---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108-page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/paperback book “Stolen Stars” cc&d, v336, the 8/23 issue Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book It’s All About Impact the cc&d May-August 2023 magazine issues collection book		get the 426-page May-August 2022 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

The Burial Ground

Mark Reasoner

    Sing Sing Correctional Facility, better known as Sing Sing Prison, enjoys a grand and glorious history, beginning with its name, which is officially Sing Sing. It had a different name for a few years, but tradition won out in the nineteen-eighties.
    Over the years, it has housed some of the most notorious, most ruthless, and most interesting inmates in the entire correctional system. From Frank Abbandando of Murder, Inc. to bank robber Willie Sutton—who promptly escaped—it’s been the place of incarceration for dozens of criminal legends.
    What better place to be the final home for a convicted hit man with somewhere between fifteen and fifty kills to his credit. Jackson “Cool Jack” Landsberg arrived at Sing Sing twenty-three years ago after being convicted of killing a family of three on the orders of Gianni “Diamond Johnnie” Ferromo.
    Now in his late seventies with balding white hair and a neat beard, Cool Jack serves his time with contentment. He does his best to stay in shape, exercising in the yard, walking laps, but staying away from the pick-up basketball games. Mostly, though, he reads, taking advantage of Sing Sing’s extensive library.
    NYPD Detectives Carl Amos and Andrea Beard drove up to Sing Sing one fall afternoon to speak with Cool Jack. Recent discoveries in the city led to some old cases connected to the killer, and though Cool Jack couldn’t have committed any more recent murders, a series of remains were found in the same field where Landsberg had buried many of his victims.
    The two detectives entered the visitor room, sat down across from Landsberg, and introduced themselves. The old man continued reading his book.
    “How delightful,” Landsberg said without looking up. “Amos and Andy. Who will be next, Abbott and Costello?”
    “Hellfire and Brimstone, if you’re not careful,” Amos replied. “Put the book down and pay attention,”
    “Or what? You’ll leave? No problem for me, I didn’t ask for this meeting.”
    “We’re just looking for a little bit of your time,” Beard said.
    “And I don’t have much,” Landsberg replied. “I need to finish this by five o’clock or check it out again.”
    “So what?” Amos said. “It’s only one day late.”
    Landsberg marked his page and looked at the detectives. “I have never paid an overdue fine and I am not about to start now.”
    “I am sure the librarian will cut you some slack,” Amos retorted.
    “I am the librarian,” Landsberg said.
    “Alright, boys,” Beard said. “Enough. We’ve come a long way to talk to you, Mr. Landsberg, but if you are not interested...”
    “Interested in what?” Landsberg asked.
    Amos took a file from his bag, opened it and spread some grisly photographs on the table.
    “We found your burial ground,” he said.
    Landsberg looked at the photos over his half-glasses. He quickly worked through them all.
    “My... my...” he said. “This is not good. Not good at all... In fact, it is quite distressing.”
    He looked up at the detectives. “The council will have to be notified and they will not be pleased.”
    “What are you talking about?” Amos asked.
    “The high council of elders,” Landsberg answered. “The governing body of this profession.”
    What profession, killing?” Beard asked.
    “Exactly,” Landsberg said. “The high council sanctions and certifies all practitioners, whether they are professionals like me, serial psychos, mass shooters, or whatnot. Anyone or anything beyond crimes of passion or opportunity. It also approves all disposal grounds and techniques, and even decides when someone has outlasted their effectiveness or exceeded their expiration date.”
    “Really?” Amos said. “What happens then?”
    “They are sacrificed to your gods of justice and law.”
    “I don’t buy it.”
    “Oh come on, detective, think about it. Killers keep doing their thing for years, cruising along, piling up the notches on their scorecards while you plug and plod along behind, trying your best to keep up. This goes on for years and then suddenly...”
    Landsberg snapped his fingers.
    “Boom! Pop! Things break open and you have a lead or clue that brings them down.”
    “Horse crap,” Beard said. “It’s called good police work.”
    “You really think you’re that good,” Landsberg said.
    “Good enough to put you here,” Amos replied.
    “I’m only here because I didn’t use a reliable car,” Landsberg retorted.
    Cool Jack’s undoing was the older Toyota Corolla he used for his getaway. With the chopped up bodies of his victims lying in the trunk, He’d been on his way to the burial ground when a radiator hose burst. He’d stopped at a service station for a quick repair, where the attendant noticed blood leaking from the trunk. After fixing Landsberg’s car, the attendant called the police and Cool Jack was stopped short of his destination.
    The car provided all the evidence prosecutors needed to put Jack away for life plus a lot more.
    “Here’s how it goes, detectives,” Landsberg continued. “When a serial killer gets too public, or a pro kills the wrong person or gets too grisly, the council will decide they have to go down. So they insure the authorities get the key evidence or clue to make that happen.”
    Landsberg paused as the detectives considered this information.
    “Sorry, I’m calling BS,” Beard said. “You cannot be serious.”
    Several more seconds of silence followed. Then Landsberg started laughing.
    “Almost had you,” he said. “Of course there’s no such thing as a high council. But the looks on your faces were priceless.”
    Amos started gathering all the photos. “Let’s go, Andi, this was a waste of time.”
    “Now, now, detective,” Landsberg said. “Let an old man have his fun. Sit down and let’s see what you have.”
    The detectives sat and put the photos back on the table.
    “Before we start, though, what will you give me?” Landsberg asked.
    “What do you want?” Amos asked.
    “What do you think?” Landsberg said. “I want out of here, but we both know that is not going to happen.”
    “We could get your sentence reduced, if you are really helpful,” Beard said.
    Cool Jack laughed again. “Now who’s not being serious? I’m serving three life sentences plus sixty years. What would you reduce it to—two and a quarter?”
    “We might reduce it where you could actually come up for parole?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. I still won’t live long enough to get a first hearing. No, detectives, I’m here for the duration. And that’s not such a bad thing. I’ve got all the privileges I need. I have the freedom of the place and I run the library. What else could I use?”
    “Besides,” he continued, “I’m too old to start a new life. This one will do nicely.”
    “So there’s nothing we can offer you?” Amos asked.
    “I didn’t say that,” Landsberg answered. “There is one thing. You can get the stupid Feds to stop asking me to roll over on old friends and employers. I am not going to. If I was, I’d have done so a long time ago.
    “But those idiots keep popping in every few months threatening all sorts of hell and perdition. They’re becoming annoying.”
    Amos smiled. “We agree on that, and will definitely see what we can do.”
    “Will you take a look at these?” Beard asked.
    Landsberg looked at the photos silently. As he considered each, he separated them into four piles. When he finished, he shoved three of the stacks back across the table.
    “These aren’t mine,” he said, pointing at the far left stack.
    “These aren’t mine, either,” he continued, pointing to the middle stack, “but I might know something about them.”
    “What about the last stack?” Amos asked.
    “I won’t confirm or deny anything about those,” Landsberg said, leaning back in his chair. “At least not until you do your homework.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Bring me evidence. Bring me your reasons why you think I did them. Hell, at least bring me IDs. I’m not going to give you these things for nothing. You have to work for them.”
    “Alright, but what about the ones you say are definitely not yours?” Beard asked.
    “That’s easy,” Landsberg said, spreading out the first stack of photos. “Look at the clothing and the accessories. These are too recent.”
    “Look at the decomposition, for god’s sake,” he continued. “There is no way these bodies have been in the ground for more than twenty years.”
    “And since you’ve been here for that long, there’s no way you could have killed these people,” Amos said, gathering the photos again.
    “Exactly.”
    “What about those last two?” Beard asked. “Are you going to admit to those?”
    “Not at all. I was just admiring the craftsmanship on them.” Landsberg pushed the first of these photos to the center of the table.
    “Now this is good work,” he said, pointing to the lateral slice on the victim’s neck. “A garrote. Don’t see many of those anymore, and this is a very fine example. It’s clean and quiet, though it is a bit clumsy. Probably why I never used it.”
    “How is it clumsy?” Amos asked.
    “It’s simple,” Landsberg answered. “When you get the wire or line tight around the neck, the person can’t call out or make noise. You have their windpipe and voice completely shut off. But they still have life and energy for several minutes.”
    “So they thrash and struggle, trying to break free.”
    “They tend to kick things too. You have to keep the garrote tight and keep the person from breaking free. It’s hard.”
    “Is that why you never used this method?” Beard asked.
    “That and I didn’t want to spend the time.”
    “What about the other one?” Amos asked.
    “Now this is some superb attention to detail. I almost missed the method,” Landsberg moved the second picture so the detectives could see what he wanted to show them.
    “This man was killed by stabbing,” he said. “You can barely see the insertion in the middle of the red shirt. I will bet you that death was caused by a long blade.”
    Amos looked closer at the picture. “You might be right. So did you do this one? It also looks like the body’s been in the ground long enough.”
    “No comment,” Landsberg replied. “Add it to your research pile.”
    “But I will tell you how I think it went down,” he continued. “The killer most likely dug the hole beforehand, brought the victim to the edge of the grave, and stuck the blade in. It went through the ribs, bypassed the lungs and straight into the heart. A wiggle or two and the heart began emptying into the surrounding cavity, which interrupted the rhythm. The killer pulls the blade out as he shoves the man into the grave. Dude is dead before his face hits dirt.”
    “Then he just fills in the hole and goes on his way?” Beard asked.
    “Exactly,” Landsberg answered.
    “Why didn’t he have the victim dig his own grave?” Amos asked.
    “Too inefficient and it takes the chance of the victim trying something,” Landsberg said. “Besides, look at the picture. Where are the man’s hands? Even money says they are bound in front.”
    The detectives got up to leave. “How about that, Andi?” Amos said. “We come here looking for some information and get a master class in murder techniques.”
    “My gift to you, detectives,” Cool Jack said.
    “We’ll be back when we have more information,” Beard said.
    “I will be here.”
    ***
    Two weeks later, the detectives returned to Ossining and signed in to see Cool Jack once more. The old man was waiting for them in the same room, reading another book.
    “What are you reading now?” Detective Beard asked.
    “Mark Twain,” Landsberg answered. “Innocents Abroad.”
    “Vicarious travel?” Amos asked.
    “As you wish,” Landsberg replied. He put the book aside.
    “I thought you were going to get the Feds to stop bothering me,” He said. “Idiots were back last week.”
    “We tried,” Amos said, “but you know how it is. They do what they please.”
    Landsberg chuckled.
    “So what do you have?” he asked.
    Amos pulled a stack of files from his briefcase. “We have a lot. We’ve discovered over three dozen bodies from that field, and we’ve identified most of them. These are the ones that could be yours.”
    “At least from your era,” Beard added. “There’s a bio and a summary of evidence on each, with pictures of the remains and pictures of what they looked like when alive.”
    “Trying to shock me with gruesomeness?” Landsberg asked.
    “No, but it does beg a question,” Amos said. “How come so many killers ended up dumping their victims in the same place? Do you guys compare notes or something?”
    “I wouldn’t know,” Landsberg answered. “I didn’t tell anyone. Of course, somebody else might have talked. Besides, there isn’t that much open space down in the city, so maybe it’s just coincidence.”
    “Sure, whatever—take a look at these, will you?”
    Landsberg started reading through each file. Some didn’t have much beyond the pictures and a short biography, while others had more information including transcripts of conversations where the victim’s murder was discussed. Some of these mentioned Cool Jack by name. As he did in their first conversation, Landsberg separated the files into two stacks.
    He’d reviewed about one-third of the files when he stopped short.
    “Holy F**K! That’s Fast Jimmy Weisendorf!”
    “So he was one of yours?” Amos asked.
    “Hell no!” Landsberg answered. “I refused the contract. Diamond Johnnie damned near put a contract out on me when I did. I heard Tommy Barlow took the job, but never knew what happened.”
    Reviewing continued. As Landsberg got down to the last few files, Beard took the stack of about ten Cool Jack had separated from the rest.
    “So these are yours?” she asked.
    “I don’t have to say,” Landsberg answered. “But the others are definitely not mine.”
    “That’s not how this is supposed to work,” Amos said. “You told us you’d confirm the killing if we brought our evidence.”
    “And you have, but I’m not going to confess. It’s not my style.”
    “You son-of-a—”
    “Leave my mother out of this,” Landsberg interrupted. “She was a fine lady. I’ll give you this much. You would not be wrong to assume the identity of the killer in these instances and to close the files accordingly.”
    “You’ve been reading too many old books,” Beard said. Landsberg smiled.
    Amos packed up all the files except for the last two. Landsberg hadn’t reviewed these.
    He opened the first, seeing the old skeletal remains of a young man. The opposing picture and information identified the person as Danny Bozman, a low-level punk running with an east-side crew.
    “Okay, he could be one of mine,” Landsberg said. He opened the other file.
    In the next moment, Cool Jack changed from a calm and serene old man to a raging maniac. He leapt across the table, trying to grab Amos by the throat.
    “You God-Damned, Mother-F**King, Son of a BITCH, S**T-FACED BASTARD!” he screamed. “I’m going to RIP your lungs out!”
    Amos stood up and backed off. When Landsberg was mostly prone, he used his body to pin the old man to the table.
    “Settle down, NOW!” the detective said. “Or I’ll call the guard and have you shackled. You want that?”
    Landsberg’s body sagged. As Amos got off, the old man began sobbing. Tears streamed down his face as he sat in his chair once more.
    “Alright, so who is it?” Beard asked.
    “You know damn f**king well who it is,” Landsberg said between gulps of air.
    “No I don’t,” Beard responded. “So educate me.”
    Landsberg took several seconds to regain some composure. “It’s my daughter.”
    “It was your first kill for Diamond Johnnie, too, wasn’t it?” Amos said.
    “It was actually for his son, Tony Ferromo. The kid asked me to deal with a punk who was messing around with his girl.”
    “Your daughter was seeing Tony F.?” Beard asked.
    “I didn’t know,” Landsberg answered. “The wife and I were separated and I didn’t have anything to do with the girl.”
    “But you killed her anyway,” Amos said.
    “Yeah. Tony told me to pop the girl too, if I had the chance. Said she was just a slut.”
    “So how did it go down?” Beard asked.
    Landsberg heaved a big sigh. “I was watching Bozman’s place when the girl came by and picked him up. They went through a drive-thru and parked over around Coogan’s Bluff. I think they were going to do some screwing after they ate.
    Anyway, I set up about fifty yards away, just inside the tree line. It was an easy shot. I got the girl first and then got the guy. Afterwards, I called Tony from a pay phone and told him it was done. I asked him to send a crew to clean things up.”
    “And that was it?”
    “That was it. Tony gave me a bonus for the girl and nobody ever mentioned it again.”
    Amos flipped pages in the file. “That’s not totally true. Read this.”
    “What is it? Landsberg asked.
    “Transcript of a wiretap where Johnnie and Tony talk about you and the kill.”
    Landsberg read the page.

TONY FERROMO: Can you believe it Pop? Dumbass killed his own daughter. We own that idiot now.

JOHNNIE FERROMO: Yeah, but we better not tell him. At least not now. Let’s save it for the right moment.

TF: When’s that?

JF: When he gets out of hand, or forgets his place.

    “They never told you, did they?” Amos said. Landsberg shook his head.
    Landsberg looked up. “Maybe I will start telling the Feds some things. Time for a little revenge on Johnnie and Tony.”
    Amos and Beard left Cool Jack broken and anguished in the visitor’s room. Outside the prison, as they got ready for the drive back to the city, Beard turned to her partner.
    “You knew, didn’t you?” she asked. “You knew those last two were his daughter and some guy she was with.”
    “Of course I knew,” Amos said. “I was saving them for if and when he stopped cooperating.”
    “But he didn’t stop, so why bring them up?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe it was a little payback for all the victims we’ve uncovered there.”
    Amos paused. “Or maybe I just wanted to ruin his whole afternoon.”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...