Legends of Winter Hill Cops, Con Men, and Joe McCain, the Last Real Detective Jay Atkinson CROWN PUBLISHERS NEW YORKSPAN> For Harry Crews, teacher and friend People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf. — GEORGE ORWELL INTRODUCTION “Somebody's Been Shot” T HAT PARTICULAR MORNING Detective Joe McCain arrived late to the office of the MDC Special Investigations Unit, located on the sixth floor of the old Registry of Motor Vehicles building in Boston. A veteran cop with thirty years on the job, McCain, fifty-eight, was an imposing man, six foot three and every one of the three hundred and something pounds he admitted to, but solid, with fists like prize hams and forearms the circumference of a grown man's neck. He was whistling as he came into the Nashua Street office because during a recent physical the doctor had said he was in good shape— his heart was sound and his blood pressure was fine. He just needed to lose some weight, and there in the office Joseph E. McCain, Sr., announced that he was starting a new regimen that very day: January 29, 1988. No more bloody steaks at the Parker House, or hot pastrami sandwiches from the North End. Big Joe was going on a diet. His younger colleagues, Detectives Gene Kee and Al DiSalvo and Biff McLean, were eyeing each other over their desks and snickering like teenagers. “What a fat shit,” Kee said under his breath. “What'd you say?” asked McCain, looking over at them. “He said you're a fat fuck,” said DiSalvo, smiling over at Kee, who was trying to shush him. McCain raised an eyebrow. “Well, I'd like you geniuses to know that I'm down to a svelte three twenty,” he said, turning to profile. “Fuck you, Joe, you're three forty-five, easy,” Kee said, while the rest of them broke out laughing. Gathered for a briefing on coke dealers in Hyde Park was a veritable all-star team of Metropolitan District Commission police detectives, or Mets, as they liked to be called. Their work was complicated and dangerous, and they were good at it. The leader of the unit, forty-one-year-old Sergeant Mark Cronin, a tall, quiet fellow, had served in Army Intelligence during the Vietnam War. Among such hard chargers, who drank and fought and crashed their share of police vehicles, Cronin was the most cerebral and straitlaced, and a meticulous planner and organizer. When Cronin walked into the office with a rookie detective named Dennis Febles and another man named Chris Brighton, who looked and acted like a drug dealer, the rest of the guys quit piling on Joe McCain and fell silent. “Joe, what are you doing here?” asked Cronin. “I'm working, Sarge, what the fuck does it look like?” McCain said, and the guys all laughed. Sergeant Cronin was surprised to see McCain, who had requested the day off so he and his friend Jim O'Donovan and their wives could attend a dinner dance in Hingham. But when Joe McCain heard that “the kids,” as he called his youthful counterparts, were going to sting the drug dealers today, he'd canceled his outing and driven to the office. And although the unit had made a large number of significant arrests in its short history and the other detectives were putting on a bold front, McCain detected a sense of gloom in the office that morning, an uneasiness that had never attached itself to their meetings in the past. Wearing a scruffy beard for this operation, ex-Marine Christopher “Kegs” Brighton was the unit's undercover man, wiseass, and resident beer drinker. William “Battlin' Biff” McLean and thirty-five-year-old Gene Kee were adept at handling informants. “Fat Al” DiSalvo was the surveillance expert. In the unit for just two weeks, former New York City gang member Dennis Febles spoke Spanish and had a hankering for some action. Even among such a stellar cast of cops, Joe McCain stood out. Hailed on all sides as the genuine article, big Joe was punching out mobsters and solving murder cases when Gene Kee and Chris Brighton were in grade school. He was a Somerville guy, and lived with his wife, Helen, on a quiet street adjacent to the Tufts University campus. The McCains' only child, twenty-six-year-old Joe Jr., had just been discharged from the Marines and was planning on becoming a cop himself. But the figure of his old man was an imposing one. A large, white- haired, cigar-smoking fellow who resembled John Wayne in both physique and bearing, Joe McCain was a legend in law enforcement circles, and his file contained a sheaf of commendations over an inch thick. On this case, thirty-nine-year-old Chris Brighton had spent weeks developing a relationship with a coke dealer named Melvin Lee, purchasing a half ounce here and an ounce there, building up the trust necessary for the sting to move ahead. Posing as a ski bum who drove down to Boston to score coke for the kids partying up at Cannon and Loon, Brighton had recently upped the ante with Melvin Lee. He told the dealer that he had $15,000 and wanted to buy a half kilo of cocaine. Subsequently, Mark Cronin had made the decision that they would arrest Lee today and perhaps get the dealer above him who could supply that much blow. When Joe McCain came into the office, Brighton and the rest of the guys were waiting for Lee to hit Brighton's beeper. Finally the pager went off. Brighton saw Melvin Lee's phone number and went into an adjoining office to return the call. A few moments later, he emerged with a smile on his face. “It's on,” he said. One last time Mark Cronin went over each man's assignment. Also present that morning were two seasoned detectives from the Boston Police Department, Paul Hutchinson and Jack Honan. It was a practice of the Special Investigations Unit to work with other departments in the jurisdiction of a case, and men like Honan and Hutchinson would be helpful in the surveillance and arrest of Melvin Lee and his associates. Jack Honan rode with Dennis Febles in an unmarked van driven by Gene Kee. As part of the “takedown team,” charged with taking the suspects into custody when the time came, all three detectives wore bulletproof vests. Mark Cronin and Biff McLean were to park on the street behind Lee's house on Wood Avenue in Hyde Park, monitoring the whereabouts and conversations of Chris Brighton, who was wired with a hidden microphone. Al DiSalvo was on the far side of a park near Lee's residence, maintaining surveillance. And Joe McCain and Paul Hutchinson, both good-sized men, were squeezed like circus clowns into a tiny gray Toyota that had been seized in a different case. Their assignment was to stay close and watch the front door. Following Brighton's vehicle at a safe distance, the teams moved to within a block of 276 Wood Avenue and took up their positions. Cronin and McLean found a secluded place behind the house and opened up the Kel, a briefcase- sized listening device that included a short antenna they attached to the roof of the car. The only two officers who could hear what Brighton was saying and what was being said to him, they relayed the necessary information to the other members of the unit. Inside the house, Lee told Brighton that the coke hadn't arrived yet and he should wait. Both men went into the kitchen and sat down. Melvin Lee rose from his chair and paced back and forth, then returned to his seat opposite Brighton. A slightly built, forty-seven-year-old black man with close-cropped hair and a large, flat mustache, Lee was more nervous than he'd been on the other occasions when he and Brighton had done business. “Miko checked you out, and he thinks you're a cop,” said Lee, naming his supplier. “I'm no cop,” Brighton said. “I'm a businessman.” “If you're livin' in New Hampshire, skiing and shit, how come you got Mass. plates on that Camaro?” “I rented it over at Logan. So it's got Mass. plates.” Lee hunched forward over the table. “You got a gun?” he asked. “You carry money, you carry a gun,” said Brighton with a shrug. He pointed to the right side of his sweater and put his hand on the butt of his revolver. “You got handcuffs, too?” asked Lee. Brighton laughed. “I'm not that kinky,” he said. The other man laughed with him. “Listen, we just gotta check things out,” he said. “Yeah. Right.” Brighton and Lee waited for several more minutes, but no one came to the house. “I'm gonna split,” said Brighton, rising from the table. “If you wanna do it, call my pager number.” “Where you gonna be?” “I'm gonna have a drink at the Marriott, and then I'm heading up north,” said Brighton. “I'll page you by three o'clock, three-thirty at the latest.” Brighton made for the door. “I'm not coming back here on some wild fuckin' goose chase,” he said. “You won't be,” said Lee, and Brighton went out. A short time after Chris Brighton emerged from the house, Sergeant Cronin announced to his teams that the deal was off, at least for now. The detectives returned to their office around lunchtime and ordered submarine sandwiches. Joe McCain took a good deal of ribbing for the salad he ate, which would have filled a garbage can. It was Friday afternoon, and there was some talk of postponing the operation until the following week. McCain called Jim O'Donovan again to see if he and his wife had made other plans for the evening. It was looking like big Joe would be able to attend that dinner dance after all. But around three o'clock Chris Brighton was paged three times in succession, and he called the number and heard Melvin Lee's voice on the other end of the line. “The stuff's here,” said Lee. “I'll be there in forty-five minutes,” Brighton said. McCain looked at his uneaten salad and pushed it away. “I feel like a fuckin' rabbit,” he said. Again the Special Investigations Unit hurried out to their vehicles and reestablished the surveillance. Wary of countersurveillance and the possibility of drug lookouts scattered through the neighborhood, Mark Cronin ordered the various teams to retreat one block from their previous locations. He didn't want to endanger his undercover man by getting “made.” The unit moved into place just after 4:00 P.M. In his leather jacket and jeans, with the fifteen grand locked in the trunk, Brighton pulled up in front of 276 Wood Avenue, a little dump of a house surrounded by a chain-link fence. It was growing dark by that hour, and a chill had descended onto the streets. As Chris passed through the front gate, Melvin Lee met him in the yard. “The dude split,” said Lee. “Said he was tired of waiting.” Brighton was irritated. “You know what, fuck you,” he said, turning for his car. “The last coke you sold me, the guys at the ski lodge were giving me shit about it. It sucked.” “Hey, this is good blow,” said Lee. “Come on in.” Brighton turned his head and spit onto the ground, extending his charade for another moment, then followed Lee up the stairs into the house. In the hallway he was introduced to a black male in jeans and a light-colored T-shirt by the name of Stoney. “Come back in half an hour,” said Stoney. “The coke'll be here.” “I'll give you guys one more chance,” said Brighton. He returned to his car, gunned the engine, and drove off. The night was cold and clear, with very little snow on the ground and a waxing moon. For thirty minutes Brighton circled the neighborhood, and right at 4:45 he parked at the curb and went back inside, determined to make a deal. With Joe McCain behind the wheel, Paul Hutchinson beside him, and its headlights extinguished, the little Toyota came to a stop less than a hundred yards from 276 Wood Avenue. Melvin Lee and Stoney herded Brighton into the kitchen. There was another man there, a white guy named Tommy, who was snorting lines of coke from a small pile on the table. Stoney told Lee to take Tommy upstairs so they could do business in private. Although the house was warm, Stoney wore a dark blue overcoat and a crumpled woolen hat. “Take off your coat,” said Stoney. Brighton shook his head. “I'm not gonna be here long.” Stoney took a seat at the table and Brighton went around to the far end. “What do you do in Conway?” asked Stoney. “Tend bar,” said Brighton. “Ever been up there?” “No,” the other man said.