The Trojan Killer

By BILL RIVERON

Its the summer of 1980. Philadelphia Police Homicide
Captain, John Quintana and his elite Dead End Gang are on
the hunt for a diabolical serial killer. It is the most puzzling
case the squad has ever encountered.

Pressure mounts when Quintana and his special squad are left
with little clues. The City of "Brotherly Love" finds itself in the
grips of a fiendishly clever killer, whose methods baffle both the
police and the medical community.

The case is as perplexing as the murders themselves.Follow the
exploits of the famed Dead End Gang, as they try to unravel
the mystery of "The Trojan Killer".

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456795559

BILL RIVERON

Bill Riveron is a retired Philadelphia Police Lieutenant. During his career he was assigned to several uniform patrol units, victim services, training bureau, and the special operation units of the highway and mounted patrol, where he served as a commanding officer. He currently resides in a friendly adult community in Southern New Jersey,enjoying its peaceful lifestyle with his wife.

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Prologue I

1938-1959

John Quintana was six years old when he decided he wanted to be a police officer, a Philadelphia police officer to be exact. The day he made that decision would forever place an indelible mark in his memory.

It was, a warm, sunny, Sunday. It was young John Quintana’s sixth birthday. To celebrate the special day, his parents intended to make good on their promises by first buying him that plastic model aircraft carrier he wanted so badly and then taking him to the Avenue Movie Theater House where they would see "Batman" and "Lassie Come Home." A five course, dinner at Louie Fong’s Chinese Restaurant would follow.

The celebration got underway at 11:30 a.m. The first stop on the birthday agenda was a visit to Bert’s Hobby Shop in order to buy John that model aircraft.

After the purchase, his father placed the model aircraft in the trunk of his car for safe-keeping; after all, it was a treasured possession. The three of them then set off to catch the double feature. After the second movie had ended, the three celebrants exited the movie theater and observed a Philadelphia highway patrol officer sitting atop his shiny, black, Indian model motorcycle, that was parked at the curb directly in front of the theater. John Quintana stopped dead in his tracks. He stood there motionless with, his mouth wide open, just staring at the imposing figure in uniform. The fact that the police officer was sitting on a monstrous motorcycle with a polished black-finish and sparkling chrome spoke wheels, added to the grandeur of the moment. Standing that close to an officer was an awe-inspiring sight for a six-year-old kid. He was impressed by the highway officer’s uniform. He looked the officer over head to toe. He was mesmerized by the strange, crushed hat, the blue-colored blouse coat, those shiny silver buttons, those strange looking blue pants that were tucked inside a pair of black shiny boots, the brown leather cross straps that held up the heavy laden belt and holster and that prodigious looking gun. Whoa, he thought, that’s what I wanna be! It was at that very moment that six-year-old John Quintana made a life altering decision. His future was set in stone.

*   *   *

On June 6, 1959, a date John had waited so long for finally arrived. It was the day he turned twenty-one. It meant that he could now legally walk into Babe’s Tavern, sit down at the bar, and order a beer. For some strange notion he thought the gesture, would certified his manhood. But the real significance of turning twenty-one, was that he was now of legal age to apply to take the examination to become a Philadelphia police officer.

During the summer of 1959, John gave up his normal part time summer job at Taylor’s Grocery Store and spent his days and nights studying for the police department examination. It was a sacrifice to say the least. Up until that point, his whole world had centered on his neighborhood buddies and Rachel. They all belonged to a gang known in North Philly as the Hard Yard. Rachael had been his girl friend since they were fifteen, and they were inseparable.

One of the activities he would missed the most was not being able to go down to the Tinnucum quarry and party with the rest of the gang.

Twice a week, the entire gang, including their girl friends, would all spend a day at the Quarry. The game plan was always the same. They would all pool their money together in order to buy the food and drinks. Armed with the sufficient funds, some of the girls would pay a visit to the local supermarket and purchase hot dogs, hamburgers and snacks. The Baker brothers, Jack and Bobby, were the only members of the gang who owned pick-up trucks. Bobby would always be in charge of transporting the barbecue grill, as well as, the cooler that contained the frozen hot dogs and hamburgers. Jack, on the other hand had the more important duty, transporting the quarter size keg of beer. He was also in charge of stopping by Manny’s Deli and picking up a few dozen hoagie sandwiches. Once the dining arrangements were taken care of the rest of the gang would form a car caravan and head up to the park. The gang had it’s own secret location. It was a secluded area, near the east side of the quarry. They had come across it a few years back; it was the gang’s private spot. They would spend the day, swimming and of course partaking in gorging themselves to their hearts content. One of the guys, Hughie Dark, became the gang’s barbecue specialist. His hamburgers were always cooked to perfection and the hot dogs were cooked according to special orders. The guys that came alone usually went skinny-dipping in a cove like swimming area.

During one of their outings, a double dare by one of the guys started a tradition in order to prove that you weren’t a coward; you had to dive off the top of a boulder. The jump was about forty feet or so. Rachel was the only one of the girls to do it.

Quintana had been swimming in the middle of the quarry about fifty yards away, when he looked up, he saw that Rachel was going to dive in. He yelled at her not to jump in and told her to get down. She dove in anyway. When she surfaced, he swam over to her. He was really angry with her for jumping. He told her never to do it again.

John Quintana loved his summer vacations. Growing up with his neighborhood corner buddies meant the world to him, but so did his dream. He wanted to be cop, so much so that he willfully gave up his summer vacation to devote himself to prepare and study for the police officer exam. It certainly was a sacrifice but he didn’t realize how much of a sacrifice it would become.

On July 8, just a little past 3:00 p.m., John was studying in his bedroom when his mother called up to him and told him that his friends were at the door. She had invited them all inside, but they wanted to wait for him outside. John came downstairs and stopped at the doorway, facing them. Everyone just stood there without saying a word. Just then, a strange feeling came over him, a sinking feeling. He quickly scanned over his group of friends and realized that Rachel was missing.

Tony, who was his best friend, walked up the steps, looked directly into his eyes, and informed him that Rachel had drowned while they were all at the quarry that morning. Tony kept talking, describing details of the tragic incident; all John could do was stare; it was as if someone placed him under a trance. He stood there motionless. Tony kept talking; the words poured out, but nothing penetrated. Those two pungent words, Rachel drowned, resounded over and over again in his mind. It caused emotions inside of him that he never knew existed. Those shocking words blindsided him. Tears rolled down his cheeks. His mind couldn’t get past the single crushing thought that Rachael was gone forever. He felt an overwhelming sense of injustice, but there was nothing he could do to bring her back.

The penetrating thoughts started to create an overpowering feeling of guilt. He blamed himself for Rachael’s death. He lost her because he wasn’t around to watch her. He had betrayed her. He had left her to fend for herself. From the moment they first kissed, they were inseparable, but he gave her up for his own selfish reasons. It was too high of a price to pay, but it was too late. He was to blame, no one else. Quintana would carry that guilt the rest of his life.

*   *   *

Prologue II

1959-1980

On September 8, 1959, exactly two months after Rachel’s death, John Quintana, along with nine thousand other applicants from across the city of Philadelphia, took the police department examination test. Two months later, he received a letter from the City Personnel Department. The letter informed him that he had scored a final qualifying grade of 99.8. It subsequently placed him eighth overall on the Philadelphia Police Department’s applicant list. Two days later, another letter arrived informing him that he was scheduled to attend the next police academy class.

On the crisp, early morning of November 15, 1959, he arrived at the Philadelphia Police Academy, ready to protect and to serve the citizens of the city where he grew up. As he walked through the front door, he looked up and read the sign above the door Enter to Learn, Leave to Serve. He made his way to the auditorium, where a robust corporal checked his name on the roster and gave him his assigned seat. At 9:05 a.m., he stood up along with 128 other police recruits. He raised his right hand and swore to an oath. He was now a Philadelphia police officer. He was now a part of history. He was joining the oldest municipal police agency in the United States. As he swore to serve with integrity, honesty and truth, he couldn’t help but think just how dearly this moment had cost him. The rest of the payment was yet to come.

Throughout his career, Quintana had a knack for scoring exceptionally high on every police promotional exam he took. His first promotion was to the rank of corporal, and he was assigned to the juvenile aid division. Two and a half years later, he was promoted to sergeant. At that time a police inspector had taken a liking to Quintana, so he pulled some strings and had him assigned to the major crimes unit. The assignment, as it turned out, enhanced his career, due in large part to two significant incidents that occurred.

The first incident occurred when John was working undercover as a transient in the Center City subway. At the time, the city was reeling from a recent string of rapes that were occurring in the subway corridors in Center City. The city newspapers carried the stories on their front pages for several days. Subsequently, the police department was put under great pressure to arrest the rapist. In response, the department allocated a great deal of its resources in attempting to apprehend the perpetrator. Quintana and several of the major crimes officers were working undercover in different capacities. Quintana was posing as a homeless man. The graphic arts department had done a masterful job composing a sketch of the individual. The physical description of the perpetrator had been obtained from information gathered from the various rape victims. The police were looking for a Caucasian, approximately six foot tall with, brown hair and bushy eyebrows and wearing a gray hooded jacket, faded blue jeans, and tan work boots. The police personnel had been assigned to the subway detail before they released the composite sketch of the suspect to the city papers for publication.

In the early morning hours before the rush, Quintana was stretched out on the bottom flight of steps at the subway entrance at the corner of Eighteenth and Market Streets. With an empty bottle of Silver Spur wine next to him, John was pretending to be in a stupor. A white male dressed in a white dress shirt, gray dress pants, and a blue opened raincoat walked down the steps, passing him. Quintana gave a slight peek and noticed the man was wearing tan work boots. He waited for the individual to move out of his sight, then he walked down the rest of the steps. When he reached the platform, there was absolutely no one around, but a moment later, he heard a slight murmuring sound coming from behind the wall of the stairway landing. Quintana reached down and drew his snub nose revolver from his angle holster. He ran around one side of the wall. The male in the blue raincoat was holding a switchblade to the throat of a cleaning woman. His left hand was cupped over her mouth. Quintana pointed the gun at the man’s forehead and told him to let the woman go. There was a brief pause. Then suddenly, the male flung the woman at Quintana. It caught him by surprise, Quintana knocked off balance, fell backwards. The gun went flying out of his hand. The assailant ran towards him and kicked him in the face. It was a glancing blow. It momentarily dazed Quintana. The assailant began kicking him in the ribs.

Quintana quickly placed his arms at his side, trying to protect them from the assailant’s kicking blows. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an unidentified elderly, black man jumped on the guy’s back. It afforded Quintana enough time to get onto his knees and get a hold of himself. The rapist jerked and flung the man off his back. He then ran over to where his switchblade was lying on the ground, picked it up, and started to lunge at Quintana. However, the brief encounter with the black man allowed sufficient time for Quintana to regain himself. He now had time to take aim and fired his snub nose service revolver; he discharged all six bullets from the gun’s chamber. The confinement of the subway tunnel enhanced the noise of the gunshots, creating an echo chamber effect. The impact of the shots knocked the suspect backwards onto the train tracks. The six shots fired by Quintana made a small circular grouping in the male’s chest. For his actions, John Quintana was decorated for bravery.

The other important event that happened in Quintana’s police career was being selected by the police commissioner, along with the three deputy commissioners, to command a special homicide investigative squad. The squad’s main function was to handle high profile and serial type homicide cases. During much of the past decade, the press in the city had given much attention to the city’s fluctuating crime rate. Lately, the crime rate statistics had been continuously moving on an uphill climb. The leading newspaper affiliates relentlessly featured a string of articles regarding the ever-increasing homicide rate. Crime was the overall topic, but the homicides made for good print.

In order to stave off any more negative publicity, the mayor initiated several meetings with some members of the city council along with members of the police brass, including the police commissioner, to discuss handling the problem of the continuing homicide rate. Some of the solutions that were implemented as a result of the meetings directly affected the manner in which homicide cases were to be conducted. Additional resources of manpower and equipment were going to be utilized. The detective bureau was going to be beefed up, which in turn would provide significant transfers of divisional detectives to the homicide unit. The crime scene unit was also going to receive a substantial increase in manpower. The sharing of information between the crime analysis unit and the homicide bureau now had to be implemented through police policy and procedures, which gave each unit various departmental responsibilities. The forensic and ballistics units were each going to receive upgraded equipment. An AFIS machine was going to be purchased. Advanced in-service training courses were going to be provided to all officers regarding handling crimes scenes and potential witnesses.

But the City of Philadelphia got the biggest bang for its buck when they assigned Captain John Quintana to head the special homicide squad. He was built for the job, built for the long haul. He possessed a resolve that was as tempered as steel. Investigating serial homicide cases required a certain moxie, and John Quintana had it.

*   *   *

Chapter One

The Dead End Gang

Monday, July 7, 1980

For most of the working masses across America, it was the end of the Fourth of July weekend and the start of a new workweek. It was 6:40 a.m. The holiday traffic traveling along the northbound lanes of the Atlantic City Expressway had diminished quite considerably. Philadelphia Police Homicide Captain John Quintana was making good time on his way to work. Quintana was in the middle of his sixth year of commanding a small but elite homicide squad. As he drove up to the tollbooth at the Farley Toll Plaza, the lively voices of the Drifters rang out from the radio speakers.

Oh, when the sun beats down and burns the tar up on the roof, and your shoes get so hot you wish your tired feet were fireproof, under the boardwalk, down by the…

John leaned forward and pressed the radio’s power dial, allowing modern technology to provide instant serenity. Enough was enough. He just wasn’t in the mood. The fact of the matter was that John Quintana was fatigued, both mentally and physically, and spending the holiday weekend at the Jersey shore didn’t exactly help matters. In fact, it had only added to his anguish. He disliked everything about the Jersey shore. He always had, but he was good at keeping it a secret.

He loved his wife, Jennifer, too much to disappoint her. Every year, she looked forward to visiting her parents. The holiday visit had become a ritual ever since her parents moved to Wildwood in 1964. The small southern New Jersey city was a shore resort city that sat along a coastal landform that faced the Atlantic Ocean. During the off season, it’s population was estimated to be somewhere in the neighborhood of four thousand residents. During the summer months, however, vacationers and tourists, mostly from New Jersey, Pennsylvania, New York, Delaware, most of the New England states, and some parts of Canada, elevated the numbers to well over two hundred seventy thousand people. In addition to Wildwood, there were several other popular Jersey shore resorts: Ocean City, Sea Isle, Avalon, Stone Harbor, and a few others, which all experienced staggering numbers of vacationers and tourists.

During the Fourth of July weekend, the population of southern Jersey shore resorts easily ballooned to over three million people. Given those statistics, and the fact that there were only a few major roads that allowed access to the small resort cities and towns, it was a nightmarish event for any driver. During the summer months, specifically on late Friday afternoons and Sunday evenings, the quest would, in most instances, test one’s human fortitude and spiritual soul. There were just too many vehicles, and too few roads.

So every year when it came time to visit his in-laws, Quintana just sucked it up and put up a good front. He tolerated getting up every morning knowing that, he had to lug a ton and a half of needless beach equipment over a quarter of a mile of hot sand. He waited patiently to see which of his haggling three task-masters finally won out and eventually picked out the spot where they would all spend the next four hours of their lives. He tolerated the three of them heading off for a stroll along the cool shoreline, leaving him to prepare for their comfort knowing that in just four short hours the once roomy, perfect spot would somehow be diminished to the size of a postage stamp, which meant it would be time to evacuate and lug everything back.

He thought the entire excursion was enough to force even the staunchest mule into retirement. The beaches were overly crowded. The frigid waters of the Atlantic, even in the middle of a heat wave, could chill one’s bones to the core. The massive wave of strollers on the boardwalk, especially during the evening hours, absolutely defied the laws of geometric physics.

They