Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk

by Neal Goldstein

  Without saying another word Nooris shot Ichowitz in his left knee. The detective screamed in pain and fell to the floor knocking the floor lamp to his left to the ground.

  “Mr. Coratelli, Detective Ichowitz, the next bullet will be aimed at one of your heads. Now tell me. Who betrayed me?”

  As Nooris aimed the Glock at the fallen detective, there was a loud gunshot and he crumpled to the ground. He had been shot in the back by someone in the dining room. In that instant, Coratelli pulled a pistol from his pocket and fired a bullet at Rabinowitz who had turned to return fire from the unknown assailant. Flynn shot Rabinowitz and kicked the weapons away from the gunmen.

  “Are ya hurt bad?” he asked the detective.

  Ichowitz shook his head.

  “You?” he asked Coratelli.

  “No.”

  Flynn thrust a piece of paper in Coratelli’s hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “Places Shona Cohen may be hidin.”

  Jack Regan ran into the room from the dining room. He saw the two gunmen and his friend on the floor.

  “My God! Izzy!”

  “I’m OK.”

  The sound of approaching sirens broke the silence.

  “I’ll be goin then,” Flynn said and left the room. They watched as he walked out the back door and disappeared into the night.

  Within minutes of Flynn’s departure, two police cruisers screeched to a stop in front of Coratelli’s house, clearing the small crowd of neighbors who had been attracted by the sound of gunshots being fired. Officers with weapons drawn approached the front door. Regan opened the door before they could knock and announce their presence.

  He held up his ID and said, “Detective Ichowitz has been shot. Call the EMTs!”

  “Officer down! Officer down!” one of the officers shouted into his shoulder microphone as he ran through the door.

  Within an hour Regan’s father, the Chief of Homicide and several other high- ranking officials of the Philadelphia Police Department were waiting outside of surgery with Ida Ichowitz and Jack Regan. The initial diagnosis from Bradley Oppenheimer, Jefferson Hospital’s Chief of Orthopedic Surgery, was that the bullet had entered Ichowitz’s left leg above the kneecap. That was the good news. The fact that he had been shot with a hollow nose 45-caliber bullet from close range made it impossible for the surgeon to know the full extent of the injury until they opened the wound.

  At the same time, both Rabinowitz and Nooris were also being operated on at Hahneman Hospital for the injuries they had sustained in the shootings at Coratelli’s house. Jack Regan and Vito Coratelli had given their statements to the Third District Chief of Detectives. The Department put an APB out for Michael Flynn. His picture was already out on every local newscast and website.

  “Jack, are you telling me that Flynn saved Izzy’s life?”

  “Dad, he stopped me from going in the Coratelli house. Mr. Coratelli said Nooris was about to shoot Izzy in the head when Flynn shot him.”

  Commissioner Regan shook his head and said, “When we arrest him, I don’t know if we should charge him or give him a medal.”

  “Dad, I’m betting you’ll never arrest him.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  “Well, would ya look what the wind blew in, boyos. We have here a genuine hero, don’t cha know,” Duffy said as Flynn walked into the back room.

  Flynn smiled and handed Duffy the gun Duffy had given him several hours before and said, “Thanks for the piece. It came in handy.”

  “Michael lad, yer friend Vito Coratelli is all over the tele extolling yer virtues. His only missgivin is that ya didn’t kill those two villains. Were they the ones who killed his son?”

  Flynn shook his head and said, “Nooris gave the order, but someone else killed Vito Junior.”.

  “So there’s another killer still on the loose?”

  “A woman, Shona Cohen, I gave Vito the addresses of a couple safe houses Nooris had used when we were planning the Barnes job. I assume the police haven’t found her, so she must have left town.”

  “Well it’s a lucky thing for Coratelli and that policeman ya happened to stop by,” Duffy observed. “Anyways, it’s time fer you to be leavin our fair city. In truth I’ll be missin all the excitement of havin yer company. Fergus will be escortin ya to Detroit and across the border to Canada. I’m afraid you’ll have to ride in the back of the truck with the furniture part of the way.”

  Duffy signaled for the glasses to be filled, raised his glass and said,

  “May the road rise to meet ya,

  May the wind be always at yer back,

  May the sun shine warm upon yer face,

  The rains fall soft on yer fields and,

  Until we meet again,

  May God hold ya in the palm of his hand.”

  “Slainte,” Flynn responded.

  “Slainte,” they all replied and drank the whiskey.

  Ichowitz was in surgery for over five hours. A visibly tired Dr. Oppenheimer, still wearing his scrubs, walked into the waiting area and approached the group that now included Matt and Ben, Ichowitz’s sons, Ida and Jack and his father, who had been anxiously waiting for the doctor’s report.

  “Mrs. Ichowitz, folks, your husband is a very lucky man. He came through the surgery remarkably well.”

  The doctor sat down next to Ida Ichowitz and placed a diagram of a knee on his lap, pointing at it as he explained the surgery. “The bullet entered your husband’s leg about three millimeters above the patella, the kneecap, and exited his thigh, just missing his tibia. It nicked the anterior cartilage, partially severing the collateral ligaments that help stabilize the knee and also partially severing the ACL, the anterior cruciate ligament, the ACL connects the tibia to the femur. We reconstructed the ACL.

  “Detective Ichowitz will have to go to rehab. He’ll probably walk with a slight limp for the rest of his life, but a millimeter one way or the other and, well… Anyway, he’s in recovery; Mrs. Ichowitz, he wants to see you. He said he may need police protection because he knows you’re going to kill him for going to that meeting without back-up like you told him to.”

  Ida looked at the doctor and said, “He’s a real comedian, that one. Boys, let’s go see your father.” She pointed at Jack and his father and said, “You too; you’re mespokha.”

  Jack and his father left the hospital while the Ichowitz family tended to their patient. It had been a long night. “Jack, we’ll give you a lift home,” Commissioner Regan said. “You can get your car later.”

  They sat in the back seat of the Commissioner’s sedan. “Commissioner,” his driver said, “There’s a call for you from Homicide.”

  Commissioner Regan picked up the car phone. It was Larry Jackson, the Chief of Homicide, he listened to the call, sighed and hung up. “Jack, we need to make a detour. It appears that Dorothy Wiggins’ body was discovered in her apartment. The preliminary investigation indicates it was a homicide.” The long night just got longer.

  There were a half dozen police cruisers, the medical examiner’s van and the crime scene truck parked on the driveway in front of the entrance to the Residences at the Ritz Carlton. The police had cordoned off the area. Vans with television antennae and reporters with videos on tripods were set up on the City Hall sidewalk across the street from the luxury condo building. News of the Wiggins’ homicide had already leaked out, no doubt from someone on the condo’s staff.

  Regan and his father ignored the questions the reporters yelled out from across Penn Square as they signed in with the officer controlling the crime scene. A visibly shaken Howard St. Claire, the Ritz’ Concierge, stood in the lobby with one of the police officers.

  “Commissioner, nothing like this is supposed to happen at the Residences. I say this is supposed to be an oasis - a safe haven from the violence. How could you allow this to happen?” he spoke with a refined British accent.

  After the Commissioner assured the concierge that the police would do everything possible to keep the
“madness” at bay and minimize the disruption to the residents, they went up to the forty-seventh floor and logged into the crime scene for a briefing. Homicide Chief Larry Jackson told them the body had been discovered by the night maid who was replacing the flowers on Wiggins’ foyer credenza with fresh flowers at around 1 AM. She immediately contacted her supervisor, who called the police. The preliminary report of the Medical Examiner indicated cause of death, a broken neck, by manual manipulation; time of death less than six hours prior to the maid’s discovery of the body.

  “Based on the time Wiggins and her companion accessed the property and whoever used Wiggins’ card to leave the parking garage, Wiggins had been murdered between 9:45 and 10 PM. The surveillance video of the elevator at the underground garage and on the elevator shows a woman accompanied the vic to her apartment. There was no view of the woman’s face. She was obviously aware of the location of the video cameras. We’re dealing with a pro here,” Jackson observed.

  “Wiggins’ car is missing. We suspect the assailant drove it out of the parking lot. The body has been taken to the ME. The autopsy is scheduled for later this morning.”

  “Chief, could you get any idea how tall the woman was from the video?” Jack asked Jackson.

  “Negative. Why?”

  “I’m thinking that the murderer was Shona Cohen, Nooris assistant. The woman Avi Nooris told us killed Vito Coratelli Jr and Mickey Saunders. I’ve seen her and she’s tall … I would say close to six feet.”

  “Why would she murder Dorothy Wiggins? For that matter, why would she even still be in Philly?” Jackson asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jack replied.

  “Well, with Wiggins’ history there will probably be a long list of suspects. According to Philadelphia Magazine she was the most hated lawyer in Philly. And that’s quite a distinction, no offense,” Jackson said nodding at Jack.

  Jack smiled and replied, “Chief, none taken.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Later that morning Jack Regan called Monroe Ossberg to let him know that his friend Isodore Ichowitz would recover from the shooting. Regan also let him know that Nooris and Rabinowitz had been treated for their injuries and would be returned to federal custody when the local authorities were finished with them. He suggested that, for the time being, the FBI and Homeland assume a subordinate position. This was appropriate protocol since the Philadelphia Police had arrested them for the felonies in connection with their home invasion and assault on Coratelli and Izzy.

  “Mr. Ossberg, the District Attorney is going to indict them for Assault with Intent and other charges. Since one of the victims was a prominent member of the PPD, you can assure FBI SAC Keel that the department will not allow either of these men to escape custody.”

  Ossberg accepted the rebuke graciously. After all, the federal authorities had badly botched the relatively easy transfer of the prisoners that allowed their escape and the near-fatal consequences that followed.

  “Jack, is Izzy able to see visitors?” he asked.

  “Mr. Ossberg.”

  “Jack, please. The formality is not necessary.”

  “Monroe, you’ll have to check with his wife. She’s running the toughest security screening I’ve ever encountered. Izzy’s my godfather and she practically strip-searched me before she let me see him. I had to promise not to mention anything about the Wiggins murder.”

  Ossberg laughed. “So what happened?”

  “One of the officers standing guard had already told him about it.” He paused and said, “You know if you see him he’s going to ask you about the Larson case. He thinks you’re holding out evidence that might help us close the case,” Jack commented.

  “I know. Do you have any leads on Wiggins’ murderer?”Ossberg asked.

  “No, but if I were a betting man I’d lay long odds on Shona Cohen. Monroe, do you have evidence that would shed some light on Megan Larson’s killer?”

  “Jack, I …”

  “Forget it,” Regan cut him off.

  Regan and Ichowitz had exhausted every possible angle to come up with a logical explanation for why the feds would withhold information about the Larson murder. In the wake of everything that had transpired since, even if the feds originally had a legitimate reason to withhold evidence, it didn’t seem that there could be any plausible justification at this juncture. Regan had reached the conclusion that they had nothing. Izzy still believed they were holding something back. Regan pitied Ossberg. He was certain Izzy would put Ossberg on a super guilt trip when he visited him at the hospital.

  Shona Cohen watched the early morning local newscasts that widely reported the shootings at Vito Coratelli’s house. She had never trusted Michael Flynn. Ari must be slipping. He should have let her eliminate him when she asked. She realized that both Ari and Rabinowitz were beyond her help now. It was highly unlikely that they would be able to escape a second time. It was also equally unlikely that the authorities would break either of them. She assumed the half brother, Avi, already gave up what little information he knew about his older sibling’s dealings.

  It was time for her to move on. She had ample assets, including the stolen painting from the Barnes, and the skills to evade the authorities. She had completed her mission. She felt no remorse over anything she had done. It wasn’t a matter of personal preference or emotion. It was an assignment, nothing more. Nooris had trained her well. She would miss his mentoring, but she would carry on without him. Their relationship was not what anyone would think of as a friendship. It was far more complicated than that. Whatever it had been, now it was over, and now it was time for her to shed her skin and take on a new persona.

  She boarded the Bolt bus to New York City. She had dyed her hair blond and fashioned the blond hair extensions into a pony tail that she placed through the back of a faded Phillys baseball cap. She wore tight blue jeans, Ugg boots and a sweatshirt with Pratt Art Institute on the front and carried a large rectangular canvas bag that art students use to transport their projects. Among the sketches and drawings in her carrier was the priceless oil painting by Georges Braque that Ari had instructed her to take from the Arab. Looking like the other college coeds returning from a weekend at home, she twittered away on her smart phone, occasionally laughing at the response, as she waited in line to board the early morning bus.

  Jack Regan sat beside Ichowitz’s bed in the chair in which the detective’s wife had stationed herself following his surgery. She reluctantly suspended her vigil at her sons’ insistence that she rest at home. They assured her that the police would stand guard throughout the night and keep their father safe from any harm.

  “Jack, you look like you’re the one who took a bullet. Go home, let Kate cook you some breakfast and get some sleep,” Ichowitz told him.

  “Izz, I will, I just wanted to give you an update on the investigation of the Wiggins murder.”

  After filling Ichowitz in on the progress, or perhaps better described, lack of progress, he asked, “Izz, I hear that your buddy Monroe Ossberg dropped by to see you. So does he have anything to share that may help us on the Larson case?”

  Ichowitz sighed and replied, “He swears that he didn’t withhold any evidence.”

  “But you don’t believe him?”

  Ichowitz shook his head.

  “Well, my boss says the Larson investigation is going to go to cold case status. We have nothing firm to go on in the Wiggins murder other than our belief that Shona Cohen is the doer.”

  “Did we check out the addresses Flynn gave us?” Ichowitz asked.

  Regan nodded his head and said, “No joy.”

  “I see Vito Coratelli has been all over the morning news casts extolling the bravery and decisiveness of the art thief Michael Flynn. His description of Flynn’s exploits makes the likes of both the federal and local authorities out to be like the ‘Keystone Cops.’ We could really use a break on the Wiggins investigation.”

  Regan shrugged his shoulders.

  “Go home, get some
rest. Who knows? Maybe something will come up tomorrow,” Ichowitz said.

  “You get some rest too. I’ll see you tomorrow. You need to get back on your feet real fast. You’re going to be my Best Man. I can’t have you walking down the aisle using a walker.”

  They both realized the Larson case would remain unsolved.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Monroe Ossberg realized that he had let his friend, likely his only friend in Philadelphia, Isodore Ichowitz, down. He could sense that the big detective knew he was not telling him the truth, the “emess,” when he claimed Homeland had turned over everything in its possession that could shed light on the Megan Larson murder investigation. Ossberg had conclusive evidence that revealed the identity of the killer. The “Top Secret” designation on the file, however, precluded him from even discussing, let alone releasing the evidence. If he were to do so, not only would his career come to a swift and unhappy conclusion, he could also be prosecuted under the Patriot Act, and various other federal statutes.

  The Larson case and the chaos that followed in its wake had already likely derailed the career of Howard Keel, the FBI Philadelphia SAC, despite his efforts to deflect responsibility for the consequences that had resulted principally from the unimaginable stupidity of Ossberg’s predecessor, the political appointee Simon Conway. Conway never disclosed his mole in the New Age mosque of the now-missing radical cleric Malik Ben-Ali. Keel had directed around-the-clock surveillance of the Homeland agent, believing him to be a sleeper terrorist. Despite the fact that Keel’s agents discovered the mole, thousands of dollars had been wasted and lives had been lost. Someone other than the well-connected political appointee had to take the fall.

  Ossberg had submitted numerous requests of Homeland to declassify the Carrington file. Most recently when he received word of Wiggins’ murder, he asked the Assistant Secretary if he could have permission to release the disc of the Nooris condo surveillance. He received the same response he had received the five previous requests: The case was too sensitive to allow local authorities any information about Homeland’s investigation. Ossberg had also requested that he be relieved of his temporary assignment to Homeland. Once again his request was denied on the basis of his efficient stewardship of the Regional Office, at least until another politically-connected appointee could be found to replace him.