How I Killed Al Capone

The year was 1929. The place was Chicago. Everyone was a-buzz in those days. The stock market was booming! I believed at that time that my immigrant father was right: America was truly a heaven on earth-a place where prosperity was as common as the shoe polish that shined the sea of shoes that walked the streets everyday.

I had completed my residency and had secured a job as a physician at a nonprofit clinic. Let me introduce myself. My name is Dr. Leo Rothbaum. I am now retired, but back then I had a lovely wife named Cindy, and she was pregnant with our first child. "I'm going to be a dad!" I rejoiced.

I had purchased some flowers and little heart-shaped chocolates. You see, it was Valentine's Day. I was on my way to meet my wife at the Ritz restaurant. We were planning to celebrate big time! She said it was located on Clark Street next to a garage.

I was across the street from the garage when I saw my wife walking past the garage on her way to the Ritz. Then IT happened. I saw some cops grab my wife and go into the garage. Suddenly, there was heavy gunfire! (Ratatatatatatatatatatatatata!!! Boom! Bang!) I got down on all fours and hid across the street behind a parked car.

"Why did they grab my wife like that? Who are they shooting at?" I muttered to myself. Then, as I was peering underneath the car I hid behind, I saw the cops run outside the garage. An unmarked car drove up. They all jumped in and the car sped off with a screech!

"MY WIFE!" I shouted! "MY WIFE IS STILL IN THERE!" I ran across the street and rushed inside the garage. I turned white at the sight that I saw! Horror of horrors! A bunch of men who appeared to be gangsters lay on the concrete floor in a pool of blood and guts!

I didn't see my wife. "WHERE IS SHE?!" I screamed inside my head. Then...a drop of blood dripped on my shirt, then...another after that. I looked up. "OH MY GOD!!!! NO!!!! NOOOO!!!!!" My wife was hanging from a meat hook and rope! Her throat was cut! The hook was lodged in her stomach and her guts were hanging out!

"WHY WOULD COPS DO THIS?!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

"Real cops wouldn't, " said a shadowy figure at the doorway.

"Who are you?" I nervously demanded.

"The name's Moran...Bugs Moran. Those goons was not cops. They was Capone's boys disguised as cops so they could fool my boys into thinking this was just another raid. My boys are dead now because of 'em. I would be on that meat hook instead of your wife if I hadn't gone across the street to place a bet with my bookie."

I was in total shock at this point. I could not believe how cold and stoic this Moran fellow was. He talked as if it was all no big deal. Despite my feelings of shock and terror, I managed to squeak out the questions on my mind:

"Why did they kill my wife? Why were your boys killed? Are you talking about the same Capone I read about in the papers?"

"Yeah, I'm talkin' about Scarface Capone. Your wife was killed cause she was in the way-she was a witness. Capone has been muscling in on my territory for awhile now. He wants to run the entire bootlegging racket in Chicago. So he figures...with me and my gang outta the ways he could be the big daddy of Chicago. If I was youz, I'd get outta here while the gettins good and don't tell no-one what you seen heres. Capiche?"

I took Moran's advice and left the scene of the crime. He warned me that Capone might send in a mop-up crew. If they discovered me, I would be killed also. I later identified my poor dear wife at the morgue.

Her funeral was somber, and I felt numb. I could not believe she and my unborn child were dead. "Was it a boy or girl?" I would never know. I would never be able to play catch with my son or take my little girl out for ice cream.

Scarface Capone took my life too. I was a ghost walking the windy city streets. It seemed everyone I passed saw right past me or right through me as if I wasn't there. I was haunted by my reality. I was damned to live on. That tragic and fateful day would later be known as the "Saint Valentines Day Massacre."

I felt the restless spirits of my wife and child. They were not at all pleased with the way they left this world. Neither was I. I felt something had to be done! Someone had to stop Scarface! But how? He owned the police. Moran couldn't touch him. Capone was always surrounded by body guards. And, according to Moran, Capone had spies everywhere. These spies tipped him off if someone made an attempt on his life.

I finally decided to pour myself into my practice at the clinic in an effort to get my mind off my tragic loss. Many of my patients were prostitutes who came in for daily VD tests and shots.

One patient, Darla, was a real chatterbox. I found her to be an invaluable source of gangster trivia since her clients consisted mostly of gangsters. One afternoon she came in for a checkup. She wanted to make sure she was clean since she was seeing an important VIP client that evening.

I jokingly said, "Well, even if you give your client VD, you could always give him my card. He can then come down here and I'll just give him a shot in the caboose." We both chuckled.

"No, youz don't understand, Doc, and you're not gonna believe this when I tell yas-my client is afraid of needles. He would rather die a slow death than come down here and get a shot (giggle) in the caboose."

"You mean to tell me that one of your big tough gangster clients is afraid of a little needle prick?"

"Yeah(giggle)!"

"What's his name? Do I know him?"

"I'll tell ya his name, but youz gotta swear on your ma's grave that youz won't tell no-one I told yas, OK?"

I held up my right hand. "I swear on my ma's grave I won' tell."

"He's Big Al, himself! He's commin into town all the way from Florida."

As soon as she mentioned that murdering creep's name, I felt all of my grief and anger return. I said nothing further. I simply checked the lab results of Darla's test sample. She had syphilis. I had better give her a shot-but wait! I suddenly felt a huge light bulb go on inside my head.

"Darla, your test came back negative. You're clean. Have fun tonight with Big Al."

"Thanks Doc. See ya!"

She left the clinic. I figured she would see Al Capone that evening and give him syphilis. She would come back tomorrow for another checkup or shot like she always does after seeing a client. I would give her the shot then-and she would be fine.

Al Capone's fear of needles would prevent him from getting a checkup and a subsequent shot. He would die slowly but surely. His brain would rot away. At last, I found a way to avenge the death of my wife and child!
I followed his story in the papers to witness the fruits of my vengeance.

I read in the papers how this creep was indicted for murder and other heinous crimes, but his lawyers always managed to get him off! He always had an alibi! I prayed every night that my plan worked-that he was infected with syphilis and that the disease was slowly but surely killing him.

Capone was eventually indicted NOT for murder, mind you, but for tax evasion! Has the world gone mad? He was sent to Alcatraz--the most secure prison in the country. "Oh well, I guess that's better than him getting off scot-free," I thought at the time.

Years went by. Then one morning I read the following obituary in the paper:

After his release from prison, Capone was hospitalized for several days. He returned to his home in Palm Island. His mind and body continued to deteriorate. On January 21, 1947, he had an apoplectic stroke that may have been a result of syphilis. He regained consciousness and began to improve until pneumonia set in on January 24. He died the next day from cardiac arrest. Capone was buried in Mount Olivet Cemetery in Chicago's far South Side between the graves of his father, Gabriele, and brother, Frank.

I clipped Capone's obituary out of the paper with some scissors, then pasted it underneath my wife's picture in the scrapbook along with a single long-stemmed rose. I then went to her grave that was also the grave of my unborn child. I laid the scrapbook at the foot of the grave.

"Rest in peace," I said. "Rest in peace..."