'The Barracks Thief'

 The Barracks Thief 

By Paul Davis

It had been a busy time on the USS Kitty Hawk as the aircraft carrier launched and recovered aircraft on a moonless night on “Yankee Station” in the Gulf of Tonkin in the South China sea off the coast of North Vietnam in 1971. 

I had just been relieved from my watch at midnight in the Radio Communication Division’s Message Processing Center. While on Yankee Station, we were on eight on/eight off watches, and as the days and nights flew by, we lost track of time. 

On this night, as our aircraft performed combat sorties against the North Vietnamese and faced anti-aircraft fire and surface to air missiles, called SAMs or “telephone poles,” the atmosphere was hectic in the message center as we maintained communication with the combat pilots and processed a great number of highly classified message traffic and intelligence reports in “real time.”  

I headed to the ship’s galley where they were serving “MIDRATS,” midnight rations. The ship’s cooks offered hot dogs, hamburgers, grilled cheese, and French fries to the sailors, airmen and Marines coming off watch, and for those who wanted a late-night snack. 

The more than 5,500 men ate fairly well on the Kitty Hawk, and although I had a fine full dinner eight hours earlier, I stood in line with my tray and took a cheeseburger, a grilled cheese sandwich and some French fries. I laid my tray on a table and took a glass and filled it with a red Kool-Aid like drink that the sailors called “bug juice.” 

I sat at the table and as I took a bite from my grilled cheese, I heard someone call my name. 

I looked up and saw George Goforth from North Carolina. He was in my Boot Camp company more than a year prior at the Recruit Training Center at the Great Lakes, Ill naval base near Chicago. 

Goforth hadn’t changed much. He was about five years older than my 18 years. He still had his close-cropped Boot Camp style haircut, and he was still stocky with a hard face that looked like it was carved from the side of a mountain.

Although I hated Goforth in Boot Camp, I let bygones be bygones. I smiled with a mouth full of my sandwich, and I waved for him to sit across from me. 

Goforth sat with his tray of food and told me he worked in the radar division. I said I was in the radio communications division. 

"So, you a radioman?"

"No," I replied. "I'm more of an admin security guy than a communication tech guy."

Goforth and I enjoyed our MIDRATs, and we spoke more about our jobs on the carrier, the great liberty in Olongapo in the Philippines, and the good and the bad ole days of Boot Camp. 

I last saw Goforth on our last day of Boot Camp when we received our orders. As I had enlisted in the Navy when I was 17 in 1970 for two years under the “McNamara’s 100,000” program, which was Defense Secretary Robert McNamera’s program to recruit young men who prior to the Vietnam War would not have been accepted into the armed forces. 

We were Vietnam cannon fodder, as one sailor explained it to me. The program was also known as “McNamara’s Misfits,” or “McNamara’s Morons.”    

As a two-year enlisted recruit, I was unable to attend a Navy “A” school after Boot Camp, where one was trained in technical skills and then advanced in a Navy occupational specialty, known as “ratings.”    

That was fine by me, as I was anxious to go to Vietnam. I had applied to be assigned to a Navy Swift Boat, officially called a Patrol Craft Fast (PCF). The Swift Boats patrolled the Vietnam coastlines and waterways.   

I was attracted to Swift Boats as I enjoyed “McHale’s Navy,” a TV comedy series that portrayed piratical and comedic sailors on a WWII PT boat, as well as the film “PT 109,” the patrol boat that President John Kennedy had served on in WWII. And I was especially influenced by John Ford’s classic WWII film about PT boats in the Philippines, “They Were Expendable.” 

But as a 17-year-old high school dropout, I was subject to what was deemed the “Needs of the Navy,” so instead of being assigned to a 50-foot-long Swift Boat, I was assigned to a 1,068.9-foot-long supercarrier. Goforth, with his four-year enlistment, I recall, received orders to go to radar “A” school.

 

At the Great Lakes Boot Camp in February of 1970, our company commander, a stout and gruff Boatswain Mate 1^st Class Petty Officer named Schmidt, selected four recruits to be “Recruit Petty Officers.” I had no issue with Jenkins, a tall, skinny, bespectacled 26-year-old, being selected as the leading petty officer, as he was the only college graduate in a recruit company of high school graduates and high school dropouts. But I did sort of resent Schmidt selecting Goforth as a recruit petty officer, as I thought he was dumb. 

Schmidt, for some reason, seemed to like Goforth, and he immediately showed his displeasure with me. Although I was a good recruit in terms of classroom study, marching and PT, Schmidt did not like my questioning instructions and my sarcastic asides. He was not amused, and he often called me a smart ass. 

One day outside of Schmidt’s office, Goforth told me that I had to stand the midnight security watch, where for four hours I stood at parade rest with an M-1 carbine rifle (unloaded) and guarded the barracks as the other recruits slept in their racks. 

I complained that I had the midnight watch only the other day, so with a good many recruits in our company, why did he again assign the late-night watch to me? 

“Cause I said so,” Goforth said. “I do the watch bill.” 

I suggested he do a better and fairer job of it, when I heard Schmidt bellow out, “Listen to the man, Davis!” 

Goforth gave me his best shit-eating grin. 

I recalled that on our very first weekly written test, Schmidt went ape shit as more than half of the recruit company failed, including Goforth. 

Under my breath, I told Goforth, “Enjoy being a recruit petty officer here, because in the fleet, you have to take tests to become a real petty officer, and I suspect you are too fucking dumb to pass a written test.” 

Goforth walked away without a word. 

“Yes, go forth, Goforth,” I called after him.

 

On top of the intense and tiring training we were subjected to, we had a bit of drama in the barracks as several recruits’ money and other items of value were reported stolen.

It appeared that our barracks thief had lock-picking skills. 

After the third reported theft, Schmidt held muster and told the assembled recruits to be sure to lock up their valuables and watch out for each other. 

“There is nothing lower than a barracks thief,” Schmidt said with a disgusted look. “If I catch anyone stealing, I’ll bust his ass right outta the Navy.” 

The barracks thief was a major topic of discussion on our down time, but one night a black, muscular, six-foot-tall recruit named Robert James was discussing boxing with me. He was speaking about the great Rocky Marciano and Joe Louis bout. James said he had been competing for the Golden Gloves in his hometown of Cleveland when he feared his draft notice was imminent. 

“I fight anybody in the ring,” James said. “But I ain’t fightin’ no Viet Cong in no jungle, so I up and joined this here Navy.” 

We laughed. 

“You was a boxer too, right?” James asked. 

“I boxed at the South Philly Boy’s Club. Strictly a low-rent amateur,” I replied. 

“What you lookin’ at, boy,” James said looking over my shoulder. 

I turned around. Goforth turned and walked away. 

“We ought to use Goforth as a punching bag,” James said with a laugh. 

“The thought occurred,” I said.

 

A few days later I entered the barracks and saw Alfred Dinkins, a short and stocky 20-year-old recruit from Baltimore, bent over and rooting through another recruit’s locker. 

I crept up behind Dinkins, and I kicked him square in the ass. He screamed and tumbled across the deck.       

“Davis! You on report!” I hear Goforth shout behind me. 

“Dinkins was rooting through Martin’s locker. He’s our barracks thief,” I said. 

“I bent down to tie my shoelace and Davis kicked me,” Dinkins said in protest. 

Goforth took me and Dinkins into Schmidt’s office. 

I stood at attention in front of Schmidt’s desk, alongside Goforth and Dinkins. 

Goforth spoke first. He told Schmidt that he saw me kick Dinkins. I spoke next, explaining that I caught Dinkins in Martin’s locker. Dinkins then denied that he was looking in Martin’s locker. 

“Goforth, go get Martin,” Schmidt ordered.      

Goforth came back to the office some five minutes later with Martin in tow. Schmidt asked Martin if his locker was locked or unlocked. 

“It was unlocked, Sir. But I only went to the head for a minute.” 

“Are you missing anything?” 

“No, Sir, I checked.” 

“He would be missing something if I hadn’t kicked Dinkins in the ass,” I said. 

“Shut up, Davis,” Shmidt bellowed. 

“Didn’t I tell you pukes to keep your lockers secure?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Martin said sheepishly. 

“Martin and Dinkins, you are dismissed.” 

After they left the office, Schmidt rose from his chair and looked hard at me. 

“Davis, I should put you on report for assault,” Schmidt said. “But instead, I want you to give me ten laps around the grinder. Goforth, escort Davis out to the grinder.” 

Goforth handed me a 12-pound M-1, and we went out to the grinder, a cement parade ground the size of a football field. 

Holding the M-1 across my chest, I began to run around the grinder as Goforth stood to the side with a smug, shit-eating grin - the dumb bastard!

 

Sometime later, we were given our first “liberty” and allowed to leave the base. Most of the recruits talked about going to Milwaukee. But being a big city boy, I chose to go to Chicago, and I went by myself. 

Like the Great Lakes Boot Camp, Chicago was cold. Dressed in my “crackerjack" Navy-blue uniform, white hat (called a dixie cup) and a Navy-blue pea coat, I walked around Chicago. As an aspiring crime writer and student of crime, I boarded a tour bus that offered a tour of Chicago’s gangland history. 

The tour bus drove past the site of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, where in 1929, seven men from the bootlegging North Side Gang were mowed down from tommy guns, reportedly ordered by Al Capone. The garage was long gone and, in its place now stood a building. 

Likewise, the site of the Biograph Theater, where in 1934, the FBI gunned down the infamous bank robber John Dillinger after he was betrayed by the “woman in red.” The bus stopped and the tour guide pointed to a nondescript building. 

Not only was the bus tour rather boring, but the tour guide also got several of his facts wrong. I spoke up and corrected him the first time and I received a dirty look from the guide for my trouble. I stayed quiet when he erred again and again, as I was worried that he would throw me off the bus. 

After my disappointing tour, I resumed walking around the famous Loop in the center of downtown Chicago, and I bundled up my pea coat to ward off the frigid winds coming off Lake Michigan. 

I walked by a pretty blonde girl in bell bottom jeans and a fluffy coat. I smiled at her. Most girls at that time would not look or talk to sailors or soldiers in the street, so I was taken aback when she smiled at me and asked me if I were in the Navy. 

I told her I was from Philadelphia, and I lied and said I was 25. She said her name was Carol and she was 21 and she was from a small town in Illinois. She said she was a business student attending DePaul University and she shared an apartment with another female student. 

I asked to buy her lunch, and she agreed and suggested a small place just up the street. We had a good meal and a good conversation and afterwards she invited me to her apartment where she said she had wine and pot. She noted that her roommate had gone home for the week. 

We drank, smoked pot and kissed on the couch. We then moved to the bedroom. 

A couple of hours later I asked if I could use her shower. I showered and dressed in my uniform. 

“Are you leaving?” 

“Yes,” I said. “I have to be back at the base before midnight.” 

She reached for her notebook and pen, and she wrote down her name, telephone number and address and gave it to me. I took the note and kissed her. 

“This was fun. Thanks for inviting me here.” 

“I’m glad I meet you,” she said. “I hope to see you again.” 

“I’ll call.”

 

Back at the barracks, we all heard the news that Schnidt had caught Dinkins in his office. Schmidt made Dinkins empty his pockets and Dinkins pulled out Schmidt’s brass money clip with a good bit of cash. Schmidt called the Naval Investigative Service and civilian special agents from the base came over and took Dinkins into custody. 

We later learned that Dinkins had been a burglar in Baltimore, and a judge gave him the option of joining the military or going to prison. He chose the Navy, where as a "McNamara Misfit," he continued to ply his criminal pursuits.  

I felt vindicated, having earlier accused Dinkins of being the barracks thief, but neither Goforth or Schmidt said a word to me. After discussing the fate of our barracks thief, most of the recruits spoke of their liberty. It appeared that I was one of the few recruits to have met a girl on liberty. 

I felt good about Dinkins getting caught and my liberty with Carol, and I sat on my rack smiling to myself. 

“Davis, you got the midnight watch,” I heard Goforth say, ruining my moment of happiness. 

Arnie Animal

 I heard it said in my South Philadelphia neighborhood that young Arnold Muller, aka “Arnie Animal,” was raised on a steady diet of wrought iron and hate.  

His father disappeared shortly after he was born in 1951 and his alcoholic and abusive mother regularly beat her only child, who was a huge boy, with an iron rod. In time, he ignored the abuse, the beatings, and the pain. 

Arnie Animal grew up to be a hulking, vicious and violent man. The South Philadelphia street corner boys at Dalton Street and Oregon Avenue, known as the D&O gang, spawned four generations of drug dealers, murderers and assorted criminals. The previous D&O generation used Arnie Animal as an enforcer and the current gang inherited him, although they had little use for the elderly and dimwitted hoodlum.    

The D&O gang, then and now, was tough enough, wild enough and violent enough to stand up to the local Cosa Nostra mob. They refused to pay the mob’s street tax on crime. The D&O also took on the notorious outlaw motorcycle gang called the Renegades. 

Over the years I covered some of the D&O's battles with the mob and outlaw bikers in my crime column in the local paper. 

And it seemed like I was about to write another D&O story after I received a call from Bob Williams, an FBI special agent that I knew well. He said he had a good story for me.

“It’s about Arnold Muller,” he said.

 “Arnie Animal?”

 “You know him?”

 “Yeah, I went to school with him back in the 1960s, and in the 1970s, I’d would see him at the bars and the late hour clubs. He was a drunk, a bad drunk. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Well,” the FBI agent said. “He’s dead.”

I was intrigued. Williams asked me if I would like to meet a gambler named Steve Alberti. Williams said that Alberti had a story about Muller that I would find interesting. A story, he said, that I would want to use in my column.

Although Alberti was in hiding, the FBI agent gave me his cell number. 

I called Alberti and we agreed to meet at a bar on Passyunk Avenue. Alberti, who was about 35, and tall and lean with dark hair and a hawk nose, walked up to greet me as I entered the darkened bar. He introduced himself and guided me to his table. I noticed that both of his eyes were blackened, and his lower lip was split. As we sat down, he asked me what I was drinking, and I ordered a vodka on the rocks. Alberti said he recognized me from the photo that accompanied my newspaper column. 

Although we were both from South Philly, I didn’t know the much younger man. But in conversation I came to learn that we knew a good number of people in common, including Arnie Animal. 

After quickly downing several drinks, Alberti told me he was leaving Philadelphia for Florida in a few days, because the local mob was looking to murder him. But before he left, he wanted to tell me the story about his encounters with Muller.  

 "When it comes to Arnie Animal, nothing would surprise me," I said.   

Muller and I went to Thomas Junior High School at the same time in the mid-1960s. I remember him as a hulking bully who terrorized most of the kids at the school. The kids bullied by Muller were what we then called “square” kids, as opposed to the cool corner boys we believe we were. I suppose those bullied kids would be called “nerds” today. 

Fortunately for me, Muller was a typical bully at Thomas, and he would pick on only those weaker than himself and those without tough friends. I was certainly weaker than Muller – he was built like a gorilla, nearly as strong as one, and I thought he smelled like one as well. 

But I was friends with some of the young tough guys from the D&O gang, especially my good friend Gerald “Big Jerry” Coppola. Big Jerry was about the same size as Muller, equally strong, and he was a genuine fearless tough guy. But unlike Muller, he was no bully. Muller was afraid of Big Jerry, so due to my friendship with him, Muller left me alone.    

The D&O street gang ran Thomas Junior High School in those days, and although Muller was generally disliked by the D&O hoodlums, they accepted him as a member due to his brute strength, fearsome reputation and fearsome looks. They used him to intimidate rivals. 

In my late teens while in the Navy, and later in my 20s, I was an amateur middleweight boxer, and I could take care of myself both in and out of the ring. But I was not a particularly tough young teenager during the years I attended Thomas Junior High School. Having earlier skipped a grade, I was younger and smaller than most of the other students at Thomas. 

I was a class clown at Thomas, and Big Jerry and the other D&O hoodlums thought I was funny. They all laughed at my jokes and sarcastic asides. And they roared with laughter when I called Muller “Mighty Joe Young.” At first Muller was complimented because of the “mighty” part, but then someone told him that Mighty Joe Young was an oversized gorilla in a movie. Muller was not amused.

Muller was shipped off to juvenile detention when we were both in the 9^th grade at Thomas, and I didn’t see or hear of him again until I came home from the Navy in the mid-1970s.

Alberti told me that last week Muller lost a lot of money to him at cards at a local mob clubhouse. Muller was not a good loser. He shouted out that Alberti was cheating, tossed the card table over, and grabbed Alberti’s left thumb, twisting it until it broke. 

“I didn’t have to cheat to beat Arnie Animal at cards,” Alberti explained to me. “He was a lousy poker player. The old guy was dumb as an ox.”  

After Muller broke Alberti’s thumb, Alberti hit Muller in the head with a beer bottle. The other gamblers in the club rushed over and broke up the fight. They pushed Muller out the door and told him to beat it. Then one of the gamblers took Alberti to the emergency room at the Methodist Hospital, where he was treated for a broken thumb, as well as arm and leg injuries. 

The following day, as Alberti was limping down the street supported by a cane, Muller jumped out of a car and charged him. Alberti laid the cane across Muller’s face a good three times, but Muller tore into him, punching him hard in the face and stomach. A storeowner who witnessed the beating through his storefront window came out of his shop with a .357 revolver with a four-inch barrel. Muller saw the huge gun and ran to his car and drove off.

That night Alberti went to see Tommy Rosetti, the Cosa Nostra soldier who ran the card game at the mob clubhouse. Alberti told the mobster about Muller attacking him again. Rosetti, angry that Muller had started a fight in the clubhouse and attacked one of his best players, and then attacked him again in public, reported the situation to his capo, or crew captain, at a neighborhood bar.

The mob captain, Anthony “Tony Deuce” Licco, an obese 60-year-old with thick glasses who rarely rose from his claimed chair at the back of the bar, ordered a “sit down” with Alberti and Muller. He also asked Joey Pirro, the D&O crew boss, to attend the meeting.  Piro, a short muscular fireplug of a man, accompanied Muller to the sitdown.  

At the sitdown, Licco told Muller and Alberti that fights in the clubhouse were bad for business. Piro agreed. They drew unwanted attention to the club and the lucrative card games. After Licco and Piro heard both Muller and Alberti's side of the conflict, Piro spoke up and ordered Muller to lay off Alberti. He also told Muller to pay Alberti's medical bills. 

Two days after the sitdown Alberti entered the bar and saw Licco sitting in his chair like a king on a throne. Licco motioned him over.   

“Don’t worry about Arnie Animal no more,” Licco told Alberti. “He was put down by his own people like the mad dog he was.” 

Licco smiled and raised his glass of wine. 

Alberti was later visited by the FBI. The FBI agents informed him that they had captured Licco’s voice on a wiretap ordering Alberti’s murder. According to the wiretap recording, the Cosa Nostra capo and the D&O gang boss had struck a deal.

“Let’s whack em’ both,” the FBI recorded Licco as saying.

         

“I was scared,” Alberti said to me. “I went into hiding. Only the FBI had my number." 

Alberti said the FBI contacted him again and said that a D&O hoodlum named Billy Kelly, a beefy bar bouncer and D&O enforcer, had been arrested on drug trafficking charges. Kelly quickly flipped to the feds. Kelly told the FBI about how Piro led Arnie Animal to a meeting at a closed garage. 

As Muller sat down in a folding chair across from Piro, Kelly placed a rope around Muller’s neck and attempted to strangle him. Piro shot Muller in the chest with a 9mm Beretta. Muller, according to Kelly, “went nuts.”

Muller twisted out of the rope around his neck and shoved Kelly into a parked car. Muller then punched Piro, who fell to the floor as Kelly jumped on Muller's back.

“He fought like a wild animal,” Kelly told the FBI.

While Kelly and Muller fought, Piro got up from the floor, picked up his Beretta and fired two shots point-blank into Muller’s head. Muller dropped to the garage floor with a loud thud.

Kelly told the FBI he dumped Muller's body on a road in South Jersey, and the FBI agents went across the Walt Whitman bridge and recovered it.

Alberti said that Muller was unmarried and had no children or close relatives. He also lacked any true friends.  

“I doubt that Arnie Animal will be missed by anyone,” Alberti said. "Everyone knew he was a crazy violent prick."

Kelly agreed to become a cooperating witness, and he gave the FBI and the U.S. Attorney in Philadelphia a good bit of information about the D&O’s criminal activities. But the FBI agents were disappointed to discover that Alberti didn’t know much about the D&O’s drug trafficking operation, or anything major about the South Philly mob.

"I told them FBI guys that I was only a degenerate gambler. I don't know nothing about mob stuff."  

But based on the wiretap recording and Kelly's testimony, the FBI arrested Licco and Piro on murder and related charges. 

Alberti finished his drink, got up and shook my hand.

“I’m off to sunny Florida,” he said. 

© 2025 Paul Davis 

My PhillyDaily Crime Beat Column: The Murder Of A South Philly Barber

 PhillyDaily.com posted my first weekly Crime Beat column for the popular website. 

You can read the column via the below link or the text below: 

The Murder of a South Philly Barber - Philly Daily

The Philadelphia Police recently announced that charges against Michael Piselli (seen in his mugshot below), 38, were upgraded to murder in the beating death of Santo Procopio (seen in the above photo), a 78-year-old South Philadelphia barber.  

Procopio was brutally beaten in his South Philadelphia home in December of 2024. He was pronounced dead on December 14, 2024, after he’d been treated for severe injuries that included cuts to his head and chin, facial fractures and brain bleeding. 

Philadelphia police officers responded to a report of a person screaming on 10th and Oregon Avenue on December 2nd, and they discovered Procopio in his kitchen bleeding from his massive injuries. Procopio was rushed to the Jefferson University Hospital in critical condition, according to the police.

Piselli was identified quickly as the suspect and he was taken into custody by the police. The Philadelphia Police said that their investigation revealed that Piselli had been acting irrationally in Procopio’s backyard. A witness to Piselli’s behavior called the police after Piselli entered Procopio’s home and locked the witness out of the home. Police said Piselli entered the home and assaulted Procopio repeatedly. 

The witness told police that he saw the attack through the kitchen window. He saw Piselli hitting Procopio while he was lying on the kitchen floor. Piselli left the house and ran down the street. Police searched the area, found Piselli, and arrested him. He was charged with a variety of assault offences.  

The Philadelphia Police said Piselli was processed at the Special Detention Division, and the Homicide Unit is now conducting an investigation.

I’ve covered many murder cases over the years while working as a reporter and crime columnist, but this case is of special interest to me as Santo Procopio was not only my barber for many years, he was also a good friend. I thought of Santo, and his late brother Vince, as my uncles. I have been Santo’s customer and friend since I was a teenager in the 1960s. 

Santo and Vincent Procopio came to Philadelphia from Calabria, Italy in 1955 and opened their barber shop in 1965. In the 1960s, when I frequented the shop as a teenager, and into the 70s, 80s and 90s, the Vince and Santo’s barber shop on Sartain and Oregon Avenue had a congenial atmosphere akin to an old-fashioned taproom bar or a social club — minus the alcohol. The barber shop was authentically “South Philly.” 

When I wrote about the barber shop in 1994 for Philadelphia Weekly, I quoted Vince Procopio, who said, “We are a friendly shop. Everybody is more of a friend than a customer. We have customers who have moved to New Jersey and other places far away, but they still come back here for a haircut. A lot of shops give them a haircut and throw them out. Our friends stay and talk about the salaries of ball players and such. This is an Italian neighborhood, although we have all kinds living here, and we all get along.” 

Thanks to their loyal, multi-generational following, the shop remained open for years even during the long hair days of the 1960s, when many other barber shops folded. Other than the four years I spent in the Navy overseas, I went only to Vince and Santo’s barber shop for my regular haircut. 

Back in the late 1970s, I was a young gambler. I was a fair poker player, and I bet widely on sports games. I usually did alright, win some, lose some. But when I had a bad week and lost heavily, I would invariably go to Santo. He would shake his head in disappointment, and he would caution me about betting heavily, but he was always there for me, as he was there for many of the young men in my South Philly crowd. 

Many years after I gave up gambling and other vices, and I married and started a family, I would be in the barber shop waiting to get a haircut and I would see Santo giving sound advice and sometimes money to people in trouble. He would also reach out to his friends and ask them to give a troubled soul a job or medical care. 

Santo retired a few years ago, but he continued to help others. I recently spoke to a mutual friend who told me that Michael Piselli had drug and mental issues, and Santo Procopio had been helping him.

Piselli, it appears, rewarded Santo for his good efforts by brutally beating him to death.

No good deed goes unpunished, as the saying goes. Santo Procopio did not deserve to die this way.

Paul Davis’s Crime Beat column appear here weekly, He is also a frequent contributor to Broad + Liberty and Counterterrorism magazine. He can be reached at pauldavisoncrime.com.