At 5’2, Anthony “The Ant” Spilotro was the 300lb gorilla in the room. And chances are if he was in the same room as you, you were in the presence of a stone-cold killer. It was estimated that by the time of his death in 1986, Anthony murdered over 22 people; one with an industrial strength vise-grip.  But he who lives by the sword often dies by the sword and this fate was not spared on The Ant. He was found dead along with his brother Michael Spilotro buried in a cornfield in Enos, Indiana savagely beaten.  The autopsy would later show that sand was found in the brothers lungs indicating that they were both buried alive.

But what makes this story interesting to this deputy and his crew is that we knew Anthony Spilotro.  As a kid, I worked for him in the Food Factory on Twain and Swenson in Las Vegas Nevada. He was a family friend and to stand before him – knowing full well of his reputation, you would not suspect that this father, this uncle and husband was a killer of 20 plus souls.  He was a funny individual with a crocked smile and quick Italian wit as he berated me for not following through on a food delivery the right way or for not having a girl around.  Like most Italian fathers, he was heavy handed and full of love.  His insults were not meant to sting but to educate – quickly.  And educate they did.

As an employee of his at the Food Factory, I recall him once shutting down the store – patrons and all just to find out which employee was inhaling whippets from the cans in the back.  I knew which kid it was of course but my personal code wouldn’t allow me to rat the kid out.  It was the kids own urine that give him away as he pissed himself when Anthony walked by.  I never saw that kid again but I heard he’s still breathing.

As for my team mate Zachary the Bull, he hung out with Spilotro’s son. Both a few years older than me, Zachary talked about as follows:

I spent many nights as a kid sleeping over at Vince’s house as his father sat in the kitchen wearing a button up short-sleeve shirt – always with the shirt wide open, as he proudly displayed his scar from open heart surgery.  Even with the scar, he often let it be known to us young bucks that he would still “fuck us up” 9 ways from Sunday.  A cigarette hanging from his lip and a plate full of artery destroying Italian goods, he was not a man to consumed with death.

From the 3 years I hung around with Vince, I never saw this destroyer of flesh and bone that the media portrayed him as and I remember waking up one morning to the pale white faces of my parents; both of which are black, as they said, “Zachary, Anthony Spilotro is on the phone.”  I think I saw my father look down at me as if to say, “you stupid fucker! What have you done now?”

It of course was a harmless phone call. You see, Vince and I were pulled over by Metro’s finest one night and the police happened to rough Vince up a bit and place him in thumb cuffs. Thumb cuffs. I later became a police officer myself and still never had the privilege to see or use thumb cuffs, but they sure did have them on Vince.  I always felt that the police had his number  and whenever you went out with Vince Spilotro, two things went down: one, his Dad usually dropped a few hundred dollar bills in our pockets just for pizza and two, you always got pulled over and then had to get debriefed by Anthony Spilotro the morning after. As I recall, I was in basic training the morning I found out about Mr. Spilotro.  We were shining boots and there on the news was an over-head shot of the crime scene – both bodies of Mr. Spilotro and Uncle Mike as he liked to be called – covered in sheets.  I actually wept for a moment. Yes, I wept for a murderer, a butcher of men – but most importantly, I wept for Vince and his family.  I wept for his mother Nancy, and I wept for the memory of a kind Italian father - of which all I knew.

Of course, we are all much older and more cynical as we turn on the television only to see a child missing and instantly accuse the family. But back then, we could look upon the face of a killer and see love. How strange and dark we have become. Or have we finally come to realize that there is a killer in us all – whether it be for profit, revenge, or rage. We are all capable; given the right circumstance