No Witness, No Case

by Bill Robertson

  Many of the younger men had never been to such a banquet and the older ones were trying to remember the last. It could have been after the Market Murders of the sixties. Some ancient hands secretly worried the feast foretold death among them.

  Pescaro was relaxed and full of bonhomie as he mixed and talked with various members of the Family. After a positive day with his legal team, he was confident of withstanding the closest scrutiny. The requested audit would take about ten days and was already at full pace. Casually, he sought out Ed Masseria. ‘Everything in place Ed?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Yes Don Pescaro. I don’t anticipate any problems.’

  ‘Okay. Last chance reprieve. Has anything happened that should change my mind?’

  ‘No.’ Masseria mentally reviewed the hours of effort put into confirming the identities of the traitors. ‘No, they’ve been quiet since the feds hit Chernamenko but we know the bastards are still in touch with Asimovich. They have to go.’

  ‘You know what to do. Plenty of pain first.’ Pescaro smiled warmly at Masseria and they drifted apart.

  At eight o’clock they sat at fifteen large round tables set with starched, embroidered cloths from the Isle of Murano. Every setting harboured a forest of gleaming silver and brilliant cut crystal glasses. Fine English bone china graced the settings with matching linen napkins. At the centre of each table, a tall graceful, silver candelabra glistened; each burned ten deep gold candles.

  As Pescaro rose, the lights dimmed, the evening would be lit by 150 candles. ‘Friends and brothers,’ his sonorous voice caressed the gathering, his manner courtly. ‘Tonight is a special occasion to mark the deaths of three members of our Honoured Society. Each of them different in their own way, but all good, trusted men who gave much to our Family.’ He spoke slowly without notes, choosing his words carefully, his solemnity underscoring the importance of the occasion. ‘I welcome you to this commemorative banquet and trust you will find much to reward and remind you of who we are and what we stand for. I am not going to talk for long but I will address the qualities of my dear friend, Nardo Santini and touch briefly on our missing Consigliere, Teresa Marchese. Vito Franse will later talk about Dominic Fabrizzi, and Vincenzo Mendico about Emilio Barracusa. Since I am an old man and do not need as much food as you younger ones, eat while I speak. Firstly, my congratulations to you Felipe.’ The old man, dressed immaculately in a dinner suit, stood near the kitchen entrance bursting with pride. ‘You have surpassed all expectations. Everything looks magnificent and feels perfect. I am sure the food too will be superb. Thank you my dear Felipe.’

  Pescaro paused, drowned out by noisy acclamation. As the applause dipped, he continued. ‘My friend The Wraith came here as a ten-year-old boy. His family were among thousands who helped themselves and this country after the war – in their case, on the Snowy Mountains scheme. Nardo was known as The Wraith for good reason – he could move among people and not be noticed. He went in and out of situations like a hand in water, making no difference, leaving no trace, yet observing everything. Wonderful skills, yet not his best qualities. No one was more courageous or more poised than Nardo. He was a true capo and did what he had to do properly and with appropriate hardness. Some said he was a fussy, fastidious man, yet he rarely made mistakes. But even these traits were not his best qualities. He loved his garden and, like a true Sicilian, could grow anything. Few knew of this hobby yet the irony was he publicly disavowed his Sicilian roots. Over time, however, he turned his backyard into a beautiful Mediterranean haven of vines and vegetables, terrace and tables. Yet these too were not his best qualities. Nardo was resourceful, thorough and surprisingly sensitive. He was as tough and dangerous as an old bridge spike but astonishingly perceptive and intuitive – clairvoyant almost. Surprisingly, these were not his best qualities either. Bernardo Santini, my friend of decades, was a man of loyalty. And that was his best quality. He served me faithfully, supported me totally, disagreed with me respectfully and always advanced the cause of our Family. He lived for his work and his work was for us – the Family. He even chose the Family over marriage. His loyalty to me personally and to the Family generally was a beacon in the blackest of nights. I miss his counsel, I miss his friendship and I miss that loyalty – his best quality. My friends, please raise your glasses to Nardo Santini, a loyal and trusted Family friend.’

  Quietly they stood, raised their glasses and said in one voice: ‘Nardo Santini – a loyal friend.’

  Throughout Pescaro’s speech, Masseria discreetly watched the men for whom it had partly been crafted. When Pescaro spoke of loyalty, they had exchanged subtle glances, one man’s lip curling in disrespect.

  Pescaro remained standing and motioned the men to sit. ‘Finally, I would like to briefly mention Teresa Marchese. In appointing her as Nardo’s replacement, I know many of you disagreed; firstly because she was a woman and secondly because her journey was not traditional. But … times are changing. We are doing, and have to do, things differently. It is hard enough for me to keep up with the evolution of mobile phones let alone contemplate computers. In this regard, Teresa was gifted. Her acumen for finance, international business, banking and technology was comprehensive and her skills have grown and consolidated our businesses substantially. Many of you would know how easy she was to deal with, yet she had a quiet toughness most of you would not have seen. She was an incisive analyst always looking for intelligent pathways into the future. Indeed, it was her idea to use Immigration authorities to remove the Russians. Regrettably, the Russians removed her too – Chernamenko personally boasted of this to me recently. Like Teresa, I also believe the Russians removed Nardo, so I am pleased they will no longer bother us. Gentlemen,’ Pescaro raised his glass, ‘in memory of Teresa.’ Once again, they all stood and said quietly: ‘Teresa.’

  Pescaro sat, slowly sipping mineral water, waiting for his meal and acknowledging individual salutes to Nardo from various members in the room. He was satisfied his message had been delivered to the traitors.

  Conversation ebbed and flowed as dinner came and went and, at 9:15 p.m., Vito Franse rose to his feet. The room quietened.

  ‘Don Pescaro, friends and brothers,’ he began, ‘sadly I stand before you as the replacement for a good man killed after a social outing. We all know, of course, that the Russians were responsible for the death of my former capo, Dominic Fabrizzi. Dominic was a man who bubbled with energy, he had a huge sense of humour and an eye for a deal. He sensed deals where others couldn’t even sniff potential; he could close a deal with more speed than a rat trap, yet with more style than Versace. He was a thoughtful instructive capo who, in building friendship and trust, inspired others. Yet he was hard when he needed to be. The night he died marked completion of a new deal at Tullamarine airport. From my numerous conversations with him I know that like Bernardo Santini, he too lived for the Family. But, he was grounded in the old ways. He couldn’t see the value of new technology, he was unable to imagine the potential of internet fraud and he wasn’t receptive to modern management practices. In these things, he was captive to older, long gone traditions. Dominic was a good man, a loving father and husband and immensely kind to his friends. He was a solid, dependable and consistent capo. As a friend and mentor, I miss him dearly. Gents, please raise your glasses to Dominic Fabrizzi – a Family man.’ They did not stand but raised their glasses and chorused: ‘Dominic Fabrizzi – a Family man.’

  At 10:00 p.m., Vincenzo Mendico stood and rapped a fork against a glass for attention: he would pay tribute to Emilio Barracusa.

  At 10:20 Pescaro rose and began farewelling friends. He stopped at Mendico and said, ‘Your words were fitting and I agree with your sentiment. What neither of you knew was that in Nardo’s absence, I intended recommending Emilio as my replacement.’ He shook Vincenzo’s hand and moved on, eventually seeking out Vito Franse. He smiled kindly. ‘Your tribute to Dominic was a fine one Vito, the affair was such a waste of talent and so regrettable.’ The ambiguity of his words hung
in the air, disarmed by his gentle smile.

  Vito accepted Pescaro’s words as a compliment, saying, ‘Yes Don Pescaro, the deal he stitched up that night for Tullamarine was a good one. As I said earlier, he was a man of talent. And by the way Don, this was a fine evening and a great concept. Thank you for the invitation.’

  ‘Not at all Vito. I’ll be seeing you at our next meeting. Good night.’ After saying his goodbyes he paused to shake Masseria’s hand.

  ‘Everything is in place,’ Masseria said quietly. ‘Good night Don Pescaro.’ He nodded his head and stepped back as Pescaro left the room.

  At 11:30 p.m., Roberto Gibaldi left Luciano’s and made his way through light, cold rain to his car in Cardigan Street. He was just a little the worse for wear after a generous intake of wine. Turning from Faraday Street into Cardigan Street he bumped into two men walking towards him, heads down against the rain. He stumbled and apologised as one of the men put out a hand to assist him and, in the next second, gasped as he felt a sharp sting in his side. He stumbled again and slowly began to collapse. The men stepped in close, draped his arms over their shoulders and assisted him to his car where they placed him inside.

  At 12:45 a.m., Vito Franse doused the headlights after turning into his driveway at Templestowe – he didn’t want to wake his wife or small children. Waiting for the roller door to open, he remembered his wife’s car was away for servicing and drove into the centre of the double garage. With nothing but a dim glow from the automatic door lamp illuminating the garage, he missed the two shadows sliding into the space barely above floor level. He opened his door, stuck one foot on the floor and turned to collect his rain coat and umbrella from the passenger seat. Suddenly, he felt a stinging pain in his right calf and swore, then mumbled stupidly at the man in a ski mask rising from the floor beside him. He toppled slowly into the passenger seat.

  The two men lifted the unconscious Franse from his car, took the door zapper from the centre console, placed the house and car keys on the dashboard and quietly closed the car door. After carrying Franse to the bottom of his driveway and placing him in their vehicle, one man zapped the garage door shut and put the device in the letter box. The exercise had taken less than five minutes.

  Ten days later The Age proclaimed: Gruesome Discovery in Charnwood Grove, while the Herald Sun bannered: Sickening Find in St Kilda. Both stories related the discovery of two naked, bound and mutilated bodies in a car boot in Charnwood Grove, St. Kilda.

  When the report reached Tavistock’s desk it was accompanied by post mortem results. The two men, identified as Vito Franse and Roberto Gibaldi, known Mafiosi, had, after extensive torture, been jammed into the boot of Gibaldi’s car; their ears and eyes had been removed. The post mortem disclosed that each man’s stomach contained remains of one of his own ears while the other ear, along with their eyes, had been rammed into their mouths which had been stitched shut.

  The message was unequivocal: hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. Mulling this over, Tavistock reflected on Teresa’s warning that Pescaro suspected he had a traitor and the banquet possibly heralded death. On this basis, he had put Luciano’s Warehouse under surveillance. All banquet attendees had been identified – including Franse and Gibaldi – entering and leaving the restaurant under their own steam. Tavistock’s men had noticed nothing unusual about the departure of either man. On the other hand, they had not known who Pescaro was targetting. Neither had Teresa.

  As yet, no direct link had been established between Pescaro and the deaths. No one saw Gibaldi or Franse abducted and while Franse had at least arrived home, there was no indication of Gibaldi’s place of abduction. Both men, the post mortem revealed, had been injected with a powerful, fast acting anaesthetic.

  Tavistock decided they should start by interviewing Eduardo Masseria, the man Teresa thought the most likely appointee for uncovering Pescaro’s traitors. At the same time he was thinking that if this was how Pescaro dealt with his own for disloyalty, he was bound to take an even more ruthless approach towards Ben Aldrittson.

  In his own interest, Aldrittson would have to receive more immediate attention. He sighed. Teresa Marchese was undoubtedly a nightingale of the finest voice but her melody was brutally jarring.

  Chapter

  SIXTY- FOUR

  After receiving the anonymous letters about Ben Aldrittson, Rosslyn Zimmer had worked tirelessly. She was pleased with the piece that would appear in the Sunday Herald Sun. A curious trail of events had substantially shaped the story she considered explosive. Zimmer’s mother and two old friends had shared a gossipy afternoon tea. One of those friends, Celia Barraclough, had dropped a juicy titbit about Ben Aldrittson’s sacking. Mrs Zimmer had said to her daughter, ‘Of course dear, everything was mentioned in strictest confidence’ as she rushed, headlong, into repeating what she had heard. At the time, one element of her tale had seemed inconsequential – a meeting between the Premier, Professor Cameron Blake of RMIT and Aldrittson. The meeting had occurred shortly before Aldrittson’s sacking.

  Initially, Zimmer ignored the morsel. Premiers regularly hold meetings with all kinds of people, especially their Ministers. It lay quietly at the back of her mind, unobtrusively gestating. Then she remembered it was Cameron Blake who had won a major science prize in 2004 for discovering an enzyme from algae which neutralised harmful petroleum wastes and converted them into a useful product for the building industry. With that recollection came a new train of thought: waste plus Aldrittsons plus Blake. Why would the Premier be discussing waste treatment with Blake and a Minister whose father owned the largest and most reputable waste disposal company in the state? Waste was always a topic of political controversy. With the material she already had on Ben Aldrittson plus his sacking, it might be a story. Or it might be nothing.

  On gut feeling, she somersaulted her thinking and began discreetly enquiring about black waste disposal methods. She went to Brooklyn and Bayswater and watched Aldrittson’s in action. She checked the company through the Australian Securities and Investments Commission then posed as a company director wanting industrial waste removed. She hit pay dirt when she got an appointment at AWD with Martin Judd.

  Using a false name, she implied to Judd she was part of a new company at Dandenong making plastic extrusions and other products. Their waste would require at least monthly collection and AWD had been privately recommended as a reliable company. Almost as a throw away, she said there would be some highly toxic liquid by-products. Could Judd advise how best to deal with this?

  Rosslyn Zimmer, a short, slender and pugnacious red head with a clear mind and unnerving tenacity was skilled at reading body language. Knowing people and unpacking the truth was her business. She had seen a reaction in Judd at the mention of toxic liquids, an uneasiness, a knowingness, and then – the veil. Immediately she knew he knew something he didn’t want others to know. Judd fobbed her off. ‘We don’t do toxic waste Ms Black. As for your contract, I can’t send anyone to assess your job for at least a month – we are pretty full on right now.’

  As she left Aldrittson’s, she remembered a fire that not so long ago involved one of their trucks – somewhere near Bendigo. Because there was a death in suspicious circumstances, the story belonged to police roundsman, Gavan O’Connor.

  She rang O’Connor to find out what he knew about that fire. Succinctly he filled her in and said the case was still open. His police sources had suggested arson caused by a deliberate explosion. Highly toxic chemical traces were found on parts of the truck as a result of which they were investigating a murder. O’Connor said his research had found Aldrittson’s to be squeaky clean. Nobody could think of a reason for the company to be involved in his death. Although it had been suggested the dead driver was moonlighting, it was hardly sufficient reason to kill him. His death remained a mystery. O’Connor’s private view was that someone was applying pressure to acquire Aldrittsons’. So far, however, he had nothing to support that theory.

  Zimmer settled back
in her chair, closed her eyes, and allowed the different pieces of information to mill around in her mind. In a detached way she watched the pieces moving, bumping, forming and reforming until an altogether different picture of Aldrittsons’ began to emerge, a picture at remarkable variance to their public face.

  The following day she returned to Brooklyn, made a huge fuss and found herself back in Judd’s office. This time, she was Rosslyn Zimmer reporter, not a pseudo company director from a make-believe plastics factory. What followed was one of the most remarkable interviews of her career. Wracked by guilt and remorse, Judd said he had been unable to sleep properly and was haunted by the constant fear of discovery. With Jack Aldrittson dead and Ben in deep shit with the cops, it was time to come clean.

  Over three hours, Judd explained in minute detail every aspect of the family’s dual waste disposal business. He gave Zimmer information concerning their largest black waste clients, how long they had been using AWD, the types of waste offloaded, dumping sites and the astonishing profits from these activities.

  Initially, Zimmer was sceptical, but after sighting various documents and long held files, she knew her story was dynamite. During the interview, Judd fluctuated between tears and anger, balance and tirade. He hated what he had fallen into and what he had become. The money was fantastic but no substitute, he realised, for peace of mind or, with his marriage now in fracture, family life. Conscience was burning a hole in his gut and the environmental damage caused by Aldrittson’s was unforgivable.

  After probing the Premier’s Office and Professor Blake to discover what knowledge they possessed, she had written her story. She had no illusions about the wounds it would cause to respected personal and public reputations. She anticipated wide scale litigation at a criminal and civil level. Her unshakable belief, however, was that truth and transparency were not negotiable – particularly when it came to government. Given the extent of this evil, and its duration, the public not only had a right, but had to know what Aldrittson’s had been doing. The story could not be concealed. After extensive checking and rechecking and considerable soul searching, the editor and the newspaper’s lawyers agreed to its publication.