Wacky Tony’s Story: ‘I Killed Jack Whalen’

“I was paid for the job,” he said.  “Twenty-five hundred dollars.  I’ve got the money and I’ve got the gun.  I’ve got all the proof you want.  I’m no crank.

“I’ve got my reasons for contacting you, too,” he added.  “I’ll explain that when I see you.  But don’t bring the fuzz into it.  Not yet.  If I see cops, it’s off.”

We talked a while longer, and eventually he agreed to come by my office.  And he did come.  Late, but he made it.

I did a double-take when he walked in the door.  He was  a ringer for the suspect police described.  Short.  Wavy hair.  Dark complexion.

He sat down and started talking.  At first, cautiously.  But then he went into details about the initial arrangements, the plan, where the money came from.  He described how he entered the restaurant and waited at the bar.  He told how he moved over toward Cohen’s table and went down on his knees and pulled the trigger.

“The others, De Carlo and Locigno, went out the back door,” he said.  “I went out the window.”

A few times during the conversation, I asked him about the gun.  On the phone, he had said he’d bring it along.

“It’s my ace in the hole,” he answered me impatiently.  “When we’re done here, when you tell me what you can do to protect my family, then I’ll take you to it.”

We continued talking.  Tony didn’t like some of the questions I asked.  He became irritated.

“You’re as bad as the cops,” he snarled more than once.

The little man knew all the big names in the mob.  He sprinkled them freely into his confession.  He’d worked a lot with Johnny Stompanato, he said.
But bit by bit, his story became confused.  With each collapsing detail, he became angrier at me.

“You’re not going to live up to your end of the bargain, are you?” he demanded, even though I had promised him nothing.

Tony admitted, with some pride, that his record was longer than his arm.  He’d taken some bad falls.  Grand larceny was the last one.  He showed me his parole card.  During our conversation I had someone verify his arrest record.  It checked out.

About this time I got the telephone report that Sam Locigno had surrendered and confessed.

“You’ve got competition,” I told my visitor.  “Locigno says he did it.”

I watched for his jaw to drop, but it didn’t.

He just smiled.  “He did, huh?”  Did he produce the gun?”

“No,” I said.

“Of course he didn’t,” Tony answered, still smiling.

He continued to insist that he was Whalen’s killer, but he began backing down on showing me the murder weapon and the so-called payoff money.

And, eventually, he left, a lot smaller man than the “big-shot killer” who walked in an hour earlier.  He was just one of the dozens who, for some psychotic reason I’ve yet to understand, confess to crimes they didn’t commit.  They are part of the occupational hazard of being a newsman or a cop.

Maybe today Tony will show up at the police station with a little more polished version of his confession.

Or maybe he’ll just sit in a quiet bar, with a beer in front of him and the ear of the man on the next stool, complaining about the fact that he killed tough guy Jack Whalen but nobody will believe him.