They didn't even bother to knock. Vince thrust open the door. Shep stepped past him. Vince closed the door behind them. They were inside Big Stan's apartment. Twenty feet, directly in front of them, at the far end of the living room, an aluminum folding-table had been temporarily erected, running lengthwise across the open end of a small horseshoe kitchen alcove. A cheap, cardboard chess set was on the table, a hefty stack of currency in various denominations (tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds), a few pieces of crumbled paper, a dozen Budwiser bottles, and a four-inch barreled, chrome plated .35 Colt Bulldog. Big Stan, his enormous 427 pounds bulk loosely packed on a 6 foot 4 inch frame, was seated with his back to the front door. Mitchell, the gangster equivalent of an ill-tempered Barney Fife, sat across from him; the Bulldog near his right hand. Behind Mitch hung a telephone anchored alongside a bank of utility cabinets. Though Mitch was facing the front door when Vince and Shep entered, he was too absorb in calculating his next move to lock up. It was Big Stan who swiveled on his chair, and said, "Good to see you guys. Wanna a beer?" Only then did Mitch look up from the chessboard and acknowledge their presence. He smiled, then offered, "I'll just bet fat boy here is glad to see ya. I'm already in his pocket for a grand. And, if he don't move that bishop, he's gonna be out the month's rent money." "No beer," replied Shep as he maneuvered his masculine body around a coffee table and crossed the living room with ease. Nearing a narrow opening between the table and wall, he squeezed through and continued on behind Mitch. "Just a couple of quick calls and we're outta here," he added. Vince, known as "Hollywood" to friends and associates because of his larger-than-life ego tightly suitcased within a near-drawf size body, positioned himself behind Stan, placed a hand on his shoulder, glanced at the chessboard, and commented, "He's right Stan, if ya don't move that pawn he's gonna whip your butt." In one lightening swift move, Shep pulled a lead-lined, leather wrapped, 9 inch blackjack from his waistband, swung it in a high, powerful arc and brought it down on the top of Mitch's head with (what sounded like) enough murderous force to split a granite block... SMACK! Stan bolted for the door. "Another step and you're next!" yelled Vince. Stan froze in his tracks. Pointing toward a sectional sofa arranged near a large tropical fish aquarium, Vince, simply ordered, "Sit!" Faster than an obedient puppy, Stan lumbered his enormous bulk onto the sofa. Mitch, despite the tremendous force oF the blow, the intense pain and obvious whirling sensation in his head, instantly knew his secret had been uncovered. This was made obviously clear when, while (somehow) making a grab for the Colt and simultaneously leaping to his Feet in a futile attempt at escape, he uttered, "You don't know why I..." Why, however, was never a merited factor in this gruesome murder. The blackjack was in the expert hands oF a ruthlessly crazed, madman whose honor, loyalty and trust had been violated, violated beyond any explanation or excuse. Blow after vicious blow rained down on the victim. The second, more vicious than the first, splintered seven bones in Mitch's right hand; 4 metacarpals and 3 phalanges. Then the deadly zap struck again. This time, 23 times in rapid-fire succession; pulverizing the left eye socket, crushing his right cheek bone, lying open a gash the size of a Bic lighter above his right brow, ripping a 4 inch strip of scalp from above his left ear, and fragmenting 7 teeth; 4 uppers, 3 lowers. The brutal beating continued. Each time the blackjack found its mark bright, crimson blood splattered the table, surrounding walls and ceiling with a spray of macabre scarlet speckles, streaks and drippings that dramatically depicted the ongoing slaughter. Twice more, the deadly sap zeroed-in finding its mark on Mitch's mouth...SMACK!...SMACK! reducing it to nothing more than a bloody, dark socket ringed with the shattered remains of teeth. His skull had been struck so many times with the lethal weapon that now, when struck, it sounded like a wet sponge being pounded with a heavy stick. Finally, Mitch lay unmoving in a torn, bloody heap. Exhausted, breathing heavily, Shep paused, stepped back to evaluate his handiwork. He watched without emotion as a dark, ruby colored bubble of blood slowly emerged between the twisted pieces of raw meat that were now Mitch's lips. The bubble steadily grew, then with a subtle "pop," burst. "The assholes still alive," said Shep. "Somebody get me a screwdriver," he ordered. Miraculously, Mitch was still alive, and would remain alive for an agonizing few minutes more: oozing blood from every facial orifice, twitching and gurgling until Shep plunged the screwdriver, up to the hilt, through one of Mitch's eye sockets and deep into his brain. Later, Mitch's body, and assorted body parts, were unceremoniously U-Hauled to a remote location somewhere in east New Jersey. A hole was dug. Two 50 pound bags of landscaping lime were emptied into it. The naked body was kicked in, face up and pissed on. Two more bags were emptied onto the body before it was covered over. And, as they say, "That was that!" Mitch's final resting place? No, not quite. Seven years later, in the summer of 1979, while out for his morning jog, a gentleman happened across a few strange looking bones lying in the middle of his path where it ran through a lush, green forest near Mount Holly, New Jersey. Mr. Jogger, good citizen that he was, promptly notified the proper authorities. The bleached-yellow bones (and various bone fragments) were delivered into the capable hands of the New Jersey State Police for preliminary forensic analysis. The bones were determined to be human skeletal remains rather than animal. According to the chief forensic pathologist the remains were an assortment of carpal and metacarpal bones that had been excavated by one of a number of scavenging creatures (a carnivore, judging from teeth impressions in and on the bones) that prowl the New Jersey woodlands. Once established as human remains, the Federal Bureau of Investigation bogarted their way into the case. A thorough search began in and around the area where the bones had been discovered. Fifty-one feet south-east of the path the shallow grave was discovered. Additional bones were found scattered within a hundred feet of the narrow grave. These were obviously human skeletal remains; a partially chewed fibula, some gnawed and decayed vertebra, two kneecaps, one ankle bone and a section of moss covered rib cage. Resting serenely within the grave itself, with a ten inch, rusted, yellow, lucite handled Craftsmen screwdriver protruding from a dark, empty eye socket lay the battered skull. Those remains were collected, bagged, tagged and ASAP mailed off to the FBI's Forensic/Reconstruction and Identification Unit. Indepth analysis revealed the remains were those of a Mr. Mitchell. When called upon to describe the nature of the wounds, type of weapon used, and cause of Mr. Mitchell's demise, the FBI's Grand Pooh-bah of Forensic Pathology proudly rose and unequivocally stated, "The skull, made up of a bony, cartilaginous material, consisting of 22 bones, in all, that form the braincase, cranium and face were subjected to such force that portions of both the maxilla and mandible of the face fractured, sending bone splinters directly into the cortex, encephalon and pericranium sections of the brain. "The cranium itself suffered such a degree of trauma that a network of spider web-like compound fractures were created that completely encircled it. A section of the braincase, near the cranium's crown, appeared to have been hacked-out. "In the parietal area of the skull, jagged bone-cliffs were found that rose one sixteenth to a full eighth of an inch from the normal curvature of the cranium. "As a Forensic Pathologist Specialist, and Director of Human Skeletal Reconstruction for the FBI, I'm of the firm belief and opinion Mr. Mitchell's death was due to numerous brute force blows to the head with a hatchet." When called upon to speculate as to whether or not Mr. Mitchell's death was instantaneous, the FBI's grand Pooh-bah of Forensic Pathology thoughtfully considered the question, then responded, "For his sake, I hope so." [View a related story. ]