The Skeleton's Knee (27 page)

“The primary questions are medically relevant—possibly inherited conditions, like hemophilia, or an allergy to some drug, or a family history of stroke, or whatever. The secondary details are mostly so the various docs can be friendly with the patient. A crude example would be my checking a patient’s chart before visitation, finding out he had three collie dogs, and opening my conversation with him by alluding to my love of collies. It’s a fast and easy way of breaking the ice with people. Sounds a little cynical when I put it that way, but the intention’s honorable.”

I was still a little mystified, staring at the form. “This has virtually nothing on it. Wouldn’t Shilly have needed to know some of this?”

“He probably had most of it verbally. Patients are asked half a dozen times whether they have any past medical history or allergies. If I were to play at your job for a moment, I’d guess that this incomplete form is another indication that something was going on under the table between patient and doctor.”

I looked at the mostly blank sheet. Shattuck’s name appeared again, along with “no current address” and “deceased” under “next of kin.” “A. Salierno” was written next to “in case of emergency, contact,” with an address. I showed it to Yancy.

“That ring a bell?”

He raised his eyebrows. “No, but that doesn’t say much; I’m hardly a man about town. Give him—or her, I guess—a call; maybe you’ll get lucky.”

After my encounter with Shattuck, I was a little shy about dropping by people’s homes without researching them first. I did use the phone book in the lobby, though, just to see if A. Salierno was listed. I drew a blank.

I was, however, within walking distance of both the
Chicago Tribune
and its chief competitor, the
Sun-Times
, both of which flanked the two-winged Wrigley Building, making the latter look like a spread-armed referee, keeping two fighters apart.

Not that they were difficult to distinguish architecturally, one being as extreme as the other. But where the Tribune Tower looked like a keep without a castle or a Gothic spire in search of a nave, the Sun-Times Building, its southern wall almost flush with the riverbank, was reminiscent of a huge submarine with squared-off corners. I chose the Trib simply because my route down Michigan Avenue delivered it to me first.

· · ·

Two hours later, I sat back in the plastic chair I’d been furnished and ground my aching eyes against the heels of both hands, glorying in the brief darkness following endless streams of flickering microfilm.

A.—for Angelo—Salierno, it turned out, had acquired a bit more than a clipping here and there. In fact, as thirty-year head of the local Mafia, he and his family—blood-related and otherwise—had earned enough coverage to merit a decent-sized encyclopedia. I had read hundreds of column inches linking the “Dour Don,” as the press had dubbed the unsmiling Salierno, to everything from racketeering in Cook County and all its neighbors to playing a major role in the creation of the Vegas mob. The don, who for years had worked out of a sealed and guarded compound in upscale River Forest—the same address listed in “Shattuck’s” hospital file—was apparently a cautious, reserved, publicity-shy, traditional leader from the old school.

Presumably, his antique style of leadership owed its endurance to an almost corporate stolidity, which served it well in times of crisis. Despite its 1920s machine gun-toting reputation, the Outfit, as the mob was called in Chicago, had come a long way when it came to discretion.

The low-key style, however, had not fitted all the Saliernos so comfortably. Angelo’s eldest son, Tomaso, predictably nicknamed “Tommy,” had strained at his father’s conservative leash. Indeed, it was Tommy and his private guard of henchmen who had usually landed the Salierno name on the front page, either by getting involved in deals of their own, which had a propensity for going sour, or simply by doing the wrong thing in the wrong place, as when Tommy took a bar stool to a window just as a free-lance photographer happened by. From my reading of his activities, Tommy Salierno was short-tempered, mean-spirited, egotistical, and ambitious. He was also neither smart nor lucky. He ended up facedown in a back alley with a bullet in his chest, the apparent victim of some inner-gang rivalry. The police nailed a minor family functionary for the crime—a numbers runner who’d reportedly lost his wife’s affections to Tommy. Angelo retreated even further into his heavily guarded shell, and the Salierno name slid from the headlines, gaining a mention only now and then in articles dealing with the Mafia in general. Angelo himself hadn’t been seen outside the River Forest compound in over twenty years, although he was reported to be still very much in charge. On the rare occasions that the
Tribune
was able to give a titillating glimpse of the Salierno hierarchy, it was invariably in the shape of Alfredo Bonatto, Angelo’s “adviser.” Balding, paunchy, slightly stooped, and wearing thick glasses and dark suits, Bonatto—who was also a lawyer—had become the inglorious image of an organization most people still connected in their minds to the likes of Al Capone.

To my mind, that was precisely what Angelo Salierno had been after all along—to become too outwardly boring to warrant much media attention, and too insulated legally to be touchable by the police.

That he had finally come to my attention, therefore, shouldn’t normally have been of great interest to the Dour Don. No single hovering police officer, even from such a metropolitan hot spot as Brattleboro, was worth the time of day, especially without a warrant.

Unless that officer had a hook.

· · ·

The street Salierno lived on in River Forest was predictably impressive—broad, silent, smelling of flower beds and closely cropped grass. The homes were different in style—English Tudor, fake Southern Plantation, Modern Confused—and more or less discreet, running from totally walled estates to five-thousand-square-foot architectural wedding cakes perched on huge weedless green patches for all the world to see.

The address I was after was predictably retiring: an ivy-covered brick wall, topped by broken glass—along with less visible, more lethal deterrents, no doubt. It was pierced by a single large wrought-iron gate, guarded by a gray intercom perched on a pole.

I parked in front of the gate, feeling self-conscious, convinced that everyone was watching me, although the street to my back looked perfectly normal.

I leaned out the window and stabbed the button under the speaker grille.

“Who is it?” The voice was male and unfriendly.

“My name is Joe Gunther. I’m a lieutenant with the police department in Brattleboro, Vermont.” I figured honesty might suit me best, considering the people I was addressing.

“Got a warrant?”

“No, but I know why Tommy Salierno was killed.”

There was a long pause. “Wait.”

I stood there, feeling the sun gentle on my left shoulder, aware of a lawn mower working steadily some distance away and the sounds of songbirds in the trees lining the street. Ten minutes later a broad-shouldered man in a tight dark suit walked down what I could see of the drive. He stopped on the other side of the massive gate, his eyes in constant motion, taking in as much of the surroundings as possible—a habit I’d seen in Secret Service agents.

“Got any credentials?”

I exited the car, pulled my badge and ID from my inner pocket, and handed them over.

He took his eyes off the scenery long enough to scrutinize my paperwork with an intensity worthy of an art expert. He finally handed them back. “Go to the coffeehouse six blocks that way and two blocks left and wait.” He jerked a thumb up the street, turned on his heel, and marched back out of sight.

I did as I was told, finding a parking place diagonally across the street from the Cup-N-Saucer, which looked like a typical gathering spot for regulars, located on a standard version of a small-town main street. Like other sections of Chicago, this area had blocks that looked transplanted from central Iowa, right next to others that rivaled Beverly Hills.

There’d been no indication of how long I should wait, so I figured I’d better make myself comfortable. I chose a rear booth, sat so I could watch the front door, and ordered a hamburger and a milk shake for lunch.

Over the next two and a half hours, nursing a countless string of coffees, I watched people come and go—mostly go, after the noontime rush—never seeing anybody who struck me as unusual. I pegged most of them to be either retired people, traveling reps on break, or the rarer local office worker running in for a quick cup of something hot and stimulating.

It was therefore pretty obvious when the first of my expected company walked in. Not only was he built like a wrestler in a loose-fitting sports shirt—which conveniently hid anything tucked underneath—but he appeared from the hallway behind me, leading to the rest rooms and the storage room beyond. He, too, had those shifty, watchful eyes. He parked himself in a booth not too far away.

A second man, thinner, with a light jacket, entered the front and sat at the counter. A third walked to the only occupied booth not far from me, spoke inaudibly to the two old men who were chatting there, and apparently asked them to leave, which they did without comment. Finally, a last one appeared, gestured to the short-order cook and the sole waitress, muttered a few words to them, and escorted them out the door, flipping the CLOSED sign around and drawing the shade as he did so.

By this time, the hair on the back of my neck was rigid. Nobody spoke to anyone. The guards stayed at their posts. My coffee and my confidence began getting cold.

Finally, a shadow appeared at the front door, there was a gentle knock, and the last man in opened up, ushered in an older man wearing a dark three-piece suit, and locked the door again.

The newcomer I recognized by his newspaper photos—he was a little more stooped, the face a touch heavier and more lined, but the eyes were still sharp behind the thick glasses. He walked down the center of the coffee shop and stopped in front of my table. I stayed put, my hands on either side of my cup.

“May I see some identification?”

I pulled out my credentials again, and he read them carefully before handing them back. “Gunther doesn’t sound like a Vermont name.”

“I was born there, as were my father and grandfather.”

He nodded like a thoughtful banker. “The melting pot, of course.” He finally slid onto the bench opposite mine. “My name is Bonatto; I am Mr. Salierno’s adviser. Why have you come to see us?”

I knew—unlike when I’d been with Shattuck—that I was of value to this man. His presence here proved that. My strength, therefore, would come from carefully fanning those embers I’d inadvertently brought back to life, letting their energy do most of my work for me.

I decided to stay away from Tommy Salierno for openers. “Mr. Salierno’s name has been connected to a double homicide in Vermont.”

Bonatto played along. “Mr. Salierno has never been to Vermont.”

“The connection was made in Chicago. One of the victims I’m referring to had an operation here over twenty years ago, before being killed shortly thereafter in Vermont. He listed Mr. Salierno as the one to contact in case of an emergency.”

Bonatto’s eyes were very still, in contrast to his men’s, and looked directly into mine. “Over twenty years ago? What kind of operation?”

“Knee surgery.”

“What was this man’s name?”

“We don’t know. He used an alias.”

A flicker of impatience crossed the older man’s face. He tried a bluff. “Well, Lieutenant, I don’t see where any of this concerns us…”

“The surgery was to repair a massive gunshot wound—from a .45.”

The caliber seemed to mean something to him. “When was this operation?”

“October 10, 1969, twenty-four hours before Tommy Salierno was reportedly found dead.”

He looked at me hard for a moment, then smiled, ignoring the reference to Tommy. “I must admit, I find all this very confusing. Do you think Mr. Salierno’s name was used as a joke of some kind?”

I let him go with it. “Why would that be a joke?”

Bonatto spread his hands. “Because we haven’t the slightest idea what this is all about. Perhaps your homicide victim with the anonymous name picked Mr. Salierno at random.” He paused. “I am curious, though… How does a shooting and some surgery in Chicago concern a policeman from Vermont, especially after such a long time?”

I shrugged, pleased at his interest. “One thing leads to another.”

Bonatto absorbed that for a few seconds. “You mentioned a double homicide.”

I rose to my feet, acutely aware of Fuller’s photograph in my pocket and of the fact that I didn’t want to go too far into such details with this man—at least not yet. My purpose here had been to see if I could stimulate any interest—and that had been achieved. “Yes, that’s right. It’s a complicated case—the double homicide is only part of it. There’s a third person, still alive, who took a few shots at me a while back. Which maybe makes him the killer, and maybe not. But since you and Mr. Salierno are apparently uninvolved, I might as well leave it at that.” My rising caused every shifty eye in the place to lock on me—especially my hands—which I kept clearly in the open. “Good-bye.” I walked to the door and was blocked unobtrusively by the bodyguard at the counter sliding off his stool and standing in my way.

Bonatto hadn’t risen, but he turned his head and looked at me. “If we should hear of something, where might we get in touch with you, Lieutenant?”

“Call Norm Runnion at Area 6 headquarters. He’ll pass on any messages.”

The man at my shoulder smiled quietly at that.

“We don’t work it that way, Lieutenant. Where will
you
be?”

I gave him the address of my motel.

Bonatto nodded, those cool eyes unblinking. “Thank you. Good luck.”

NORM RUNNION SAT BACK
in his office chair and looked at me over the tops of his glasses. “You talked to Angelo Salierno?” His voice was tinged with amazement.

“His adviser, Bonatto.”

He shook his head. “Are you this crazy back home?”