Janik's Murder

By Janice Drake

On a June night in 1953, on the northside of Chicago, Eugene Janik was shot and killed. The newspaper and judge said it was a robbery gone wrong and the homeowner was within his rights to shoot the intruder. But is that the whole—or even the real—story?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543973679

Book preview

Copyright ©2019 Janice Drake

First Edition

BookBaby, Pennsauken, NJ

Cover Design by BookBaby

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-54397-366-2

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54397-367-9

Printed in the United States of America

For Judy Lewin

Rest in peace, the story has been told.

And in memory of my parents,

Janie and Floyd Wright, Sr.

They always believed in me.

Author’s Note

Judy’s Story

Steve’s Story

The Truth Will Set You Free

Careful What You Wish

A Picture Is Worth…

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

The first time I heard about Fritzie I thought she was a character for one of Judy’s novels. A bit over the top, I thought, and that name is just crazy.

I was sitting with my friend, Judy Lewin, in a diner discussing her latest book idea. We had met many times. I would listen, comment, and make suggestions; later editing Judy’s manuscripts as her story developed.

This time Judy was talking about a new story, a true one, that she had researched over several years about murder and how it had changed her husband, Steve’s, life as a child growing up in a 1950’s mob filled Chicago neighborhood.

The story just kept getting more far- fetched. I had met Steve; a quiet, funny guy who was good with carpentry and according to Judy, a great cook. They lived in a nice house in a safe neighborhood in St. Louis; doing all the normal family and community activities you would expect.

After several discussions with Judy about Fritzie and Al Lewin, I became intrigued as well. Judy had tried to write this story several times; always as fiction with various names given to the main characters. After consulting with a book agent on a Paris trip, she decided to write the true story and to use the first- person narrative.

Time ran out for Judy after writing only a few chapters. Her passing was quick and unexpected. Her husband, Steve, went into a downward spiral with a quadruple bypass heart surgery shortly afterward. After his surgery, we met, and he asked me to write the story of Janik’s murder.

I took the five crates of files and a thumb drive from Judy’s computer and spent the next few months trying to find my way. I met and interviewed Steve many times to gain insight and nail down details.

Finally, with Steve Lewin’s blessing and encouragement from Kris Jackson, who helped me organize a timeline and shuffle through endless pages on the thumb drive, I found the story that needed to be told.

I revised Judy’s chapters and added what she had been too ill to write. I interviewed Steve for his story, then went back in time to let the facts speak for themselves.

Fritzie is no longer a crazy name for a character in a novel, she has surfaced to reluctantly share the real story of Janik’s murder.

Janik’s Murder

Judy’s Story

Prologue

Your enemies are not your enemies forever. Time passes. Things change. They suffer losses deeper than yours. And you realize they are as befuddled as you at the way life goes. Once, they acted badly, they took what they wanted without care. They are just like you, though. At three in the morning, they wander to a window. They stand watching the night sky, and they are afraid. They have reason to be afraid.

Some people say murder is a senseless act. I don’t agree. There’s no doubt murder is a brutal act. It’s a cruel act. An immoral act. It’s wrong in the eyes of the law. A sin in the eyes of God. Murder is an unthinkable deed in the mind of any decent human being. But murder is rarely senseless.

I have essential faith that by the smallest of my actions I can restore some sense of order to the world. Justice eventually comes about but often in an imperfect way. I don’t know if you will get the justice you deserve.

Chapter 1

The first few years with Steve were rough. Not regularly, but frequently, he had bouts of drinking spells—the alcohol caused violent, nonsensical outbursts and fits of anger. Steve was not centered. He was missing a big part of something that made him erratic and irresponsible. He had a hard time controlling his temper and expressing himself. I knew some pieces of his chaotic childhood, checkered past, and 6 years serving in the US army during the Vietnam War. Sometimes I made excuses for his inconsistent behavior, lack of motivation, and poor follow through. Other times, I got mad at him—only causing Steve to get more frustrated.

I also saw a kind man. His eyes sparkled with love for me and he had pride in the accomplishments of my three sons as they matured, graduated, and became responsible adults and parents. Dogs and children loved Steve. He was a great cook, entertaining, and said what was on his mind.

In the winter of 1998 things were falling apart. Steve hadn’t been home in two nights. We had a fight, my fault because not knowing any better, I pushed him to talk about his home life as a child. I wanted a clearer understanding of the family dynamics and how he was able to cope, especially with his step-mother, Fritzie. Steve went into a rage, his eyes turned gold, and he wasn’t making any sense. If I knew then what I know now, I never would have hurt Steve in this way.

On most Saturday nights after work in 1998, Steve would visit the veterans at Jefferson Barracks, south of St. Louis city, or use that as an excuse to drink. He had and still has a special bond with veterans. But by hook or crook, he’d manage to get home even if it was 5 o’clock the next morning. After Steve would drink, he’d ask me, Aren’t you going to say something?

And I replied, What good would it do? I ignored him until he sobered up.

When he wasn’t home on Monday morning, I started making phone calls and then, after five days, I went to Laclede’s Landing to ask for him. Maybe my former supervisor had been right. Maybe I was in over my head with Steve. I hadn’t any idea what Steve might think of me searching for him and checking up on him at his place of employment. On the other hand, his opinion couldn’t be much lower of me and his anger appeared to be out of control. What did I have to lose?

I swallowed my pride and walked into Skeeter’s Eatery Bar and Grill. A few minutes later I stood before the restaurant’s manager.

I’d like to see Steve Lewin.

Steve Lewin? the manager asked, looking at my strangely. He doesn’t work here any longer.

I was stunned and just stared at the manager in disbelief.

Where, I stammered, where is he? Doesn’t anyone here know? My tone was pleading.

Noting the anguish and concern written across my face, and probably knowing the owner had been the best man in our wedding, the manager said, You might step across the alley to Show-Me’s. Ask Peterson, the owner. He might know.

Peterson, a small thin man with graying hair looked up from his desk and leaned back in his worn swivel chair. In response to my inquiry about the whereabouts of Steve Lewin replied, "Yeah. I saw him a few days ago. He’s in a bad way, with the other drunks. Any relation of yours?’

Yes. He’s my husband.

Peterson continued to look at me directly. He needs help. Drinking himself crazy. He’s a good bartender and kitchen manager. We need his expertise. But we tried to help him several years ago, you know—when he checked into rehab for one year at Clarendon, Iowa. As soon as he got out, Steve went straight to a tavern for a beer and two shots. It’s hopeless. If you know anybody who can help him—

I thought to myself. I don’t. Unless it would be me. I could barely take care of myself, my mother and kids, let alone my husband. I had to go to work every day and I had no experience with alcohol dependency.

My detective work was over. I turned away, and my final hope to find Steve had been shattered. I had come to a dead end. If I called his sister in Phoenix or his father in Champaign, they wouldn’t know any more than I did.

Full of despair but determined to find Steve, I drove past the viaduct at the Greyhound Bus Station only to witness dozens of make shift tents and men huddled around fires in trash can. I was too afraid to park and get out of my car.

Next, I went to the Harbor Light Mission, a place Steve had mentioned that had treated him decently. The bums, the drunks, the derelicts who frequented the charity soup kitchens and two-bit lodging establishments barely knew their own names, much less those of others. I inquired at Reverend Rice’s shelter and an employment office next door, but they never heard of Steve Lewin.

I entered a lodging house where several human wrecks sat on wooden benches, reading day old newspapers. It was a dismal place, bleak with failure and discouragement. A person’s presence here could lead to a spiral on the downward path. I went up to an old man who rented cots to sleep on by the night.

I-I’m looking for a middle-aged white man by the name of Steve Lewin, I pleaded.

The old man squinted his eyes. Never heard of him by that name. What’s he look like?

I described Steve as best I could.

There’s a new fellow been around here lately, could be him.

Do you know where he is now?

Nope, the old man shook his head. Could be he’s out. Might be asleep too.

Asleep? Do you mean here?

There’s a dormitory upstairs but we don’t allow women in there. Sorry.

I glared at him. Could you go look for me? Please. It’s very important. I’m his wife.

Won’t do no good, said the old man.

But there’s a bare chance that he might be here and if he is, I want to help him.

A frown creased his brow and sadness settled into his eyes. Lady, if he’s here, he needs help. I can sure vouch for that. You wait. I’ll go and take a look around.

He plodded up a flight of worn steps. I waited and looked around at the men who sat in the first-floor room. Several pairs of dull eyes stared back at me. They were the eyes of men beyond desire or interest in life. A few were sad, most of them indifferent, and some were just blank, expressionless stares. Nothing would arouse them except booze, food, and shelter. I felt heartsick with pity for them. Soon the old man tromped back down the steps.

If he’s there he’s sleeping off a lot of booze, he said. You’re wasting your time, lady.

I was racked with disappointment. I didn’t know where else to find him. This was my last hope. In desperation I tried once more. Maybe he is drunk, but I’ve got to find him. Could I—isn’t there some way I could see if it’s Steve?

We got rules. No women allowed on the second floor.

But in this case—I’m his wife. Don’t you realize it may mean saving him? If Steve is up there, I’ve got to know it and try to help him.

The seconds ticked by like hours and I tried to gauge which way he was going to go.

He hesitated. You wait here.

The old man climbed the stairs again.

Come on up, he yelled.

I took the stairs at a run and arrived in a long and narrow room with cots arranged on either side like a barracks. Several men were asleep. I followed the man down the middle of the room and he pointed to a sleeping figure.

He’s the only slender middle-aged white man here right now.

I stared with horror filled eyes at his dirty, unkempt face, the hollow cheeks and the closed eyes. He lay with his mouth open and no visible signs of breathing. His jaw was covered with a week’s growth of beard. My hand clenched my chest.

Steve. Oh Steve, I muttered under my breath.

Is that him?

Yes. What should I do? I responded almost in tears.

"The first thing to do is get him out