George “Bugs” Moran, the Chicago Prohibition-era gangster, an arch-enemy of Al Capone, and the uncle and confidant of Joseph P. Moran, MD, was alerted by relatives of an upcoming report by a nationally broadcast show in Chicago. He tuned in to the late November show and listened intently. Bugs knew there was so much more to the story and decided to set the story straight. He’d read the violent, serial killer classic The Killer Inside several years ago, written by noir detective novelist Jim Thompson. Bugs knew Thompson was a leading newspaper journalist. He called Thompson. Circling the drain, dying of lung cancer in the Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas federal prison, Bugs requested some interviews to set the record straight about the life and death of his nephew, Joe Moran, who used to work for Creepy Karpis. Thompson packed a bag and boarded a train in California, bound for a rendezvous with a man who had nothing to lose.

 

*

 

“Good evening from the Wrigley Building in Chicago on November 21, 1956. I’m Stanley Schwartz, and this is the evening coast-to-coast radio show, I’m Stanley Schwartz, and this is the evening coast-to-coast radio broadcast of the news on the WGN affiliate of CBS/Mutual Broadcasting,” the announcer said to his microphone. The oversized clock showed 6 PM. Its red second hand motored around the face.

“Dateline: Johns Hopkins Medical biomedical research facility in Baltimore, Maryland. Advances in forensic pathology have allowed investigators to verify the badly decomposed body that washed up on the Crystal Beach shores of northeast Ontario several decades ago on September 26, 1935, minus hands and feet, was thirty-nine–year-old physician Joseph P. Moran of Chicago.

Our reporters have learned the dead man, who lived in the Randolph Tower City Apartments, was a medical doctor who spent ten years in the East Cell Block of the Joliet Prison for becoming a ‘pin artist,’ one who performs abortions. Contacted for a comment, a young lady who testified in Moran’s trial recalled her first appointment. Here’s Rob King with more.”

“Hello, Stanley. She asked us to leave her name out of this report, but she told me about a tall man with a doctor’s coat, Joseph P. Moran, wreaking of booze, who entered the exam room. He waved his arms at her.”

“Sit down, sweetheart. Tell me your story,” Moran said.

“Well…I’m in trouble, see. I got pregnant. My first time doing it,” I said. “Right, right, of course, it was. Step into my treatment room.”

An hour later, she left horrified, bleeding and in pain, but free of her fetus.

As court transcripts revealed, word spread.

Convicted on seventy-five procedures and given a decade sentence, Moran landed in the down-state gray-bar hotel full of convicts. There is little doubt he learned a few tricks from his daily contact with bad guys.

Would he use this new knowledge? One can only wonder.

Stay tuned in the days to come for more on the mutilated Moran and his assorted appendages that escaped the fishes in Lake Erie. How did they get there? Who did it?

Back to you, Stanley.”

“Thanks, Rob. Now, a word from Bond Bread. Remember, housewives, it’s not good as gold if it’s not gold, and no bread can be as good as Bond Bread.”

 

*

 

The day Jim Thompson left his hotel for his first chat with Bugs, Kansas winter weather was in full force. The snow piled up several feet, and the temperatures were in the teens, but Thompson had his first shots of bourbon for the day and plenty of antifreeze in his system.

Bugs sat in the dingy room waiting for Thompson. What would I say? What would this guy be like? Would he be a jerk? The door opened. A guard showed the journalist to his seat at the table opposite Bugs and sat in a chair in the corner. The two shook hands.

“Shit. This is not California weather, I’ll tell ya,” Thompson said, laying his fedora and a summer-weight topcoat at the end of the table. “Mind if I have a smoke,” Thompson said.

“Hell, no, my lungs are shot anyway,” Bugs grinned and looked into his guest’s face, searching for his soul.

“I’m looking forward to our conversation. What’s on your mind?” Thompson lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke.

“Well, like I told ya’, I heard ‘dese two radio guys in Chicago going on about my nephew, Doc Moran. About how he got chopped up a couple of decades ago. They don’t know who did this thing, but I do. Things get around, ya’ know. The cops can’t figure things out, but the bad guys have ways. We don’t snitch. Things could get real bad if you did. Know what I mean? Doc and I talked all the time. I feel bad I encouraged him. He told me everything. More than I wanted to know,” Bugs said.

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Here’s the deal. I’ll tell you the stuff, but I ain’t a writer. You gotta write it good, find photos, get more details, get this published. I want those bastards exposed. Too late to get ‘em more jail time. Not too late to rub their faces in it. Know what I mean?” Bugs asked.

“Sure. Sure. I get it. I need to know all about him. Where he grew up, what he was like, all that. I talked to an editor at the Los Angeles Times. I promised them three or four pieces over the next few months. They’ll eat this up. I’ll send you the clippings…I can leave your name out.” Thompson said.

“Nah. Whadda’ they gonna do?” Bugs said. He smiled.

 

*

 

What Stanley and Rob did not know was during Moran’s 1910s tenure at an Illinois high school, he was the nerdy president of the Latin Club; he was bullied and beaten by toughs on his way home from school; he was a World War I pilot, a Lieutenant in the Army Signal Corp, and graduated from Tufts Medical School in Boston. Moran opened a practice in LaSalle, Illinois, before alcohol addiction ruined his business. It was then he became an abortionist and ended up in Illinois’ notorious Old Joliet Prison.

After Moran’s stint as the prison’s administrator, the warden secured reinstatement of his medical license. Getting an early release from Joliet in 1931, Moran set up shop in a small town, Bureau, south of Chicago. Busted quickly for more abortions, Moran spent eleven more months out of circulation. Released, Moran needed a creative solution to his employment woes. He found it: stitching up criminals and treating their bullet wounds. Motivated by the notion of unfair imprisonment, the underworld became his playground.

Moran sought a jewel thief he treated at Joliet, whose influence netted Moran a job as an emergency care physician for the Teamsters and other labor unions. It was during this period when Moran took on the gang persona full-time. He frequently met with his uncle, the notorious “Bugs” Moran, who had moved from St. Paul to the over-populated underworld of prohibition Chicago.

The born-again Moran conducted himself as a mafioso in his imagination beginning in 1933, adding a gray fedora with a black silk hat band and polished shoes, lightly oiled hair and a clean shave, a pressed white shirt, and a pinstripe suit with an Italian tie. He committed to his new persona. He exchanged his educated language for the Chicago street dialect. He bought a Colt .38 handgun with a shoulder holster. Moran still had a thirst for liquor.

Most evenings, Moran headed for the Skylark Lounge for liquid sustenance. On such a night, he paraded into the dimly lit environment that smelled of spilled beer and urine. Moran squeezed into an empty stool between sets of kids with their newsboy caps and Hamburg hats tilted to the side. They glared at him. By the night’s end, they’d be enthralled with their new friend…sure they had spent time with an honest-to-goodness gangster.

“Hey, Mike. Give me a bourbon and sausage sammich,” Moran said.

“Sure, Doc. Coming right up,” Mike nodded his head at Moran. He took a package of Lucky Strike cigarettes from his coat pocket, tapped one out, and lit it with the flick of a Zippo lighter. Moran took a drag, blew a few smoke rings, pulled an ashtray over, and rolled the lit end against the glass for a moment, alone amongst the noise of conversation.

A few awkward moments passed. The younger patrons returned to their clusters and quiet talk, ignoring Moran, who wanted to play. Howdy, boys,” Moran greeted the young men. “What are you doing here? This can be a rough place, ya know.”

“We go to the University of Chicago,” said one; his letter sweater peeked between his jacket zippers, and his face showed several razor cuts. “What do you mean ‘rough?’ How dangerous? I don’t see anybody here looks so tough.” The athlete’s friends snickered, and a few glanced around the room, just in case.

“OK, smart ass,” Moran removed his Fedora and set it on the bar. “I was here last week, and four a dese guys wandered in real quiet. See? They walked up to a guy who looked like an accountant, jerked him off the stool where you are sitting, in fact, and several beat him to the ground.” Moran points to the ground. Was that blood on the floor? ‘You owe us. You’re late,’ the man who stood over him said. “The thugs picked him up and dragged him out of the bar.”

“Shit. Really?”

“No, dumbass, I’m making it up,” Moran said. Of course, he was.

Delighted with his performance, Moran gave the collegian a squinty stare. Then, looking straight ahead, Moran took a sip of his just-arrived drink and wiped a dribble with the back of his hand. His topcoat opened slightly—his shoulder holster and its sidearm visible. Moran stuck out his hand. “My name’s Doc Moran. And you?”

“Virgil,” muttered the shaken student. “Virgil,” he said again. His friends leaned in to see what Doc might do next.

Moran’s first drink disappeared with a swallow. “I sure like my booze. It kinda gets me riled up, ya know?” Moran said. A second double bourbon slid

down the bar top. He slurped and considered his good luck to sit by such easy prey. He’d unload on them…worked on his schtick.

“Well, Virgil. You should know that Bugs Moran is my uncle, my mentor in this… business.” Moran turned his head slowly from side to side and made eye contact with the others on either side. No one dared move.

Without concern, Moran impressed his new acquaintances with accounts of conversations with Bugs that Moran claimed to remember verbatim.

“Bugs walks in. He’s got this stiff, white shirt, initials on the cuff, and a fancy tie. His vest is unbuttoned under his suit coat. He has this great smile, real friendly like. He flicks the ash of his cigar and walks up to me. ‘Hey, kid,’ Bugs says to me. We order pasta and beer. The conversation got around to our livelihood. ‘Ya hear ’bout that robbery of the First National Bank last week? Nobody got busted?’ Bugs said. Grinning hard, ‘Not saying nothing more.’ I slugged him in the shoulder. ‘Safe wid me.’ Moran laughs and puts his hand on Virgil’s shoulder, squeezing it. “How about that?” He then lights another cigarette.

After his third double, Moran made his impression, scared the starch out of the college boy’s shirts, and worked on his bad-guy storytelling. But Moran regaled them with a final bit of bravado before he left for home. He wobbled to his feet, tugged his coat together, rubbed the wool covering his piece affectionately, and held his arms out as a preacher might acknowledge his congregation. Good effect, he thought. I’ll remember that move.

“There’s a guy that is part of my group, a feared gang. Not mentioning any name…the Feds call him Public Enemy #1. They claim he’s tied to fourteen murders…but it’s closer to ten, pulled off a dozen bank robberies and a handful of ransom-based kidnappings. I ain’t afraid of him. He trusts me to launder the money. Do other criminal stuff. I ain’t killed no one…yet.”

Moran threw a twenty on the bar top with his heavily jeweled right hand, “Drinks on me.” Settling his Fedora in place, tugging at the brim, Moran turned to the students, still transfixed upon their new acquaintance, “See ya, girls.”

Taking a cab to the Randolph, Moran eased through his apartment’s front door, pleased with himself. He called his notorious uncle Bugs. They agreed to meet at The Berghoff Restaurant on the downtown loop the next night.

Moran hopped on The L for the short train ride into town. He was used to the odor of the trash-littered commuter and the rattles of the metal compartment. He was more concerned with his appearance, fussing with his tie, using the reflection in the window as a mirror. Gray tenement buildings passed by in the background. Sprawled on a seat, a drunk slept it off.

Moran’s brisk pace placed him at the door to Berghoff’s right on time.

He grabbed a table in the back with a good view of the room. Moran ordered a shot of vodka, fired up a Lucky Strike, and waited. The heavy wooden door opened, and a large man entered, looked around, and waved the OK to Bugs, who strolled in and sat with his nephew.

The two relatives ordered sirloin steaks with extra sirloin and a Budweiser. Moran shared how he could be a worthy member of the criminal world. He delivered his proposal in segments, hoping to build intrigue. The two supped on the beef in that crowded Chicago icon, loaded with upper-class patrons, and Bugs listened. Even after several cold brews, Moran kept the specifics of his offer to himself—for the moment. Idle chatter diminished; Moran leaned close to his relative and continued in a near whisper as if sharing a national secret.

“I got talents that some of your contacts might need,” Moran said.

“I got plenty of contacts,” Bugs said.

” Yeah, yeah, I know you do. That’s what I’m getting to. I’m now a plastic surgeon. I can remove fingerprints. Think a ‘dat—no way to trace if you were in a certain location or if so-and-so held a gun. For Christ’s sake, I can do it in a hotel room, the back of a beer joint, the back of a car. They don’t need to go to sleep.”

“Let me talk with a few guys,” Bugs said as the tab arrived. “I’m gonna get this.” The two shook hands and walked out. The uncle got in his chauffeur-driven Chrysler Crown Imperial, and Moran turned towards the L station.

A meeting was set between Moran and Alvin “Creepy” Karpis, Public Enemy #1, at the 226 Club just off State Street in the Windy City’s downtown—the luxurious 1920s art deco architecture with Moorish-styled golden arches and chandeliers, garish and decadent. Creepy’s instructions were to find Jake, who took Moran through a door marked ‘Private’ and up a flight of stairs. Jake shut the door, leaving Creepy to consider his surroundings. He’d heard the second floor of the 226 Club had a unique door that led to two secret tunnels for getaways should unwelcome guests arrive downstairs. There it was.

Footsteps on the stairs interrupted Moran’s inspection.

Creepy walked off the top step several paces behind a man in a wrinkled suit, a thick-necked ruffian, who frisked Moran and removed his Colt revolver. He took the black doctor bag, which Moran thought made

him look more legit. Creepy gestured to two chairs at a long table. Moran sat across from the hoodlum and fidgeted with his wristwatch. Sizing each other up, neither spoke for a moment. Moran broke the ice.

I appreciate Unc’ telling you about me. You and me, we’re in the same business—sorta,” Moran said.

“ Yeah?” Creepy said as he lit a Chesterfield cigarette.

Moran looked over at Creepy’s protector, sitting in an armchair across the room, fingering Moran’s gun in his lap.

“I think I can be of service. Know what I mean?” Moran said. “Not really.”

“I’m a medical doctor…” “So.”

“I got a bag of surgical instruments, medicines, bandages,” Moran pointed to the leather, double-handled case.

Creepy waved his tough over, “Bring the bag.” He rummaged through the contents, handed it to Moran.

“Ever remove a bullet?”

Moran shifted in his seat, sensing a good moment; he crowed, “Sure, plenty of times.”

Creepy got up from the table. His chair squeaked against the wood floor as he pushed back. He walked to the windows, looked at the traffic below, and mulled the situation. Can Moran be trusted? Bugs said Moran had been in the joint several times. Is he a stoolie for the cops? Creepy turned to Moran, showing a one-sided smile. He looked at his guard and back to Moran. He nodded his head.

“I know two guys who took on some lead yesterday.”

“Sounds like you need me right away. Glad to be of service,” Moran said.

Creepy looked him over again, cocked his head to the side. “Let’s go.”

The new associates left for the hideout in the Star Hotel, where they walked past one of Creepy’s men sitting in the foyer. Upstairs, Creepy led Moran to a room at the end of the hall where two goons bled into the sheets and moaned. A half bottle of bourbon rested on the stand between them. “Gents, this here is Doc Moran. He is an expert at removing slugs. Dousing the site in one man’s shoulder and the other’s calf muscle with cocaine, Moran pulled a slug from each of Creepy’s soldiers. Moran acted nonchalantly at his success, treating the achievements as no big deal; he lit a cigarette and poured two fingers of bourbon. He knew violence and its consequences were part of this line of work—he had to act cool. Removing the bullets built confidence with Creepy. Several drinks later, the affected gangster asked Moran to join him at the movies—a favorite pastime. Moran left his black bag in the room, and they went to the RKO Palace Theater to see a new film, King Kong.

A light rain fell as they entered the mezzanine. Despite the presence of Creepy’s tough, Moran acted like the bodyguard, telling more than one movie-goer to get out of the way or face the consequences, touching his shoulder holster beneath his coat fabric. After the show, they pulled into a local bar, grabbed a couple of drinks, and the three took a table in the back.

“I think you should know something else ‘bout me. I wanna make sure you know dat I’m a good surgeon. I can make you safe from fingerprint evidence. A little cocaine, a little scraping… interested?”

“Can you do it in my room? Do you guarantee it’ll work? I mean guarantee,” a skeptical Creepy demanded.

“You can’t be traced to hotel rooms, cars, even weapons. You can count on it.”

Creepy took a pull on his cocktail and stared at Moran, who took the once-over without flinching. Creepy thought this guy was a greenhorn. He’d do anything to be in the gang.

“I like the fingerprint thing, but you might be useful in other ways. Why should we trust you?” Creepy asked.

“’cause I’m one of you. I did prison time and learned how things work from my pals in the pen. Not ‘fraid of nothin’,” Moran said.

“OK, then.” Creepy finished his drink and slapped the table, “Let’s go.”

The cab ride to the Starr passed quietly. Moran rolled down his window some, smelling the fresh air, feeling good. As the cab traveled the dark streets, Moran’s mood changed. He realized the next hour or so was an audition, a critical moment for his aspirations…blow it, and he could be dead; do good, and he might be in a famous gang.

In the hotel room, it was all business.

Moran injected Creepy’s fingers with cocaine and scraped off his fingerprints. The pain was so severe that Creepy begged his armed goon to “just shoot me.” He did not. The patient hollered and swore; tears rolled down his face. His tough guy persona melted for the moment. Creepy would not forget the experience and vowed silently to get revenge on the lying physician.

Days later, no longer in pain and satisfied with the potential for a successful long-term fingerprint result, Creepy told Moran he needed some help with a financial matter—the cocky physician answered, “No problem.”

 

*

 

“Good evening. I am Stanley Schwartz on station WGN. It is 6 PM on December 10, 1956. In a follow-up to the gruesome murder of Chi-town doctor Joseph P Moran, our very own investigative reporter, Rob King, has an update for us. What have you learned, Rob?”

“Well, Stanley, a recent picture of Joseph Moran, MD, in the Chicago Sun-Times sparked the memory of a U of Chicago football star, one Virgil Axelsen. Contacting the police, Virgil participated in an interview, revealing that on their chance meeting at the Skylark bar, Moran packed a gun. He introduced himself as “Doc Moran,” and he reveled in shocking a group of Virgil’s friends with stories of his supposed involvement with Public Enemy #1, that he laundered ransom money for this person, and more. Putting two and two together, it appeared Moran was an intimate of the Karpis-Barker Gang.

Further, the spate of Depression Era abductions for ransom and the subsequent FBI investigations surrounding them led to a possible connection between the Karpis-Barker gang and Bremer’s horror in 1934.

One could ask, Stanley, about the choice of our city as a haven for these criminals. Why hideout in Chicago? The parents of Ray “Creepy” Karpis and his illegitimate son, Ray Jr., live in Chicago. Coincidence? The cops don’t think so. His forensic autopsy pegged his time of death between June and August of 1934. Coincidence? The cops don’t think so.

Back to you, Stanley.”

The news poured in from authorities, keeping Stanley and Rob active. Two days later, they posted another report.

“Good evening. I am Stanley Schwartz on Channel WGN radio. It is 6 PM on December 12, 1956.

I turn to our ace reporter, Rob King, for our continuing coverage of the enigma of Joseph Moran, MD, whose body parts washed up on an Ontario beach several months ago. What’d ya have, Rob?”

“Well, Stanley, authorities have confirmed that gang boss Creepy Karpis had his fingerprints removed to avoid detection at crime scenes. Moran was a surgeon of sorts, and they believe Moran was the one who operated. Add this to the kidnapping of St. Paul banker Bremmer tied to the Karpis-Barker Gang and the immediate need to launder several hundred thousand dollars through a business of some sort—early indications from bank records point to a medical practice and a picture of Moran’s involvement with the Karpis-Barker gang continues to develop.

Further, bank records show Moran’s deposits were minimal…until late January 1934, several weeks after the successful ransom-kidnapping of St. Paul banker and brewer Edward Bremer, Jr. Judging from the paper trail, Moran’s hubris may have resulted in clumsy money laundering, making only several large deposits rather than a string of small ones.

Still, Moran, who is looking more and more like a stooge short on street smarts, may have gained status with Creepy and the boys for taking the risk,” Rob stated.

“Thanks, Rob.”

“You bet,” Rob replied.

“We know this guy, Moran, had gone off the deep end. And now for a message from our good friends at Fisher Packing Company, the makers of My Old Kentucky Home bacon. Bacon that really sizzles,” Stanley said.

 

*

 

What Stanley and Rob did not know was in the early summer of 1934, Moran tagged along when some of the Karpis gang returned to the Rust Belt city of Toledo—a frequent off-the-radar nest for the Karpis gang after a round of criminal activity. It was May 1934. Creepy and Fred stayed in their girlfriend’s obscure apartments. Moran holed up in a west Toledo flophouse near downtown next to a bar, Louie’s, on the corner of Lagrange and Sylvania. Following several days of no contact, the three agreed to meet for some quiet drinking in the early evening at the Casino Club outside Toledo.

Moran started drinking in earnest several hours before the rendezvous. Louie’s was dark even at 3 PM when Moran sat at the bar. The smell of stale cigarettes and the sound of a jazz tune from the Wurlitzer filled the room. He chatted up a slightly oversized gal next to him. He may have intimated that he was a wanted criminal. He showed her his shoulder holster. He impressed the young lady, and they walked the few yards to Moran’s room for some more bourbon and a little monkey business. He spent more time with her than he should. He upset two dangerous men.

“Moran is late again,” Creepy said.

“Yup. He’s getting on my nerves. All this big guy shit he throws around bugs me,” Fred declared.

“Right…we should have a talk with him,” Creepy said.

Creepy faced the door. He saw Moran enter the Casino. He looked like a hoodlum, walked with a jaunty gait, and pulled on the brim of his Fedora to acknowledge the waitress and bar patrons as if he were a celebrity. Slouching in the chair beside Barker, he curled his lip—patterned after Creepy’s trademark expression. He smelled like a dandy. He stood out. Moran was becoming a liability.

According to Bug’s mob informants, the trio sat in a large booth, away from the regulars. Potted, Moran bragged, “I have you guys in the palm of my hand.” Fred Barker and Creepy exchanged glances. “Yeah, you’ve got the goods for sure. We better watch out for you, Doc,” agreed Creepy. Moran smiled drunkenly, lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair far enough to make it wobble precariously. The physician righted the ship, pushed his Fedora back in place, and smiled—seemed unconcerned he’d just insulted two of the most dangerous men in America. His table partners did not smile. They appeared in thought. They were running from the feds and attracting attention—something real toughs on the lam avoided—was not on the menu, not their modus operandi.

Barker suggested they grab a six-pack and go night fishing—his gear, all of it—was in his trunk. He knew of a boat tied up at a dock on Lake Erie, upstream from Niagara Falls. “Sounds good,” Moran said. “Hope you guys know I was joking. Right?” Moran shrugged and looked sheepishly, lifting his palms a few inches above the tabletop, “Eh?”

“Sure. We got it,” mumbled Creepy. He stubbed out his smoke and pushed his chair back. “Let’s go fishing. Sure thing. Right away.” Creepy waved at the front door, “Let’s go, Doc.”

During the ride to the lake, Moran engaged in nice-guy chatter, avoiding more threats against his car mates. A fan of big band music, he softly hummed along with Glenn Miller’s hit, Moon Glow, playing on the radio. The streetlights became fewer, and the county roads became darker.

“Man, I love that song. I have to sing it every time I hear it. Ya’ know?” Moran said.

“I wish you’d just shut up and enjoy the ride, for Christ’s sake. We’re almost there. Gonna be a lot of fun. Eh, Ray?” Fred said.

“Yeah, a blast.”

 

*

 

“Good evening. I am Stanley Schwartz, coming to you from WGN on a rainy, dismal evening in Chicago on the first day of February 1956. I turn to our ace reporter, Rob King, for a break in our continuing story about the life and death of Joseph Moran. MD. and his connection to a dangerous criminal gang. Whatta ya got, Rob?””

“Well, Stanley, the FBI announced today that they have reason to believe some of the Karpis-Barker Gang were in or near Toledo, Ohio, about the time of Moran’s death. Consider these facts. Dr. Moran laundered ransom money for Creepy Karpis; Moran likely was the doctor who scraped Karpis’ fingerprints into a waste basket; the

Karpis-Barker gang made Moran part of the organization that hid out in Toledo to let things cool off from time to time; Moran was butchered outside of Toledo. Authorities feel Karpis and other gang members are an integral part of Moran’s murder.”

 

*

 

What Stanley and Rob did not know was on a chilly May evening in 1934, the trio emerged from the Ford along the sandy shoreline, but Barker did not get his gear out of the trunk. Instead, the youngest Barker boy pushed a wobbly Moran towards the water’s edge. Moran knew he was in trouble and hoped they might just rough him up a little, teach him a lesson or something. Creepy smacked the back of Moran’s head with a rock, knocked him to the sandy surface. The full moon brightly lit the spectacle of the dazed man groveling on the gravel.

“Just stay put, you bastard,” Fred commanded.

“Hey, come on. Damn, that hurt. I’m sorry, really sorry. Just a little drunk, ya’ know?” Moran stumbled as he rose from the sand and wiped blood from his neck.

“You may be a little soused, but you are a lot stupid. Running your mouth. Acting like a big shot,” Creepy said.

“It won’t happen again. Honest.”

“You make a good point,” Creepy said. Then came a gunshot and Moran’s date with a butcher knife.

 

*

 

“Good evening. I am Stanley Schwartz, and we have breaking news on the story we continue to follow about the death of Chicago gangster Doc Moran… Rob, whatta you have?”

“Well, Stanley, the FBI are reasonably confident that Karpis and Fred Barker dissected Joseph Moran, MD of Chicago, along the shores of Lake Erie only miles above Niagara Falls. The lake’s current ends at the Falls. Perhaps the criminals expected Moran’s remains to tumble down the picturesque waterway. It seems a plausible assumption. We may have reached a dead end to the tale of this former doctor-felon’s demise. Guess we will never know.”

What Stanley and Rob would come to know there was more to the story, and the series of Thompson articles in the LA Times covered it. Bugs held the newspaper clippings of his recounting. He felt good about his efforts. He felt pride about Thompson’s commitment to telling Doc’s tale no matter the cost. Now, he thought, if I could get this pain in my chest to stop…laying down, Bugs felt at peace. He regretted many things about his life; it was time to put them to sleep.

 

 

All Rights Reserved. © Steve Gerkin | Do not republish without permission.