Working the Edge

By Melvin R. Gudknecht

From 1978 to 1998, the United States Justice Department took on the mafia and corrupt unions using all available tools and even enhanced some old lawsa new agency and new laws.

It was open season on organized crime and labor racketeers.

A letter to the president of the United States effectively launched the Office of Labor Racketeering and Organized Crime with a bag of tools, which included the RICO statute, the Inspector General Act, organized crime bill, Presidential Commission on Organized Crime . . . and a hundred agents.

After James Rydal Hoffa, president of Teamsters International, disappeared in 1975, there were no definitive answers as to what happened for years.

Still today, there are unanswered questions to the mystery, like, where is the body? I was put into an unrelenting position to find out.

Everybody has a story. This is my storya true story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543444810

Melvin R. Gudknecht

Melvin Ross Gudknecht was born in Philadelphia, Pa. and raised in and around the city. He graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Business Administration from LaSalle College. Melvin was commissioned as a Special Agent, Intelligence Division, IRS, US Treasury Department, Philadelphia District Office. He attended the Treasury Department’s Criminal Investigator School, Special Agent Basic School of IRS Intelligence Division, and Basic Income Tax Law. He was the recipient of Special Achievement Awards and Commendations for outstanding performance in his career of twenty-six years. Awards were presented by the Inspector General, US Department of Labor; Director of the FBI; US Justice Department; US attorneys in Philadelphia and Delaware; Chief, Intelligence Division IRS; Special Agents in Charge of US Customs, Postal Inspectors; Organized Crime Strike Force, the President’s Commission on Organized Crime, et al. Former member of the distinguished Vidocq Society, MAGLOCLEN, the Association of Former Special Agents of IRS, and Vice President of Federal Criminal Investigator Association. He spent 26 years in law enforcement and attained the rank of Assistant Regional Inspector General for Investigations. Ater his career, he worked as a Burlington County Prosecutor’s Agent and Investigator for NJ Consumer Affairs.

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Copyright © 2017 by Melvin R. Gudknecht.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017912735

ISBN:      Hardcover            978-1-5434-4479-7

                Softcover              978-1-5434-4480-3

                eBook                   978-1-5434-4481-0

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Rev. date: 09/21/2017

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Wanna Take a Ride?

Chapter 2 Who Are These Guys?

Chapter 3 Strike Force Daze

Chapter 4 Elements of Proof

Chapter 5 The Hits Keep Coming

Chapter 6 The Student and the Professor

Chapter 7 The CEO and Personnel Director

Chapter 8 The Irishman and the Don

Chapter 9 Boilermaking A Bomb?

Chapter 10 Big Ralph and the Little Guy

Chapter 11 Seafaring Men

Chapter 12 The Reign of Terror

Chapter 13 One Last Time

This book is dedicated to Robert Gudknecht, chief of the Criminal Investigation Division, IRS, US Treasury Department, commander of US Coast Guard, chief fraud auditor for the Pennsylvania attorney general, adjunct professor at Holy Redeemer College, and author. To my faithful brother, who was my inspiration, my guide, and my friend. Rest in peace. December 2, 1935–June 17, 2016

CHAPTER 1

Wanna Take a Ride?

Even to this day, whenever someone asks if I want to take a ride, there seems to be an element of apprehension in the invitation.

Usually, I’m right.

I was working overtime in that huge, semidarkened office, listening to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, fourth movement, Ode an Die Freude (Ode to Joy). They were exulting as knights in victory. Thus brothers, you should run your race, as a hero going to conquest (maestoso).

Then, I heard the voice over my shoulder.

Hey, you, want to take a ride? I got an interview and want some company.

I’ve heard this phrase before. Nothing is as it seems.

I knew him from around the office, just enough to say hello. No personal contacts to speak of, but mmmmm, easy duty. (I’ll charge his case for my overtime hours—good deal.)

Sure, I told him. I was just reviewing some affidavits, which could wait.

Let’s go. You drive, he said.

Where we going?

Northeast.

Concise—he doesn’t give you much. No extra words with this guy. He must be a Spartan.

The Witness

Being a witness is pretty much a relaxed, stress-free duty.

Basically, you just sit there and listen, observe, ask an occasional question, verify what was said, and then write it up in a memorandum.

No problem.

But still, there was that buzz sound and red light going off right in the middle of the wanna take a ride phrase. Something wasn’t right. I didn’t like it. It was a Sun Tzu warning, I believe.

Instinct? Yes.

Wanna take a ride?

Ha! I laughed, sarcastically, at myself.

I drove as I would for a dignitary—sedately, slowly, and smoothly. No fast starting or stopping, no jerking movements, and no leans in my turns.

Play That Funky Music

In my teens, I sang with a group in four-part harmony on street corners. I sang baritone. We sang in restrooms and subways for better acoustics.

It seems that music always helped my moods in dealing with this job, and it suits the situations someway, somehow. Other songs were timely, bizarre, blasphemous, funny, and irreverent.

Big thanks to LaSalle College for my music appreciation classes. The greatest lesson learned was to enjoy all variations of music and not be a music elitist. (Snob, snob, sneeze. Excuse me.)

I couldn’t have done this job without that knowledge. The bachelor’s degree in business administration didn’t hurt. It gave me enough accounting credits to fill some of the requirements for special agent.

As payback, when I became the assistant special agent in charge (ASAC) of the OLR, I took on many LaSalle College students in the summer intern program. I was bullied by Professor Finn Hornum, my old professor, who had asked if we could accommodate some students.

It was a little more work for our office and agents, but we enjoyed the assistance. They didn’t mind. It worked out great. The agents gave them different tasks and evaluated their effectiveness.

I would make a file on each student and compile the reports. I would extrapolate the essence, hit good points, and make suggestions. The report was sent to Professor Finn. They all got As.

Me and Bobby McKee

Music became my own personal therapy. It was the diversion, the enjoyment, the outlet.

I played appropriate and, sometimes, inappropriate songs. They were overflowing with attitude, bitterness, cynicism, contempt, irony, pain, sentiment, and spite.

Heading north up Interstate 95 from Center City, we were running parallel to the Delaware River.

Mind if I play some music?

No, do it, said the Spartan.

I never asked again.

I put the radio on. A few minutes went by, then I said, Hey, Bob! Listen to this. ‘Me and Bobby McGee’ by Janice Joplin. Too funny! I turned it up. "Windshield wipers slapping time …"

(volume) You know you got it, if it makes you feel good, oh yeah. Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.

I sang along, turning up the volume more, You know feeling good, was enough for me, good enough for me and bobby McGee (grazioso, slancio).

It’s karma, my man! It’s … it’s destiny! I yelled, agreeing with myself, because I don’t believe in coincidence—ever.

Bob was not buying into my theory.

My name is McKee, not McGee, he pointedly said emphatically and rather sternly.

Opps! Opps, Mr. Touchy, I said.

I smiled and shook my head and said, Not anymore, Mr. Touchy. Not anymore.

McGee managed a grin. He was warming up.

He knew it was a Philly thing to tag a friend or acquaintance with nicknames.

Sort of a tradition for some. To me, it was a duty.

Nicknames

I could usually tell the type of guy by his nickname. It’s not too hard. Most people can. The name would usually reveal something that is not visible.

Take for instance Ice Pick Willie, Crazy Joe, Whack-Whack, Pat the Cat, Lead Pipe Joe, and Mad Dog. You get the idea. No explanations are needed, and you have some advanced warning as to his character.

I wore some of my nicknames as badges of honor.

Among my favorites were Agent Stonebreaker, Junk Yard Dog, Rogue Agent, and Sewer Rat.

The Sewer Rat?

I got the name of Sewer Rat by working surveillance on a prominent betting operation.

You heard of Dumpster diving? Well, this is one step beyond that. Actually, it was one step below that. This was sewer diving. I never took this course.

Senior special agent John Cooper (IRS/CID) was working a bookie called Mr. Numbers in the city. Cooper was directing a surveillance team of his target.

I was part of his team, but I was called into the office and had to break off.

By the time I got back, his team had moved to northeast Philadelphia. Cooper directed me to just hang out alone down in Fishtown around Memphis and Dauphin.

Tumbling Dice by the Rolling Stones started playing. Mick Jagger sang, I’m the lone crapshooter playin’ the field every night … Call me the tumblin dice. But, baby, baby, there’s fever in the funk house now! Wo Yeah! (Wo wo. . .) Oh my, my, my got to roll me (keep on rolling), yeah, got to roll me (keep on rolling) (risoluto).

I went to the spot where they lost sight of the target. Upon arrival, I parked the car. Small one-way streets made surveillance difficult.

The only spot was in the middle of the block. That light-green Camaro fit in nicely. There was a great view of the intersection, his last-known location. I found that I could adjust the mirrors to cover the intersection behind me.

Cool. It was two spots for one. Relax and wait. Time to play some more tunes.

So what are the chances of the target showing up? Roll the dice, said Jagger. You got to roll me! About twenty minutes went by. There were no cars, no people. No talk on our radios.

How is this possible in a big city? I was getting restless—alone in the universe with my ADHD kicking in.

This surveillance was turning into nothing, fast.

Then, there he was, Mr. Numbers, with an unknown male, standing in the intersection behind me! The magician’s trick. Instead of the vanishing act, they appeared. I didn’t know where he came from or how they got there.

I could recognize him from two blocks away. Now, what is he doing?

Mr. Numbers started by looking north, south, east, then west. He was looking for our team, no doubt.

We learned later that the targets were using a Bearcat scanner to track us. They were monitoring our frequency on the radio. He probably knew the surveillance team was not around and thought it was safe, but he was still suspicious.

Sun Tzu was whispering, Never underestimate the enemy.

Sorry, Numbers, I’m all you got, I said to myself as I slowly lowered myself in the seat and adjusted the mirrors. Got the surveillance log out and filled in the date, time, location, and activity section.

Numbers in the intersection with unknown male.

Numbers had a brown lunch bag in his hand. Noted.

After paying homage to the gods of the four directions, he took the bag and threw it in the sewer.

Numbers and the other guy got in that big Lincoln and drove right past me. The government would soon own it.

Note in log. Numbers threw bag in sewer.

I had to look in that bag. I called Coop on the radio and advised him to come to my location. Urgent. (The evidence was being liquefied and/or eliminated.) Hurry.

After the radio call to Coop, he arrived on scene where I continued to surveil the sewer. Can you believe it? Surveilling a sewer?

Is this what my life has come to, college education and all? I laughed at myself while maintaining the integrity of the scene.

Hey, what did you do today? Sewer patrol and stakeout, said the Sewer Rat.

Senior special agent John Cooper showed up.

This better be good, Coop said, smiling while jumping out of his car and leaving it on the street with the door open. There was no attempt at parking.

He knew I wouldn’t pull him off his surveillance if it was not important. Or it would be an issue.

I start hearing Bye Bye Blackbird by Peggy Lee. When no one can understand me, all the hard luck stories they all hand me. Pack up all my cares and woes, here I go singing low, bye, bye, blackbird (con amore, dolce).

The Abbott and Costello Routine

I just saw Mr. Numbers throw a brown paper bag into the sewer.

Oh yeah? So? So … that’s it? You pull me off my surveillance for this?

Wait. What do you think is in the bag, Coop?

A half-eaten sandwich? Banana peel? Candy wrappers?

Why would he be so mysterious to throw away his garbage? Even if I do it myself, I said while grinning and raising my eyebrows. "I should look and see what’s in there. You got a tire iron?

Sure. He returned and handed me the tire iron.

"Ah, listen. Good, good. I’ll take off the manhole cover. You go in. I’ll hold your legs," I said, spoken as an order and a matter of fact.

The doubter, knowing the implications immediately, started shucking and jiving, nodding, looking around, and smiling—no doubt stalling for time. He was using my tactic on me.

You’re taller and can go down farther, I told him with a tap of reasoning.

Here we go.

Coop responded, No, no. He grabbed the tire iron from me and said, "How ’bout I take the cover off and you take the dive? I’ll hold your legs. He laughed. I’m stronger," he said, shucking and expanding his chest.

It’s about length of reach! You’re taller and can go down farther, I retorted while making a dive motion with my arms.

Then he started waxing a philosophical posture.

Coop said, "Agent, there seems to be a logical position pertaining to the chain of evidence, if we’re right. You can’t break the chain. You saw, you retrieved, you secured. Period. You testify." (Wow, five finger points in five seconds. It was a personal record.)

Who am I? he said while placing his hand on his chest. "I’m a witness for the witness, which is you [another point made]," he dramatically concluded with a flourish.

I said, Damn, Coop, don’t use that logic mumbo jumbo, jibber jabber on me. Your gibberish gobbledygook is off the hooook.

We both started laughing at the words alone after his well-pointed oratory.

We then worked to get that 250 pounds of iron up and moved to the side.

Just then, a woman pushing a baby carriage came up looking inquisitive.

Now, we get foot traffic. No one around for miles. Now this.

Coop was ready for the what the hell’s going on or ‘I’m calling the police" from her.

Always try to be innocuous is a rule you try to abide by. Sometimes, you can’t.

Before she could speak, Super Coop jumped in—not in the sewer but the potential confrontation. He took the offensive.

Coop said, "City sewer inspectors, ma’am. Just checking. No problem. Watch your step, ma’am. That’s it, be careful.

Have a nice day."

You will put the cover back?

Yes, indeed.

Hitting the Numbers

I put my upper body in the manhole of the sewer.

Lo and behold, there was the brown bag sitting on top of a pile of debris. The sewer was backed up almost to the surface—a little more than arm’s length.

Not even wet.

Do you see this, Coop? I said, pointing.

Yes, bring it up.

Had to stick my head in again to reach it. It wasn’t bad. I had been in houses worse than that. This procedure could have gotten dirty and wet fast. It didn’t, and I was happy.

When we opened the bag, there they were: bet slips, tally sheets, adding machine ribbons with noted figures. There was an envelope with Mr. Numbers’s name on it and home address.

No lunch trash was visible in the bag. Go figure.

Coop? You literally hit the numbers, buddy, congratulations.

Thanks, Coop said.

You can call off the surveillance for the day, Super Coop. You owe me a beer.

At the trial, the judge said, Present the first evidence in support of the indictment. It was the Sewer Rat, humming part 2 of Another Brick in the Wall by Pink Floyd—all in all, you’re just another, brick in the wall (furioso).

Numbers’s attorney tried to trash and tear my testimony apart while on the stand. It was their job.

The two attorneys representing other defendants had a chance at me too. It was a triple cross.

They were all good at their job. Some fun. One was a former assistant US attorney I had worked with.

Defense attorney’s strategy was simple.

First, you attack the law, then you attack the evidence, and ultimately, attack the agents and/or witnesses. They attacked on two fronts with me: the evidence and the witness.

They beat me up good.

"No further questions of this witness, Your Honor."

Super Coop testified next—twelve million dollars worth of gross receipts made by Mr. Numbers.

Cooper’s team of CID agents, FBI agents, and Philadelphia Police detectives raided twenty-six locations of the illegal operation. Approximately ninety people were involved.

Case closed with conviction. I got another beer.

The Interrogation?

The Spartan started a small discourse.

Then, he asked some unusually probing questions.

The big one was I hear you’re looking for another job?

Whoa, what? How did he know? This was a closely guarded secret, I thought.

Almost stepped on the brakes. That floored me.

Think Fast

I began to think at light speed to myself,

Man, if it got out I was looking for a new job, I’d be finished. Goodbye any promotions and good assignments in the meantime.

They would not bestow such gifts to a guy who was even thinking about moving on. This was a career, not a job.

What am I saying? It was out. He knows. He’s a boss. Damn it.

I’ll be off the scrolls without any effort now. This is a real concern. This is a potential life changer.

Wanna take a ride? Yes. Double damn!

No, no. I love my job, I said failingly to Bob. But maybe a little bit more excitement would help.

Do you remember Special Agent (SA) Hard Charger? he asked. SA Charger moved to another agency for more excitement and action.

Sure do, I said with an inner knowledge.

Special Agent Hard Charger

I worked with the Hard Charger on his Great Bull Semen Caper, along with the Customs, RCMP, and Guelph Ontario Provincial Police. The case involved tax evasion, smuggling, and counterfeiting bull semen. It was a million-dollar fraud. We traveled all over New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania documenting the Peddler’s income and the counterfeiting charges.

Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show was played for our tour.