucking Buckingham palace. The image made Auerbach’s blood boil. The hypocritical bastards stood there high and mighty waiting to meter out what they considered justice. If only the tables could be reversed, then I would get some real justice, some real payback.

  But Sid’s anger faded and ebbed to fear again as he heard a song play over a loudspeaker. It was the Beatles song: Hey Bulldog.

  Bull Dog entered the room at a marching pace.

  One of the men whispered in Auerbach’s ear: “You know at first it seemed psychotic, but the big man liked a theme song and shit, you can’t find a better tune than this one.”

  “So what do you have to say for yourself?” Johnny said, grinning ear to ear.

  Bull Dog shirked, unsuccessfully attempting to alleviate the tightness of his collared shirt that barely contained his massive neck. He did not speak until he reached his master.

  “Got some dirt on Mr. Auerbach here. Yeah, that’s right. That’s your name, isn’t it? I remember you.”

  “Good work,” Johnny said to Bull Dog.

  “But that’s not the best part, Johnny. You see Mr. Auerbach here is a cop.”

  Johnny suddenly lost his smile and his face went beet red.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Johnny repeated this over and over. But Sid Auerbach couldn’t answer. Johnny’s hands were wrapped around his neck and he was fighting for air.

  As the assault continued, one of the men called ‘Sparks’ spoke casually to Bull Dog. “Yeah, I smelled cop all over him. So how’d you place him?” the man asked Bull Dog.

  “The Lamperti’s were not the only ones to go high tech. We kept all our enemies on file. Mr. Auerbach”—Bull Dog said as he took a piece of folded paper from his pocket—“existed as a JPEG in our digital family photo album.” He unfolded the picture he had printed and showed the photo to Sparks. “Looks like he was once a rat. Overheard one of our conversations in an alley a few years back. Him and his partner took a beating for it as you can tell.”

  The picture of Auerbach showed him with his left eye swollen nearly shut, a bloodied cheek and a nasty gash on his forehead. Another
photo showed Auerbach’s partner lying on pavement, unconscious.

  “Yeah,” Sparks said, “bastards lucky we let him live.”

  “Not really,” Bull Dog said offended as if he were talking about the big fish that got away. Meanwhile, Auerbach’s face was turning redder and loud wheezing interrupted the conversation for a second. Bull Dog paused as if enjoying Sid’s suffering, then he said, “Another cop car passed the alleyway, we had to retreat. Good thing both of them suffered memory loss or we would have had to put them down—for good. But just in case they did remember, we kept their pictures on file.”

  “What a fucking shame you had to let them live, they seem like such nice boys and all,” Sparks said, a frown setting deep lines in his face.

  Johnny felt a tap on his shoulder and finally relinquished his hold. He knew this was not the way he wanted to have Auerbach killed. It was too easy a death for the rat bastard. But after he released him, Johnny cold cocked Sid with an uppercut to his jaw. Blood drooled from Sid’s mouth.

  “Ah, bit your tongue,” Johnny quipped. “Well serves you right. You’ve got a big fat fucking mouth, Mr. Auerbach. Should have kept it shut and lived your life. But no, you had to come here and rub our noses in shit.”

  “That’s right,” Auerbach said, his voice markedly different. At first the men believed Sid was talking strangely from biting his tongue, but as he continued, they heard how closely his dialect matched their own speech patterns—especially the don who had been born in New York before moving to New England. Auerbach not only sounded like he was acting in a bad B gangster movie, his inflection matched Johnny Cinelli’s nescient discourse word for word, the verse of an unschooled barbarian tinged with Brooklynese or kind of like John Travolta’s portrayal of Vinnie Barbarino on the old sitcom, Welcome Back Kotter.

  “What a buncha tough guys. Pickin’ on an unarmed man.”

  “Hey! You fucking mocking us?” Sparks yelled.

  “No,” Johnny said, placing a hand on Spark’s shoulder, telling him to ease off. “I want to hear him admit he’s a cop for himself. Come on. Give me name, rank and serial number.”

  “One-two-three, pissin’ in a tree; four-five six, pickin’ up sticks; seven-eight-nine, gonna make ‘em whine,” Sid said, eyes glazed over.

  “What the fuck are you taking ‘bout pig?” Bull Dog screamed, leaning his face straight into Sid’s.

  Sid didn’t answer with words, he spat right in Bull Dog’s face.

  “No one talks to Rocko like dat, no fuckin’ respec’.”

  Bull Dog launched a roundhouse kick toppling Auerbach and his chair.

  Horizontal and on the floor, Auerbach pursed his lips resembling a fish, one big eye peering at them. Then he spoke.

  “You’re all gonna sleep with dem fishes. You keep it up.”

  But instead of making his captors madder, they pulled back a step to take stock. Sparks said, “This fucker ain’t got all his marbles. I think he really thinks he is somebody else.”

  “He’s still gonna end up in pieces,” Bull Dogs said. He reached down and lifted Auerbach up with one hand. Both men sported red faces.

  Johnny asked. “Now tell us why you baited us, why’d you make us kill the wrong man?”

  Auerbach’s eyes rolled in his head and he laughed drunkenly. Bull Dog dropped him and he fell like a marionette back onto the floor.

  “How’s it feel? You frickin’ killed a man—without hiding behind your fuckin’ honor. You see Rocko knows all about the family ways. It’s all about code and tradition. You only raise a hand to those who threaten the family. And now you muddied your pious Catholic boy’s hands. Ain’t I right? Killing that poor innocent Spic.”

  “He was no more innocent than you, Mr. Auerbach,” Johnny said.

  But Auerbach persisted with his argument as if he didn’t hear Johnny. “I know you guys can only make it right with your God because you waste people who willfully and intentionally fuck with you or loved ones. Therefore, killing Cruz, a miserable petty thief, has to be a jolt to your consciences. I can understand, because you see Rocko walked the same path. He went to CCD classes. Even sung in the church choir.” He laughed again, a chortling sound, baiting and gleeful at the same time. “I know you fuckin’ pussies did. You were all mama boys once upon a time. But look at you’s now.”

  “Are you getting this?” Johnny said to Bull Dog. “The fucker is talking in the third person.”

  He nodded and tapped his coat pocket. “Yeah the tape’s runnin’.”

  “Good,” Johnny said. “Cause no one’s ever gonna believe this.”

  Auerbach’s rambling continued. “Tryin’ to live the culture, but you got no idea what it is. You fuckin’ mama boys never been to the homeland, am I right? You all think you’re European, but to me you’re just peons.”

  Bull Dog hissed. “Shut up.” He kicked Auerbach/Rocko in the shins.

  “Fuck you, you fuckin’ fuck,” Auerbach/Rocko said.

  “Wait a minute, Johnny,” Sparks said. “I know who’s going to believe this. The cops will, they’ll have to. One of their own gone over the edge; this is beautiful when you think about it. We’ll give them a tape.”

  But Johnny Cinelli’s eyes weren’t filled with wonder; they had absorbed the bizarre display before them. Johnny sighed before speaking. “You know you got a point, Sparks. We’ll make a nice tape for his employers. They’ll shit when they find this bastard whacked Donnie. But don’t get me wrong,” Johnny said, “He won’t live to be tried. He’ll be in fuckin’ pieces.” A rekindled light of hate sparked in Johnny’s eyes.

  “You know Donnie ain’t the only guy I killed,” Auerbach/Rocko said.

  “I took out an adulterer and a dancin’ whore on my way. And what a time I had. The fuckin’ cops were left scratching their collective heads, no forensic clues to place their prime suspect—a man I used to call a friend. But hey, who better than a cop to leave a crime scene spotless?” Sid’s neck lolled and for a minute he looked as if he was going to pass out. Sparks smacked him across the face. “Oh,” Auerbach/Rocko said. “Police brutality, I used to pine for it. To get back at all those scumbags like Esteban Cruz who fucked with people’s lives. I guess he sure got his.”

  “Why?” Johnny asked. “Why didn’t you just prosecute that little bastard instead of taking my poor Donnie’s life?”

  “Because he never would have done jail time. You know it. I know it. You think I was going to let some lawyer get the little bastard off. Then you don’t know Rocko. Rocko is a man of honor, of justice.” He spat out some blood. “And best of all you made me; you let me out of my prison.”

  “What the fuck is he talking about?” Johnny said to Sparks.

  “I think he means Bull Dog beat it out of him boss, turned him into this Rocko character.”

  Bull Dog showed the picture to Johnny.

  “Shit,” Johnny said. “The fucker was out for revenge . . . on us.”

  “Yeah, and I think I got it too. You see I also put your precious Donnie on my list of scumbags as well. I knew his routine. He was an easy target.

  But it never would have happened if I didn’t start experiencing some dreams. You know, for a while, after the fucking beating you gave me, I didn’t think I would dream again. But a few weeks back, I started seeing faces.” He spat out some blood. “I saw your face. I saw you fuckin’ takin’ a picture of me, bloodied on the pavement.” He looked at Bull Dog. “You took away my fuckin’ life, not to mention my partner’s. He’s living out his life on disability, confined to a wheelchair. That night in the alley, you fuckin’ murdered both of us. So when I finally began to place the faces, I began to remember details. I remember overhearing one of you accept a hit to kill the governor’s wife. The governor himself would pay you to do it. This was one helluva break. Me and my rookie partner overhearing some shit like that—we were gonna be heroes—and if you hadn’t beaten me senseless I might have remembered why you did this to me. But I lived in agony for years without a clue as to
why I had been beaten. And all through this, a voice inside me struggled to surface, a voice began telling me to get some justice before it was too late, and my other half foolishly blinded by police protocol and moral righteousness fought this voice, pushing it down, down fuckin’ down, with drinking . . . telling me to let the courts handle it, but then I heard another voice—a disillusioned voice like my own—reaching out to me, surreptitiously pleading with me to do its bidding. And I eventually gave this other voice power, to give in to its subliminal suggestions and now—hallelujah! Praise the Lord—Rocko lives and he’s fuckin’ alive and well in Bean town, and he’s gotta score to settle!”

  “You’ve friggin’ put yourself on a platter to us, my friend. I hope my son’s death was worth all this to you because your justice is gonna lead to your crucifixion,” Johnny said, panting, a tear sliding out of his right eye.

  “No,” the red haired man said. “Not yet. Not until I give you the other voice. The other one who sent me here—the one who left me no choice but to kill your son—then you can put me out of my fuckin’ misery.”

  Chapter 21

  Jill Seacrest and Stanford Carter stood in the hallway, speaking in whispers. For Carter, the afternoon had flown by. He was aware a dangerous hour was at hand—the hour when he and Jill would face a van full of shooters in a dark Boston parking lot. Every time Carter glanced at a clock, another twenty minutes had ticked by; it was as if time couldn’t wait to put them in harm’s way fast enough. For this reason, Carter wanted to make sure Jill not only understood his game plan but also understood his intentions. In no way was she to deviate from his instructions. He was well aware that this may be their final assignment together. His moment of clarity, the moment of Zen he had felt when he rammed into Jay Fishburne’s car was prominent in his mind. It reminded him of a message, of his last chance to save Jill. It burned vividly in his mind; the flashing neon signs, the young couple walking across the street, seemingly unaware of the impending danger, the moment when he believed Jay Fishburne had raised a weapon toward Jill. If his interpretation of the moment was correct, his last chance to save Jill may have been when he incorrectly believed Jay Fishburne was going to shoot her. Had he wasted his last chance to save her then? If so, he might not have any power to help Jill now. Therefore, it was imperative in the detective’s mind, that he keep Jill shielded as much as possible. The pair would literally be setting themselves up as ducks in a shooting gallery. His friend Caitlin Diggs had given him some details of her psychic dream vision. It had ended without a conclusion. She had seen a van pull up to the back entrance of Brian’s Bar. Shooting began and from there, one could only guess. Carter could only conclude the worst scenario. The van’s doors would open up, a blazing assault would begin, and it was going to be very doubtful trained mobsters were going to miss their intended target or refrain from causing any collateral damage.