Wiseguys in the Woods

by John P. M. Wappett

  After a few minutes of silence, they returned to their earlier topic.

  Peter said. “Let’s take a step back, for a moment. Am I the only one bothered by the fact that there have been three major incidents in this backwater community in the past few weeks, and this guy, Sica, has some involvement in all of them? Why is that and who the hell is this guy really?”

  Abe said, “First thing we do is get a photo of him today and start showing it to the people at the nightclub.”

  “And to Dep. Dawson,” added Tanner Saint.

  “Don’t forget to get a copy to my Colonie P. D. buddies, so we can determine whether he is the ‘goombah’ they have been hearing about.”

  “We’ve arranged to have the Immigration and Naturalization Service take a look at his green card and see if they can get a handle on how and when he entered the country. That might give us something.”

  “Good idea. What about his car? Didn’t he have one at the store?”

  “Comes back to a woman in Menands, a Wanda Huff, I asked Colonie P.D. to check her out” reported Abe. When I ran a File 15 criminal history on Bruno Sica, using the DOB on his driver’s license I was alerted that an Investigator Mike Connolly, from State Police Special Investigations Unit wants to hear from anyone who has reason to run him. Connolly and I will hook up later this afternoon.”

  “Why would SIU have interest in him? I thought they did, well, Special Investigations?”

  “They do, but Connolly did not want to discuss it over the phone.”

  They were still far enough north of Albany that the countryside passing by the car window next to Peter was largely uninhabited. Looking out the side window of the car, Peter glanced about aimlessly for a time, but eventually focused on the one part of the country scenery that was always visible, though rarely noticed by anyone but Peter, who never failed to feel saddened by it.

  Every so often, most noticeably in the open fields and meadows, there appeared one or two sun-bleached skeletons of trees, each standing pathetically amongst a scattering of its own lost limbs lying haphazardly on the ground at the tree’s base. Above the main trunk, the leafless main branches flowing upward like a half-opened ladies’ fan identified the species of tree for Peter. The American elm is, when in full bloom, an imposing and majestic tree.

  Peter had learned, as a child, to identify a number of trees from his father, from among the wide variety growing on the property behind his parents’ motel. It was from his dad that Peter first learned the sad plight of this beautiful tree. The elm had grown unrestrained throughout the Northeast, frequently being the one tree left uncut as early landowners cleared forests for farming, housing or for lumber. Even today, there are some elms flourishing just as they had since before the American Revolution.

  This all began to change when the Dutch Elm blight was brought to this continent from Europe. The name was not a reflection of the country of origin, but referred to the Dutch women who first researched the disease on the elm trees. Long before this country had any sort of environmental awareness, there were no controls, or inspections to protect from this sort of infestation. Carried around by bark beetles that infested trees already infected and dying, the blight had spread slowly, but inexorably. Even in open fields, it could eventually reach and kill the American elm, although a few seemed to have avoided or survived it.

  Peter could not explain, even to himself, why this story had stayed with him for so long. In The Lord of the Rings, a set of books that Peter had read several times and now hoped to be able to read to his children, there were magical trees called Ents that talked and walked about and cared for the other less magical trees. Peter had always pictured the Ents as being elms. The Ents, too, had been doomed.

  The three arrived at Albany Medical Center just after 10 A.M., and went up to Sica’s room in the step-down ward, where he had been transferred when released from Intensive Care. Before they entered his room, it was agreed that they would not mention Sica’s visit to the storefront where “Wally” had been found, and they would not let on that they believed him to be the nightclub shooter.

  Sica was sitting up in bed, his shoulder heavily bandaged and in a sling. His complexion was grayish beneath the bandages wrapped around his head and his expression as we watched the three enter his room, clearly communicated that he was unimpressed. Peter stayed back next to the door, to let Abe and Tanner do the interview.

  “Mr. Sica, my name is Investigator Abe Dorn. I am with the New York State Police. This is Investigator Tanner Saint, from the Warren County Sheriff’s Department and behind us is Assistant District Attorney Peter Drake, also from Warren County. How are you feeling today?”

  The disdainful expression did not change, as Sica silently shrugged his shoulders.

  “We came down from Warren County to ask you a few questions about the incident at the wine store where you were shot. Would that be alright?”

  The same shrug was now accompanied by a single word. “Attorney.”

  This took Abe aback for a moment, then he resumed, “Mr. Sica. You are not under arrest or being held in custody for any reason. We are just trying to interview witnesses, so that we can understand what happened that afternoon.”

  “Attorney.”

  “Please understand, sir, that we don’t think you did anything wrong when you shot back during the robbery. That is called self-defense.”

  “A-ttor-e-ney!”

  And before Abe could click his camera, Sica had thrown the bedcovers over his had and flopped back into his pillows.

  “Well that was illuminating” observed Peter as they walked across the parking lot back to their car.

  “If he is the guy that shot up the nightclub, he might think we were playing him,” said Abe as he unlocked the doors and climbed in. “It all went south so fast that I wasn’t able to get a photograph of him before he pulled the covers over his head. We did take a picture of him before the ambulance took him, but it isn’t the best. ”

  Tanner shook his head. “I don’t know. That seems to be a bit of a stretch, that he would be so concerned over shooting a gun up into the ceiling. I wonder if it has anything to do with SIU’s interest in him.”

  Since they were already in the Albany area, it was decided that they would stop at a pay phone and call Investigator Mike Connolly. Perhaps they could swing by the NYSP headquarters on the State Office campus, where SIU was located. Inv. Connolly agreed to meet with them and to put on a fresh pot of coffee.

  Investigator Mike Connolly greeted them at the security desk just inside the entrance, and led them down a few hallways to an area near the rear of the building. He introduced his partner, Investigator Guy Lorenz, and the group took seats around a large conference table. Peter had taken those moments to observe the two and to try and get a feel for them. Mike was clearly the senior and while nondescript in height or build, Peter saw something in Mike’s eyes that suggested some serious experience. Guy was clearly the younger protégé, who revered his mentor. Guy was quiet, but thoughtful, and seemed to Peter to be very bright.

  Peter was careful not to take an end seat. Even without knowing the topic of this conference, he knew how rare it was for a prosecutor to be allowed such direct access to a sensitive, in-process investigation. Cops wanted to have the option to edit what was told to the prosecutor, in case there was discussion of less-than-fully-acceptable tactics. There was also the small matter of the visceral distrust that police felt for lawyers in general.

  “After Abe called, I had to run upstairs to get clearance to brief you in detail about this investigation”, indicating Tanner and Peter. “It turns out you are pretty well known and trusted around here, Peter.”

  “For a lawyer, anyway” smiled Peter in reply, appreciating the compliment. “So why are you guys so interested in our gun-toting Italian gentleman, Bruno Sica?”

  “SIU has been working with the Organized Crime Task Force on an investigation for several years of Greek and Italian organized crime in the Capital
Region, including a major three-day meeting that we surveilled at the Princess Georgiana hotel in Lake George Village that took place last summer. At that meeting, we identified a number of major figures from crime families of Montreal, New York, Springfield, Massachusetts and Rhode Island.

  One fellow in particular, caught our attention, in part, because we did not recognize him. He was clearly a man of power and importance, given the deference he was being shown, even by the heads of families. We originally thought that he was Carmine Manzini, a capo of the Springfield Scibelli crime family. Some months later, however, there was a court appearance for Carmine Manzini in federal court in Springfield, Mass. Guy went to watch the proceedings and learned that Carmine Manzini was a different person, although the resemblance is uncanny. After we ran down some leads, we were able to ID our guy as Bruno Sica. I assume that this is your guy”, he said as he slid a photo across the table toward Tanner Saint and the others.

  “That’s our boy, all right. And this takes care of the problem we had in trying to get a picture of him to show around.”

  “I have never been anywhere near any case involving the Organized Crime Task Force or your unit, for that matter. What is it that we are getting involved in, anyway?” queried a somewhat intimidated Peter.

  Guy Lorenz, who really did seem to be a less intense version of Connolly shrugged his shoulders, “We are not really sure. We think that the meeting had to do with the development of agreements on transporting heroin and cocaine and, perhaps, the dividing up of markets. We don’t understand how Sica could be involved, as there are no real organized crime families in Albany, just some associates and a few wannabe’s.”

  Connolly and Lorenz then briefed their visitors on the surveillance operation and what they could observe of the goings-on at the hotel. It had taken nearly half a day for the dignitaries and their retinues to arrive, with the hotel owner personally walking out to each arriving limo and greeting the occupant with kisses to both cheeks and leading them inside. Sica, alone, drove himself to the entrance of the hotel, and accepted the effusive welcome of the owner with dignified reserve.

  Once gathered, the parties divided into two groups for most activities, with the six major players, accompanied by one or two aides, in one group that would retire into the hotel, presumably for meetings or meals. They’d then return to the large, isolated patio area next to the Olympic-sized pool where they drank, ate, mingled and felt up one or more of the numerous female escorts who had arrived in a convoy the day before the honored guests. Occasionally, one of the dignitaries would get up and walk down the steps of the pool to cool off, or walk back into the hotel towing one of the escorts.

  The second group, apparently made up of lieutenants, bodyguards and drivers, had their own area on the far side of the pool. Although appearing to relax and enjoy themselves, there was an air of alertness about them, as though they might at any instant be called upon by their masters. The observing NYSP members suspected that their drinks had little or no alcohol and few of the very fit men in this second group showed any interest in the passing women and none dared enter the pool unless the other group had retired into the hotel. Although Sica had no entourage, he clearly belonged in the first group, and even the others in that group held the door for him as he slowly walked in or out of the hotel.

  Guy said, “This went on pretty much the same way, for nearly three days except that periodically a massive bright red cigarette boat would roar up to the hotel’s dock. It was owned by Irwin ‘Fat Man’ Schiff, an associate of the Bonnano family, according to NYPD Intelligence people. He would hang out with the major players for a few hours each time, giving them high-speed rides up and down the lake in that boat that was only marginally larger than its owner, who is believed to be pushing 400 pounds.”

  After the third day, they departed, one at a time just as they had arrived.

  “Since then, we have worked hard to figure out what Sica’s deal is. He lives with his girlfriend, one Wanda Huff, in an apartment she leases in Menands. She is an interesting character. The Huff family owns a wide variety of businesses in the Capital Region, including a string of very profitable car washes. She seems to be keeping him, even letting him use her car,” observed Mike.

  “Outside of this big get together in Lake George, Sica seems to keep a fairly low profile, although he seems to piss people off with his arrogance, which together with the suits he wears, leaves others with the impression that he thinks he is hot shit. He does not work and has no bank accounts but always seems to have money, which we think he is getting by moving coke to the local dealers in Albany. We have tracked him on several trips to New York since, where has gone to known OC hangouts, particularly those belonging to Genovese family associates in the Bronx.”

  Mike stood up and laid out some photocopies of documents for the others to see. “We just heard that you had made an inquiry about Sica’s entry into the U.S. We had already done that and INS has determined that the person known as Bruno Sica entered the country about nine months before the Lake George meeting, from England, where he had been staying for about six months after leaving Italy. He obtained his visitor visa, and actually entered the U.S. from Caracas, Venezuela and has overstayed his temporary visa by almost a year.”

  “Why do you say ‘the person known as Bruno Sica’?” asked Peter.

  Guy smiled, “Because Special Agent Dave Grace from Immigration and Naturalization Service called us about an hour ago to tell us that the documents you had copied and sent them are counterfeits, and damned good ones at that.”

  “I’m thinking that it is pretty rare to find someone with a presumably bogus Alien Registration card and Social Security card. Usually you see forged driver’s licenses. The guys who make the bogus documents don’t like to risk facing federal counterfeiting charges,” observed Tanner.

  Investigator Connolly said, “We know from people he has spoken to, that he says he is married, with children and comes from Naples. He also tells some people that he is a lawyer in Italy. We have had occasion to tail him in his car a few times. The way he drives suggests that he is worried about a tail, but not necessarily us. We think he is concerned that others might be after him.”

  “Just what the hell has Mama Drake’s little boy gotten into?” Peter leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his eyes. “This is the kind of stuff you read about in novels or happening in some big city, not in the boonies of upstate New York. Up here, out of the big cities, they can’t just blend in, which seems contrary to what they’d want. And let’s face it, as far as the downstaters are concerned, anything on this side of the Tappan Zee bridge is ‘The Woods’.”

  While there were nods of agreement all around, there was also the acceptance of the fact that this “stuff”, whatever it was, was happening here, and each of them was excited by the prospect.

  Great! Peter thought. We finally get one answer to one question: the name of our mystery man- and now it turns out probably to be fake.

  Connolly then wrapped up the meeting by inviting the three to return next Thursday and attend the already scheduled meeting of the full task force, so as to present the latest information to the entire group. Peter made a mental note to speak to his DA as soon as he got back to the office, to make sure that Thursday’s County Court Special Term was covered. A small prosecutor’s office offers the advantage of providing its attorneys with a wide variety of jobs to do, but the downside is that if anyone becomes tied up in a felony trial or an investigation like this one, the others in the office are stretched thin to cover the rest of the courts and other duties.

  As soon as he got back to his office, he grabbed his coffee mug and headed down the hall to the Sheriff’s wing of the building. When he got to the investigators’ area, Tanner Saint was already there, in his office which was glass-enclosed, beckoning Peter to come in when he had gotten his coffee.

  “When I got back in, there was a message to call Dr. Haggard. He has completed his examination of Wally’s neck wo
und and confirmed that it was caused by a garrote. He has officially determined the cause of death to be suffocation by manual strangulation. He also found something unusual about the type of wire used. He believes that it was a low note guitar string. One of those that are wound, rather than a single strand.”

  “Why does he think that” asked Peter.

  “He told me that under magnification, he could see tiny regular impressions in the skin, perpendicular to the indentation around the neck. These vertical impressions were most pronounced at the front of the neck because, he said, the wire’s pressure was straight back, with the killer pulling from behind.”

  “Well, at least we know the ‘how’,” observed Peter.

  “Oh. And Dr. Haggard says Wally was probably married at the time of his death.”

  Peter smiled and chuckled, “Wow, he’s good! Okay, I give up. How does he know that? Wally wasn’t castrated, was he?”

  “No. It’s because he examined that pile of stuff, which he is convinced were Wally’s hands all ground up. He found little chunks of bone and bits of fingernail.”