Death by Wall Street: Rampage of the Bulls, a murder mystery, is based on real events. It is the story of how the oligarchs of Wall Street, doctors and others in the pharmaceutical research profession having significant conflicts of interest, and employees of two 'captured' US government agencies-the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) and the Food and Drug Administration (FDA)-by design as well as by simply refusing to pursue the evidence of malfeasance provided to them, deny patients life saving treatments that are demonstrated safe and effective in FDA-approved drug trials. When the severed head of a Wall Street stock analyst turns up spiked on a horn of the Wall Street Bull, Detective Louis Martelli of the NYPD is assigned to track down the murderer. But why were this victim and the victims of two similar murders that followed singled out for execution? Martelli eventually learns the answer to this question and tracks down the killer, but not before uncovering some of Wall Street's and the US government's darkest secrets pertaining to the US financial markets and the nation's health care practices.

Death by Wall Street

Rampage of the BullsBy Theodore Jerome Cohen

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Theodore Jerome Cohen
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-7945-5

Chapter One

Homicide Detective-Specialist Lou Martelli pulled his black, unmarked Ford 'Crown Vic' to the curb at the foot of the Bowling Green Bull, a 7,000 pound bronze sculpture that stands near Wall Street in New York City's Bowling Green Park. It was late winter, 2010. The weather was unusually warm for mid-March. It was difficult to miss the severed head of a man pinned to the left horn of the bull, blood dripping on the bricks below. The crimson pools of blood on the pavement pulsated with irritating regularity in the flashing light of the car's red, dash-mounted, rotating beacon.

"So, what do we have here, Michael?" Lou bellowed, using both hands to lift his left leg over the car's door jamb. Martelli had been the crew member aboard a Black Hawk helicopter that was shot down in the April, 2003, invasion of Baghdad during Operation Iraqi Freedom. Now, with the help of a prosthetic leg, he walked with a slight limp. He worked for NYPD under a special waiver issued by the mayor. "Hey," he always reminded those who asked about his injury, "at least I'm alive. That's more than I can say for the pilot and copilot, who never made it out of the chopper!" What he never talked about was the fact that he lost his leg attempting to save them. Lou worked hard to keep his weight down, primarily to ease the burden on his legs. But at 6-foot, 2-inches and 190 pounds, walking still was difficult. He was a big, muscular guy, the result of working out at the Dominant Fitness & Health Club in Brooklyn early every morning. But with a big workout came a big appetite, so it was a constant fight to stay away from the junk food that beckoned from the vending machine outside his office door.

"What do we have here? What do we have here? What the hell does it look like we have here, Sarge?" It was Michael Antonetti, a Deputy Coroner. "The Running of the fookin' Bulls in Pamplona, that's what we have here!" Antonetti was standing on a short step ladder. He had just finished taking pictures of the top of the human head. Now, he was preparing to examine it more closely before preparing to remove and bag it for evidence. A lone crime scene investigator (CSI) from NYPD's Crime Scene Unit (CSU) was busy snapping photographs of the blood-drenched bricks under the bull's head.

Martelli crossed his arms, looked at the head, and nodded. "This confirms what I've always said, Michael, if you live long enough, you'll see it all."

Lou looked at his watch. "Damn. It's 4 AM." He yawned. "I'd rather be back in bed with my wife ... while the kids are still asleep, if you catch my drift.

"So, what can you tell me?"

"Well, what you see is what we got," Antonetti deadpanned. "Cut nice and clean, through and through, just like whoever did it was cutting up a cow or a hog. We're not that far from where some of the meatpackers are located, ya know."

Great! thought Martelli. The last thing I need at the end of winter is having to spend time questioning people in the Meatpacking District who work in the walk-in coolers and freezers!

"And before you ask," Antonetti continued, "no, we don't have the body. God knows where the rest of this guy is. I suspect, but of course don't know, that it has been sliced and diced by now, with the pieces thrown into either the East or Hudson River ... maybe both. Whoever did this knew how to handle a professional butcher's knife, that's for sure!

"One thing I can tell you, though ... the head hasn't been here long—no more than an hour. The surveillance cameras overseeing this area should give you a whole hellava lot more information, including the time the head was stuck here and maybe, even, a look at who created this bit of modern art."

Martelli looked at the dead man's head. The eyes were wide open, staring down on the Financial District, once America's Mecca of optimism for the future of the country and the engine of its aggressive growth. Now, the 'Street', as it was known, was the despised source of the country's ruin ... home to the oligarchs who raped and pillaged Main Street while awarding themselves outrageous salaries and stock options, their 'rewards' for having cheated, swindled, and defrauded the Middle Class of its savings and retirement funds.

"Any clue who it is, Michael?"

"Can't tell from what I have here, Lou. The officer behind me spotted the head when he drove by on patrol, and he called Dispatch. But the guy over there on the curb—the one who's puking his guts out—may know the vic. He drove up a few minutes ago in that white BMW. Got out, took one look at the head, threw up, and staggered to the curb. I suspect he has a very good idea who the vic is."

"Thanks." Martelli turned, pulled his notebook from the inside pocket of his suit pocket, and limped towards the man hunched over the curb. The guy was still spilling his breakfast onto the pavement, though from the looks of it, he didn't have much more to heave. Lou placed him in his late twenties, perhaps of medium height, with brown hair and brown eyes ... no different from a thousand other men who plied the streets of the Financial District. Whoever he is, thought Martelli, he's got expensive taste in clothes. The man was dressed in a tailored Italian charcoal wool two-button suit (Alberto Triassi: $1450) while his shoes were of the highest quality as well (House of Rinaldi: $780). Man, I'll never be able to afford clothes like that, not on a detective's salary. Martelli knew, just from the man's appearance, that whoever he was, he certainly was no low-level brokerage house backroom clerk. "So," he began, "do you always make it a practice of being down here this early?"

The man on the curb looked up through bloodshot eyes. He did not respond.

"Look, I know this isn't a good time, sir, but it would appear that you know the person on the bull back there. I'm detective Lou Martelli, Manhattan Homicide. Whatever happened to your friend—I'm assuming he was a friend of yours—occurred within the last few hours. And the best thing that you can do to help us catch whoever was responsible for this heinous crime is to tell me as much as you can, and as quickly as you can. In cases like this, every minute counts. And based on what the coroner just told me, we're already at least an hour behind the perp."

The man on the curb looked up, and nodded. He put his right hand on the curb to steady himself, and slowly rose to his feet. Taking a handkerchief out of his pants pocket, he wiped his mouth with it and composed himself. "You're right, of course. I'm sorry. My name's Steve Jacobs. I worked with John ... John Williamson." The man pointed to the head on the statue. "He's ... he was ... my co-worker at Bartlett, Cline, and Stephenson, the investment banking and securities firm down the street. We worked as financial analysts covering the biotech universe. I had decided to come in very early this morning to catch up on my work. There simply aren't enough hours in the day to do what my boss wants done!"

"Tell me about it, Mr. Jacobs. So, about this Williamson fellow, when did you see him last?"

"We had dinner late last night at Capricious."

"You mean the restaurant and bar down the street?" "Yeah. John and I had just released an analyst's report on one of the companies we follow—Polymorphic...