Identity- Lost Read online

  Stan nodded without speaking. Feeling trapped, he moved to get up, but Thomas stopped him with his next words.

  “Wait. I’m not done yet. As for your little outburst a moment ago, I’m willing to overlook it because you’re my number one guy in this office. I’m not sure what this argument is all about between you and Detective Hanley, but this effort is something none of us can afford to screw up.” He tapped his index finger hard on top of his desk. “I need you to make an example of these two, so get them back over to 4th Avenue and initiate them. Pronto.”

  Stan pushed his chair away from the front of Thomas’s desk. He nodded to him and walked out of the room before he allowed Thomas to see any glimpse of the anger brewing inside him.

  Still fuming over Brian’s phone call to Tom Terry, Stan immediately left his downtown Phoenix office building and drove out to the Gila River Indian Reservation ten miles south. With pressure thrust upon him directly by the governor of Arizona via the county attorney, he was out of options. When he arrived at the jail, he asked Police Chief Jimmy Nejo if he could speak to the prisoners. Stan and Jimmy knew each other well and had become close friends since their days together as undergrads at ASU.

  “Thanks for picking these two up for me so quickly, Jimmy.”

  “Hey, you sent up a smoke signal, I came a runnin’,” Jimmy paused. “Hanley’s not with you?”

  Prosecutors always sent cops or had cops along with them to interrogate prisoners. Stan ignored his question.

  “You gonna talk to them without their counselor here?” Jimmy asked his friend.

  Stan still didn’t answer.

  “I ain’t supposed to let you do that, you know. Could mean a lot of trouble for both of us.”

  Knowing he had to give his old friend some kind of explanation, he finally answered him. “I know, Jimmy. I don’t want to get you in any deeper than you already are. All I can tell you is it’s a matter of life and death.”

  The Indian stared at him but gave no verbal response, yet his eyes told Stan he’d do whatever his friend asked. Inseparable during their days at ASU, the two shared a common bond as outcasts in a white man’s world.

  “Have they requested to make any calls yet?” Stan asked.

  “Been askin’ since they got here, ‘specially the guy with the patch over his eye. He keeps saying he gets one phone call. Told him, no problem. He’s welcome to use the phone, but the phone don’t work.”

  Jimmy’s wink brought a smile to Stan’s tense face.

  “I’ll have two of my boy’s bring ‘em into the old interrogation room, the one we’re not supposed to use anymore,” Jimmy said, pointing down the hallway. “It’s the very last door on the right.”

  Stan raised an eyebrow, not wanting to get anyone else involved in his potentially criminal action.

  “Don’t worry. They’re my nephews,” Jimmy assured him. “As far as anybody around here’s concerned, you was never here.”

  “Thanks, pardner. I owe you.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Brian had fumed over Stan’s odd behavior at the 4th Avenue Jail. Why had his friend been so reluctant to bring charges against those two Chicago criminals, Pokie Turner and Bobby DeSadier? Brian was even more disturbed by the conversation he had with Stan and his insistence on the pair’s extradition back to Chicago.

  His anger with Stan and his stance prompted him to do something he’d never before had to consider during the scores of cases he’d worked on over the years with his best friend—go over his head and call the Maricopa County Attorney’s office. Brian didn’t take lightly his decision to share their private conversation with Tom Terry, Stan’s immediate boss and the charging attorney for the county. He knew when Stan found out his buddy would likely pop his cork, but Brian felt compelled to challenge his best friend’s actions.

  When he finished his phone conversation with Terry, Brian had turned his attention back to the two rap sheets, looking at them in more detail. Stan had left the manila folders he had on the two men before he stormed out of the observation room. As Brian leafed through their rap sheets now, each fifteen pages thick, it was obvious that Turner and DeSadier were no small-time hoods. Both had spent significant time in prison and had perpetrated just about every major crime: arson, armed robbery, aggravated assault, resisting arrest, drug possession, and grand theft. All the felons lacked on their sheets were murder charges.

  Something else stood out: Turner’s last known address in Chicago was on South Langley Avenue, DeSadier’s on South Rhodes.

  I know where that is. That’s the Twenty-First Precinct. Dad worked that district!

  He popped open his cell phone, speed-dialed his office, and asked his assistant to get him the name of the district commander for the Twenty-First Precinct. He then went over and stared at the two incarcerated men through the small glass window. He wondered what secrets they held in their corrupted minds and why they were in Arizona now, bringing their criminal actions into the Copper State.

  His cop’s gut told him his best friend, Stan, knew these men. Somehow, their paths must have crossed in the past. But how that happened was anyone’s guess. He knew his buddy, though; he knew him better than anyone did. And Brian’s gut also told him Stan was lying.

  “When you lie to a friend,” Brian’s dad once told him, “you’re lying to yourself.” That saying never meant much to Brian before this day, not quite fully understanding the depth of his father’s wisdom. If Stan Kobe was lying to Brian, then he was lying to himself, and Brian had decided to find out why.

  When Brian arrived back at his Chandler office, his assistant had left him a note with the name and phone number he’d requested. He looked at the name on the Post-it and raised his eyebrows. Grabbing his cell phone, he made the call right away.

  “Twenty-first.”

  “This is Detective Brian Hanley, Chandler, Arizona, Homicide Division. Can I speak to Commander Abbatti, please?”

  “Hold on. I’ll transfer.”

  “Prairie District. Commander Abbatti.”

  “Hello, Sal. It’s Brian Hanley.”

  “Wow! Brian Hanley. How the hell are you, kid? How’s Arizona treating you? Hot out there?”

  “Yeah, it’s hot. But it’s a dry heat.”

  “Yeah, dry heat. Right. That’s like being a little pregnant, son.”

  Brian heard Sal laugh, then abruptly stop. “Hey, Brian. Sorry to hear about your old man. Salt of the earth. A cop’s cop. You know what I mean?”

  “He always said the same about you. Said his dago friend would make commander someday. Looks like it happened.”

  “Well, they couldn’t fire me, so they just kept promoting me,” Sal laughed aloud again. “What can I do ya kid? I’m sure this is no social call.”

  “Can’t fool a good cop I guess. Yeah, you’re right. It’s police business. I need you to fill me in, if you can. What do you know about a couple of hoods named Turner and DeSadier?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. Brian thought that maybe his cell had dropped the call. “Hello? Sal? You there? Sal?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m here, kid. Sorry.” Stammering, Abbatti continued. “What did you say those two names were again?”

  “One’s street name is Pokie Turner. The other is Bobby DeSadier.”

  “Where on God’s green earth did you come across those two?”

  “So you know them?”

  “Oh, yeah. I know them. What’s up?”

  “We arrested them out here on one of our Indian reservations. They were planning to purchase and move a big shipment of Mexican meth, probably up to your neck of the woods.”

  “I’m not surprised. They’re three-time losers. Lotta bad history around these parts with those jokers.”

  Brian heard the tone of Sal’s voice change. He had known Sal since way back, when Abbatti was a beat cop. Homicide dicks like his dad became close to the beat cops—the good ones that is—relying upon them to gather critical information at crime scenes sin
ce they were the first on the scene. Not like other guys who came to work and hoped nothing came their way, Abbatti relished assisting the detectives. Looking back now, Brian knew that, besides his father, Sal Abbatti had influenced him the most in becoming a cop.

  “Whadya mean ‘bad history’?”

  “That’s goin’ way back, kid, maybe thirty years.”

  “Hey, Sal. It’s me. Stick Hanley’s kid. What aren’t you tellin’ me?”

  “Aw, it’s dead and gone now, Brian. No sense bringing up the past.”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t be calling unless I needed your help. I think my best friend is somehow connected with these guys.”

  “Then all I can say is—stay away from your best friend.”

  Brian didn’t like the answer. He prodded for more. “Give it to me straight, Sal.”

  After another longer than normal pause, the commander continued. “Back in the seventies, I remember your old man bringing you around on Saturdays. You were just a little shit. Always asking questions. I knew you’d make a good cop someday, just like your old man.

  “Anyway, the Twenty-First was a cesspool back then. Your dad and his partner, Timbo Boscorelli, collared those two you’re holding now on a murder over in Burnham Park. A big heater. Even the mayor got involved. But their case was thrown out. Turner and DeSadier got away—scot-free.”

  “I don’t remember Dad talking to me about that one. He told me about every murder case he ever worked on. That is, at least I thought he did. I’m sure I would have remembered it. What happened? What were the particulars?”

  “This old man got whacked riding his bicycle on the way to work. Good news, we had an eyewitness. A little kid, ‘bout same age you were then, maybe a little older. Sharp kid. Bad news, we didn’t get the facts straight between the kid, the detectives, and the Cook County Attorney’s Office. The killers walked and our witness had to be put into a witness protection program.”

  Brian didn’t immediately respond to Sal Abbatti’s particulars about the case. Rather, the wheels turned in his head in an attempt to grasp the significance of all these details and how they might possibly relate to the men in a holding tank at 4th Avenue Jail, his best friend Stan’s aversion to charging them, and that same friend’s eagerness to send them back to Chicago.

  After a few moments of silence, Brian said, “I need the files on that case. I’d like to take a look at them while I still have these two hombres in custody here in Arizona.”

  “I’m not even sure where those records would be, kid. Remember, that’s in the days before computers.”

  Brian recognized Sal’s hesitancy to help. If what he said went down the way the new commander said it did, Brian was sure there would be lots of people who wanted to forget this crime ever happened, let alone stir up the feelings again of those still alive who had worked on the case. Even though homicide cops have thick skins and short memories for the cases they never cleared, like his dad did, there were some cases that stayed with them a very long time.

  “Do the best you can, wouldja?” Brian asked.

  “Okay, kid. I still owe your old man for watching my back all those years. Maybe the files are in our basement archives. Gimme a little time on this, okay?”

  “Sure, Sal, whatever you need. Hey, what about the trial records? Got any contacts over at Cook County courts?”

  “Can’t help you there. All five of the perps were tried as juveniles. Their records are sealed shut, kid.”

  “Did you say five? So these two weren’t the only ones in on this?”

  “Oh, no. There were five of them and, if I remember correctly, a sixth who was never IDed. It was a whole gang who jumped him. P. Stones. Those evil bastards never did anything alone. Always made sure the numbers were in their favor. Took a lot of real brave little nigger pricks to kill an eighty-five-year-old man.”

  “Eighty-five? The person these black kids killed was eighty-five years old?” Brian paused a moment. His fascination with the case rose with each new detail. “Do you remember his name?”

  “Oh, sure, kid. Nobody around here will ever forget him. The guy actually played for the nineteen-nineteen Black Sox. His name was Manny Fleischman.”

  CHAPTER 25

  After his phone call with Sal Abbatti from Chicago, Brian’s mind spun trying to put together the pieces of the fascinating yet troubling puzzle laid before him. His best friend, Stan Kobe, who had fearlessly and successfully prosecuted some of the most heinous criminals in Arizona, had suddenly become squeamish about throwing the book at two losers from Chicago held in custody in the Maricopa County Jail. In past situations, Stan would have looked for the tiniest loophole to keep scum like this behind bars for as long as he could. Now, uncharacteristically, he wanted nothing to do with them, maintaining they should be sent back to Illinois.

  Still not sure why Stan supported extraditing Turner and De-Sadier when he could initiate charges and try them here, he did know that if Maricopa County decided not to bring forth charges, then the state would be required to implement extradition very soon and send the two felons back to Chicago.

  Brian dialed another number. When that call ended, he placed another.

  “History Department. Professor Kobe.”

  “Maxine. I’m glad I caught you.”

  “Hey, Brian sweetie. How are you? What’s up?”

  Not in any mood for small talk, Brian hurriedly replied. “Can we meet? How’s your afternoon look?”

  “I’m in class till two. What’s up? You forget Claire’s birthday again? If you want to know what to buy her to get out of the doghouse, I can tell you right now over the phone.”

  “No, no. It’s not that. This is serious, Max. I need to see you right away. It’s about Stan.”

  Her voice rose. “Stan?”

  “Don’t worry. He’s fine. It’s just important that I speak to you as soon as you got a few minutes. Alone. Okay?”

  “Okay. Sure. I go over to the Rec Center for my karate workout after my last class today. Why don’t we meet over there about two thirty?”

  “Great. See you then.”

  Brian hung up, not giving her a chance to ask more questions or even to say goodbye. He didn’t have time to waste. If the two thugs being held at the 4th Avenue Jail lawyered-up soon—and there was no doubt they would after Brian noticed their connections in Chicago on their rap sheets—they’d surely be out of lockup very soon. On top of that, if Stan’s charging unit under Tom Terry’s direction didn’t bring charges against the two men, then he’d have no way of keeping them behind bars since, by law, they’d have to be extradited within seventy-two hours.

  He picked up his desk phone and made still another call.

  “Federal Defender’s office, Dianna Cherry. May I help you?”

  “Dianna. It’s Brian Hanley. Hey, I need a favor.”

  Over the next hour, the fax machine in Brian’s office whirred, spitting out sheet after sheet of information on the murder case of one Emanuel “Manny” Fleischman. Sal Abbatti sent over everything he had regarding the involvement of Turner and DeSadier as it pertained to the thirty-year-old murder. Brian figured Sal’s conscience must have gotten the best of him since the documents Abbatti had thought would be hard to find had started to appear soon after their phone call ended. Abbatti’s mysterious change of heart did puzzle Brian, though, as he began reading the faint pages as fast as they spewed from the fax.

  The initial pages were copies of the original reports filed by the first officer on the scene, Patrolman Sal Abbatti. He had to be a rookie in seventy-five. No wonder he remembers this case. That’s also probably why he wants to keep it in the past. As he read further, Brian learned about the arrest of the five boys after the eyewitness, a twelve-year-old boy by the name of James Overstreet, had picked each from photo arrays shown to him in the Youth Division offices at Chicago’s Area 1 Headquarters. According to the reports, the collars on the five perps seemed clean. Detective Edward Hanley—Dad busted these guys!—had read them
their Miranda rights when arrested at The Olander Housing Projects.

  Each alleged offender had been brought into Area 1 and interviewed individually. Because it was a heater case, a Cook County Assistant State’s Attorney had also been involved in the interrogation. Most glaring to Brian as he read on was that counsel did not represent the alleged offenders during their interviews.

  They were juveniles. Why weren’t their parents there when they were questioned?

  Brian read where each boy had confessed to being at the scene of the crime. During the interviews, they had individually told police interrogators the boy wielding the bat was a kid by the name of Monroe Clarke, known by his street name as “Ice Pick,” or more commonly “Pick,” the alleged leader of their gang.

  It says here in the interrogation notes that Pick had asked for an attorney. I wonder why they didn’t give him one?

  As he read on Brian thought it noteworthy that the eyewitness Overstreet had mentioned seeing six attackers, but when questioned, each of the five arrested had stuck by his story that they were the only ones who had participated in the crime. Brian didn’t give much weight to this tidbit because he knew as a seasoned homicide investigator an eyewitness can be notorious for getting things wrong.

  As Brian continued to read the details of the case, it became clear to him that the detectives made major mistakes when they gathered evidence at the scene. He found errors, too, in the interviewing of the witness and the interpretation of subsequent facts necessary to initiate charges against the alleged offenders in order to bring them to trial.

  I don’t see here where anyone ever took the Overstreet kid back to the scene of the crime. Could Dad have possibly overlooked this? Why wouldn’t he have confirmed before the trial what James actually saw and where he saw it?

  Brian paused in his reading. Head spinning, his mind drifted back to the day he had decided to become a police officer those many years ago, making him the fifth generation of Hanleys in law enforcement. At the time, Edward Hanley took his son under his wing and had taught him all he knew about being a good cop. The father shared his experiences about working in Area 1, in particular about the notorious Prairie District, the Twenty-First on Chicago’s near South Side, and his war stories as a homicide investigator there in one of the city’s most dangerous neighborhoods.