They Only Wear Black Hats

Chapter One

Dominican High School Football Game – Fall, 2019

On that early Friday evening, the brisk fall wind and crisp autumn air carried the sounds and scents of a high school football game. The odors of fast food from the concession stands were abundant, as students and parents got in line for soft drinks, hot dogs, burgers, pretzels, and slices of delicious pepperoni pizza.

It was the annual girl's powder puff football game at the Denby High School football field. The home team, Dominican High School, an all-girls school located on Detroit’s East Side, was playing their archrivals, Regina High School from Warren.

Seventeen-year-old Yvonne Basilisco was with three of her girlfriends on that Friday evening as they excitedly climbed up the steel bleachers to watch the powder-puff football game between her school and their infamous rival.

She had just gotten a car for her seventeenth birthday, a 2016 Nissan Rogue, and was excited to go out with her friends and experience one of the many activities she would enjoy as a senior in high school. Many of the Dominican football players were her friends from school, and the four girls sat on top of the bleachers and began to enjoy the game.

Yvonne was a very pretty high school senior with light brown hair, big blue eyes, and a smile that could make anyone take notice. She had a strong resemblance to Jennifer Aniston of ‘Friends’ fame and had a memorable giggle that one could only laugh along with. Yvonne was a straight-A student, always made the honor role, and was involved in volleyball and student government. Her parents were incredibly proud of her, and she was the model daughter, always looking after her two younger brothers. She had just applied to the University of Michigan and was planning on pursuing a pre-med program.

To say that Yvonne had a lot of boyfriends and high school admirers was an understatement, as boys from all of the surrounding high schools had been taking notice of the talented, intelligent Dominican senior. But she wasn’t in a relationship with any of them. They were all friends, she would say to her parents.

Yvonne was raised in a very strict, Italian Catholic family, and she knew the rules. She wasn’t allowed to date and could only go out with her girlfriends when adults were around to watch and chaperone her and her friends. As a typical seventeen-year-old, she was looking forward to going away to college and pursuing her dreams without the constraints of her strict, old-school parents.

Being such a pretty, beautiful teenager, it was admirable that her parents and family wanted to protect her. Yvonne was such a bubbly, happy student and always had a joke or a smile for every one of her teachers and friends.

On that Friday night, Yvonne was wearing her black and yellow Dominican letter jacket that she earned from volleyball and stood out from the crowd of other young girls sitting together at the top of the bleachers. They were all laughing and joking, and the high school friends took turns going to the concession stand for fresh hot pizza slices, sodas, and other goodies.

After half-time, it was Yvonne’s turn to go to the concession stand. She collected five-dollar bills from each of her three other friends. She ascended down the steel bleachers to the crowded concession stand near the edge of the football field. She walked over to the line of people waiting to be served, then realized that she needed to go to the restroom.

The ladies' bathroom located on the side of the concession stand was dark and without lights. As the autumn dusk was starting to turn black and murky, Yvonne was all alone as she went into the ladies’ bathroom. As she entered, she realized that no one else was in the girl's restroom, and she was all alone.

As soon as she exited the bathroom, someone approached her from behind. A large burly man with tattoos on each arm quickly put his hand over her mouth while tightly grabbing her left arm. He was a very stocky, older man in his late thirties, with a thick graying beard and earring.

Don’t say a fucking word, he sternly warned the teenager as he quickly escorted her towards the back of the bleachers from the back of the football field, where it was dark and desolate.

As he was manhandling her, he quickly handcuffed her hands behind her back and duct-taped her mouth. He incapacitated her within less than three minutes and threw her onto the barren, grassless ground underneath the stands. He then began to remove her clothing, pulling her blue jeans down to her ankles. He then began to rape and molest her, pushing himself onto her while the noise from the football field drowned out her muffled screams.

After five minutes of brutally molesting and raping the young teenager, the large, balding stranger went into his right pocket and pulled out his boxcutter switchblade.

Thirty minutes had passed, and the high school friends became curious about where Yvonne had gone and why she hadn’t returned from the concession stand. Her best friend, Susan D’Amico, began to get worried. She dialed Yvonne’s cell phone.

There was no answer.

Susan then convinced the other girls to accompany her and go looking for Yvonne together. They went to the concession stand and asked several other students if they had seen her, which they had not. They looked in the girl's bathroom and started to search around the parking lot, but there was no sign of her.

After another thirty minutes had passed, they informed a policeman sitting in a patrol car in the parking lot of Denby High School that their girlfriend was missing. He was with the Detroit Police Department. He immediately called for backup patrol cars as he began to assist the girls in looking for their friend.

After another hour of searching for the young girl, one of the patrolmen began searching under the football stands, shining his flashlight on the ground.

Covered under some garbage and wood debris underneath the stands was the lifeless body of Yvonne Basilisco. Her clothing had been torn off, and her blue jeans had been pulled down to her ankles. There was blood splattered across her topless chest, exposing the knife lacerations on her breasts. The crimson red was still spewing from her neck wound. The teenager’s hands were still cuffed behind her back. Her neck had been slit open from the boxcutter blade that the rapist had savagely used, and the girl’s dead body was still warm.

By ten-thirty, two EMS trucks and several more Detroit patrol cars surrounded the football field. Several other students, including Yvonne’s girlfriends, were interrogated extensively by the detectives. But no one had seen Yvonne when she had left them in the football stands, and no one noticed anyone looking suspicious.

Later that Friday evening, at 11:50 pm, Detroit Police Detective Michael Palazzola made that dreaded phone call that no parent ever wishes to receive.

Chapter Two

Eight Mile Road-Summer 2020

Manny’s Party and Liquor Store on Detroit’s East Side was filled with patrons on that late Friday night, as customers were coming in and out of the party store with their brown paper bags filled with goodies. It was just after one o’clock in the morning, and all of the late-night bars and strip clubs were letting out their customers for the remainder of the weekend.

It was an unusually warm evening for a late Friday night in the Motor City, as the odorous smell from the nearby garbage dumpsters perpetuated the hot, inner-city odors of the surrounding buildings. The popular party store was a twilight staple on Eight Mile and Van Dyke Roads because it had a liquor license that allowed them to stay open and sell liquor until four o’clock in the morning. The store had an extensive deli and pizza oven in the back, providing submarine sandwiches and freshly made cheese pizza slices to all of its customers who had the late-night munchies.

A black 2005 Chevrolet Malibu, displaying several dents in the rear quarter panel, pulled up into the parking lot, its bright lights shining onto the glass front door of the party store. A stocky, white male, balding with a long greying beard and wearing a sleeveless black shirt, entered the party store. He had several tattoos on each arm and a long chain attached to his wallet from his belt as he slowly walked to the liquor section of the party store. He was there to purchase a bottle of Chivas Regal for that evening.

Derek Johnson was excited to continue his celebrations that Friday night. He had just left the Crazy Horse Lounge on Eight Mile Road and needed to buy some liquor before returning to the strip club's parking lot. One of the exotic dancers who had been giving him lap dances throughout most of the night had agreed to meet him in the parking lot of the strip club after her shift was over at two o’clock in the morning. Derek knew he had to return with a bottle of Chivas Regal, along with two plastic glasses that ‘Veronique’ had explicitly requested. She had told him that she would not accept a ride home from him after her night shift unless he returned with her favorite alcoholic beverage.

With his large, six-foot, five-inch frame, Johnson exited his vehicle as he walked into the party store, leaving his car doors unlocked as usual. Besides his being excited to party with his new friend, Derek had another reason to celebrate. He had been released from Jackson State Prison two weeks prior, where he was being held without bail on a murder charge. He had been accused of raping and murdering a seventeen-year-old girl from Dominican High School in October 2019. After spending nine months in jail, he was abruptly released. The high school teenager had been found dead under the bleachers of the Denby football field, with her neck slit open from what appeared to be a boxcutter switchblade. She had been accosted during the football game and had been brutally raped and murdered. Her lifeless body was found under a large pile of garbage and debris underneath the school’s football field bleachers.

The boxcutter switchblade was obtained at his home by an inexperienced Detroit police officer without a search warrant. Although the EMT technicians had used the rape kit at the crime scene, the DNA evidence had been mishandled and tainted by the Detroit Police crime lab.

Because there was no other evidence linking him to the murdered teenager, Johnson was suddenly released from jail, and the prosecutor dropped the murder charges. The Wayne County Prosecutor’s office was highly frustrated with that murder case and had no other choice but to release the accused killer back onto the streets. None of the other DNA tests performed by the crime labs directly connected Johnson to the young, murdered victim.

A gray Toyota Camry pulled up next to the older Chevy Malibu as Johnson entered the party store. A well-dressed man wearing a black bowler hat with a dark suitcoat and tie exited his vehicle and stood outside for several long seconds. He then began trying to open the passenger doors of the older car. The stranger immediately discovered that the doors of Johnson’s car were unlocked. The well-dressed man had been following the acquitted killer most of the evening, biding his time and waiting for the right opportunity to confront the accused murderer. He then quickly climbed into the vehicle and hid behind the back seat of the car.

After fifteen minutes had passed, Derek Johnson exited the party store. He got back into his car, not noticing a strange passenger hiding in the back seat. Putting his bottle of whiskey, plastic cups, and a bag of potato chips in the front seat, Johnson started his car and began to drive back to the Crazy Horse Lounge. Within five minutes, he was back in the parking lot, his radio loudly blaring AC/DC music as he waited for his exotic dancer date to come out of the lounge.

Opening the large Better Made potato chips bag, he snacked on them while looking at his old Timex watch. He was excited, knowing that ‘Veronique’ would soon be exiting the strip club, and they both would be enjoying their snacks and beverages in the front seat of his car. Johnson had not been with a woman for a very long time, and he knew that she would be taking care of his sexual needs in the back of the parking lot after her shift.

Suddenly, a well-dressed man, still wearing his black bowler hat, abruptly sat up from the back seat of the car.

Good evening, scumbag, said a stranger calling himself Gabriel in a deep, low voice.

Before Johnson could even make a move, the intruder quickly wrapped a thick, quarter-inch rope tightly around Johnson’s neck. Derek Johnson began making loud gurgling noises, his body being pulled back towards the back seat of the Chevy Malibu. Grasping the rope around his neck, both of Johnson’s feet began kicking out the front windshield of his car.

With blood and saliva protruding from his mouth, Johnson was now suffocating and struggling to breathe. While taking his last breath, the ‘black angel’ in the back seat with the black bowler hat softly whispered into his victim’s ear:

Die a thousand deaths, you fucking bastard.

Chapter Three

Gratiot Bar & Grill

The drab, darkened tavern of the Gratiot Bar & Grill clad the front window with lighted, fluorescent beer signs. Vintage antique displays of ‘Pabst Blue Ribbon,’ ‘Old Milwaukee,’ and a classic ‘Drink Stroh’s Beer’ signs were flashing brightly, even though none of those beers are any longer available. Several patrons were sitting at the long, overly varnished bar on that Saturday afternoon. They enjoyed their beverages while the seven or more television sets were strategically placed around the old lounge.

The blaring sounds of the jukebox in the back of the lounge seemed to conflict with the volume of the various scattered television sets. Someone had selected several Bruce Springsteen songs that seemed to be playing continuously, as the afternoon sunshine of the Motor City overshadowed its entrance doorway.

I had parallel parked my unmarked patrol car into the front parking space on Gratiot Avenue. I walked exhaustedly into the dark shadow forecasted doorway. I was more than familiar with what I would see once inside the entrance, as I could hear loud sounds and noises coming from all directions. Even though there was no smoking in the bar, the old tavern smelled like stale cigar smoke. The saloon walls were in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, which had well absorbed the tobacco and nicotine smoke from years past. The Detroit Tigers baseball game was playing above the bar as the older, blonde bartender approached me with her familiar smile.

Detective Palazzola, she enthusiastically greeted me as I found an old, leather-bound stool to sit down at the bar.

What will it be? The usual?

Gina, the Bartender, broadly smiled at me. I couldn’t help but notice her bright, curly, bleach blonde hair that didn’t do a very good job hiding her extensive greys. Her right arm was covered with various tattoos as she grabbed a white, terrycloth rag to wipe down the long bar.

Yeah, I nodded my head. Jack on the Rocks with a splash of water, I smiled, looking up at the ball game and trying to get the baseball score. The Detroit Tigers were playing the Chicago White Sox that afternoon. I quickly realized that our home team was now losing, as usual.

What’s the score, Gina?

Twelve, zip…bottom of the eighth. ‘The Boys’ are getting killed.

That figures.

The bartender still used the famous reference to the hometown baseball team, which started in 1984 when the Detroit ‘Bless You Boys’ Tigers last won the World Series.

Off duty?

Just got off…. a twelve-hour shift. Been at it since five o’clock this morning, I replied, motioning her to hand me a small bag of Better Made potato chips hanging next to the cash register.

It sucks working on Saturdays.

I had stopped off at my favorite watering hole after my weekend shift at the Third Precinct. My long day included two rape investigations, several car thefts, and a home burglary on Seven Mile Road. I usually stopped off when I finished my long shifts at the precinct before going home to my two teenage daughters and figuring out which pizzeria I would be calling up for carry-out.

I was enjoying my drink and watching the Tigers finish up the ninth inning. After ten minutes had passed, I was almost finished with my bag of chips when the six o’clock news came blaring out from all of the TV sets in unison:

"This is Joanne Spada, Channel Six Eyewitness News. There has been a gruesome murder in the parking lot of the Crazy Horse Lounge on Eight Mile Road very early this morning. The victim appears to have been strangled last night, and police are trying to put together the events that occurred in the parking lot of this exotic dancers club on the East Side of Detroit. The victim has been identified as Derek Johnson, a thirty-six-year-old white male who resides on Detroit's East Side on Chalmers Avenue. As you may recall, Mr. Johnson had just been released from prison two weeks ago after being acquitted on the murder charges of a Denby High School teenager back in October of 2019. The Detroit Police detectives here at this investigation mentioned a long, thick rope and a black bowler hat were left at the crime scene. This parking lot has been roped off with yellow crime scene tape, pending the investigation by the Detroit Police Department."

I looked at the TV, shaking my head at the news report. I had not heard anything about this murder while at my shift at the Third Precinct.

I had faintly recalled the name of Derek Johnson, the scumbag felon who had raped and killed that beautiful young teenager at Denby High School. The young victim, Yvonne Basilisco, was a senior high school student from Dominican High. It was the same school that my two daughters, Adrianna and Sara, attended. Although my kids didn’t know the victim, she was a very popular student with a bright future ahead of her. I had been called to that crime scene on that Friday evening last fall, and I had the horrific duty of calling the young victim’s parents, informing them of her violent death.

Did you hear about this? Gina looked at me, thinking that I may have more information to report.

To tell you the truth, no…I hadn’t.

Truth be told, I was shocked by the news. I worked on those rape investigations and other crimes in my office cubicle all day, and I didn’t hear about any other crimes occurring the night before.

This guy was strangled, and the killer left the rope and one of those derby hats in the back seat of the car, the bartender commented, still wiping down the bar with her wet dishrag.

Unreal. Hopefully, the detectives assigned to this case will be able to pull the DNA from the evidence left at the crime scene, I remarked, noting that I didn’t know enough about that crime scene to make any comment at all.

At that moment, another familiar face walked into the Gratiot Bar and Grill. He sat right next to me while ordering his drink.

Seven-Up, Gina…on the rocks. Throw in a few limes.

Well, hello, Detective Valentino. Are we having a police convention at my bar this afternoon?

No, Gina. If we decide to have a convention at your bar, we’ll be sure to bring along the warrants, he replied with a smile, tongue in cheek.

The bartender smiled back at him flirtatiously as she put down her dish rag and stood at attention for the new patron.

And you’re still not drinking? I’m so proud of you, Johnny, she mentioned, quickly filling up his glass of soda with several ice cubes and some freshly cut limes.

Thanks. I’ve got to be careful when I go into a bar these days. Those Nazis from A-A are lurking everywhere, he smiled, grasping his soda drink with his left hand while shaking my hand with his right.

Be careful of those spies, she smiled as she looked at herself in the mirror behind the bar.

So…what’s up, Mikie? I haven’t seen you around lately.

Detective Johnny Valentino was my partner from the Third Precinct. He had been working the streets on a stake out for a potential drug bust in the Corktown neighborhood and had been primarily out of the office. He had been a life-long alcoholic and regularly attended Alcoholics Anonymous meetings every other Wednesday at some church basement on Kelly Road.

How long have you been off the juice now? I inquired.

It will be a year this month. Aren’t you proud of me? Valentino mentioned as he sipped his soda while stirring the limes.

You’re doing great, Johnny. Good job, I immediately complimented him. But aren’t you tempted to have a drink when you walk into a bar?

No, not lately. It doesn’t bother me anymore. Besides, it beats sitting home and watching TV.

Valentino had been my precinct partner for the last eighteen months, and he was a great guy to have to watch your back. Johnny was an old-school veteran detective who worked very hard and wasn’t afraid to play hardball. He was also very street smart, and he didn’t take any shit from anyone. But for some odd reason, I always felt responsible for him, and I usually had to keep an eye out for his well-being. As we had gotten to be great friends, I always felt the need to make sure that he stayed sober. Knowing that Valentino was a recovering alcoholic who still liked to party, keeping an eye on him wasn’t an easy task by any means.

How’s Marina? I asked, referring to his once ex-wife, whom he had now reconciled. He had recently moved back to his home in Harper Woods and seemed very content with his sober, new family life.

Marina and the boys are great, he said with a smile. Anthony just graduated high school and will be going to Michigan State next month. He’s going into Pre-Med.

Very good, I nodded, still sipping on my Jack-on-the-Rocks.

Dario is a junior and is still my trouble-maker. But the good news is that the Marists at Notre Dame still haven’t kicked him out of school yet.

His youngest son, Dario, was a high school student at Notre Dame High School on Kelly Road. His youngest son was a carbon copy of himself and had difficulty controlling his temper like his old man. Valentino was suspended a year ago for severely beating up one of his old partners at the Third Precinct. He had made the mistake of calling him a ‘dago drunk.’ His son had been suspended from high school on several occasions for getting into fights with other students. Like his father, he didn’t take any shit from anyone.

How are his grades?

Barely passing. Says he wants to be a copper like his old man.

I smiled and shook my head, knowing that I would never want any of my children, or my friend’s children, to go into law enforcement.

And you’re okay with this?

With his mouth and his temper, I can’t see him doing anything else.

Tell him to join the union. I hear they’re looking for more young people to go into the trades. They do make a good buck.

Or join the Army, Johnny quickly replied, checking out the six-o’clock news that was now blaring on all of the televisions mounted everywhere at the bar.

How are your girls? he asked, referring to my two teenagers while twirling the ice cubes in his glass.

Doing well. They’re both at Dominican High School.

Valentino nodded his head, then asked for a refill of his Seven-Up with limes.

Did the Tigers win?

Hell, no. The Chicago White Sox kicked our asses…twelve, zip, I loudly replied, emphasizing my disappointment.

Those pussies from the Southside of Chicago seem to always have their way with ‘the boys,’ Valentino observed.

We both smiled as we nursed our drinks while glaring at the monitor mounted over the large mirror behind the bar. The bartender threw Valentino a small complimentary bag of potato chips while the homicide at the Crazy Horse Lounge was again on the six o’clock news.

Mikie, did you hear about this? We’ve got a gentleman killer on our hands. This guy strangles this ‘perp’ in the parking lot at the Crazy Horse and leaves his derby hat at the crime scene, Johnny mentioned the matter of factly while making slurping noises with his straw and his soda.

A derby hat?

Yeah, you know, those derby hats that those English gentlemen wear in London.

You mean a bowler hat? I corrected my partner.

Yeah, that’s it. Last time I saw one of those was in one of those James Bond movies.

Oh, you mean ‘Goldfinger’?

Yeah, that’s it, Valentino replied as he put his empty Seven-Up glass with its half-melted ice cubes on the counter of the bar. He then made eye contact with the bartender, who knew to refill his glass immediately.

What was the name of that movie with Pierce Brosnan? Gina asked, immediately figuring she could participate in the conversation.

Which one? I asked.

You know, there was a scene in the movie where a bunch of guys are robbing an art gallery wearing black bowler hats and dark suits, carrying a briefcase.

You mean the ‘Thomas Crown Affair’? I interjected.

Yeah, Gina smiled. That’s it.

We all chuckled about the movie reference while staring at the TV.

Maybe this killer is Brit-ish? Gina suggested, using a squeaky, mock English accent.

I nodded my head at the suggestion, thinking that it was rather strange that someone would leave their rope around the victim’s neck and a black bowler