One step ahead Braintree suspect in thefts, slayings [David Turner] eludes prosecutors |
Boston Globe January 20, 1996
The question around Braintree, at the bars and in the neighborhoods where the youths play football in the streets, is just how much longer David Turner can possibly pull it off, this winning streak that's made him the Teflon gangster of the South Shore. For here was a man described by police as a trusted lieutenant in a South Shore crime ring, who had thumbed his nose at the criminal justice system and walked away a free man. Who evaded prosecutors despite a trail of bodies -- the friend shot dead and stuffed in a car trunk in East Boston, the stranger bludgeoned and left for dead on Route 3. Who convinced a jury he didn't steal the money from two safes in the "Cheers" bar in 1991, didn't bash that employee's head with a bottle of Midori. Who earlier this month walked out of jail after a Canton woman, Andrea Freedman, said she was too scared to testify against him, even though she had earlier identified Turner as one of the men who put a gun her to head, tied her up and stole $130,000 in jewelry and cash in 1990. Today Turner enjoys his freedom even as Freedman's boyfriend, Gerald Krigman, went to jail this week rather than tell a grand jury what he knows about the brazen case of witness intimidation, which police say led to the death of yet another prosecution witness, Charles Pappas, cut down in a blaze of gunfire the day before Thanksgiving. It has all resulted in some unlikely fame for the burly 28-year-old with the impish grin who'd been voted "most unique" by his classmates at Braintree High School. Even Gov. William F. Weld is talking about him, saying how the state needs tougher laws to prevent witness intimidation. The district attorney is similarly outraged. "The thing is, to look at him he seems like he could be the all-American kid. I'm sure he could have really made something of himself had he applied himself," said Robert Sikellis, the assistant attorney general who has been trying, unsuccessfully, to prosecute Turner for several years. "He's smart, and that's what makes him so dangerous." Law enforcement sources say Turner has been getting a lot of help, that people above him are making sure the charges against him don't stick. But Turner, they say, has been smart enough to do what everybody else is doing now, and that's not talking. And that, police and prosecutors say, may well be the secret to David Turner's success. Turner is still keeping quiet today. His attorney, Martin Leppo of Randolph, said the police seem fixated on his client, maybe because the cases against him haven't held up -- because, he said, "he's beaten them." Leppo strongly denies that Turner is the gangster the cops portray him to be. "That's just law enforcement talk," he said. "Davey Turner wasn't even in the state the night of the Canton home invasion. He was in Florida and we have the record to prove it." Though Turner himself can't comment because of pending cases, Leppo said, he is deeply dismayed by what's being said about him. "This is hanging over him for the rest of his life. His mother is very upset. It's really taken a toll on the family." But law enforcement sources have put together a different story, one that led a regular guy who played on the Braintree High School football team into a life of crime and violence. David Allen Turner grew up in an ordinary, middle-class neighborhood in Braintree, in the corner formed by the Braintree split of Route 128 and Route 3. He played baseball as well as football at Braintree High School, and went to parties just like all the other South Shore boys who went on to be lawyers or construction workers or to work in the malls. He was on the ski team. He liked the Clash. He'd go into Kenmore Square from time to time, to check out the Narcissus nightclub. His yearbook quotes hinted that he didn't mind raising a little hell. "Better to burn out, than to fade away," read one, from a Neil Young song. The other was from Billy Joel: "Only the good die young." Law enforcement sources say it was the summer he graduated from high school, in 1985, when Turner may have realized just what he was capable of. He and his boyhood friend, Charles O. Pappas, were in Provincetown after the bars had closed. According to court papers, a young gay social worker from New Bedford, Steve Noon, offered the pair a ride back to Braintree. One of Noon's friends told police he watched the three of them climb into a van, according to court papers, and it was the last time Noon was seen alive. His body was discovered in the van on Route 3, his head bludgeoned by fierce blows. Police said although Turner was a chief suspect in the death, he was never charged. In the years that followed, Turner's friendship with Charlie Pappas helped guide his future. It was Pappas, law enforcement sources say, who introduced Turner to Carmello Merlino, a reputed mobster with ties to John (Action Jackson) Salemme, brother of Francis P. (Cadillac Frank) Salemme, who is now awaiting trial on federal racketeering charges. Merlino had known Charlie's father, George, who'd been in the business himself until somebody put a bullet in his eye at the Four Seas restaurant in Chinatown one night in 1981. The friendship with Merlino matured. Law enforcement sources say Turner became a trusted lieutenant in Merlino's South Shore operations, primarily a $1 million cocaine-selling ring operated out of TRC Auto Electric Co. in Dorchester. He and Pappas and others would pick up the drugs in carburetor boxes, according to affidavits from the court case that recently helped put Merlino in jail, and dole them out from rooms at Howard Johnson's or the Days Inn. There were other jobs, some small, some big, but police say they always followed a similar pattern: Merlino and associates would get wind of a "score," and allegedly dispatch Turner. That was how it happened with the 1990 Canton home invasion, police said, and the 1991 robbery of $50,000 from two safes at the Bull & Finch pub in Boston, better known as the bar that inspired the television show "Cheers." "It appears that Turner was serving an apprenticeship, working his way up the ladder," said Sgt. Andrew Palombo, a trooper assigned to the attorney general's office. "He seemed like the person who could be trusted to clean up the details, and get away with it." Merlino is scheduled to get out of jail next year. Law enforcement sources say Merlino may well be behind all the arrangements that have helped keep Turner out of jail -- the intimidation of Freedman and Krigman, the Pappas hit -- because of what might come out in court about Merlino and the organization. Police have a hunch the two men might revive their working relationship. One thing Merlino didn't have to worry about, law enforcement sources say, was Turner ratting on anybody. Pappas was killed, the police theory goes, because he had "flipped," or turned state's evidence. But Pappas always seemed like the excitable type. Facing drug charges of his own, Pappas panicked and started cooperating. Law enforcement sources say he could have implicated Turner in the Canton case, and also had information about the death of Leonard DiMuzio, a former colleague of Turner's, who was found dead in a car trunk in East Boston in 1990. Turner was questioned in that death, which sources say might have involved a fight over stolen cash, but never charged. A Norfolk County grand jury is now hearing evidence that may implicate Turner in the "elimination" of the talkative Pappas, sources said. However, Turner is not himself accused of shooting Pappas. Witnesses said the job was done by two men in ski masks. But if nothing else, Turner was always calm and cool. A friend said that Turner once told him that he wanted to make a half-million dollars, and then get out. Until that time, Turner seemed to have a determined approach to his work. He never bragged or boasted. He traded in his Corvette for an Oldsmobile. When the money was rolling in, some weekends he'd catch the shuttle to New York City for a double-date with Pappas, for a good dinner and a hotel suite. He'd go to Florida, for business or pleasure. But lately Turner is known for staying at his parents' house most evenings and watching television. Maybe Turner had learned something from the bigger players in the New England mob, who kept talking so much on police wiretaps. To Turner, talking was anathema. That was evident to police in a wiretap conversation Turner had with a friend, Gray Morrison, after the "Cheers" score in 1991. The two men appear concerned about associates talking to police about the crime, and the exchange says much about why David Turner is a free man today. Morrison tells Turner about a book he is reading, whose author says honor among thieves is a myth. "You could be the coolest, baddest {expletive} in town . . . and all the sudden, just flip. He said the only person to trust is yourself, man." "Man, I don't talk about nothing," Turner says. "Loose lips sink ships," Morrison says a little later in the conversation, picking up on the theme again. "I'm a firm believer," is David Turner's reply. Copyright Boston Globe Newspaper May 14, 1990
The question around Braintree, at the bars and in the neighborhoods where the youths play football in the streets, is just how much longer David Turner can possibly pull it off, this winning streak that's made him the Teflon gangster of the South Shore. For here was a man described by police as a trusted lieutenant in a South Shore crime ring, who had thumbed his nose at the criminal justice system and walked away a free man. Who evaded prosecutors despite a trail of bodies -- the friend shot dead and stuffed in a car trunk in East Boston, the stranger bludgeoned and left for dead on Route 3. Who convinced a jury he didn't steal the money from two safes in the "Cheers" bar in 1991, didn't bash that employee's head with a bottle of Midori. Who earlier this month walked out of jail after a Canton woman, Andrea Freedman, said she was too scared to testify against him, even though she had earlier identified Turner as one of the men who put a gun her to head, tied her up and stole $130,000 in jewelry and cash in 1990. Today Turner enjoys his freedom even as Freedman's boyfriend, Gerald Krigman, went to jail this week rather than tell a grand jury what he knows about the brazen case of witness intimidation, which police say led to the death of yet another prosecution witness, Charles Pappas, cut down in a blaze of gunfire the day before Thanksgiving. It has all resulted in some unlikely fame for the burly 28-year-old with the impish grin who'd been voted "most unique" by his classmates at Braintree High School. Even Gov. William F. Weld is talking about him, saying how the state needs tougher laws to prevent witness intimidation. The district attorney is similarly outraged. "The thing is, to look at him he seems like he could be the all-American kid. I'm sure he could have really made something of himself had he applied himself," said Robert Sikellis, the assistant attorney general who has been trying, unsuccessfully, to prosecute Turner for several years. "He's smart, and that's what makes him so dangerous." Law enforcement sources say Turner has been getting a lot of help, that people above him are making sure the charges against him don't stick. But Turner, they say, has been smart enough to do what everybody else is doing now, and that's not talking. And that, police and prosecutors say, may well be the secret to David Turner's success. Turner is still keeping quiet today. His attorney, Martin Leppo of Randolph, said the police seem fixated on his client, maybe because the cases against him haven't held up -- because, he said, "he's beaten them." Leppo strongly denies that Turner is the gangster the cops portray him to be. "That's just law enforcement talk," he said. "Davey Turner wasn't even in the state the night of the Canton home invasion. He was in Florida and we have the record to prove it." Though Turner himself can't comment because of pending cases, Leppo said, he is deeply dismayed by what's being said about him. "This is hanging over him for the rest of his life. His mother is very upset. It's really taken a toll on the family." But law enforcement sources have put together a different story, one that led a regular guy who played on the Braintree High School football team into a life of crime and violence. David Allen Turner grew up in an ordinary, middle-class neighborhood in Braintree, in the corner formed by the Braintree split of Route 128 and Route 3. He played baseball as well as football at Braintree High School, and went to parties just like all the other South Shore boys who went on to be lawyers or construction workers or to work in the malls. He was on the ski team. He liked the Clash. He'd go into Kenmore Square from time to time, to check out the Narcissus nightclub. His yearbook quotes hinted that he didn't mind raising a little hell. "Better to burn out, than to fade away," read one, from a Neil Young song. The other was from Billy Joel: "Only the good die young." Law enforcement sources say it was the summer he graduated from high school, in 1985, when Turner may have realized just what he was capable of. He and his boyhood friend, Charles O. Pappas, were in Provincetown after the bars had closed. According to court papers, a young gay social worker from New Bedford, Steve Noon, offered the pair a ride back to Braintree. One of Noon's friends told police he watched the three of them climb into a van, according to court papers, and it was the last time Noon was seen alive. His body was discovered in the van on Route 3, his head bludgeoned by fierce blows. Police said although Turner was a chief suspect in the death, he was never charged. In the years that followed, Turner's friendship with Charlie Pappas helped guide his future. It was Pappas, law enforcement sources say, who introduced Turner to Carmello Merlino, a reputed mobster with ties to John (Action Jackson) Salemme, brother of Francis P. (Cadillac Frank) Salemme, who is now awaiting trial on federal racketeering charges. Merlino had known Charlie's father, George, who'd been in the business himself until somebody put a bullet in his eye at the Four Seas restaurant in Chinatown one night in 1981. The friendship with Merlino matured. Law enforcement sources say Turner became a trusted lieutenant in Merlino's South Shore operations, primarily a $1 million cocaine-selling ring operated out of TRC Auto Electric Co. in Dorchester. He and Pappas and others would pick up the drugs in carburetor boxes, according to affidavits from the court case that recently helped put Merlino in jail, and dole them out from rooms at Howard Johnson's or the Days Inn. There were other jobs, some small, some big, but police say they always followed a similar pattern: Merlino and associates would get wind of a "score," and allegedly dispatch Turner. That was how it happened with the 1990 Canton home invasion, police said, and the 1991 robbery of $50,000 from two safes at the Bull & Finch pub in Boston, better known as the bar that inspired the television show "Cheers." "It appears that Turner was serving an apprenticeship, working his way up the ladder," said Sgt. Andrew Palombo, a trooper assigned to the attorney general's office. "He seemed like the person who could be trusted to clean up the details, and get away with it." Merlino is scheduled to get out of jail next year. Law enforcement sources say Merlino may well be behind all the arrangements that have helped keep Turner out of jail -- the intimidation of Freedman and Krigman, the Pappas hit -- because of what might come out in court about Merlino and the organization. Police have a hunch the two men might revive their working relationship. One thing Merlino didn't have to worry about, law enforcement sources say, was Turner ratting on anybody. Pappas was killed, the police theory goes, because he had "flipped," or turned state's evidence. But Pappas always seemed like the excitable type. Facing drug charges of his own, Pappas panicked and started cooperating. Law enforcement sources say he could have implicated Turner in the Canton case, and also had information about the death of Leonard DiMuzio, a former colleague of Turner's, who was found dead in a car trunk in East Boston in 1990. Turner was questioned in that death, which sources say might have involved a fight over stolen cash, but never charged. A Norfolk County grand jury is now hearing evidence that may implicate Turner in the "elimination" of the talkative Pappas, sources said. However, Turner is not himself accused of shooting Pappas. Witnesses said the job was done by two men in ski masks. But if nothing else, Turner was always calm and cool. A friend said that Turner once told him that he wanted to make a half-million dollars, and then get out. Until that time, Turner seemed to have a determined approach to his work. He never bragged or boasted. He traded in his Corvette for an Oldsmobile. When the money was rolling in, some weekends he'd catch the shuttle to New York City for a double-date with Pappas, for a good dinner and a hotel suite. He'd go to Florida, for business or pleasure. But lately Turner is known for staying at his parents' house most evenings and watching television. Maybe Turner had learned something from the bigger players in the New England mob, who kept talking so much on police wiretaps. To Turner, talking was anathema. That was evident to police in a wiretap conversation Turner had with a friend, Gray Morrison, after the "Cheers" score in 1991. The two men appear concerned about associates talking to police about the crime, and the exchange says much about why David Turner is a free man today. Morrison tells Turner about a book he is reading, whose author says honor among thieves is a myth. "You could be the coolest, baddest {expletive} in town . . . and all the sudden, just flip. He said the only person to trust is yourself, man." "Man, I don't talk about nothing," Turner says. "Loose lips sink ships," Morrison says a little later in the conversation, picking up on the theme again. "I'm a firm believer," is David Turner's reply. Copyright Boston Globe Newspaper May 14, 1990
