The Plodder

By R. A. Cecil

A detective story following a police detective's procedural investigation of a local triple murder which in turn leads to another triple murder outside his jurisdiction. From a Littleton IL small commodities trading firm to Chicago's version of the mafia, the "Outfit," Dectective Ploester follows leads that end with Illinois and federal agencies bumping heads with his small town police force.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626757608

Book preview

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1

Hammond, Indiana.

The dark blue sedan slowly slid out of the delivery truck gate of the Black Star Casino, precisely at 11:00 pm. Only the driver’s head was visible—the two passengers were slouched down in their seats. Inside was a Chicago Outfit’s capo, Salvatore ‘Manny the Man’ Mancini, overseer of the mob-owned casino, and his two most trusted crew members, Johnny ‘Bugs’ Capricio and Andrio ‘Ears’ Russo. Manny wanted to arrive in Littleton, Illinois ten minutes before his hastily called meeting. He had been down there several times before, to Midwest Commodities and Financials, but when your mission was to whack two men, preparation was essential.

Bugs, ya turned off the security camera over the truck dock?

Yeah, yeah boss. Just like you said.

Ears, you hid the pieces real good?

Sure boss; and I put Bugs’ along wid ‘em. They’re up in the rear speaker mounts. Don’t worry, your ol’ man was the best, he taught me ya’ know.

OK, good. And listen Bugs, put the cruise on 55 or 56; I don’t want some cop pulling us over. We want nice and steady, got it! His voice stated a command, not a question.

Got it, Manny.

Now, youse guys shadup, I got some thinkin’ to do. And he did because Maetrano Lucese, the Outfit’s boss, wanted a meeting with Mancini. The skim seemed very light based on foot traffic in and out of the casino, and the hotel’s occupancy was low. Lucky Lucese wanted to be known like that other Lucky—Lucky Luciano of decades gone by. But Lucese was even luckier because even the FBI didn’t know his exact birth year, placing him somewhere between 69 to 74 years old. Lucese wasn’t about to call them with the correct year. He had carefully built a wall around himself so that less than half a dozen of his own family members knew much about Maetrano ‘Lucky’ Lucese.

Finally, Manny spoke. How much is our take? I forget.

Bugs was the first to answer. 800,000, right Ears?

Yeah, 800,000.

Well, here’s my plan, we all got 800,000 so we put our combined 2.4 mil in a duffel bag and when Lucky calls for the sit down, I’ll dump the money on his desk and yell ‘Happy Birthday boss!’ He’ll love it and start drooling. I’ll get a warning about skimming and I’ll say, ‘I only did it for you boss.’ We’ll get 10% back, 80 grand each, but I’ll make yours up by moving some cash around. Don’t worry, I won’t stiff you. Manny grinned inwardly because he had at least twice as much (by his count 5 million) stashed off shore.

But Manny, that’s a 720,000 hit, even if you do cover it in time. Bugs was concerned and reasonably so, as greed in the Outfit was no different than anywhere else.

Hey, it beats getting whacked. No argument there. And Manny wondered if he would have to whack Bugs and Ears because as trusted lieutenants they were part and parcel of the casino skimming. He didn’t know if he could explain away their deaths, although he was confident the boss would accept his 2.4 mil explanation. Oh, what to do?

As they approached the east side of Littleton, Manny and Ears slouched down in their seats again making it look like it was just Bugs driving. Manny gave him directions to the county road where MC&F was located. They pulled into the industrial park with the headlights out and found a spot by the building next door. They didn’t want Phillip VanDerStaus, president, CEO and owner, and Eric Compson, his right hand man, to see them when they pulled in.

Did you pull the light bulb out of the trunk?

I did boss. I know the drill. I’m pulling the dome light now.

Good. Ease out the far door and get the pieces. Gloves, everyone. I just saw a security patrol across the way by those two office buildings and truck terminal. I hope he doesn’t present a problem. Bugs, when they pull in, drive over behind...hey, they’re pulling in now, get our pieces out– it’s time to roll.

Thirty seconds later they pulled in behind Phillip’s Lincoln and Manny popped out with a big wave of the hand, smiled, and said to Phillip, Sorry for the late hour but we’ve got to make some changes in the operation. Banks are getting too curious. Andrio, bring the briefcase with the paperwork we need.

Coming.

It was then that Bugs saw the woman in the passenger seat of Mark’s red Trans Am, so he slipped around to the trunk and found his .22 revolver. The others headed for the dark office and Bugs waited outside, fishing for a pack of cigarettes while walking towards the red sports car. He knocked on the closed window. Tiffany Compson lowered the window halfway.

Hey pretty lady, got a light? I’m dying for a cig and he won’t let me smoke in the car. $35,000 car and the lighter and interior lights don’t work. Go figure.

No, I don’t smoke.

Well, could you push in the dash lighter please, honey? I need some nicotine.

As she leaned forward to push in the dash lighter, Tiffany saw four flashes of light within the small building. She could barely hear the muffled shots.

What the...? Unfortunately, those were the poor lady’s last words on earth. Bugs shot her once in the back of the head, and then at the base of the skull.

As Manny and Ears came out, the three of them saw the security guard heading for his car and talking into a portable phone. Bugs’ .22 did not have a silencer like the others, so the security guard had heard the shots and was responding. They all walked quickly but calmly to their car. The crew pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the two lane county road while keeping an eye on the security car which by now had his flashing roof lights on. But he was driving at a slow speed, a very slow speed. Maybe he wasn’t a brave security guard, Bugs thought.

Manny spoke. Head north on this road, and turn left at the gas station. When we get to the four lane, turn right, head for the big intersection with all the traffic lights, turn right again and head east for the Indiana line. When we come to the Iroquois River we’ll dump the pieces.

As they drove, Manny thought hard as to how he would present 2.4 million in cash to the boss—perhaps a red ribbon around each stack of ten grand maybe? Time consuming but a neat gimmick. The three victims were already forgotten.

2

For most people a telephone ringing at 2:00 AM had a one out of a hundred chance of being good news. For Sylvester Never Call Me Cy or Syl Royalton Ploester, the only detective on the Littleton, Illinois police force, there was zero chance of good news.

Get the damn phone, followed by an elbow jab from Mona, his wife of 27 years, finally got him moving.

Sylvester reached for the phone. Plod here, he rumbled. Sylvester Royalton Ploester's unique plodding determination in his investigations—to follow and analyze leads without ever guessing or acting on gut feelings—had long ago earned him the nickname, The Plodder, but now everyone called him simply Plod, which he accepted. It beat a lot of names he had been called through the years. At one time in Chicago he was 3B: Big, Bad and Black, but in time Plodder and then just Plod became the norm.

It was the Chief of Police of Littleton, IL calling, and while his real name was Chester L. Mandin, he was known in the community simply as Chief. Even school kids called him Chief. And the Chief loved getting