Murder for money
By
Jim Yanosko
I tried several times being rude to her in hopes she would just leave. If she left then there was no way Richard would kill her. His plans would be spoiled and this whole mess would just evaporate. She was so stupid though that it got to the point where I really didn’t care one way or the other if she lived or died.
“Are you trying to foul this up?”
I didn’t like getting yelled at by Richard. It was unnerving. For all I knew if I didn’t help him kill Susan I would be the next one to get whacked. Richard’s circle of friends seemed to shrink every month. I was one of his friends.
Several years ago Richard was flying from Miami to Pittsburgh with three kilos of cocaine in his garment bag. As he flipped through one of the airline magazines, he discovered a small advertisement for American Consolidated Insurance. They had a plan worked out with Lloyds of London where they could offer huge insurance policies for air travelers. The plans cost very little and were designed to protect the families of air travelers in the event of a crash. These plans also covered accidental deaths which occurred in airline terminals. Greater Pittsburgh Airport had a hotel connected to the terminal.
“You staying on top of things up there?” I asked him over the telephone.
“Just tying up some loose ends,” said Richard. His voice was without emotion or inflection. Killing for him was easy. He used explosives, a gun, sometimes a knife and sometimes a knife and a gun.
Loose ends for Richard meant killing off people who could send him back to prison. The people who lived in the world of $15 bags of marijuana, $20 jerk-offs and too much cologne tended to not look too far into the future. Of course the mob was involved but the people living on the fringe in the crappy dive bars and the massage parlors cared about taking care of themselves and nothing more. A big score usually meant bragging over a few drinks and some recreational drugs. Omerta was not a term they were familiar with.
Pittsburgh in 1977 was a city in decline. With the steel mills closing and Carter in the White House discussing the general misery of the country, the public needed a distraction. The so called Massage Parlor War was raging. The newspapers covered the story and all of the juicy details with tabloid gusto. These rub joints doubled as a front for prostitution and the casualties were mob bosses, strippers, hookers, johns, political machine hacks and front desk clerks. On the surface it looked like opposing crime families were trying to gain control, while the entire time the hits were carried out by one man – Richard Friedman.
Richard had been released from Western Penitentiary after serving only 4 years of a 20 year sentence for armed robbery. He had a way of manipulating the inmates as well as the gate keepers and in no time he had embraced God and had himself become the model prisoner. He studied psychology in prison. When he emerged from jail he was more dangerous than ever.
“I got it all figured out,” he said.
“But I have nothing for her to do,” I said.
“Just have her help your wife or something. Look she’s desperate for a job since I had her fired last week,” said Richard.
Fencing stolen property, especially high end jewelry was my specialty. I’m not sure who Richard actually used to steal the gold and diamonds, but the business was profitable. I had a legitimate jewelry business established in Miami, but the real profits came from the items Richard shipped to me every few weeks.
The plan was simple enough. He had Susan complete the single page questionnaire. I also filled out a policy for myself and Richard also completed one. We sat at my kitchen table over coffee and filled them out.
“It’s for mom,” said Richard.
“Ok,” said Susan as smoke from her Kool Menthol wafted lazily out of her mouth. She looked tired. Her chin rested in the cup of her hand as she leaned on her elbow. The tips of her slightly greasy blond hair curled upwards as the last inch or two touched the Formica table top. She could easily pass for someone 10 years older than she actually was. After high school and a couple of bad marriages in a few short years she turned to the profession that most unlucky, attractive young women are drawn to. She waited tables and danced a few nights here and there to make some extra cash. That was where Richard met Susan.
Richard scored a legitimate job as manager of the Court Lounge to keep the parole officer satisfied. The Court Lounge had an eclectic clientele consisting of city judges, prosecutors, police officers, exotic dancers, mob informants and city laborers. On paper it was owned by Cynthia Dixon, a simple cocktail waitress with a clean record. In actuality it was owned by Sonny Donofrio, a major player in the Pittsburgh mob scene
In addition to his job as manager of the Court Lounge, Richard began accepting contract murders from his mob associates both in Pittsburgh as well as Cleveland. He told me once that killing was just a business and if anyone got in his way he would not hesitate to take them out.
“But I’d never hurt you,” he said to me one time.
I never believed him.
Richard told me one time that he wanted to make a lot of money before his parole was up in 1991. He knew that murdering for an insurance payout was his ticket to financial freedom. Susan was the perfect target. She had no family and few friends and she was desperate for money. She would be easy to manipulate. So when Richard told her that he needed help with his jewelry business in Florida and that she would be a perfect person to assist me, she jumped at the chance.
“When do you need me?”
“You and Richard are flying down next week. He’ll give you the details but it’s pretty simple stuff. We are expanding and there aint much now, but there will be,” I said.
The very minute after arriving at my home Richard pulled out the insurance forms and the three of us filled them out. We all put in Richards mother for the beneficiary. I’m not sure why Susan never questioned this but she never did. She was just so glad to be some place other than Pittsburgh. Her friend Cynthia Dixon had been murdered the previous week. She was found in the trunk of a car that sat outside the home of mob kingpin Paul Martino. Martino was a rival of Sonny Donofrio. Granted it made no sense for Martino to leave the body of Dixon within fifty feet of his house, but the reporters loved it. Gangland murders sell papers.
Cynthia Dixon had been shot in the back of the head with a small caliber handgun. She also had five other gunshot wounds to her chest. In addition she had been stabbed 17 times in the neck and chest and her throat had been so deeply cut that her head was nearly severed completely off. When Richard killed someone he made it look personal. But to him, it was only business.
Cynthia had made the mistake of overhearing our telephone conversation where Richard discussed the details of his plan to kill Susan. I found out later she was killed five minutes after I hung up the phone.
So when Richard called and arranged the date to have Susan fly up to Pittsburgh, I knew she would never return. Every time I tried to convince her to just get out of Miami she would call Richard and Richard would call me.
“Are you trying to foul this up?”
Nope. Anyone that dumb deserves to get whacked. What was spooky about the whole thing was what Susan said to me on the day she left.
“If I go to Pittsburgh, Richard will kill me,” she said.
“Well why in the hell are you going?” I asked with disbelief.
“Oh, I have to,” she said. She was tired of the whole thing she had become.
So when the cleaning lady found the mutilated body of Susan in room 271 at the Airport Hilton, it looked like Jack the Ripper had risen from the grave to kill again. In actuality it was just Richard doing a job. Considering we were already suspects in various crimes, when the insurance company followed up with the police as a routine course of action and mentioned Richard Friedman’s mother was the beneficiary, it was only a matter of time before the arrest. That’s my statement.
align=”center”>The End