Still No Clews To Double Murder. Police Believe Killings Result Of Italian Vendetta.
-The Daily Picayune
MAY 27, 1912
11:30 A.M.
Emile Denoux took a seat in the back row of the courtroom. Colin Fitzgerald was on the witness stand. After several years of covering cops and courts, Emile had seen hundreds of policemen testify. Many of them came to court ragged and tired, some with dirty uniforms, some even reeking of booze.
Not Fitzgerald. He sat tall and straight in the witness chair, his uniform impeccable, as he answered questions from an assistant district attorney about a robbery suspect Fitzgerald had apprehended. Once again, Emile got the impression Fitzgerald was older than his twenty-one years.
After the prosecutor finished asking his questions, it was time for the defendant's attorney to ask his. After a few easy preliminary jabs, the lawyer, a short round man with a bushy mustache, lashed out at the seemingly inexperienced policeman.
"Isn't it true, Patrolman Fitzgerald, that after you arrested my client, Mr. Sullivan, you struck him on the head with the butt of your revolver, that, in the common parlance, you pistol whipped him?"
"Yes, sir, I did," Fitzgerald said.
Emile glanced at the jury box. Several of the twelve men seated there looked surprised. Perhaps young Fitzgerald was taking his oath to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth a bit too literally. Perhaps he didn't understand that judges and jurors didn't need to hear every detail about the arrest of a notorious highwayman like D. E. Sullivan.
"So you admit that you beat my client," the defense attorney continued, "a man who has been convicted of only one crime in his entire life, and for which he has already paid his debt to society. You admit that you beat him about the head with your pistol after you placed him under arrest."
"Yes, sir."
The assistant district attorney looked down at a pad of paper on the table in front of him and pretended to take notes. The defendant, whom Emile knew only by his infamous reputation as a brawler, robber, and thug, smiled.
The defense lawyer turned his back to Fitzgerald to look at the jury, a smug expression on his face. Over his shoulder he said, "Patrolman Fitzgerald, would you explain to the jury why you so mercilessly beat Mr. Sullivan after you arrested him."
"Because he was trying to shoot me."
The defense lawyer spun around. The assistant district attorney looked up.
Fitzgerald continued, "As soon as I told him he was under arrest, he-"
"Objection!" the defense lawyer said.
The prosecutor sprang to his feet, but before he could articulate his argument, the judge silenced him with his hand. Then the judge stared at the agitated defense attorney. "You can't object to your own question, sir. I'll let the witness finish his answer." The judge glanced down at Fitzgerald. "Go ahead, son."
Fitzgerald looked unperturbed as he addressed the jury. "As I approached Mr. Sullivan on Basin Street, I called for him to halt and told him that he was under arrest. When I was no more than six feet from him, he pulled a revolver from under his coat. As he pulled the trigger, I leapt forward and grabbed the gun and managed to direct the shot away from me."
Emile peeked at the jury. All twelve were enthralled.
"He tried to pull the trigger again," Fitzgerald said, "but I had my hand across the top, holding the cylinder from turning."
"Redirect, your honor?" the prosecutor asked.
"Mr. Cummings," the judge said, "I have to let the defense finish cross-examining your witness before I allow you to re-direct." The judge turned to the flustered defense attorney. "Mr. Harper?"
"No further questions, judge," the lawyer said.
"Then the witness is yours, Mr. Prosecutor."
The assistant district attorney nodded at the judge as he approached the witness stand. "Patrolman Fitzgerald, how long did you say you have been a policeman?"
"Since March first, 1911, sir."
"So just over a year."
"Yes, sir," Fitzgerald said.
"Isn't it true that you grew up as more or less a son of the Police Department, since your father, former Chief of Detectives Connor Fitzgerald, was killed while trying to arrest a fugitive more than ten years ago?"
"Objection," Mr. Harper said. "Counsel is leading the witness."
"Sustained," the judge said. "If you have a question, Mr. Cummings, ask it. Don't testify yourself."
The prosecutor nodded toward the bench. "I apologize, judge. I will get right to the point." He turned back to Fitzgerald. "Before February fourth of this year, had you ever met the defendant or heard his name?"
Colin nodded. "Yes, sir. Every policeman knows who Mr. Sullivan is. He's a strong-arm man for-"
"Objection," Mr. Harper shouted. "That answer is laced with slanderous, unfounded opinion about my-"
"Enough," the judge said. "You get one more question, Mr. Cummings. And you," the judge aimed his gavel at the defense lawyer, "keep quiet."
The prosecutor glanced at the jury, the members of which were leaning forward, eagerly awaiting more outbursts. "Patrolman Fitzgerald," the assistant district attorney said, "do you have any doubts in your mind that when you attempted to arrest Mr. Sullivan for robbing patrons at Safire White's bawdy house he knew that you were a policeman in the lawful pursuit of your duties and that he was trying to escape arrest by murdering you?"
"No, sir," Fitzgerald said. "I have no doubts whatsoever."
The jury took ten minutes to find D. E. Sullivan guilty of armed robbery and attempted murder. The judge sentenced him to fifty years at the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola.
After the verdict and the sentence were handed down, Emile followed Fitzgerald out of the courthouse. He approached the patrolman halfway down the front steps. "You did a good job in there, kid," Emile said. "Was that your first time to testify?"
Fitzgerald turned around. "Yes, it was."
"You were better than most veteran detectives I've seen."
"Thanks."
"I'm just curious, kid, why didn't you shoot him, instead of just knocking him out?"
The policeman's bright blue eyes bored into Emile's. "How old are you?" Fitzgerald asked.
"Twenty-six. Why?"
"You keep calling me kid, but you're only five years older than me."
Emile laughed. "I guess you have a point. But tell me, why did you knock Sullivan out instead of shooting him?"
"There was no need to shoot him," Fitzgerald said. "I knew I had him."
"You knew you had D. E. Sullivan, one of the most notorious criminals in this city? You went after him by yourself and you knew you had him?"
"I got him, didn't I?" Fitzgerald turned away and continued down the steps. "I read your article, by the way," he said over his shoulder. "Week before last about the Sciambra case. It was a load of crap."
Emile ran to catch up. "What do you mean?"
Fitzgerald stopped on the sidewalk as a wagon overloaded with furniture rolled past. He turned to Emile. "Those murders might have been the work of a Black Hand gang, or the Mafia, or whatever you want to call it, but your article implied that Mr. and Mrs. Sciambra were killed because they were involved in something illegal."
"And you know differently?"
The patrolman nodded. "My wife's parents knew them. They were honest, hardworking people."
"Your wife is ..."
"Sicilian," Fitzgerald said, a defensive edge in his voice.
An Irish boy and an Italian girl. That certainly cut against the grain. Clearly, young Fitzgerald had a strong independent streak in him. He also might know more than the average cop about what was going on among the Italians. "Then why were they murdered?" Emile asked.
Fitzgerald shrugged. "I don't know, but I'm sure it wasn't because they were doing anything illegal. They weren't that kind of people."
"You said murders, plural, so you know that Mrs. Sciambra died yesterday."
"I read your article this morning."
"Do
you know if she was able to give the detectives any more details about the attack?" Emile asked.
The cop's eyes narrowed. "Did you come to the courthouse today looking for me?"
Emile shook his head. "I'm a crime reporter. I'm in and out of the courthouse all day." But of course the kid was right. Their meeting was no accident.
After Emile's article had come out linking the murder of Anthony Sciambra and the wounding of his wife to the previous three Axman attacks, Captain Long had not let him talk to Mrs. Sciambra, citing the woman's deteriorating medical condition as his reason for reneging on their agreement. Emile needed to find out what, if anything, she had told the detectives before she died.
So he had thought about the young Irish cop who knocked him on his backside last summer and who also just happened to be the son of a former chief of detectives. Emile believed he and Fitzgerald had established some kind of bond that day, perhaps even a grudging mutual respect. Maybe the kid knew something about the Sciambra case, and maybe he would share it. So Emile had come to the courthouse looking for him.
"I'm not a stool pigeon for the press," Fitzgerald said, clearly unconvinced that his and Emile's encounter at the courthouse was pure happenstance. "Not like a lot of cops I know."
Emile felt a tiny crack in the wall of cynicism he had spent years building around himself. Something about the young cop's unsullied honesty and directness was refreshing. "All right, kid, I admit it. I came-"
"And stop calling me kid. You're not my father, and you're not my big brother. So you better quit calling me that, or I'll sock you again."
Emile nodded. "Look, I'm not one of those yellow-sheet muckrakers. I wrote that story about the Sciambras being killed as part of some underworld scheme because that's the way Captain Long said it happened."
"How can you link the Sciambra case with the so-called Axman attacks when the Sciambras were shot to death?"
"Captain Long said a lot of the circumstances were similar."
"What else did he tell you?"
Emile glanced around. People were passing them on all sides, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention. He leaned toward Fitzgerald. "This is just between you and me, right?"
"I told you, I'm no stool pigeon."
Emile could think of no good reason why he should confide what Captain Long had told him to this stranger, who at their only other meeting had nearly knocked him unconscious, but he felt an inexplicable kinship with Fitzgerald. "He told me that blaming it on the Mafia would help avert a panic."
"Who did he think was going to panic?"
Emile shrugged. "The Irish, the Germans, the French, the general public."
"Everybody except the Italians."
Nodding, Emile said, "I guess so."
"Italians aren't a race of criminals," Fitzgerald said. "Most of them want nothing to do with Black Hand gangs or the Mafia." He jerked his thumb back toward the courthouse. "Just like most Irishmen aren't like D. E. Sullivan in there."
"You're right," Emile said, feeling chastised, "but I'm a crime reporter. I must have the cooperation of police officials, or I can't do my job. So when the chief of detectives asks me to write a story a certain way, I don't have much choice."
"George Long was a good cop when he worked for my father, but now he's more a politician than a policeman."
"Which is even more reason for me not to piss down his leg and tell him it's raining," Emile said. "My father got on the wrong side of the politicians, and they destroyed him."
Fitzgerald nodded.
Emile pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. It was almost one o'clock. "Are you hungry?"
Fitzgerald gave him a wary look.
"It's not a trick," Emile said, tucking his watch back in and holding up both hands. "Just lunch."
"I'll eat with you," Fitzgerald said, "but I'm not letting you pay for it."
Emile dug into his left front pocket and felt only a single coin. When he pulled it out he saw that it was a silver liberty head half-dollar. There was a small hole in the top edge, just above Lady Liberty's head. He showed it to Fitzgerald. "You'll have to buy mine too because this is all I've got. I drilled a hole through it so I couldn't spend it."
Fitzgerald's brow wrinkled. "Why?"
"You don't recognize it?"
The policeman shook his head.
"It's the same half-dollar I tried to give you last year. The one you knocked me flat over."
"Why do you keep it?"
"To remind myself not to do anything stupid."
CHAPTER 7
MONDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1919
6:20 A.M.
I stepped out the front door of the Pepitones' grocery and stuck my hat on my head. The rain had stopped and a sliver of early sunlight shone through the low cloud cover. Three policemen stood on the porch smoking cigarettes and talking. The two veterans who had greeted me on my arrival had been joined by a rookie I didn't recognize.
A crowd of about two dozen neighbors, all Italians, had gathered in front of the house. I knew better than to try to talk to anyone on the street. Even if one of them had seen something useful, something that might help my investigation, he or she wasn't going to tell me, not in front of the others. So I decided to talk to the deputy sheriff who had heard Mrs. Pepitone screaming and had rushed to her door.
I walked around the corner to South Pierce Street.
The deputy opened his door clad only in an old green bathrobe. His hair was sleep tousled and his eyes were bleary. Still, he didn't look surprised to see me. After I showed him my badge, he stepped aside without a word and motioned me into the house.
From the back of the house came the sound of children yammering and a woman's voice scolding them to be patient. The smell of frying eggs made my stomach rumble. The deputy took a seat on a nearly worn-out sofa and pointed to a chair. "I figured you'd be here this morning. I was just hoping it would be later."
"Sorry," I said as I pulled my notebook and a pencil from my coat pocket and sat down. I took off my hat and rested it on my knee.
He shrugged. "At least I got a couple of hours. After the kids go to school, I'll take a nap."
"How many do you have?"
"Two boys, ten and seven," he said. He glanced at the silver band on my finger. "You?"
I shook my head.
"That's too bad," he said. "I'm hoping mine do well enough to take care of me and their mother in our old age."
The deputy looked to be in his early thirties, with sandy brown hair and blue eyes staring out of a pie-shaped face.
"Tell me what you saw at the Pepitone house," I said.
"This morning or yesterday afternoon?"
"I was talking about this morning," I said. "I don't know anything about yesterday. Tell me about that first."
He took a breath. "I work at the Parish Prison. I hear things. I don't want to get mixed up with the dagos. I mean, they got peculiar ways, and they're not always pleasant." He pointed in the general direction of the Pepitone house. "As you can see by what happened this morning."
"Look, Mister ... I'm sorry. What's your name?"
"Corcoran. Ben Corcoran."
I jotted the name down in my notebook. "Mr. Corcoran, I'm chasing a killer people call the Axman, and I have-"
Corcoran nodded. "I read about him in the papers. Some kind of vendetta agent, huh?"
"Maybe," I said, "but I won't know for sure until I catch him."
"I even read that letter he sent to the newspaper, saying he was a demon from hell and how he was going to be out the night of that dago celebration, the one right after Saint Patrick's Day, Saint ... Saint something?
"Saint Joseph's Day."
"Yeah, that's the one. Saint Joseph's Day, when the killer said everybody better play jazz music, or he was going to break into their houses and chop their heads off. I tell you what, I was working that night, and I told my wife to take the kids to my parents' house and to make sure they played a jazz record on the phonograph. I heard he k
illed three people that night. Chopped their heads clean off."
"Actually, he didn't kill anybody that night."
The deputy's face sagged at little. "That ain't what I heard."
"What happened yesterday afternoon?" I said.
Corcoran sat silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, "I pass the Pepitone grocery every afternoon on my way to work. Sometimes, I stop in and get something to eat for later. I got no problems with the Pepitones. Far as I know, they're good people. Sometimes, Mr. Pepitone asks me how the fishing went. I take my boys out to the lake when I have weekends off."
I waited. Silence often works better to loosen a reluctant tongue than another question. Most people get nervous after a few seconds of silence and seek to fill it.
"So yesterday afternoon I was heading to work," Corcoran said, "and I stopped in at Pepitone's to pick up a bag of hot peanuts and a stick of jerky for my supper, and there were these two eye-talians in there with him."
"Customers?"
The deputy shook his head. "I don't think so. They was talking kind of heated, jib-jabbing in eye-talian. I couldn't understand what they were saying, of course, but I could tell it weren't a friendly conversation."
"What time was that?"
"About one o'clock."
"Did you recognize them?"
Corcoran shifted on the sofa. "Be honest with you, most of 'em look alike to me. I know the Pepitones 'cause I see 'em every day, but you show me a couple strange eye-talians, and I can't tell one from the other."
"What did they look like?"
The deputy rubbed his sleep-filled eyes. "One was tall, broad across the shoulders. The other was short, no more than five and a half feet, and kind of on the thin side. Scrawny if you ask me. Funny thing is, he was the one doing all the talking, not the big one. I think the big guy might have been reading a magazine or a catalogue, something like that."
"So he wasn't involved in the conversation?"
"Not so's I remember."
"You said the conversation between the smaller man and Mr. Pepitone seemed heated. How could you tell?"
"By the tone of their voices," Corcoran said. "In my line of work, I hear a lot of arguing, and believe me, these two was arguing."
The Axman of New Orleans Page 5