A Brilliant Death

by Yocum, Robin

Throughout our work on Project Amanda, I continually reminded myself that this was Travis’s mother. He had many unanswered questions, and this article had just added to it. I pondered this for a minute, then suggested, “We’re three blocks from the sheriff’s office. Let’s walk over there. Maybe that Tornik guy is still a detective. If he is, I’ll bet he’d tell you.”

  Travis nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

  “I have those once in a while,” I said.

  There was no acknowledgement from Travis, who simply started rewinding the microfilm reel.

  The sheriff’s office was in the courthouse annex, just north of the main structure. It was a two-story building that housed the county jail in the basement, the sheriff’s office on the first floor, and juvenile court on the second floor. The lobby of the sheriff’s office looked like the inside of a bank, with a single window opening covered with chrome bars. The door to the left led back to the sheriff’s department; the one to the right into a stairwell. Both had magnetic locks that could only be opened by a worn-out looking platinum blonde with thick hips sitting at a desk behind the grated opening. We stood at the opening for several moments before she raised her eyes from the paperback she was reading. “Yes?” she asked, cracking her chewing gum.

  “Uh, does Detective Chase Tornik still work here?” Travis asked. “We wanted to talk to him about a murder investigation.”

  Without any sign of emotion, she picked up the phone and punched in a number. “There are two kids up here who are asking for Chase Tornik. . . . No, I’m not kidding. . . . They said it’s about a murder investigation. . . . I don’t know. . . . I don’t know.” She took an exasperated breath. “I still don’t know. Why don’t you come up here and ask them?” She hung up her phone and went back to her paperback. “Someone will be up in a minute.”

  Sheriff Beaumont T. Bonecutter could block out the sun. He stood an imposing six-foot-four and had shoulders like a bear, which caused the light blue, polyester shirt to strain across his chest. A pair of thick, muscular forearms extended from the short sleeves, revealing a mat of curly, gray hair the same shade as those projecting from his nostrils and ears. His black tie was a clip-on and he smelled of Vitalis and bay rum. He had two of the biggest hands I had ever seen on a human being, and when he set the paws on the counter I noticed a wedding ring being suffocated behind a mound of flesh. His arms were spread wide, and through the bars he asked, “What do you boys want?”

  “We wanted to talk to Chase Tornik,” Travis said.

  There was a moment of silence. “Chase Tornik?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bonecutter snorted—part laughter, part disgust. He looked at Travis, then me, then Travis again. “What do you want with him?”

  “We wanted to ask him some questions.”

  “I don’t have time to play twenty questions with you, junior; what’s this about?”

  “My mom. My mom was Amanda Baron. She drowned . . .”

  “I know who your mom was. Were you the one looking for that report?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded. “Okay, so what’s that have to do with Tornik?”

  “We found an article in the newspaper that said he was investigating her death as a homicide, but there was only one story. I want to find out why he thought it was a homicide and what happened.”

  Bonecutter chewed on his upper lip, frowned, then said, “Let ’em in, Sally.”

  The electronic latch on the door to our left released and I followed Travis, who followed Bonecutter, into the inner sanctum of the sheriff’s office. “Is Mr. Tornik in?” I asked.

  The sheriff never broke stride as he led us toward his office. “He doesn’t work here anymore.”

  “When did he quit?”

  “He didn’t. We fired him when he went to prison.” Bonecutter pushed open the door to his office and motioned us in with his head. “Have a seat.” As I walked by I could smell the cigar smoke that clung to him. He walked around a mahogany desk that was as big as my bed, sat in a leather-padded chair that exhaled under his weight, and asked, “What are you trying to find out?”

  “I’m just trying to track down information about my mom,” Travis said. “We were looking up articles at the library. That’s where I found the one about Detective Tornik investigating her death as a homicide. That’s why we wanted to talk to him.”

  “You’re not familiar with Tornik?”

  “Not at all,” Travis said.

  He nodded slowly for several seconds, twirling a bent paper clip in his fingers. “Best goddamn detective I’d ever seen,” Bonecutter said. “I was his patrol sergeant when he cracked the DiCarolis case, but I don’t suppose you know about that, either?” We both shook our heads. He pulled a Marsh-Wheeling Stogie from a package, fired it up, took several puffs, and slid the silver lighter across his desk blotter. “The DiCarolis family was a very powerful crime family out of Youngstown. In December 1948, there was a triple homicide at the Little Napoli Restaurante . . .” He pointed over his shoulder. “It’s not there anymore, but it was a little hole-in-the-wall place north of town on Jewett Road by the Pottery Addition. We got a call about a shooting, and Tornik was the first officer on the scene. He goes in, finds the restaurant’s owner, Eddie LaBaudica, they called him Sweet Fingers, and his brother-in-law, Santino Potenzini, dead in the dining room. It had dropped well below zero, and the power had gone out in a storm. There was frozen blood everywhere. Sweet Fingers was facedown, his face frozen solid in a plate of angel hair pasta and marinara—I’ll never forget that—and he had a pair of .22-caliber slug holes behind his left ear. The cook, I can’t remember his name, died the same way. Potenzini, however, had apparently put up a struggle, and he was lying on the floor, his gun still in his hand, blood everywhere.

  “Potenzini was a lieutenant in the Antonelli crime family of Pittsburgh. The Antonellis controlled gambling in the Upper Ohio River Valley. The don was Salvatore Antonelli—Il Tigre. You’ve heard of him, right?”

  We both nodded. Everyone in the Ohio Valley knew of Il Tigre. He had a reputation as the most ruthless mob boss in the country. My dad played the numbers and bet on pro football games at Carmine’s Lounge in Mingo Junction, and he once saw El Tigre there. He said the don had a complexion like a gravel parking lot and such girth that he gulped down air in bursts and gurgled when he exhaled. Dad also said he had the dark, depthless eyes of a predator and he was happy to place his bets and get out of the lounge.

  Beaumont T. Bonecutter continued, “The Antonellis used the Little Napoli Restaurante as their base in the Valley. The DiCarolis family had been trying to move in on the action, and this was meant as a wake-up call for the Antonellis.

  “Since Tornik was the first one on the scene, the detectives asked him to help out with the investigation. We’re a small department, and we all pitch in. Tornik is looking around and he finds a butter dish lying upside down, frozen. He picks it up and it has a perfect imprint of three fat fingers—a deep scar running the length of the middle one—and a man’s ring—a square face with a large, centered rock, chipped, surrounded by the initials ‘JS.’

  “He puts the butter dish in the freezer and gets the art teacher at the high school to make a plaster cast of it. She used that to make a latex mold, which we used to make several plaster casts.” He pointed to one of the casts on the shelf behind his desk. “‘JS,’ we figured, stood for Joey Sirgusiano, who was this slob of a numbers runner and enforcer who worked for DiCarolis. Tornik brings Sirgusiano in for questioning. He shows up with an attorney who is wearing a suit that cost more than I make in a year. I’m watching from behind a two-way mirror. Sirgusiano’s attorney says, ‘The only reason I’m agreeing to this interview was because of the ludicrous suggestion that Mr. Sirgusiano is somehow involved in the tragic murders at the Little Napoli.’

  “Sirgusiano and the attorney are looking at each other and smirking. Sirgusiano says, ‘Hey, sonny boy, are you old enough to carry a real gun?’ Tornik was only a
bout twenty-three and looked sixteen. Then Sirgusiano points at the two-way mirror, which I’m behind with the county prosecutor and two detectives, and says, ‘Hey, guys, how come you’re sending a boy to do a man’s job?’

  “Tornik starts asking questions, acting timid. Sirgusiano’s answering them exactly as the attorney had scripted them. He had never in his life been in the Little Napoli Restaurante, although he heard the eggplant parmesan and risotto were the best in the Ohio Valley. Which, by the way, was true. Eddie ‘Sweet Fingers’ LaBaudica? Never heard of him. Never in his life. Santino Potenzini? Him neither. Were those two of the men who died? They were? How tragic. No, he didn’t know nothin’ about nothin’.

  “Finally, the lawyer asks, ‘Officer, my client is a very busy man. How much longer is this charade going to take?’

  “This is where it got really good. Tornik says, ‘Oh, not long at all, actually.’ He points toward the ring finger on Sirgusiano’s right hand and says, ‘That’s a beautiful ring, Mr. Sirgusiano. May I see it?’

  “The lawyer says, ‘What? Absolutely not. Keep it on your finger.’

  “Tornik reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a search warrant. He says, ‘Do you see this, counselor? This is a search warrant. The location of the search is the person of one Joseph Dominic Sirgusiano.’ He winks at Sirgusiano and says, ‘That’s you, dipstick. The object in question is a ring—flat face, chipped center stone, initials JS.’ I swear to Jesus, every bit of color drained from Sirgusiano’s face. He didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. He couldn’t even work up a spit. The attorney reads the warrant, then shrugs and says, ‘Give him the ring. We’ll get it back.’

  “Sirgusiano tugs it off his fat finger and slams it down on the middle of the table. Tornik held the ring up close for several minutes before reaching back into his jacket pocket and pulling out a plaster replica of the ring and the three chubby fingers. He says, ‘You know, your ring bears a striking resemblance to the one in this cast. And wouldn’t you say the scar on the middle finger of this mold matches the one on your middle finger, Mr. Sirgusiano?’

  “Now, there’s sweat rolling down Sirgusiano’s forehead. Tornik says, ‘You probably have already figured out where we got this, but for my personal enjoyment, let me tell you. On the day of the murders, I found this lovely specimen pressed into a frozen butter dish at the Little Napoli Restaurante—the very same restaurant that just a few minutes ago you said you’d never in your life set foot inside.’

  “The lawyer tells Sirgusiano to clam up.

  “Tornik says, ‘We don’t think you killed the boys at the restaurant, Mr. Sirgusiano, but we’re betting you know who did. And the first guy to the door is the one who gets the deal.’ The lawyer says, ‘Don’t say a word. Mr. DiCarolis will take care of you.’

  “Tornik knows he’s in charge, so he leans back in his chair and says, ‘Sure, listen to your counsel, Joey. Go on back to Youngstown. I’m sure Mr. DiCarolis will take care of you, just like your lawyer said. What is it that all his friends in the mob call Mr. DiCarolis? Let me think. Oh, yeah, I remember—Donny Death. I’m sure Donny Death will be very understanding and loyal to a second-rate thug who leaves behind evidence that implicates the family in the slaughter of three people, two of whom are known associates of the Antonelli family. So, go ahead. There’s the door. You can leave now, if you like. But, I’ll tell you this, even if Mr. DiCarolis forgives you, I’m not so certain that Il Tigre is going to be so understanding. He probably doesn’t care about you shooting the cook, but he’s not going to be too happy that you dusted one of his top lieutenants and the owner of the Little Napoli.’ Tornik smiled and said, ‘I understand Il Tigre was very fond of the eggplant parmesan.’

  “Sirgusiano blurts out, ‘I’ll talk, I’ll talk, I’ll talk. Just get me a real lawyer and you’ve gotta promise me protection.’ Before morning, Joey Sirgusiano was tucked away in a cottage in the Allegheny National Forest near the Pennsylvania-New York line with Tornik and the county prosecutor. He was the star witness against the DiCarolis crime family. The top six members of the DiCarolis family went to prison, as did seven of their lieutenants.”

  We had been mesmerized by the tale and sat slack-jawed as the sheriff relit his cigar. Finally, I asked, “Why’d Tornik go to prison?”

  Bonecutter sent a stream of blue smoke over his desk. “He started believing his own press clippings,” Bonecutter said. “There was a big feature story in one of those national news magazines about him—talked about the boy cop who brought down the DiCarolis crime family. He started writing first-person stories for those true crime rags. Pretty soon, he thought he had to solve every crime in the county. He started to phony-up evidence to solve cases and protect his reputation. He was planting evidence, forcing confessions, and paying witnesses for bogus testimony.”

  “Like what?” Travis asked.

  “The one that brought him down involved a guy here in Steubenville named Leon Jefferson—a black guy, everyone called him Stony—who got charged with a string of burglaries. After Stony got popped for the burglaries, he was looking for something to bargain with in exchange for a lighter sentence. He tells the prosecutor that Tornik had paid him two hundred dollars to testify against Willie Potts in a murder trial the year before. Stony said he witnessed Potts stab Luther Bigelow to death. Potts got convicted and was sent to Death Row. Turns out, Stony wasn’t within ten miles of Luther Bigelow the night he got popped. That opened up the floodgates. The prosecutor started going back through Tornik’s cases and found three or four other instances of misconduct. Those were just the ones he could prove. There were probably more, but that was enough to send Tornik to prison.”

  Travis asked, “Do you know why he was investigating my mom’s death as a homicide?”

  Bonecutter shook his head. “No idea, son. Hell, it was probably just more of his grandstanding. Like I said, the guy was a hell of an investigator, but he had an ego as big as all outdoors. When he started to phony up evidence, he made us all look bad. Most guys around here think he’s lower than whale shit. They can’t say his name without getting a bad taste in their mouths. But he paid the price. He got convicted and did hard time, and former cops don’t have a real easy time of it in prison.”

  “Is he out of prison?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he got out a while back.”

  “Do you know where we can find him?” Travis asked.

  “Nope. I haven’t seen him in years. Frankly, if I did know, I’d do my best to stay away from him.” The sheriff winked. “It’s not good for an elected officer of the law to be seen chumming around with a convicted felon.”

  As we left the sheriff’s office, I said, “Well, based on that story, maybe there was no reason for a homicide investigation. Sounds like he had a giant ego and was just trying to make a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “I’d still like to talk to him,” Travis said.

  “Of course you would.”

  The next day, Travis telephoned the offices of the state parole board. A lady who didn’t want to be bothered with our inquiry said that privacy laws forbade the release of any information. Travis also wrote to the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections in Columbus, and they responded with a terse, standardized note that stated that Chase Tornik, Inmate No. A-12-0778, had been incarcerated in the Ohio penitentiary system from June 1955 until November 1963, when he was released from the Mansfield Reformatory and paroled to a halfway house in Toledo. He was released from parole in November 1966.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Travis slouched back into the corner booth of the Coffee Pot, mindlessly stirring his RC Cola with a straw. “At least we know why Tornik didn’t finish the investigation,” I said. Bea Cranston slid two cheeseburgers and fries across the table, then tore a couple of grease-stained checks from her pad and dropped them without comment.

  “We know why Tornik didn’t keep investigating, but why didn’t someone else pick up the case?” Travis asked.

  “Prob
ably because Tornik was poison and no one wanted to be associated with anything he touched.” I covered my burger with mustard. Avoiding eye contact, I said, “I have an idea why he might have been investigating your mom’s death.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I heard something once—a long time ago. Now, before I begin, understand this is only a rumor, okay?”

  Travis nodded. “Go on.”

  “Well, this mystery man that was on the boat with your mom—there’s always been this speculation that it was someone prominent here in town, and he knew that his reputation would be ruined if they got caught, so after the boat got hit, he swam to shore and let your mom drown. Or . . .” I took a breath. “Or he might have helped her drown.”

  Travis looked at me with that familiar look of disbelief. “When we started this, you told me you didn’t know anything about my mom.”

  “I just remembered that today. I don’t even know where I heard it, I swear. And it never seemed that important. You know, it was just one of the rumors I heard, and who could ever prove it one way or the other? I remembered it when we were talking to Sheriff Bonecutter. Suddenly, it made sense that Tornik was investigating it as a homicide if he thought that your mom’s boyfriend . . .”

  “Killed her?” he said, finishing my stammer.

  “Yeah. It seems possible that Tornik knew who was with your mom that night and was going after him.”

  “Why would he drown her if he was in love with her?” Travis asked.

  “Maybe he wasn’t in love with her. Maybe . . .” I swallowed. “This isn’t a visual you want about your mother, but maybe it was just a romp in the hay and he didn’t want to explain things to his wife and family.”

  Travis ran a french fry though a puddle of ketchup. “That’s interesting, and suppose it’s true. It still doesn’t answer the question of why they didn’t keep investigating.”

  “Maybe they did. Maybe there just weren’t any more stories in the paper. They could have been investigating this for years, for all we know.”