Legends of Winter Hill: Cops, Con Men, and Joe McCain, the Last Real Detective

by Jay Atkinson

  * * *

  Legends of Winter Hill

  Cops, Con Men, and Joe McCain, the Last Real Detective

  Jay Atkinson

  * * *

  CROWN PUBLISHERS / NEW YORK

  For Harry Crews,

  teacher and friend

  People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

  — GEORGE ORWELL

  INTRODUCTION

  “Somebody's Been Shot”

  THAT PARTICULAR MORNING Detective Joe McCain arrived late to the office of the MDC Special Investigations Unit, located on the sixth floor of the old Registry of Motor Vehicles building in Boston. A veteran cop with thirty years on the job, McCain, fifty-eight, was an imposing man, six foot three and every one of the three hundred and something pounds he admitted to, but solid, with fists like prize hams and forearms the circumference of a grown man's neck. He was whistling as he came into the Nashua Street office because during a recent physical the doctor had said he was in good shape— his heart was sound and his blood pressure was fine. He just needed to lose some weight, and there in the office Joseph E. McCain, Sr., announced that he was starting a new regimen that very day: January 29, 1988.

  No more bloody steaks at the Parker House, or hot pastrami sandwiches from the North End. Big Joe was going on a diet.

  His younger colleagues, Detectives Gene Kee and Al DiSalvo and Biff McLean, were eyeing each other over their desks and snickering like teenagers. “What a fat shit,” Kee said under his breath.

  “What'd you say?” asked McCain, looking over at them.

  “He said you're a fat fuck,” said DiSalvo, smiling over at Kee, who was trying to shush him.

  McCain raised an eyebrow. “Well, I'd like you geniuses to know that I'm down to a svelte three twenty,” he said, turning to profile.

  “Fuck you, Joe, you're three forty-five, easy,” Kee said, while the rest of them broke out laughing.

  Gathered for a briefing on coke dealers in Hyde Park was a veritable all-star team of Metropolitan District Commission police detectives, or Mets, as they liked to be called. Their work was complicated and dangerous, and they were good at it. The leader of the unit, forty-one-year-old Sergeant Mark Cronin, a tall, quiet fellow, had served in Army Intelligence during the Vietnam War. Among such hard chargers, who drank and fought and crashed their share of police vehicles, Cronin was the most cerebral and straitlaced, and a meticulous planner and organizer. When Cronin walked into the office with a rookie detective named Dennis Febles and another man named Chris Brighton, who looked and acted like a drug dealer, the rest of the guys quit piling on Joe McCain and fell silent.

  “Joe, what are you doing here?” asked Cronin.

  “I'm working, Sarge, what the fuck does it look like?” McCain said, and the guys all laughed.

  Sergeant Cronin was surprised to see McCain, who had requested the day off so he and his friend Jim O'Donovan and their wives could attend a dinner dance in Hingham. But when Joe McCain heard that “the kids,” as he called his youthful counterparts, were going to sting the drug dealers today, he'd canceled his outing and driven to the office. And although the unit had made a large number of significant arrests in its short history and the other detectives were putting on a bold front, McCain detected a sense of gloom in the office that morning, an uneasiness that had never attached itself to their meetings in the past.

  Wearing a scruffy beard for this operation, ex-Marine Christopher “Kegs” Brighton was the unit's undercover man, wiseass, and resident beer drinker. William “Battlin' Biff” McLean and thirty-five-year-old Gene Kee were adept at handling informants. “Fat Al” DiSalvo was the surveillance expert. In the unit for just two weeks, former New York City gang member Dennis Febles spoke Spanish and had a hankering for some action.

  Even among such a stellar cast of cops, Joe McCain stood out. Hailed on all sides as the genuine article, big Joe was punching out mobsters and solving murder cases when Gene Kee and Chris Brighton were in grade school. He was a Somerville guy, and lived with his wife, Helen, on a quiet street adjacent to the Tufts University campus. The McCains' only child, twenty-six-year-old Joe Jr., had just been discharged from the Marines and was planning on becoming a cop himself. But the figure of his old man was an imposing one. A large, white-haired, cigar-smoking fellow who resembled John Wayne in both physique and bearing, Joe McCain was a legend in law enforcement circles, and his file contained a sheaf of commendations over an inch thick.

  On this case, thirty-nine-year-old Chris Brighton had spent weeks developing a relationship with a coke dealer named Melvin Lee, purchasing a half ounce here and an ounce there, building up the trust necessary for the sting to move ahead. Posing as a ski bum who drove down to Boston to score coke for the kids partying up at Cannon and Loon, Brighton had recently upped the ante with Melvin Lee. He told the dealer that he had $15,000 and wanted to buy a half kilo of cocaine. Subsequently, Mark Cronin had made the decision that they would arrest Lee today and perhaps get the dealer above him who could supply that much blow. When Joe McCain came into the office, Brighton and the rest of the guys were waiting for Lee to hit Brighton's beeper.

  Finally the pager went off. Brighton saw Melvin Lee's phone number and went into an adjoining office to return the call. A few moments later, he emerged with a smile on his face. “It's on,” he said.

  One last time Mark Cronin went over each man's assignment. Also present that morning were two seasoned detectives from the Boston Police Department, Paul Hutchinson and Jack Honan. It was a practice of the Special Investigations Unit to work with other departments in the jurisdiction of a case, and men like Honan and Hutchinson would be helpful in the surveillance and arrest of Melvin Lee and his associates.

  Jack Honan rode with Dennis Febles in an unmarked van driven by Gene Kee. As part of the “takedown team,” charged with taking the suspects into custody when the time came, all three detectives wore bulletproof vests. Mark Cronin and Biff McLean were to park on the street behind Lee's house on Wood Avenue in Hyde Park, monitoring the whereabouts and conversations of Chris Brighton, who was wired with a hidden microphone. Al DiSalvo was on the far side of a park near Lee's residence, maintaining surveillance. And Joe McCain and Paul Hutchinson, both good-sized men, were squeezed like circus clowns into a tiny gray Toyota that had been seized in a different case. Their assignment was to stay close and watch the front door.

  Following Brighton's vehicle at a safe distance, the teams moved to within a block of 276 Wood Avenue and took up their positions. Cronin and McLean found a secluded place behind the house and opened up the Kel, a briefcase-sized listening device that included a short antenna they attached to the roof of the car. The only two officers who could hear what Brighton was saying and what was being said to him, they relayed the necessary information to the other members of the unit. Inside the house, Lee told Brighton that the coke hadn't arrived yet and he should wait. Both men went into the kitchen and sat down.

  Melvin Lee rose from his chair and paced back and forth, then returned to his seat opposite Brighton. A slightly built, forty-seven-year-old black man with close-cropped hair and a large, flat mustache, Lee was more nervous than he'd been on the other occasions when he and Brighton had done business.

  “Miko checked you out, and he thinks you're a cop,” said Lee, naming his supplier.

  “I'm no cop,” Brighton said. “I'm a businessman.”

  “If you're livin' in New Hampshire, skiing and shit, how come you got Mass. p
lates on that Camaro?”

  “I rented it over at Logan. So it's got Mass. plates.”

  Lee hunched forward over the table. “You got a gun?” he asked.

  “You carry money, you carry a gun,” said Brighton with a shrug. He pointed to the right side of his sweater and put his hand on the butt of his revolver.

  “You got handcuffs, too?” asked Lee.

  Brighton laughed. “I'm not that kinky,” he said.

  The other man laughed with him. “Listen, we just gotta check things out,” he said.

  “Yeah. Right.”

  Brighton and Lee waited for several more minutes, but no one came to the house. “I'm gonna split,” said Brighton, rising from the table. “If you wanna do it, call my pager number.”

  “Where you gonna be?”

  “I'm gonna have a drink at the Marriott, and then I'm heading up north,” said Brighton.

  “I'll page you by three o'clock, three-thirty at the latest.”

  Brighton made for the door. “I'm not coming back here on some wild fuckin' goose chase,” he said.

  “You won't be,” said Lee, and Brighton went out.

  A short time after Chris Brighton emerged from the house, Sergeant Cronin announced to his teams that the deal was off, at least for now.

  The detectives returned to their office around lunchtime and ordered submarine sandwiches. Joe McCain took a good deal of ribbing for the salad he ate, which would have filled a garbage can. It was Friday afternoon, and there was some talk of postponing the operation until the following week. McCain called Jim O'Donovan again to see if he and his wife had made other plans for the evening. It was looking like big Joe would be able to attend that dinner dance after all. But around three o'clock Chris Brighton was paged three times in succession, and he called the number and heard Melvin Lee's voice on the other end of the line.

  “The stuff's here,” said Lee.

  “I'll be there in forty-five minutes,” Brighton said.

  McCain looked at his uneaten salad and pushed it away. “I feel like a fuckin' rabbit,” he said.

  Again the Special Investigations Unit hurried out to their vehicles and reestablished the surveillance. Wary of countersurveillance and the possibility of drug lookouts scattered through the neighborhood, Mark Cronin ordered the various teams to retreat one block from their previous locations. He didn't want to endanger his undercover man by getting “made.”

  The unit moved into place just after 4:00 P.M. In his leather jacket and jeans, with the fifteen grand locked in the trunk, Brighton pulled up in front of 276 Wood Avenue, a little dump of a house surrounded by a chain-link fence. It was growing dark by that hour, and a chill had descended onto the streets. As Chris passed through the front gate, Melvin Lee met him in the yard.

  “The dude split,” said Lee. “Said he was tired of waiting.”

  Brighton was irritated. “You know what, fuck you,” he said, turning for his car. “The last coke you sold me, the guys at the ski lodge were giving me shit about it. It sucked.”

  “Hey, this is good blow,” said Lee. “Come on in.”

  Brighton turned his head and spit onto the ground, extending his charade for another moment, then followed Lee up the stairs into the house. In the hallway he was introduced to a black male in jeans and a light-colored T-shirt by the name of Stoney. “Come back in half an hour,” said Stoney. “The coke'll be here.”

  “I'll give you guys one more chance,” said Brighton.

  He returned to his car, gunned the engine, and drove off. The night was cold and clear, with very little snow on the ground and a waxing moon. For thirty minutes Brighton circled the neighborhood, and right at 4:45 he parked at the curb and went back inside, determined to make a deal. With Joe McCain behind the wheel, Paul Hutchinson beside him, and its headlights extinguished, the little Toyota came to a stop less than a hundred yards from 276 Wood Avenue.

  Melvin Lee and Stoney herded Brighton into the kitchen. There was another man there, a white guy named Tommy, who was snorting lines of coke from a small pile on the table. Stoney told Lee to take Tommy upstairs so they could do business in private. Although the house was warm, Stoney wore a dark blue overcoat and a crumpled woolen hat.

  “Take off your coat,” said Stoney.

  Brighton shook his head. “I'm not gonna be here long.”

  Stoney took a seat at the table and Brighton went around to the far end. “What do you do in Conway?” asked Stoney.

  “Tend bar,” said Brighton. “Ever been up there?”

  “No,” the other man said.

  Stoney said that he was from New York and had been in jail. Talk at the table was strained, and after a short while Brighton asked, “Is he coming, or not?”

  “Lemme see the money,” said Stoney.

  “Show me the product.”

  Just then Lee returned to the kitchen. “You gotta start trusting this dude,” he told Stoney. “His money is good.”

  “You wanna see the money?” Brighton asked. “C'mon.”

  He got up and went outside, followed by Lee and Stoney. Lee waited on the porch, and Brighton and Stoney went down the front walk, through the gate, and around to the back of a bright red Camaro parked at the curb. Taking out his keys, Brighton unlocked the trunk and the interior light went on. Beside the spare tire were two stacks of hundred-dollar bills, fastened with rubber bands.

  “Leave it there,” Stoney said.

  Brighton pocketed his keys, and he and Stoney went back into the house with Lee behind them. With his right hand deep in the pocket of his overcoat, Stoney led Brighton into the kitchen, and they returned to their previous spots at the table. It was five o'clock.

  “Where is the stuff coming from— Bolivia?” Brighton asked.

  Stoney rose from his seat and used his left hand to point at the clock. “If the shit ain't here by five-o-five, you can split,” he said.

  Since they had returned to the house, Stoney had not taken his right hand out of his pocket. Behind Chris to his right was a door into the bathroom, and without saying another word Stoney walked past the table and disappeared inside. There was no sound of water falling into the toilet, and after about twenty seconds Brighton heard a metallic click, then another. He began to turn around in his chair just as Stoney emerged from the bathroom with a sawed off shotgun.

  “Gimme your fuckin' keys,” Stoney said, pressing the barrel of the shotgun against Brighton's neck.

  Parked on the street behind Lee's house, Mark Cronin feared that the operation had gone sour. “Gimme the coat,” said Stoney's voice over the wire. “Strip.”

  Brighton stood up. “All right,” he said.

  He held out his keys and Stoney took them. While Brighton was shrugging out of his coat, Stoney circled the table, keeping the shotgun pointed at the detective's chest. “Hurry up,” he said.

  Brighton dropped his leather jacket on the floor.

  “Take the sweater off,” said Stoney.

  Brighton's .38 service revolver was concealed beneath the waistband of his jeans, and as Stoney came up in front of him, he made a move toward Brighton like he meant to lift up his sweater. Lunging for the barrel of Stoney's shotgun, Brighton made a simultaneous grab for his own weapon, and he and the other man fell against the table and onto the floor, struggling for control of the two guns.

  “I'm a cop,” said Brighton.

  “Motherfucker,” said Stoney.

  Wrenching the shotgun backward, Stoney created a gap between himself and Brighton and kicked the detective in the balls. Brighton fell hard onto his shoulder, and Stoney bolted from the kitchen. Scrambling around on his hands and knees, Brighton groped along the floor for his revolver but couldn't find it.

  Hearing muffled curses and the thumping and banging that marked the onset of Brighton's fight, Cronin opened a channel to the other detectives in his unit and said, “He's in trouble. Get in there.”

  Gene Kee threw the van into drive and sped in the direction of the call; j
ust as abruptly he jammed on his brakes and glanced left and right at the first intersection. The takedown team would have to cross two streets, one of them the main thoroughfare, before arriving at the house.

  As soon as he gave the order, Cronin got out of his car and, followed by Biff McLean, the two detectives ran toward Lee's house, their shoes ringing against the pavement. In the rear of the dwelling was a run-down garage and, climbing the fence that protected it, Cronin went along the left side of the garage toward the house and McLean chose the right. A cement wall forced Cronin to double back, coming around the way his partner had gone.

  The yard was empty. Approaching the house, Cronin heard several loud reports, like the sound of firecrackers going off, then watched as Chris Brighton dived out the back door and tumbled onto the ground. Brighton staggered to his feet, looking dazed and pale.

  “Chris,” said Cronin, his gun at the ready.

  “I'm all right,” said Brighton.

  An impatient man by nature and an enterprising cop, Joe McCain had refused to sit still on the “peek” and happened to be cruising right by the house when Cronin gave his order. First on the scene, McCain and Hutchinson had jumped out of the Toyota and scrambled up the front walk with their guns drawn.

  McCain reached the bottom of the stairs, with Hutchinson right behind him. As they hurried toward the doorway, a man rushed outside with a gun in each hand.

  “Freeze— police officer,” said Hutchinson, aiming his revolver.

  Suddenly there was a loud explosion and two bright flashes from the hand of the unknown person. McCain and Hutchinson returned fire. Something struck the walkie-talkie in Hutchinson's left hand and then hit him in that shoulder, throwing him onto the ground.

  The unidentified man ran toward McCain, shooting his weapon. Lumbering forward, McCain fired five shots, and in the cramped space of the yard the rounds flew back and forth. McCain felt a small sharp pain in his lower abdomen and reeled backward onto the stairs, and the suspect ran past him and down into the front yard.