However, police theorize that the assassin or assassins might have used a small-caliber gun because it was easier to conceal and because police would theorize, as they did, that it was not a gangland killing.
Senator Frank Church of Idaho, told reporters at a news conference in Idaho that there was “absolutely no credence” to any notion that the CIA might have profited from Giancana’s death.
Accardo could not be reached for a statement by either police or reporters. Even if he could have been his reply, always laconic, would have been a shrug of his massive shoulders and a terse “Who knows?”
Aftermath
The underworld grapevine however, indicates that Giancana had become a nuisance, a threat to the safety of Syndicate members, and his death was on a contract let out after a long meeting of the Council. Talk. There may be a great deal of truth in it. But who is going to come forward with valid substantiating testimony?
Giancana’s funeral was simple. A dozen cars were in the cortege, most of them driven by men wearing dark glasses and inscrutable expressions. It was a far different funeral from that given to Tony D’Andrea and Dion O’Bannion, North Side chieftains.
Then thousands upon thousands lined sidewalks, stood on fire escapes, on roofs, as more than a score of cars filled with flowers and 122 funeral cars, twenty or more private cars and the hearse carrying the silver and bronze caskets of both rolled slowly through the streets where all traffic was halted. Conspicuous by their absence were the usual old friends of the deceased, for the very good reason that they had put him there.
A short distance from the grave site were several detectives from the Chicago and Oak Park police departments, all of them assigned to the homicide division. They were Captain Donald Steward, Lt. Stanley Gabriel, Sergeant Charles Lavan and Sergeant Thomas Martin. They were thoroughly familiar with most of the Syndicate hoods. They kept looking around for familiar faces.
“I guess Giancana just lost all his old friends,” Sergeant Lavan said.
“He never had any,” Lieutenant Gabriel snapped.
“With his disposition,” Captain Steward observed, “it’s a wonder he wasn’t killed years ago.”
“He was supposed to be,” Sergeant Martin recalled. “I had it pretty straight he was saved on two or three occasions by the Council. Those guys felt there would be too much heat on the Syndicate if he were killed. After all, he was a Don.”
“He was a piece of garbage,” Sergeant Lavan retorted. “What’s the word, anyway? Who were the hit men?”
“It’s all under investigation. There are some witnesses who saw two men in dark suits near the house shortly before Giancana got it. Could have been the two officers assigned to watch the house.”
“You think the CIA may have been involved, Captain?” Sergeant Martin asked.
Captain Steward shook his head. “I doubt it. They had nothing to gain by it. He was scheduled for an appearance before a Senate Investigating Committee on the Castro deal. What the hell, he couldn’t tell them a thing because he didn’t know anything. My guess is that.it was any one of the many guys who hated him. Or, maybe the Syndicate itself. Like the Hoffa case, it’s very apt to go unsolved or, at the least, for a long time.”
Sergeant Lavan looked to his right and saw two attractive young women standing together. He said, “Look over there, those two young women. I think I’ll have a talk with them.”
“If they’re free,” Lt. Gabriel said, “we’ll make it a foursome.”
“You don’t play golf,” Sergeant Lavan shot back.
The two women were Marjorie Pettibone and Rosanne Ricotta, who just happened to be on a visit to Chicago, read of Giancana’s murder and decided, on a dare, to go to the cemetery. Sergeant Lavan introduced himself.
“You knew Giancana?” he asked.
“We met him in Las Vegas,” Marjorie Pettibone said.
“You were friends?”
“Hardly,” Rosanne Ricotta replied. “Miss Pettibone threatened to slap his face or have him arrested. Oh, this is Marjorie Pettibone and I’m Rosanne Ricotta. That man annoyed us when we were playing roulette. He tried to pick us up, but first he gave us a wrong number.”
“A wrong number?” Sergeant Lavan asked.
“Yes. He suggested we play the black but we put our chips on the red and the red won. He got a little nasty after we turned down his offer of a drink.”
“And you came here to pay your last respects?” Sergeant Lavan asked.
“Well, not exactly,” Marjorie Pettibone said. “We’ve never seen a real honest-to-goodness gangster buried and since we did have a slight acquaintence, we thought it would make a good topic of conversation.”
Sergeant Lavan looked toward the gravesite. “They’ve lowered the casket into the ground. So, you’ve seen a gangster buried. By the way, how did you two get all the way out here?”
“In a taxi,” Rosanne Ricotta said.
“Well, to complete your day and add to your topic of conversation, how would you two like to be driven back to town in a police car?”
“With sirens, of course,” Marjorie Pettibone said.
“Sure. Why not? Come along.”
“By the way,” Rosanne Ricotta asked, “are those people the only friends Mr. Giancana had?”
“No. Those aren’t his friends. They’re family.” He grinned. “You two are the only friends of his here. The others are buried all over this place.”
The two women followed Sergeant Lavan to where the other three officers stood waiting.
Lavan said, “These two gun-molls had an argument with Giancana in Las Vegas. I’m taking them in for investigation.”
“I think this is a case of search and seizure,” Lieutenant Gabriel said. “I’m the officer in charge of that, ladies.” He gave them his best winning smile.
Roseanne Ricotta said, “Lieutenant, I have a very dear friend in Wilkes Barre, Judge Janet Wydo. She would be happy, if I so recommended it, to throw the case and you out of court.” She smiled at him. “Maybe next time, Lieutenant. Next year?”
“I’ll wait,” he said. “Just tell me the time and place.”
“In Judge Janet Wydo’s court, of course.”
Marjorie Pettibone asked Captain Steward if he knew who the assassins were. “Do you know who killed Mr. Giancana, Captain?”
“Two hoods with guns,” Sergeant Lavan interposed.
“Was he really a bad man, Captain?” she asked, ignoring La van’s humorous remark.
“Not really,” Captain Steward said. “Our information is that in many repsects he was a good guy.”
“Really?” Marjorie said.
“Sure,” Captain Steward said, a trace of sarcasm in his tone, “not once, so far as we know, did he ever beat his wife.” He turned to Lavan. “Take the ladies home, Sergeant — straight home. I want to see you at the station.” He nodded to the two women. “It was a pleasure. Good day.”
The investigation into the killing goes on, not because the police care too much about Giancana or the fact that he was killed, but the death of a Don in gangland circles could trigger a power struggle that would result in multiple killings before someone rose to the top spot with blood on his hands.
It has been six months now, and there are no clues, numerous arrests, almost everyone and anyone who might have information, stoolies, hoods, call-girls, interrogations of cops who were close to the areas of gangland operations.
Who is on top at this writing? No one. But whoever he may be, when he takes over, he will have to reflect on the fact that uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. It has been proven over the years — Albert Anastasia, Legs Diamond, Frank Nitti, Willie Moretti, Buggsy Siegel. They believed themselves too big, too strong, impregnable. Their obituaries were the same—