by Ed Gaffney
Terry gathered up the papers and handed them to Ellis. “Nothing except those computer journal entries. And they weren’t clues to anything. They were just gloating. Sometimes I think the guy who’s doing these killings has a different psychology than the original Springfield Shooter, you know? They’re both sick, but this new guy, I don’t know. He seems more, what? Devious?”
Vera laughed grimly. “More devious than Alan Lombardo? Wow. The man killed nine people before he was caught, and in his spare time, he was a bookkeeper for the mob. I’d say that’s pretty devious.”
Terry looked stunned. “Did you say bookkeeper for the mob?”
“Are you telling me that you didn’t know that back before he was arrested, Alan Lombardo was the personal and business accountant for Gentleman George Heinrich?”
This was one of Mr. Heinrich’s good days. They weren’t coming that frequently anymore, so the old man was anxious to take advantage of every minute.
He was sitting in his wheelchair at the table in the kitchen alcove, next to the window, soaking up the sun. He was so skinny and frail these days that it was sometimes hard to remember how full of life the old man used to be.
Neil was sitting across from him, having some coffee. Paul was at the counter, in case they needed anything.
“So how are things?” the old man asked. “Paul tells me the Ziggurat job is progressing well, and I understand you landed that contract to redo that strip mall out in New Ludlow. That’s really great news.”
Neil was trying to be upbeat, but it was obvious that his father’s decline was really wearing him down. He looked tired, and not as happy as the company’s successes should have made him. He forced a smile, and said, “Yeah, that job’s going to keep us busy for months. I always like it when we have a big project going, you know? It keeps the cash flowing, there’s lots of places to put the men between the smaller jobs, it just makes sense for a lot of reasons.”
Mr. Heinrich nodded, and for a long moment, looked out the window into the acres of woods that he owned. “I know what you’re doing,” he said, in a soft voice. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
Neil sat forward. “What do you mean, Dad?”
The old man turned back toward his son and smiled. “It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to protect me. Even though it’s kind of funny, you protecting me from what you’re doing…” But just at that moment, a coughing attack came on the boss, and Paul hurried over to join Neil. They stood helplessly at Mr. Heinrich’s side as the spasms shook his withered body. He waved them away, though. Like usual, there was nothing to do.
When he’d regained his breath, the old man took a sip of water and started again. “I was just saying that I think it’s kind of funny that here you are, going legit, and I think you’re embarrassed about it. Like you don’t want to come right out and tell me.”
As usual, Mr. Heinrich was right. Neil probably didn’t realize how close his father still managed to stay to the day-to-day workings of the organization. And the boss saw what anyone else would—Heinrich Contracting wasn’t pressuring the other companies in the trades for protection money as it normally did, or demanding that those companies hire Heinrich employees and overpay for the privilege of doing so.
After decades of the Heinrich corporate empire ruling the organized criminal world of Springfield and most of western New England, Neil Heinrich was taking the operation legit.
Neil took a sip of his coffee. He was stalling. “I’m not really—”
Mr. Heinrich interrupted him. “Neil. Stop. Don’t make excuses. I don’t care.” He lost his breath again, but at least he didn’t go into a coughing fit. “I really don’t care if you shut down the whole thing tomorrow, the dirty stuff, whatever. The only reason I brought it up was to tell you that your decision—I’m proud of you. It takes guts. It takes guts in this world to play it like you’re gonna play it.”
Neil looked like he was going to weep. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t trying to protect you, Dad. I just didn’t want you to think that I wasn’t grateful…” But at this point, his voice broke, and he had to stop.
Neither man spoke, and for a little while, all that Paul could hear was the raspy breathing of the father. “You know, you never tell me about Carol anymore. How is she? I miss her, son. She hasn’t come to see me for a while. You two are still okay, aren’t you?”
Neil had been seeing Carol Pope for about two years. She worked as a sales rep for a marble and granite firm near Worcester. When they first started going out, Neil was obviously trying to keep Carol from getting too involved with his family. But when Mr. Heinrich got sick, all of that went out the window, and the old man and Carol got pretty close. Her mom had died from cancer, and according to Neil, having Carol around really was helping him deal with Mr. Heinrich’s condition.
Although there were days, like today, when you really wouldn’t know it from how sad Neil looked.
Neil laughed and wiped his eyes. “Yes, Dad, we’re still okay. Carol asks about you all the time. She just has felt a little, you know, a little like it would be an imposition—”
“Oh, please, Neil, she’s family. I’m surprised at her. C’mon. Tell her to come visit me whenever she wants. I don’t have that much time left. I’d like to spend it with good people.”
Another heavy silence descended on the two men. It almost seemed like neither wanted to move. Like they could keep things from changing, if they just stayed as they were. Mr. Heinrich, looking out the window into his woods, and Neil, staring down at the table, every once in a while lifting his glance to his ailing father.
Finally, the boss cleared his throat, and turned to face his son. “I’m sorry I have to bring this up, but I need to talk to you about something that might be a surprise to you.”
The old man gazed off again into the distance. “It’s about Alan Lombardo,” he said.
“I still can’t believe that the police aren’t doing anything.”
Stephanie would have enjoyed her father’s new commitment to sobriety much more if it hadn’t coincided so perfectly with the impact of the second Springfield Shooter on their lives.
Steph and Malcolm were taking a walk together around Malcolm’s neighborhood. The houses were big, and the lots were at least a half acre each. Malcolm walked these streets so regularly that he knew exactly where each and every dog in the neighborhood lived. Steph had been bitten as a child by the monstrous German shepherd that lived across her street, and was still terrified of dogs, so they were steering clear of Malcolm’s normal route.
“The woman I spoke with, Detective Demopolous, if I remember her name correctly, told me that they would increase patrols in the area.” Malcolm walked at a good pace. Maybe this exercise really was doing something for him. Steph hoped so. She knew very well how dangerous Malcolm’s condition was. “And she also said that the killer always attacks in his victims’ homes. Believe me, my dear, I have no intention of opening my door to any stranger, for any reason, until this madman is caught.”
They continued down the sidewalk, passing a large Tudor home with elaborate landscaping. A bus rumbled past, the huge advertisement painted on its side promoting the release of horrible Russell Crane’s new movie, The Suspect’s Daughter. Steph had read a review of the movie. Apparently, it was about a young, single woman who worked in a hospital and who spent much of the film attempting to shield herself from the mounting evidence that her father was a murderer.
“Daddy, did you get an invitation to that movie?”
In one of Russell Crane’s twisted efforts at easing his conscience, he regularly invited Malcolm to the premieres of his movies. “Yes,” Malcolm said. “It came in the mail the other day. Not that I have any intention of going.”
Steph stopped walking. “I’m probably just being paranoid. But there’s a part of me that wants to go, just to see what that jerk is doing. God help me if he’s implicating you again.”
Malcolm sighed and put his arm around her shoulders. “May
I change the subject from an amoral and inept movie writer and his exploitation of some homicidal sociopath’s felonies to unutterably beautiful rhododendrons?”
He pointed at the pink and white blooms exploding all along the side of the Tudor house. “Your mother always loved those flowers. I tried once to plant some myself, but my efforts bordered on crimes against nature. I endeavored to redeem myself by cultivating a vegetable garden. Results were again predictably disappointing.”
Steph had a hard time imagining her father digging around in the dirt. He always seemed like such a serious person, interested only in books.
And drinking, of course.
Steph’s cell phone rang. A number she didn’t recognize appeared on the screen. It was from California. Before even trying to guess who it might be, she answered it.
A vaguely familiar and unpleasant voice was on the other end. And as if he had been listening to them as they discussed his movie, the voice said, “Stephanie? We’ve never met. But my name is Russell Crane.”
SIXTEEN
THE CLERK: Court is now in session. This is the continued matter of Commonwealth versus Alan Lombardo, Case number 1984–0616. Court is now in session.
THE COURT: Attorney Wilson, we had just sworn in the defendant, I believe. Please continue.
ATTORNEY NEHEMIAH WILSON: Thank you, Your Honor. Would you state your name for the record, please?
ALAN LOMBARDO: My name is Alan Lombardo.
Q What is your occupation?
A I am a certified public accountant.
Q And who is your employer?
A I’m self-employed. I do work for a variety of individuals and businesses out of my home.
Q I see. You have an office in your home?
A Yes.
Q Fine. Now I’d like to talk to you about the night of March 15, 1984. Do you recall where you were on that evening?
A Yes. I was home.
Q And did anything unusual happen that evening?
A Yes. The police knocked on my door, and asked me where I was the night of March 13.
Q And what did you tell them?
A I told them that I was home that evening.
Q Was it unusual for you to be home that evening?
A Not at all. I stay home every night. I do not go out after dark.
Q Ever?
A The last time I went out at night was over three years ago. I had to get some medicine.
Q But how about friends, family?
A I am a very solitary person. My parents are dead, and I have no brothers or sisters.
Q Did the police ask any other questions?
A Yes. They asked me if it was possible that someone other than me had been using my car on the evening of the thirteenth.
Q And what did you say?
A I said that it was not possible. I do not lend out my car to anyone to use.
CROSS-EXAMINATION BY ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY CARTIER
Q All right, Mr. Lombardo. Let’s go back to the evening of March 15, when the police came to your home to question you the first time.
A Okay.
Q That must have been quite a surprise, seeing the police at your door, wasn’t it?
A Yes, it was very surprising.
Q What went through your mind when you first saw them, considering what was in your freezer?
A I had no idea what was in my freezer.
Q Oh. You don’t know what you keep in your own freezer?
A Well, yes, I do, but I didn’t know anything about that Tupperware container, if that’s what you’re talking about.
Q You didn’t know there was a container of human fingers sitting next to three half-gallon containers of chocolate chip ice cream in your own freezer at the time that the police first came to your home?
A I told you. I had no knowledge that that container was in my freezer.
Q And you live alone.
A Yes.
Q No family, no friends.
A Correct.
Q And no idea how the fingers of eight murder victims might possibly have found their way into your freezer, in your own home, where you live all by yourself?
(Commonwealth v. Lombardo, Volume XIII, Pages 99–101)
Terry Tallach was having a bad day, and it was only nine-thirty in the morning.
He and Zack were meeting with Zack’s father again about the Alan Lombardo case, and Judge Wilson was turning out to be even worse than Terry had already believed him to be.
“Just to be sure I understand this—” Zack began, but the old man cut him off.
“I think you understand it quite well, Zachary. Please don’t even begin to condescend. Yes, George Heinrich had retained me to provide legal services for him and for anyone who did work for him. And yes, while on retainer, I was hired, for two hundred fifty thousand dollars, by Alan Lombardo, who was working for George Heinrich at the time. Technically, it was an ethical violation, but some of us live in the real world. I had obligations, including obligations to feed and clothe you, by the way. When the opportunity arose, I took it.”
“Technically, it was a lot more than a violation of the rules of ethics. Technically, it was fraud, maybe larceny.” Zack was as serious as Terry had ever seen him.
“Oh, what, are you going to turn me in for ripping off George Heinrich? The biggest organized criminal Springfield has seen in the past fifty years? Or Alan Lombardo, the Springfield Shooter? Which one, Zachary? Please. Spare me the lecture. Believe me, it was the lesser of two evils. And Lombardo knew exactly what was going on. Remember, he did Heinrich’s books. He knew what George paid, and to whom. It was no secret to him that I was already on retainer to his boss. I assumed he was making sure that I was paid enough to devote all of my time to his case.” The old man lit a cigar, inhaled, and blew a noxious cloud of smoke into the air. Lombardo probably hired me with money he had skimmed from Heinrich in the first place.”
“Wow.” Terry had vowed to stay as quiet as possible in this meeting, out of respect for Zack. But he couldn’t stop himself. Last time he heard a bullshit explanation like that, he was defending one of the great rationalizers of all time, Kyle Dracut, King of the Shitty Bank Robbers.
“Excuse me, Attorney Tallach?” For a guy who just admitted to committing some heavy stuff, the judge’s tone was pretty snotty. “Do you have something to say?”
Once again, Terry couldn’t stop himself. “I guess what I have to say, sir, is—with all due respect—you’re a real dick.”
The judge pointed at Terry with his cigar. “From what I understand, you’re already skating on some pretty thin ice yourself in the eyes of the bar counsel, sir, so I wouldn’t be so quick to throw stones.”
Screw this guy. He was sounding goddamn righteous for a thief. “Whatever I may or may not have done, which is no business of yours, by the way, doesn’t come close to taking a quarter million dollars to do a job I was already being paid to do.”
“If I could just interrupt,” Zack said. He sounded like he might be addressing a couple of squabbling six-year-olds on the playground. “I was wondering if we could get back to the Lombardo case.” How he kept his head from exploding at times like these was a freakin’ mystery to Terry.
But the judge was not ready to tone it down. “For the love of Christ, Zachary, will you please stop treating Alan Lombardo like some person worthy of your pity. For God’s sakes, you’ve read the transcript. The man had a computer full of entries detailing every single one of those awful murders, and a freezer full of fingers, in case that wasn’t enough. He’s a monster who killed nine innocent people. Not some poor waif who needs to be rescued.”
“But if he didn’t get a fair trial—”
“A fair trial! You’re an intelligent lawyer, Zachary. You know as well as I do that that trial was perfectly fine.”
“But Massachusetts law on this kind of thing is awfully strict,” Zack persisted. “If the ethical violation regarding the fees created a conflict of interest, Lombardo might have
real support for a motion for new trial.”
Boom. Conflict of interest. Cue the mushroom cloud.
For Massachusetts criminal appellate attorneys, it was the atomic bomb of legal theories.
Somewhere in the early 1980s, the judges of the highest court in Massachusetts, the Supreme Judicial Court, made a decision that they probably still regretted. They said that if a criminal defendant was able to show that his trial attorney had a conflict of interest at the time that he represented the defendant, the defendant was entitled to a new trial, regardless of whether the defendant could prove that the conflict made any difference in what happened at the trial.
That meant that if Judge Wilson’s little two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar faux pas was somehow able to support an argument that he had a conflict of interest at the time of Alan’s trial, Alan would win a motion for new trial.
But Zack’s father was dismissive. He put on that smirk Terry had been itching to wipe off his face since he’d first met the man over twenty years ago. “Oh please. I can’t even begin to tell you how many reasons that’s not going to work. Number one. The very language of the rule governing motions for new trial says that they are to be allowed only in the interest of justice. Would you mind telling me who in their right mind would argue that it is in the interest of justice to let Alan Lombardo go through the charade of another trial, dragging the victims’ families through that nightmare one more time? And for what? Just to reconvict him?”
Judge Nehe didn’t wait for an answer. He was on a roll. “And by the way, do you seriously think that some financial impropriety is going to prove that I was working under a conflict at the time of the trial? And even if it did, how would you prove I did anything wrong in the first place?” He took a hit off the cigar, and blew out another stream of poison.
The judge’s last little message stunned Zack. It implied something that Zack spent a good deal of his personal life refusing to face—the fact that his father was not an ethical person.