Identity- Lost

by Pascal Marco

  “What do you mean, ‘clean up’?” Stan asked.

  “Just what I said: clean up.”

  A voice-bellowed from behind the group. “You ain’t thinking of killing them all, are you, Sal?”

  “And what the fuck do you suggest we do with them then?” Abbatti fired his answer back at Timbo Boscorelli as he approached the group huddled at the base of the monument.

  “Timbo!” Brian cried.

  “Detective Boscorelli?” gasped Stan. “You’re in on this, too?” Stan paused for a moment, his mouth agape, then continued. “I thought you always hated Pick.”

  “I do hate the skinny little prick.” Timbo turned to the silent Pick. “Don’t I, Pick?”

  Pick didn’t take his eyes off Maxine and didn’t answer the fat ex-cop.

  Abbatti spoke up. “Pick here’ll make it look like a mugging of tourists who got lost looking for the long-forgotten Confederate Mound. Except these stupid sightseers didn’t know they were in the baddest part of town—the South Side of Chicago.”

  “Pick’ll do no such thing. I give a shit about this nigger, Overstreet here, and his nigger-lovin’ wife, but we ain’t doing a thing to Stick Hanley’s kid. No fuckin’ way, Sal,” Timbo shot back. “I ain’t gonna be no part of killin’ my ex-partner’s kid. No way. No how.”

  “You forget you’re in this shit as deep as the rest of us, Timbo,” Abbatti corrected him. “You’ve been taking Pick’s money, too.”

  “So that’s it,” Brian said, nodding his head. “Cops have been taking the guns off the streets of Chicago and having Pick here pawn them down in Mexico for cash and meth. Our task force couldn’t figure out where these arms were coming from, why the flow never seemed to stop. But now it all makes sense. Bust the crooks in Chicago, confiscate their weapons, then sell them outside the country. All with the help of Chicago’s finest. Dad would roll over in his grave!”

  “Hey. Your dad was no saint, son,” Abbatti said. “And he wasn’t as sharp as everyone thought. Except you’re sharper than your old man. Aren’t you?” He got up close to Brian. “You see, if it wasn’t for your father, Pick and his gang would have been found guilty of killing Manny Fleischman. But, lucky for all of them, your old man fucked up the investigation.”

  Brian remained silent as he stared down Abbatti, eye to eye.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Stan.

  Abbatti looked at Stan. “You know very well what I’m talking about, James. He never took you back to the scene of the crime before the trial. After the attack, he had the gang’s escape route all ass backwards. He didn’t listen to you or me. Neither did this fat fuck, Timbo.” Abbatti nodded toward the big ex-detective. “Hanley and Boscorelli. The two hotshot detectives from Area 1. The dynamic fuckin’ duo never presented the notes I took at the scene of the crime at trial. I was the first officer to respond.” Abbatti turned to Brian now. “Your father looked at my notes and my sketch when he met me at the scene. I had suggested Fleischman’s body might have been dragged by the killers. He dismissed my theory. Figured I was just a rookie and what the fuck would I know. Your old man didn’t realize he fucked up until the judge brought everyone to the crime scene right during the middle of the trial. Turns out James here shows them how Fleischman was attacked north of the overpass, not south of it where we found his body. Stick’s testimony contradicted that of his eyewitness. No one speculated the old man could have had enough strength left in him to drag himself nearly fifty yards, trying to get to the payphone.” He turned back and looked at Stan once again. “Ain’t that right, James?”

  Cracking his knuckles, Stan didn’t answer, but Brian didn’t remain silent.

  “So you turn dirty, Sal, because your ego was bruised? What kind of excuse is that?”

  “Shut up, Brian. What would you know? You were never a beat cop. I busted my ass to make detectives like your old man and Boscorelli here look good. I never got the glory the homicide cops did, never got the headlines. And what about narc guys? They skim cash and drugs on nearly every bust. I figured if I couldn’t beat ‘em, I’d join ‘em. When this opportunity came along to work with Pick and make some cash, I figured what the fuck did I care if these guns ended up in Mexico. All I know is they weren’t on the streets of Chicago anymore.”

  “You’re pathetic,” Brian told him.

  “Enough of this banter. Pick,” Abbatti ordered, “you and Witherspoon take Hanley and the cab driver and dump them somewhere down in Indiana. Make sure you’re not followed. Timbo and I will take care of James and the Mrs. here—the ‘lost tourists from Arizona.’”

  “No, Sal. It stops here. Right now,” Timbo said, pulling his service revolver from under his coat.

  Startled by Timbo’s move, everyone turned their attention to him. As they did, Maxine bolted forward and karate kicked Pick in his groin with a full roundhouse move. He went down like a prizefighter before getting the ten-count. Witherspoon cracked Maxine on the back of her head with the butt of his gun. As she slumped to the ground, Stan rushed to her aid.

  During the commotion, Clayton Thomas jumped on the fallen Pick and wrestled with him, trying to pry the knife out of his hand. Clayton and Pick grappled on the wet grass as the senator struggled to get the six-inch switchblade from the wiry Pick.

  Witherspoon was raising his weapon to aim at the senator as Brian jumped on his back, knocking him to the ground. As Witherspoon went down, a weapon discharged. Simultaneously, the wrestling on the ground ceased. Clayton lay underneath Pick, staring into the cold night air, a blank look in his glassy eyes. Pick pushed himself up off of Clayton, pulling his blade from the senator’s belly as he did. Blood splashed like a park water fountain up to Pick’s elbow.

  “That’ll teach that motherfucker! Now, you’re next!” Now on his feet, Pick lunged at Stan, blade raised high above his head. Stan still knelt, cradling his unconscious wife.

  Before Stan could react, two quick gunshots echoed against the granite base of the monument. Pick’s body spun before it slumped over one of the headstones of the Union soldiers, the bloody switchblade still clenched in his hand.

  Each bullet from the retired Chicago police officer’s service revolver hit their mark squarely in the front of the ex-gangbanger’s head.

  Timbo holstered his weapon and dropped down over the senator. “Sal. Call an ambulance,” he shouted as he applied pressure to the gash in Clayton’s belly, “I can’t stop the bleeding.” Timbo shouted out again to Abbatti, “Sal, radio a bus to get in here quick!”

  When no reply came from Abbatti, Timbo looked up and saw the police commander a few feet away, lying face down on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

  CHAPTER 46

  It had been two weeks since Stan Kobe returned from his first trip to Chicago after being placed into the witness protection program over thirty years ago. His plan to bring federal conspiracy charges never needed to be leveled against Monroe “Pick” Clarke since Clarke had died at the base of the Confederate Mound in Oak Woods Cemetery from two gunshot wounds inflicted by retired Chicago Police Detective Timothy Boscorelli. Boscorelli, it was later revealed, had been working undercover for the FBI, investigating a money laundering and border smuggling operation the federal agency had suspected was operating within Chicago’s 3rd Ward and 21st Police District.

  Tyrone Witherspoon, Pick’s partner in crime for nearly thirty-five years, was charged with the murder of Prairie District Police Commander Sal Abbatti after an autopsy showed it was a bullet from Witherspoon’s gun that killed the highly decorated veteran cop. Additionally, charges of aggravated assault, kidnapping, and a variety of other felony charges, were leveled against Witherspoon and Chicago 3rd Ward Alderman, Bertrand Rhodes. The two former Oakwood Rangers gang members were awaiting separate trials.

  Shortly after, an announcement was made by the multiagency federal task force of the Arizona arrests of Pokie Turner and Bobby DeSadier. The two were charged with conspiring to transport contraband across the U.S. border. Bu
t they would not be brought to trial on those federal charges until the Gila Indian Reservation finished their own investigation against the pair. Gila Reservation Police Chief Jimmy Nejo was quoted as saying the following, during a Phoenix television news interview he had given:

  “The investigation could take many, many more months to complete due to our backload here on the reservation, and due to our woefully understaffed resources for this type of legal matter. Until then, the two will remain indefinitely in our custody.”

  Salvatore Joseph Abbatti was buried with full police department honors, which brought representatives to his funeral services from over sixty law enforcement agencies, covering a three-state region. According to the news bulletin heard over Chicago’s WGN News Radio the morning after his death, the on-scene reporter had told the listening audience the following in his live report:

  Commander Salvatore Abbatti, a thirty-year veteran of the Chicago Police Department, was killed in the line of duty during a failed mugging attempt on a group of unsuspecting, out-of-state tourists near the entrance of Oak Woods Cemetery near 67th and Ellis Avenue, where I am reporting from now. Details are sketchy, but it seems Commander Abbatti was riding in the limousine of Senator Clayton R. Thomas along with the senator. The limousine’s driver, who wishes to remain anonymous, noticed two tourists—also wishing to remain anonymous—in distress. Evidently, both Abbatti and Thomas at that point exited the vehicle and intervened on behalf of the wayward tourists, who were leaving the cemetery after having visited there. Abbatti was shot once in the chest by one of the assailants, as yet still unidentified, at point-blank range and died at the scene. Senator Thomas suffered a severe knife wound and was rushed to Providence Hospital and remains there in critical but stable condition.

  Additionally, an as-yet-still-unidentified retired Chicago police officer, providing security for the senator, was evidently trailing the senator’s limousine in an unmarked car. It was this man who shot to death the other mugger, identified by Area 1 homicide detectives as Monroe “Pick” Clarke. Clarke, a former P. Stone Rangers gang member, most recently worked in a community liaison role for the 3rd Ward Democratic Committee. Some listeners may remember Clarke as one of five defendants who were found not guilty more than thirty years ago in the murder trial of Manny Fleischman. That trial made headlines back in the mid-seventies when Clarke and his gang were accused of attacking Fleischman, the last surviving member of the infamous nineteen-nineteen Chicago Black Sox team. Ironically, the deceased Fleischman is buried in Oak Woods Cemetery, not far from where Clarke met his fate.

  This is Dean Richards reporting. Back to you in the studio.

  As Stan Kobe sat in the cool morning sun that washed the backyard patio of his Scottsdale home, he sipped hot tea and read the newspaper. He felt reborn, as if his life was his again. He felt free for the first time in three decades. His recent visit to his hometown had redeemed the spirit he held so dear travelin’ up and down the lakefront of Lake Michigan. Now, he was happy with who he was, with whom he had become—a husband, a father, a friend, a fighter for justice. That feeling of true happiness had been completely foreign to him for most of his life. Now, joy was the only word that could express how he felt.

  The Arizona Republic had been featuring a special series on the federal and state governments’ latest effort to crack down on the smuggling of guns across the U.S. border, detailing the arming of drug lords in the Mexican state of Sonora. As Stan read that day’s final installment, the piece related the story of the capture of the largest shipment of methamphetamines and guns ever seized under an initiative coordinated by local Arizona law enforcement agencies and federal authorities under the guidance of the Department of Homeland Security.

  The article quoted the Chair of the Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs thusly:

  … and thanks to the coordinated efforts of a multiagency task force spearheaded by some of Arizona’s finest law enforcers, we are stopping the flow of drugs, guns, and human contraband across our southern border.

  And, I would be remiss, I believe, if I didn’t mention that I am, as I think all Americans should be, deeply indebted to the individual efforts of my fellow Homeland Security committee member from the great state of Illinois, Senator Clayton R. Thomas, who recently personally risked his own life by nearly single-handedly thwarting a mugging attempt on two tourists to his city where, sadly, a Chicago police officer was killed. We pray for Senator Thomas’s own continued successful recovery and thank him for his indefatigable patriotism. It is this type of unselfish service in upholding the ideals of our country which makes me firmly believe will make him an outstanding candidate for the next president of the United States.

  “What you readin’, hon?” Maxine asked her husband, kissing him on the top of his head before she took a seat across from him.

  Stan smiled back at her without looking up, contentment showering his face. “Oh, just looking at the sports page,” he replied, folding the paper in two. “I see here where it looks like Paul Konerko signed a big contract extension with the Chicago White Sox. I just love to see a Scottsdale boy do good.”

  Maxine smiled. “Well, Konerko may be a ‘Scottsdale boy’ who’s done good, but I’ve got a ‘Scottsdale man’ who’s done even better.”

  Although still considered by Arizonans to be “Maricopa County’s Most Ruthless Prosecutor,” the rejuvenated Stan Kobe much rather preferred the title given him in a headline two days earlier by the Chicago Defender. The Bronzeville-based newspaper, renowned as the first, major all-black newspaper in the country, had named him to its list of the top 100 outstanding black achievers in its 100th anniversary edition. A copy of the tabloid’s front page lay on the desk in his home office, proclaiming in its headline:

  JAMES OVERSTREET SELECTED

  BRONZEVILLES’S #1 FAVORITE SON

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Although a work of fiction, the framework for the murder in the story was loosely based upon a true crime, which happened in July 1979, along the lake front in Chicago’s Burnham Park. In that case, an elderly man, riding his bicycle, was attacked by a gang of four youths. The attack, which resulted in the death of the victim, was witnessed by a boy who later came forward and testified for the prosecution. A Cook County Juvenile Court trial ensued and the attackers were found not guilty. The eyewitness was placed into protective custody and never heard from again.

  Acknowledgments

  Many people have helped me on my miraculous journey to publication and within the restraints of these pages all cannot possibly be thanked.

  To my sixth-grade writing partner, the late Danny Dietrich, who showed me not to be afraid of using my imagination.

  To my writing mentor, Deb Ledford, whose unselfish dedication to the craft, keen editing skills, industry insights, and unending patience was nothing short of inspiring.

  Virginia Nosky taught me the craft of writing and how to move story forward. Other Scottsdale Writers’ Group members Ron Barnes, Brenda Boychuk, Mary Burt, Keridwen Cornelius, Michael Greenwald, Loreen Hoover, Heidi Horchler, Leslie Kohler, BillLevy, Seth Page, and the late Terry Charuhas—each contributed in their own special way.

  Meeting retired Chicago Police Homicide Detective Andrew Abbott was one of many serendipitous events in my journey. His generous offer to consult on police procedures was a remarkably unselfish gesture as was his determination to prevent inaccuracies. A million thanks, Andy.

  My children—Regina, Dominic, Della, and Anna—have been with me for every step of my creative journey. You inspired me more than you’ll ever know. Thanks Brian Rahberger and Sean Kemp, too.

  My grandson, Jordan Rahberger, gets special mention for submitting the key idea for the book’s jacket design, expertly interpreted and executed by George Foster. Thanks, you two.

  My dear fri
ends, Terry Tinney Cipolletti and her husband, Mike, provided input on the story’s plot development. You two are the greatest. Thank you, too, Jane Vazzana.

  The following people were priceless in their own specific way: Geri Whowell, Meghan Murphy, Phil and Nora Barnicle, Deb Horne, Naomi and Bob Bajda, Eileen and Rick Hoagland, Vicky Ottenfeld, Debbie and Chuck Taylor and the very special, Deb Simanski. Thanks goes out to Skip’s Crew in Williams Bay, Wisconsin.

  Libraries were invaluable in helping me create Identity: Lost. Paula Crossman, Arabian Library, Scottsdale, Arizona, gave outstanding professional help; to Nancy Krei and her friendly staff at The Village of Fontana (Wisconsin) Public Library; and to the entire research staff at the Lake Geneva (Wisconsin) Public Library. Please support your local library.

  Other key people were Tammy Vavra at Arizona State University’s School of Law; ASU’s Gary Lowenthal, my point person as I developed the original legal structure of the novel; and Federal Public Defender Donna Elm, who unselfishly devoted many hours helping me keep the story legally on track as well as to assure its stark realism.

  To Jim Nasella, my former high school English teacher, for sparking my desire to create.

  To Mike Bobko, Tony Byrnes, Joe Danzl, Dyanne Greer, Kris Lehmann, Richard Siegel, John Tuchi, and Marilyn Lester for enthusiastic help and input. And to Ray Carl, too. Your loving support was a godsend as was support from Rees Candee.

  Sam Barone unknowingly inspired me to believe an Italian kid who’s never written fiction before could be good at it if he put his nose to the grindstone, listened to suggestions, and never gave up.

  If it weren’t for Patricia and Robert Gussin you would not be reading my words on the printed pages here today. Their belief in me has been one of the greatest gifts ever received. Thank you, Pat and Bob. Special thanks to editor, Susan Hayes.