Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk

by Neal Goldstein

  “Here’s how we are going to handle the security.”

  Regan explained that since the perimeter of the ceremonial site was not on federal property, the Philadelphia police had sole jurisdiction. Members of the elite anti-terrorist squad had already worked out a detailed plan. Based on Regan’s comparison of the PPD plan with those of all the federal agencies, there would be no need for any other agency to be involved in that aspect of the security.

  As to the security on the Mall itself, the Commissioner informed them that with the exception of the Secret Service agents that were personally assigned to the VP, the Secretary of State and the former presidents, and the normal park police contingent, the Philadelphia police had jurisdiction to secure the Mall. The Commissioner would permit representatives from the FBI to monitor the tactical command of the operation. This plan had been approved by the Mayor, the Governor and the President.

  Before anyone could respond, Regan stood up and left the room.

  Ichowitz knocked on Jack Regan’s door. “Got a sec?” he asked as he walked in.

  Regan looked up from the file he had been studying and said, “Izz, I thought you were going to question Avi Nooris about the hole in his alibi?”

  “Yeah, but the ME called me, the DNA results on Megan Larson’s baby came in.”

  “So who’s the father?”

  “Mayor Gallo.”

  Regan exhaled sharply and shook his head.

  “So boychik, what do you think?” Ichowitz asked.

  “Izz, I would have bet the house and the barn that Ari Nooris was the father. Gallo? Really?”

  “Emess,” Ichowitz replied.

  “In truth I never liked Gallo for Megan’s killer. I don’t see him as wielding anything more dangerous than his mouth. I know he’s a treacherous politician, but deep down I never thought he had the cojones to actually kill anybody.”

  “I agree. Do you think Nooris found out she was Gallo’s lover and killed her in a fit of jealousy?” Ichowitz asked.

  “Which Nooris?”

  “Either one.”

  “Ari was genuinely upset when we questioned him about Megan’s murder. My take is that he didn’t know Megan was pregnant. He was also offended when we asked him if he had an affair with her,” Regan said as he got up from his chair and began to pace.

  “Yeah, he was obviously fond of Ms. Larson and his reaction to a suggestion that the two of them had been romantically involved appeared to be genuine,” Ichowitz observed.

  “So do you like Avi?” Regan asked.

  Ichowitz moved his head side to side and grimaced. “Why would Avi kill Megan Larson?” he asked.

  “Jealousy,” Regan offered.

  “From what we observed, Avi had a thing for younger girls. I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right.”

  “Izz, is your buddy Osberg gonna give us the video? If we had that I’ll bet you we wouldn’t have to guess who killed Megan Larson.”

  Ichowitz shook his head and said, “I don’t think we can count on any cooperation from my good friend from the Bureau anytime soon.”

  “I don’t get it. I mean what could possibly be on that video that’s so friggin important to national security that they won’t let us see it?” Regan asked.

  “Dunno.”

  THIRTY

  Patricia Hogan opened the door to Jack’s bedroom and led Liam and Kate O’Malley in. The small room still looked the same as when a teenaged Jack Regan lived there. On the wall beside the bed was a bookcase where Jack displayed the model airplanes and tanks his father had helped him build when Jack was a little boy. The bookcase also contained the trophies and other memorabilia of his athletic achievements and pictures of the various teams he had been part of, a veritable Jack Regan sports shrine.

  Liam stared wide-eyed at the bookcase, especially the model airplanes.

  “Kate, Liam can stay in Jack’s room, if that’s all right with you. It’s right next to the room where you and … where you’ll be staying,” Patricia Regan blushed at the thought of her son and Kate sleeping in the room next door to Kate’s son. The awkward moment of silence was broken when Jack arrived with Liam and Kate’s suitcases in hand.

  “Liam, what did you put in your suit case? It weighs a ton,” Jack asked as he set the boy’s luggage on the bed.

  “Did ya win all those trophies?” Liam asked.

  “Yes, but I had a lot of help from my teammates and coaches. Liam, we’ll probably have to build a trophy case to hold all the awards you’ll collect by the time you graduate from college,” Jack said.

  “Did ya build those models?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s something my father and I worked on. In fact there are some kits in the drawer that we never got around to. I bet my father would help us put them together if you’re interested. Let’s ask him tonight.”

  With Kate and Liam safe in the bosom of his family, Regan turned his attention to the Larson murder investigation that had morphed into a multiple homicide investigation. Regan and Ichowitz were convinced that all of the murders were somehow tied to the Family Court House scam. Regan was beginning to believe that whoever was the surviving player in that fiasco would be the killer by default. Both of them also believed that the Homeland Security video of Nooris’ condo would reveal the identity of Larson’s killer.

  That night when Regan’s father got home, Jack shared his theory that the Larson-Coratelli-Saunders homicides were the work of a single person.

  “What does Izzy think?” the Commissioner asked.

  “Dad, Izzy thinks there’s a connection, but he doesn’t believe one person is responsible for all of the homicides.”

  “Do you have a suspect, someone who had motive and opportunity to have committed all of the homicides?” his father asked.

  “No. At least not yet.”

  “Izzy has been investigating homicides for a long time. I would trust his intuition on this.”

  “Dad, how are things going with the arrangements for the Fourth of July celebrations? Izzy told me the inter-agency turf fight is quite a kerfuffle.”

  The Commissioner shook his head and replied, “It’s all screwed up, or as Izzy would say, ‘It’s frcokt.’”

  “That bad?”

  Regan’s father told Jack what had transpired that afternoon when he ambushed the heads of all the federal agencies involved and corralled them in his conference room.

  “I’ve never seen so many testosterone-enhanced egos in one room trying to outdo one another at the same time. I should have sold tickets. It was quite a show. The problem is we have credible threats that some terrorist organization wants to make a spectacle of the awards ceremony. I believe that if everyone would share their information we could come up with a cohesive plan that we could all rely upon.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to rely on our own people and try to keep the rest of them in line.”

  Josef Alawaite was also considering his plans for the Fourth of July celebration. He had taken the necessary precautions to insulate his operation from the New Age Mosque. The complete absence of discipline of the Imam and his security staff was not unanticipated. Indeed, he had counted on this as part of his plan. He realized that he needed to maintain a sense of purpose and commitment among his soldiers. As the fateful day approached he spent time with each of them individually to reinforce their devotion to the mission.

  Alawaite was keenly aware of the need for diligence in covering his tracks. He assumed that some federal agency had followed the mosque’s van when Amet brought him the young man the Imam suggested as a replacement for the mission. Alawaite believed the young man was a plant, perhaps someone inserted undercover by some U.S. agency or even the Mossad. He assumed that the chatter on the Internet that the Imam had generated would heighten the scrutiny of the celebration. Once again that also was part of the plan. Regardless, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

  He checked the sidewalk behind him to make sure there w
as no tail. When he was satisfied, he limped up the three steps to the front door of his apartment building. He glanced again and thought the van that was parked across the street looked familiar. He would have to relocate. He was glad this would be his final assignment.

  Vito Coratelli sat at the oversized desk in the small office in his home. The desk lamp only illuminated the surface of his desk, on which he had placed the list of those he held responsible for the murder of his son. He drew a line through Mickey Saunders’ name, and contemplated his next move. He was not surprised to learn of Mickey Saunders’ death. The killers were cleaning up the loose ends, and Saunders, who was ready to give them up in return for a lighter sentence, was a loose end. Besides, he got what he deserved. There was no doubt in Coratelli’s mind that Saunders had been involved in his son’s murder. Who would be their next victim, Gallo? Or would they come after him? If they tried to eliminate him they were in for a surprise.

  Ari Nooris was pleased that Courtney Wells had a change of heart and finally returned his call. She was a beautiful woman and a passionate lover. A pity, he thought. He would miss her, but he was quite certain that the future would bring him other beautiful and passionate companions. He found her questions about Michael Flynn amusing. The woman was obviously attracted to men like himself who were not part of the well-bred upper class world she inhabited. Megan Larson had told him that Courtney and Assistant D.A. Regan had once been an item. Lucky for Regan that relationship never went anywhere, he laughed at the thought. Regan was too much of a boy scout; Wells would have destroyed him. Maybe he should set Courtney up with Flynn. Flynn was a heartless bastard; it would serve her right. Nooris needed Flynn to concentrate on his assignment. After they were done, Flynn could have any woman he desired.

  He sighed and looked at the picture of Megan Larson he kept in his desk. There was a young woman with promise. She knew what she wanted out of life and she had the guts and determinaion to go after it. What a waste. He wondered again who had killed her and why?

  PART 3.

  THE MAYHEM

  THIRTY-ONE

  They removed the chain link fence around the Barnes Foundation construction site on the Parkway, a sure sign that the grand opening of the facility was getting closer. The Barnes’ new digs covered over four acres of prime real estate. The foundation’s directors believed that relocating to Center City would attract thousands of art lovers from around the world. The city of Philadelphia was also banking on those art lovers dropping millions of dollars a year in hotel stays, meals, etc, into the local economy. A classic win-win for everyone involved, unless you’re a fan of the sanctity of last wills and testaments.

  The foundation’s new home for its famous art collection is a two-story, 93,000-square-foot building the architects designed to display the collection in a way that “replicated the scale, proportion and configuration” of the original gallery in Merion. According to Alfred Barnes’ will, any deviation from the unique manner in which he had displayed his works of art was strictly prohibited. Only an army of lawyers and a judge could proclaim with a straight face that the new museum’s presentation “replicated” the former presentation.

  Regardless, the foundation’s curators were preparing the collection for the eight mile move from Merion to Philadelphia. The final plans for the relocation of these masterpieces, whose value had been estimated to be more than three billion dollars, were supposed to be kept under lock and key and only disclosed to those directly involved on a need-to-know basis. Apparently everyone from the chief curator to the part-time janitor needed to know, so copies of the schedule, the route, etc, were posted throughout the facility. So much for maintaining security!

  According to the plan, an unmarked moving van would be parked at the back entrance of the Merion gallery before midnight on July Third. The paintings from the first floor galleries, which had been carefully prepared for transport, would be loaded onto the van throughout the early morning of the Fourth for transport to the Philadelphia facility at 11 AM. The timing of the transport was to coincide with the medal ceremony at Independence Mall. Those involved in setting up the plan had determined that the timing afforded the least amount of interference and traffic during the eight mile trip from Merion to the Parkway.

  While the Barnes prepared for the Fourth of July move, the local, state and federal authorities involved in planning the various weekend events were also putting the final touches on their arrangements. The cooperation, or lack thereof, among the various bureaucracies involved continued to create an atmosphere of tension and potential for chaos. With less than a week to go before the celebrations would begin, no one was exactly sure who would be responsible to protect the dignitaries at the Medal of Freedom ceremony.

  Detective Isadore Ichowitz stared at the wall in the Fourth District conference room where pictures of the victims and suspects had been put up for the ever-expanding multiple homicide investigation. The murder books on the conference room table were grim reminders of the lack of progress they had made in determining the killer or killers. Ichowitz and Regan had competing theories regarding the murders. Regan believed all of the murders were related to the Family Court House deal and had been the work of a single killer. Ichowitz agreed that the Coratelli and Saunders murders were connected, and possibly the work of the same individual.

  Ichowitz did not believe that Megan Larson’s homicide was connected, even though she had been involved in the court house scam. He had no hard evidence to support his theory, just the instincts of a veteran homicide detective. Ichowitz put aside his frustration over the FBI/Homeland Security’s refusal to produce the video surveillance of Ari Nooris condo. He decided he would have to break the case by finding new evidence. He sat at the conference room table and began to review the evidence they had accumulated from the beginning of the investigation. He knew from years of experience that the direction the investigation would have to take if it was to be successful would be found there.

  “Commissioner, the White House is on line one.”

  Regan figured the call had to be about his maneuver to remove all of the federal security agencies from the direct security of the mall for the Vice President and the Secretary of State medal presentation event. After a ten-minute conversation with the President’s chief of staff, Regan had been persuaded to allow the Secret Service, the FBI and Homeland Security to reassume primary responsibility for security. The Philadelphia police would handle traffic and crowd control.

  “Commissioner, I’m sure you understand that our federal agencies have superior resources and far greater expertise than your force,” the chief of staff said, condescension dripping from every word.

  “I respectfully disagree. May I speak candidly?” Regan asked.

  “If you must.”

  “The pissing contest that your agencies are involved in has created an extremely dangerous situation that compromises the security of the Vice President, the Secretary and everyone attending. Please make sure you convey my reservations to the President.”

  When the new pecking order was communicated to the PPD tactical division commander and the head of Highway Patrol, and other command-level staff involved in the operation it was met with universal disdain.

  “Fellas, no matter what, we have to be ready to pick up the pieces. If the shit hits the fan we need to have a contingency plan in place. Keep our guys on high alert and ready to move in if there’s trouble. This is our city, and we have to be ready to protect our citizens if there is a terrorist attack,” Commissioner Regan told them.

  Josef Alawaite was ready. He was confident that his plan would accomplish the desired result. After carefully checking his route to make sure he had no tail, he approached the bank of pay phones in the Greyhound Bus terminal on Filbert Street. When he was satisfied that no one was close enough to listen in or see him dial the number, he placed the call.

  “Is everything on your end settled?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll
proceed,” Alawaite said and hung up.

  Ari Nooris smiled as he threw the cell phone into the Schuylkill River.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The moving van pulled up to the gate at the Barnes Foundation at 4:30 AM. The white, unmarked, eighteen-wheeler was identical to the one that was already being loaded at the loading dock to transport the art collection to the new museum. The curator and some of his staff had worked through the night loading the works of art into the trailer. The trailer was about three quarters filled with paintings and sculptures that had been exhibited on the first floor of the museum. It would likely take another two hours or so to complete the loading process.

  Harlan Johnson, who had worked a double shift, rubbed his eyes and looked out at the two men in the cab of the eighteen-wheeler that had pulled up to the gate. He checked the clipboard again to make sure he had not missed an entry. There was nothing to indicate that a second moving van was expected. He came out of the guard house and walked up to the gate near the driver’s side of the cab.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  The driver said, “Ya can open the gate and let me in.”

  “But I have no record authorizing entry for your van. What are you doing here?”

  “Hey gov, I’m just the driver. I’ll show you my manifest. Are ya gonna let me through the gate while we figure out what to do, or what?”

  Harlan smiled at the driver and shook his head.

  “From your accent it sounds like you’re not from around here,” the guard said. “I have to check with my supervisor and find out if I’m authorized to let you in.”

  “All right, mate. Let me give you the manifest and ya can read him the entry,” the driver said. He got out of the cab of his truck and walked over to the gate. When the guard reached through the bar to take the manifest from him, the driver grabbed his arm and pulled Johnson’s body forward, pinning him against the iron bars. The second man jumped out of the cab and reached inside the gate with a gun and thrust it in the guard’s ear.