Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk

by Neal Goldstein

  Alawaite had already decided that he would need to change locations for the final planning before he noticed the clumsy surveillance team following him from the Lehigh Avenue site. Ben-Ali and his people were even more inept than he had imagined. He warned them that the mosque was being watched, and yet they brought the young man from there directly to his location. Alawaite would have to keep his future contacts with the mosque to a minimum.

  As for Abdullah Mohamed, there was something not quite right about the young man the Imam had suggested as a candidate for the mission. He seemed too good to be real. His responses during the brief interview were textbook perfect. Not the way someone who had been blindfolded and delivered to an unknown location would react, unless he was other than what he appeared to be. Should he warn the Imam that Abdullah may be an agent? No doubt Ben-Ali’s man Amet would overreact. Alawaite did not want the mosque to create any problems that would upset his plan.

  Ichowitz called Regan when he received the report from Interpol. “Jack, Kate’s friend Flynn is a bad actor. We may need to take some steps to make sure Kate and Liam are safe.”

  Michael Flynn was the youngest of seven children of Padraig Francis Flynn aka Paddy and Margret Mary O’Shea of Ulster, Northern Ireland. The Flynns and the O’Sheas were founding members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. Michael’s grandfather, Michael Connor, for whom he was named, and his father and uncles were responsible for numerous acts of violence throughout the “Troubles.”

  In 1978, Flynn’s Uncle Liam had been given a life sentence for his role in a London bombing at Harrods that resulted in the deaths and maiming of several civilians including the three-year-old grandchild of a Member of Parliament from Northern Ireland. While he was serving his sentence at Her Majesty’s Prison Maze at the Long Kesh Detention Center, better known among the IRA as the “Maze,” he was a key figure in the “Dirty Protest” in which IRA soldiers, who considered themselves political prisoners, refused to wear prison uniforms and wrapped themselves in bed sheets. Their protest was dismissed with distain by then-Prime Minister Margret Thatcher.

  The tensions between the warring parties continued to escalate, and Liam continued to agitate from inside the Maze. He died of starvation in the 1981 Irish Hunger Strike. His and his brother soldiers’ sacrifice eventually resulted in the Good Friday Agreement and release of “political prisoners.” With the end of The Troubles the Flynns took up more lucrative, but no less violent pursuits. Ultimately their criminal enterprise evolved into more sophisticated endeavors, including the theft and sale of valuable works of art. The black market for masterpieces, especially in Russia and the Far East, and the remarkably poor quality of security at museums at which they harvested their treasures quickly made this aspect of their criminal empire the most profitable and easiest of their pursuits.

  In March, Michael Flynn had been arrested on charges stemming from the theft of a Picasso from the art museum in Dublin. He was released when the witness who had identified him as the perpetrator of the crime recanted his statement. According to the Interpol report, the authorities believed the witness had been intimidated by “unknown” associates of Mr. Flynn. Of course, these suspicions could not be corroborated. The Gardai, the national police force of Ireland, had no information regarding Flynn’s current whereabouts and requested reports from participating agencies.

  “Apparently there’s no record of Flynn coming through Immigration,” Ichowitz said.

  “And yet he is here,” Regan replied.

  “But why?” Ichowitz asked. “I mean, he just doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would come all the way from Ireland to Manayunk just to check on his son.”

  “Yeah, there must be something we haven’t picked up on that explains why Flynn’s here,” Regan said.

  “Jack, I’ll try my buddy Ossberg at Homeland and see if he has anything. He owes me a call.”

  “Izz any developments on Saunders yet? If Coratelli’s gambit is going to work, we should have had a reaction by now,” Regan asked.

  “Nothing so far, I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”

  Regan had arranged to take Liam to his baseball game that afternoon while Katey was preparing for the Grape’s dinner trade. He was concerned that O’Malley would overreact if Flynn showed up at the Grape Tavern. Regan had asked the district to send a patrol car around on a more or less regular basis, just in case.

  “Jack, I think I’m playing center field today. I’m worried that I won’t remember where to throw the ball if I catch it,” Liam said as they walked over to the park.

  “Don’t worry. Just catch the ball and listen to your buddy Chris, the second baseman. He’ll tell you what to do; and remember, don’t react to the sound of the bat hitting the ball. Wait until you see where the ball is hit. You’ll have plenty of time to get in position if it’s hit your way. You’ll be fine,” Jack assured him.

  Jack watched from the dugout as the game progressed. He suggested that the coach position Liam just a few steps behind the second baseman, assuring the coach that in the unlikely event anyone hit the ball into the outfield Liam had the speed to retrieve it, even if it was hit over his head.

  His first time up to bat Liam was nervous and missed the first two pitches by a wide margin. On the third pitch he hit a weak grounder back to the mound and was thrown out at first. When he returned to the dugout Jack called him over and said, “Liam, don’t worry about your last at bat. By the time you get up to bat next time the pitcher will be getting tired. You’ll have the advantage. Just relax.”

  Just as Jack predicted, two innings later Liam stepped into the batter’s box with two men on base. The opposing coach assumed that Liam would once again swing wildly and make the final out. Liam looked over at Jack and settled in.

  “Strike one,” the umpire called as the pitch barely crossed the plate knee high.

  Liam looked back at Jack who gave him a nod of encouragement.

  As the second pitch slowly made its way to the plate Liam waited and hit the ball over the outstretched reach of the first baseman. The ball rolled past the right fielder as Liam rounded second base. By the time the right fielder retrieved the ball, Liam was rounding third. When he crossed the plate he was surrounded by his teammates as the right fielder threw the ball over the catcher’s head.

  Liam turned and looked out at the crowd, his look of pure joy suddenly froze and he ran over to Regan.

  “Liam, what’s wrong?” Jack asked.

  The boy pointed to the bleachers and said, “That’s my Da.”

  Regan looked over and saw a tall man with near shaved head and a two-day beard staring back at him. Regan held the boy to his side and looked down and said, “Don’t worry Liam, he won’t bother you.” When he looked up the man was gone.

  Liam’s team won the game, three to one. The unexpected appearance of Liam’s father had dampened the boy’s excitement over his moment of joy. His teammates were still high fiving each other, completely caught up in their victory as Regan and Liam left the field and walked back to the Grape.

  Kate could tell from Liam’s expression that something was amiss. She looked over to Regan for some indication. He subtly shook his head.

  “Liam, are you OK?” she asked.

  “Mum, Da was at the game.”

  She looked back at Regan; he nodded and the color drained out of her face as she held her son close.

  “Izz, Flynn showed up at Liam’s game this afternoon,” Regan said.

  “Did he approach the boy?”

  “No. When he saw me staring at him he walked away.”

  “Can you take Kate and her son some place where they can be safe for a few days?” Ichowitz asked.

  “I asked Kate if she would stay with my parents until we find this guy.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She’s thinking about it, but I think she’ll agree. I figure there’s no safer place in the city than the Police Commissioner’s house.”

  “Jack
there’s been a development in the Coratelli matter.”

  “Did Saunders ask for a deal?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Someone murdered him last night.”

  Ichowitz told Regan that Saunders’ body had been found at the Philadelphia Parking Authority lot beneath Love Park. At first the EMTs thought he had died of a coronary or that he threw an embolism. When the Medical Examiner conducted the autopsy he discovered the puncture wound in the corpse’s left ear. The blade punctured the blood-brain barrier and went directly into the cerebellum. The ME figured he died instantly. He estimated the time of death between approximately 6 and 10 PM last night, probably closer to 6.

  “Izz were there any witnesses?”

  “None.”

  “How about security video?”

  “There was a security camera at the 16th Street entrance to the garage, but, of course, it hasn’t been functioning for at least six months.”

  “Any theory on why Saunders was murdered?” Regan asked.

  “They probably figured he was going to spill.”

  “Izz this is going off the rails. First Megan Larson, next Vito Coratelli Junior, and now Mickey Saunders. Who’s next?” Regan asked.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the Montgomery County detectives called me. Their investigation revealed that there was an agency nurse at the facility the night Junior was murdered. The nursing administrator didn’t have anyone scheduled from the agency, but she didn’t think anything of it since the paperwork doesn’t always come in before the nurse reports for the assignment. Since they’re always understaffed, she gave the agency nurse an assignment.”

  “Anyway, when the paperwork never showed up she questioned her boss, who told her there was no order for an agency nurse that night. The detectives checked the license information the nurse, Selma McIntosh, had left. It was all phony.”

  “Was there any video?” Regan asked.

  “Yeah, but Ms. McIntosh must be a player. No visual of her face. The consensus descriptions provided by the Nursing Administrator and other staff on duty was a tall woman with a bad frizzy blond dye job – you know, black roots – who wore oversized glasses.”

  “Well at least we know she was tall,” Regan observed. “How tall?”

  “Glad you asked. It varied from five-ten to six-five.” Ichowitz shrugged. “You know eye witnesses.”

  “Monroe, Vus Machs Da? I thought you were going to call me and let me know if Homeland is going to release an unredacted copy of the video of Nooris’ condo,” Ichowitz said when his call was put through to Monroe Ossberg.

  “Izz, you’re right. I’m really sorry, but things are crazy over here.”

  “Well it’s nuts all over. Did you hear that Mickey Saunders, one of the characters involved with Nooris in the Family Court House deal, was murdered last night?” Ichowitz asked.

  “No.”

  “That makes three people who were associated with Nooris who are no longer among the living. Monroe, we need to see that tape. It may help us crack the case. It may even prevent another murder.”

  “I hear you, but I’m not calling the shots over here.”

  “But I thought your buddy Simon Conway got the sack?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t make a move without confirmation from DC,” Ossberg responded.

  “Come on, pal. Can’t you give me a peek?”

  “Izz, believe me I would, but with the Vice President and the Secretary of State due here to get her medal on the Fourth of July, there’s more heavyweights from Secret Service, State, Homeland, the Bureau, you name it, looking over my shoulder than you can imagine.”

  “But I thought we were mishpocheh?”

  “We are. Just give me some time to work it out.”

  When he hung up the phone Ossberg looked over at Howard Keel, SAC of the Philadelphia Bureau office.

  “Do you think he bought it?” Keel asked.

  “Don’t think so. Ichowitz has been around the block a few times. He’s got a nose for BS.”

  “Christ, the last thing we need is for the locals to be sticking their nose in our turf. I’ll ask the assistant director to bring some heat on the Police Commissioner. Maybe that will keep Ichowitz off your back.”

  “Katey, you and the boy have to go to Jack’s parents’ place until that bastard Flynn goes back to Ulster or whatever hell he inhabits,” Mike O’Malley told his niece.

  She stared back at him, her eyes narrowed and her chin out.

  “Now don’t be given me that look of yours, girlie. You’ve got to be thinkin of the boy. Besides, the Regans are good people. They did everything short of donating all their organs to Susan to save her from the cancer.”

  “Uncle Mike, you know you can’t run away and hide from a bully; you have to stand up and fight back. That’s what you taught me back in Dublin,” she responded.

  “Ach woman, I know what I told you. But it’s Liam we’re talkin about now. I don’t know what Flynn’s doin here, but surely we don’t want your son havin anything to do with the likes of him.”

  Kate O’Malley knew her uncle was right. There was nothing more important than her son’s well-being. But allowing Jack or any man to assume responsibility for their security was a serious commitment. She wasn’t sure she was ready to take that step.

  “Jack will be here soon to take you and the boy to his folks’ place. You’re going to have to decide whether you and Liam will be safer with them,” O’Malley said.

  “I know, I know,” she sighed. “If we go there, who’s going to be lookin after you, O’Malley?”

  He smiled at her and replied, “Now don’t you go worryin your pretty head over the likes of me. I’ve been in a scrum or two in my time.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  The “Welcome America Festival,” an eleven-day extravaganza of concerts, parades, fireworks and other events, was the faux tradition with which the city that claimed to be the birthplace of our nation celebrated the Fourth of July holiday. While, in truth, our Founding Fathers had in fact congregated in Philadelphia when they conspired to declare our independence and later reconvened here to draft our constitution, the part about the celebration being a long-standing tradition was exaggerated, unless of course long-standing traditions can be established after only three years.

  As always, at least since last year, the festival ends with a concert on the Parkway with the Philly Pops Orchestra and an unbelievable fireworks display over the Philadelphia Museum of Art. This year the penultimate event of the festival is the ceremony in which the Vice President, substituting for the President, will give the Medal of Freedom award to the Secretary of State. The Presidential Medal of Freedom is awarded by the President, “for especially meritorious contributions to the security or national interests of the U.S., or world peace, or cultural or other significant public or private endeavors.” In other words the President gave the award to whoever he decided to honor for whatever reason he considered appropriate. Since its inception during JFK’s administration, such notables as Colin Powell, Ellsworth Bunker, and John Kenneth Galbraith at one end of the spectrum to Andy Griffith, John Wayne and Frank Sinatra at the other were recipients of the medal. This year’s recipient clearly falls somewhere in the middle of the parade of past honerees.

  The ceremony was scheduled to take place at noon on July Fourth in front of Independence Hall where the Declaration of Independence was adopted and the U.S. Constitution was later debated, drafted and signed. The Mall between the National Constitution Center at 6th and Arch Streets three blocks north to 6th and Chestnut Street, the site of Independence Hall, will be cordoned off to accommodate the thousands of spectators and dignitaries the promoters of the event anticipate will bear witness. Among those expected to attend are three former presidents, three members of the U.S. Supreme Court, several Senators and Congressmen, the Governor, the Mayor and scores of other prominent local and national business
leaders and entertainers. The rumor mill predicted that Oprah Winfrey will also be in attendance and surprise the Secretary with a special gift.

  The intense security measures to assure the safety of the principals involved and their distinguished guests led to the inevitable turf fight among the various agencies, national, state and local, as to who among them would be primarily responsible. Rather than coordinate their efforts, the individuals designated to fulfill this responsibility for their respective agencies jealously guarded the actions they had taken individually to keep their charges out of harm’s way. The result was a bureaucratic nightmare of potentially disastrous dimensions.

  “Commissioner, I have requests from the Secret Service, the FBI, Homeland Security and the National Park Service to give their respective tactical response teams unlimited access to the perimeter buildings that surround Independence Mall for their snipers,” his chief of staff greeted John Hogan Regan, Philadelphia’s Commissioner of Police when he arrived at his office at the PAB.

  Commissioner Regan took a sip of his coffee and said, “Why don’t we get their respective leaders together in my conference room, at 1300 for consultation. Don’t let any of them know that anyone from any other agency will be attending. That will be our surprise.”

  “OK , but Commissioner, you better bring a whip and chair if you want to maintain order.”

  “I think I’ll just bring my Smith and Wesson.”

  When the heads of the various federal agencies involved got over the shock of being assembled without their knowledge, the posturing and infighting got really ugly. Each agency contended that their respective snipers were the only ones capable of assuring the protection of the Vice President, the Secretary of State and other notables scheduled to be on hand at the ceremony. When the petty arguments and insults had reached the beyond rational stage the Commissioner intervened.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate the sincerity of your contentions and the passion and depth of your commitment to your respective organizations. I also understand the level of your concerns; however, as I’m sure you all appreciate, we need to have a rational and unified plan of action.