Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [101]
“Sit down, Lieutenant. I hear you wanted to see me.”
“Yes, Commissioner. Why? This mission was…”
“Not so secret, truth be told, Lieutenant. I had word that more than one person on the ship recognized Joe, and these Blackhanders are not so stupid.”
“But still…”
“Unfortunately, Lieutenant, you cannot separate police work from politics and, in this case, politically it was the necessary thing to do.”
Vachris literally bit down on his lip.
“Commissioner, with his cover blown, he’s a sitting duck. Send me over to help him.”
“Lieutenant, it’s impossible for you both to be out of the country. Besides, in a few weeks his mission will be completed. From what Joe said in his last cable, when he returns we should have plenty of penal records to deport these thieving blackmailers. You get the men ready for his return, because when he does, Lieutenant, it’s going to be an old-fashioned roundup.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
MARCH 13, 1909
Louis Saulino, Lieutenant Petrosino’s brother-in-law, ran up the steps at 300 Mulberry Street into police headquarters and grabbed the first policeman he saw.
“Calm down, sir,” assured the officer. “It’s another reporter with a good imagination. This isn’t the first time there have been rumors of your brother-in-law’s death.”
“Why would he come to my sister’s home at two in the morning?”
“Because he’s a muckraking reporter, Mr. Saulino. Wouldn’t we have heard if something had happened to Lieutenant Petrosino? Please, go to your sister and tell her it was a cruel joke.”
After being told the same thing by the desk sergeant, Saulino left headquarters. The day was just dawning, and the newsies were hitting the streets. He hadn’t gone a full block before he heard the first newsboy shout, “Famous detective murdered!” He snatched a paper and sprinted back to police headquarters.
“Do you still think it’s a joke?” he shouted, waving the newspaper in front of the desk sergeant’s face. “Some joke, Sergeant!”
Bingham was in Washington, so a call was placed to Deputy Commissioner Woods, rousing him from bed. Newspaper or not, the men in police headquarters and at Petrosino’s precinct on Elizabeth Street refused to believe the report and waited for official word. At ten o’clock that morning, they received their cable:
“Palermo, Italy, 12 March 1909 Petrosino killed revolver center city tonight killers unknown martyr’s death
Consul Bishop.”
APRIL 12, 1909
Giovanna dressed for Lieutenant Petrosino’s funeral. Her grief over his murder became personal when the detective from the Italian Squad knocked on her door with two tickets to the mass. Up until that point, she had successfully treated it as the death of a public figure that she read about in the newspapers.
“Signora, I got you these,” offered young Detective Fiaschetti. “I believe the lieutenant would have wanted you there.”
Taking the tickets from the officer’s hand, Giovanna felt her throat tighten. Given all the tragedy she had endured, she should have been able to shake her head and say a prayer for the slain policeman. At thirty-six, she had lost a husband, a business, and been uprooted from her home, which was in ruins and served as a tomb for dead friends and family. Yet somehow Giovanna had maintained her faith that good would prevail. But with Lieutenant Petrosino’s murder, she knew she was burying the last shreds of her idealism with the little lieutenant.
Moments passed before Giovanna could look at Detective Fiaschetti. “Grazie,” she mumbled. “You’re kind. I would like to attend.”
When she closed the door, Rocco, who had been sitting at the table, was ready with the comment she expected. “This is no business of yours.”
“This death is everybody’s business,” she snapped, but she quickly softened. “There will be thousands of people there. Rocco, there is no need to worry.”
“I will not go with you!”
“I will have my nephew accompany me then.”
It was Domenico, practically in tears, who had delivered the news to Giovanna nearly a month before. In the days that followed, she was riveted to the newspaper each morning. Domenico would