The Butcher Read Free

to the core of his being. Over the last four years, he had become, quite literally, unhinged—pushed to his limits by mind-numbing violence and unspeakable barbaric acts as people around him were tortured, cut up, summarily discarded.
    Some thirteen months before, ASAC Hunt had heard that a Bonanno family capo, Tommy Pitera, was leaving bodies on Staten Island. An Israeli drug dealer named Shlomo Mendelsohn had gotten himself in trouble and offered to give up the whereabouts of Pitera’s cemetery. The only problem was Shlomo couldn’t remember exactly where the cemetery was located. He had only been there once and it was at night. He had never been to Staten Island before the time he went with Pitera to dispose of a body. At one point during their quest to find Pitera’s cemetery, Shlomo had even said, scratching his head, “I’m thinking maybe it was New Jersey, not Staten Island.”
    Shlomo was deeply immersed in selling huge amounts of cocaine in Manhattan, but Staten Island and New Jersey were completely foreign to him. Though Shlomo had seemed sincere and truthful, he had stepped up to bat and struck out.
    Now Jim Hunt was back with another man who said he knew where Pitera’s victims were. Hopeful, though wary, Jim’s keen blue eyes moved left and right as the caravan slowly crept forward. As they approached a desolate street, the bad guy said, “Here…here, this is it! I’m almost sure.”
    The problem was that, like Shlomo, this bad guy had only been there in the dead of night. Daylight cast the stage of horrors that existed here in warm, welcoming light. That June day was cloudless, and the sun shone with such unharnessed brilliance most all the agents donned sunglasses. Because of the fierce sunshine, it looked more like the south of France or a Mediterranean island than a Mafia burial ground.
    The caravan moved right. Like a giant anaconda coming to a sudden stop, all the vehicles became immobile. Serious-faced andcurious, each of the law enforcement professionals stepped from an air-conditioned car. The hot, humid air struck them like a wet towel. As though on cue, an unruly gang of crows noisily cawed in different trees spread throughout the William T. Davis Wildlife Refuge.
    Concerned about contaminating the area, losing potential evidence, all the agents and NYPD cops began to put on white jumpsuits made of thin, malleable paper. Having a good, easy rapport with the informer, Jim Hunt asked, “Where?” his eyebrows raised skeptically.
    â€œOh, man,” the informer said, his brow creasing, the weight of the world suddenly on his shoulders. Sweating, licking his lips, smoking a cigarette, the bad guy moved into the thicket of poplar and elm and pine trees spread out before them. He had a worried look about his face. He seemed confused—lost. He took about thirty cautious steps into the sanctuary, stopped, looked around as some twenty-five pairs of cynical-wary cops’ eyes regarded him with a mix of trepidation and curiosity.
    He began moving north, stopped, turned around and moved south. He looked down. He scratched his head. He regarded Jim Hunt. He liked Hunt. He wanted to please him. Hunt was a straight shooter and the bad guy knew that whatever Hunt promised him, he would get. It was already agreed that the federal government, because of his cooperation, would put him and his family into the Witness Protection Program. He had no reason to lie. If he had any future, he had to cooperate with the feds. He knew he had to give them what they wanted.
    â€œThe problem,” the informer apologized, “is that I was here at night. It’s very hard to tell one spot from another. You know, it’s like really the same.” He looked down at the ground. It was covered with a carpet of dead leaves and foliage. The thick smell of wet soil and mildew hung in the humid air. There was nothing to indicate that humans had been buried here; no