Fishtown: A Jack Regan/Izzy Ichowitz Novel Page 5

  “Do you want to be the District Attorney?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’d rather go on our honeymoon.”

  “Jack?”

  “I don’t know; maybe. But, if I want to throw my hat in the ring, getting involved in the Martinson case could have disastrous consequences.”

  “Why?”

  “The whole controversy over the abortion issue has become so strident. No matter what the outcome of the trial it’s bound to be an issue if I run for District Attorney.” He smiled at her and said, “Hey, we just got married, we can discuss my political future some other time. OK?”

  The next morning Ichowitz met Larry Jackson at the Fishtown crime scene. “Thanks for stopping by,” Jackson waved Ichowitz to join him at the conference table in the office he had commandeered in the trailer at the construction site. He smiled at his former rabbi who he noticed still walked with a limp.

  “So how are you enjoying your retirement so far?”

  Ichowitz laughed, “Well, as Ida reminded me this morning, I apparently have not quite grasped the concept of retirement, having been sent on a mission to places unknown by the commissioner and now invited by the Chief of Homicide to assist in an investigation. She said I didn’t work this hard when I was still on the force.”

  Now it was Jackson’s turn to laugh. “I really do appreciate your help on this. How much do you know about what we discovered here?”

  “Only what I read in the newspaper, something about skeletons holding hands.”

  Jackson filled him in on all of the particulars of the investigation to this point.

  He concluded his colloquy, “Izz, two of the remains are 10 or 20 years older than the rest. I’m not sure what we have here.”

  “I assume Forensics is checking the DNA,” Ichowitz said.

  Jackson nodded.

  “Well that should clear up a lot of the mystery.”

  “Remember the Heilman case?”

  “Like it was yesterday.”

  “I remember you telling me you never felt right about the way that went down,” Jackson paused. “I can’t quite remember what bothered you about the case. But whatever it was, I don’t know, I just have a feeling it might have something to do with this mess. Do you mind going over Heilman with me?”

  “Sure, but except for the fact that it happened in Fishtown, how does Heilman have anything to do with your job?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  November 1986

  Detective Isadore Ichowitz entered the Homicide Division squad room. He was holding a box that contained his personal files and pictures of his wife and two sons. He had been on the job for almost nine years, having joined the force after graduating from Temple University and completing three years of military service that included two tours in Vietnam. He was tall and lean. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made him look more like a professor than a policeman.

  None of the dozen or so detectives who were seated at their desks in the large open space looked up or acknowledged him. Ichowitz had been forewarned that his assignment to Homicide would not be warmly received. The plumb job had long been the bastion of the Emerald Society, the fraternal organization of police officers of Irish descent. The squad was entirely comprised of ‘micks’ except for the handful of detectives of Italian heritage who were assigned to South Philly mafia cases, and all of whom had married Irish girls who were the daughters or nieces of Emerald Society members. Ichowitz approached the young red headed detective who sat at the desk nearest to him, and said, “Excuse me Detective, can you tell me where I might find Detective Joseph O’Reilly?”

  The red head looked up from the cross word puzzle he had been studying, pointed to a large florid faced man seated at a desk near the back of the squad room and returned to his puzzle without uttering a word.

  Ichowitz had learned not to jump to conclusions prematurely and had been counseled not to be put off by O’Reilly’s appearance, but the detective was seriously overweight, and the telltale veins around his nose revealed that he was a drinker. Ichowitz couldn’t entirely dismiss the feeling that O’Reilly was just playing out the string, counting the days until he could cash it in and move down the shore, or up the mountains, as Philadelphians refer to retirement at the nearby South Jersey shore towns, or at a lake in the Pocono Mountains. Or maybe O’Reilly would just retire to his favorite corner taproom somewhere off Academy Road in the Greater Northeast where most of the force who were required to live within the city limits resided.

  Ichowitz stood silently in front of O’Reilly’s desk, box in hand and waited as the other detectives watched.

  “So you’re the hot shot the mayor leaned on the commissioner, who leaned on the chief inspector, to assign you to Homicide,” O’Reilly said. He pointed at the vacant desk across the aisle, “You sit over there. We’re next on the wheel, we got a case. Put your stuff down, and I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  As directed, Ichowitz placed his belongings on the desk and followed O’Reilly who wheezed as he made his way out of the squad room. They got in the detective’s beat up Crown Vic and O’Reilly pulled out of the parking lot. Neither had spoken a word to the other since they had left the squad room. Finally, O’Reilly turned to Ichowitz and said, “Listen kid, Captain Regan told me you were ok. He said you and his nephew are close. That right?”

  Ichowitz nodded.

  “Don’t say much do ya?”

  “Captain Regan told me to keep my mouth shut and my eyes open and I would learn a lot if I followed your lead,” Ichowitz replied.

  “Did he tell you anything else?”

  “Yes, he told me not to be put off by your appearance. He said you were the sharpest detective in the division.”

  O’Reilly laughed, “That son of a bitch! OK, here’s the score. The Homicide Division is like a little part of the Emerald Isle. Except for a few stray Dagos who handle the mob hits, you have to be a 2nd or 3rd generation member of the Emerald Society to get in the old boyos’ club.

  You being a Jew and all, well me bucko, let’s just say you’ll have some ways to go before they’ll trust you, if they ever will. Always remember what Joe Regan told ya. Keep your mouth shut, offer advice only when asked and if you’re as smart as Joe says you are you’ll be fine.”

  O’Reilly pulled over to the curb in front of the Celebrity Room, a night club in the red-light district in Center City. When they got out of the vehicle Ichowitz saw among the police officers securing the perimeter Highway Patrol Officer John Hogan Regan.

  “Izz, my Uncle Joe told me you’d be working with O’Reilly,” Regan said as he smiled at the old detective. “His bark is worse than his bite.”

  “Wise ass,” O’Reilly said as he waddled past Regan and waived for Ichowitz to follow. “Lillian Reese, the proprietress of this establishment is a real hot number. The DA busted her a couple months ago for lewd behavior for shakin her backside in public,” O’Reilly said as they walked past the bar. “She’s suspected of robbing some rich guy from Pottsville when she paid him a ‘special visit’, if you get my meaning. So far her mobbed up lawyer has managed to keep her out of jail. Anyways, she’s hooked up with some Guido heavy hitter from the South Philly family and that can’t be kosher.”

  They approached the body that was sprawled halfway over the bar. The detectives from Central Division were standing around waiting for O’Reilly.

  “What do we got?” he asked.

  “The vic’s name is Santaquida, Raffiel Santaquida. He’s got a sheet for some minor busts, loan sharking, numbers, assault - you know the usual stuff for the wannabes. Word is he wanted to make a move up the ladder, so he hit the club,” one of the detectives responded.

  “Didn’t he know the place was under Reese’s boyfriend’s protection?” O’Reilly asked.

  The detective shrugged and replied, “Like I said, Santaquida wanted to move up
the ladder.”

  “Not very bright was he?”

  The detective rolled his eyes.

  “Where’s the shooter?” O’Reilly asked.

  “We got him upstairs. Says it was self-defense; wants his lawyer.”

  “OK looks like a dead end but take him down to Division anyway. Let’s see if we can stash him for a while and take a shot at persuading him to cooperate.”

  O’Reilly pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and walked around the body. “Is this where you found the vic?” he asked.

  “Affirmative.”

  O’Reilly lifted the victim’s head and studied the entry wound. The bullet had entered his forehead about an inch above the right eye. “The shooter must have been close. Find the shell casing?” The detective held up a plastic evidence bag containing the shell from a small caliber pistol.

  O’Reilly turned away from the body and asked where they found it. The detective pointed to the floor near the cash register about ten feet from the body that had been marked with a plastic pyramid with the number one on it. O’Reilly shook his head, “There’s no way the shooter shot him from over there. Someone must have moved the body.”

  Later, after O’Reilly had delegated responsibility to complete the crime scene investigation when they were in his car driving back to the PAB, he asked Ichowitz, “So what did you learn?”

  “Things are not always what they appear to be.”

  O’Reilly nodded.

  “What do you think really happened there?” Ichowitz asked.

  O’Reilly replied, “I don’t know, except that was no failed robbery, that’s for damn sure.”

  They walked back to the squad room. Before they could get to the interview room where the Celebrity Room shooter was being held, the Chief of Homicide yelled for O’Reilly.

  “Wait here.”

  Izzy watched them through the opened door to the Chief’s office. After a brief discussion with the Chief, O’Reilly gestured for him to join them.

  “Chief Haggerty this is Isadore Ichowitz our newbie,” O’Reilly said when Ichowitz entered the office.

  “Chief,” Ichowitz said and waited for O’Reilly to continue.

  “Joe Regan told me he’s a sharp kid. From what I can see he’s the real deal.” O’Reilly turned to Ichowitz and said, “I can’t be two places at once, so you got to handle this call solo. You up to it?”

  Ichowitz nodded.

  “The Chief will fill you in. Since the Celebrity Room case is high profile, the Chief’s giving you something a little less exciting. You’ll need some back-up. Everybody in the squad is busy so Chief Haggerty arranged for John Regan to be temporarily assigned to the division to assist you. You alright with that?”

  Ichowitz nodded again.

  “OK, remember everything I taught you and don’t embarras me,” O’Reilly winked as he waddled out of Haggerty’s office.

  Chapter 9

  Ichowitz was assigned to investigate a homicide at the Church of the Ministries of God, on Frankford Avenue in Fishtown. According to the Chief of Detectives, the storefront church was more store than a house of worship. There were no set times for services like other churches. The church was located across the street from the Frankford Elevated train station. Since it opened the beat officers noticed a steady stream of young ‘parishioners’ stopping by for a quick prayer session and getting back on the El at all hours of the day and night. Based on the irregular nature of these ‘religious’ encounters the District’s officers and detectives considered the church nothing more than a front for low end retail narcotics sales and arrested several ‘members of the congregation’ for possession after they left the ‘sanctuary’.

  None of the arrests were significant enough to shut the Church down, at least not according to the District Attorney who was concerned that the City could be sued for religious persecution, or on some other grounds, if the police were overly aggressive in their monitoring of the comings and goings there. The Ministries of God had been appropriately chartered and incorporated, and regardless of the District officers’ opinion of the questionable conduct of some of the members of its congregation, the so-called religious establishment was not subject to warrantless search.

  The bizarre behavior of Aron Heilman, aka Brother Aron, the church’s founder had also drawn the attention of the 26th Police District. Since Heilman opened the church less than 5 years before, the Ministries of God’s brokerage account had grown from a few thousand dollars to more than half a million dollars. The financial filings attributed the spectacular growth to Heilman’s prudent investment decisions. Once again, the authorities believed no investor could be quite that savvy. However, there was nothing concrete they could find to support their suspicions so they let the brother do his thing.

  Heilman was often seen cruising around the city in a beat up fire engine red 1958 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible with the top down regardless of the weather. He always wore a heavy leather jacket with a ratty fur collar, even during the humid Philly summer months. The 26th District detectives had also taken note of Brother Aron’s growing interest in the streetwalkers on Frankford Avenue. As far as the cops could tell his efforts to proselytize the girls on the stroll was nothing more than an exercise in religious futility, since the hookers who plied their trade on the Avenue were universally acknowledged as bottom feeders, most of whom had been dropped by their pimps and were lucky if they could spread enough ‘joy’ to support their drug habits.

  “At 21:30 last night we got a call from a woman who identified herself as Sherry Polanski, street name Sherry the Cherry.” Chief Haggerty pulled a pair of cheaters from the breast pocket of his shirt, put them on and read from the transcript of a 911 call:

  “He’s a monster. He’s torturing the girls!”

  “Miss, where are you?”

  “I’m at the pay phone in front of the KFC at K and A. If he finds me he’ll kill me!”

  “OK, OK. Officers are on their way. Miss, who is torturing the girls?”

  “Brother Aron. You gotta stop him!”

  Chief Haggerty handed Ichowitz the transcript and the incident report filed by the responding officers. Ichowitz reviewed the documents and handed them back to Haggerty.

  “Anyways, the District raided the church at 06:30. They found two women in the basement of the building, chained to each other hiding in a hole that had been covered with some plywood. They also found two corpses in a shallow grave. So far there’s been no sign of Brother Aron. Take O’Reilly’s car and get over to the church and take charge of the crime scene. Your pal Regan should be there waiting for you; any questions?”

  The church was located at the corner of Frankford and East Girard Avenues. Before the property had been transformed into a place of worship it had been the Kastanski Brothers butcher shop. For decades the Kastanski family operated a thriving enterprise in Fishtown that included a slaughterhouse and a wholesale fresh meat distribution business in addition to the Frankford Avenue store.

  After the Second World War and the consolidation of the meat packing industry it became cheaper to slaughter and butcher cattle on site and ship it boxed to the East Coast. The Kastanski Brothers shutdown the slaughtering operation in the 1970s and closed the shop in 1982 when none of the Kastanski children were interested in continuing the business that had made the family a fortune.

  By the time Izzy arrived at the crime scene John Regan was waiting for him on the sidewalk in front of the church.

  “I just heard a radio transmission that a Cadillac Coupe de Ville that matches the description of Heilman’s was seen at the Lincoln Motel on Route 1 in Bensalem. The motel rents rooms by the hour, and some of the hookers from Frankford Avenue take their higher end dates there to party. The State Police barracks is less than a half-mile from the motel. The local police and half the barracks are converging on the Lincoln. If Heilman is
there he’ll either be in custody or in a body bag within the hour,” Regan told Ichowitz as he stepped out of the Crown Vic.

  Ichowitz nodded. “Have you been inside yet?”

  Regan shook his head. “No this is your show, I waited for you.”

  They signed in with the patrolman at the front entrance and walked into the building. Despite the fact that the butcher shop had been closed for nearly four years you could still detect the musky odor of fresh meat. The tiled floor and an old wooden butcher block the Kastanskis had used were still in place. So much for an altar and pews Ichowitz thought as he looked around the ‘sanctuary’.

  They made their way to the doorway that lead to the cellar.

  “Whadaya know Izz? I heard you got the assignment” Detective Samuel Boyle greeted them at the foot of the stairs.

  “Whadaya know Sammy,” Izzy replied as he shook the detective’s hand.

  “You know John Regan?”

  Boyle shook hands with Regan. “You Joe Regan’s nephew?” he asked.

  Regan nodded.

  “I worked with your father. He was one hell of a cop.” Regan’s father had been killed in the line of duty when John was 16 years old.

  “Want to fill us in?” Ichowitz asked.

  Boyle walked them through the scene checking his notebook to make certain of the sequence of events. He showed them the sub-basement, really a ditch in which the two woman, Missy McGowan aka Misty and Dalisay Mosato aka Daisy Mae, were found chained to the wall. He led them across the cellar to another ditch in which the two bodies had been found.

  “The M.E. is sending over a bus for the bodies. Neither of the hookers were able to identify the victims.”

  Boyle motioned for them to follow him, “Here’s something I think you’ll find of interest.”

  Boyle opened a door at the far end of the cellar. Inside was a tiled room with an oversized butcher block and a blood stained rusted stainless steel table with handcuffs and leg shackles hanging from legs at both ends of the table. On the tile floor around and under the table there appeared to be pools of dried blood and dried feces.