The Dwarves of Whiskey Island

WHAT I KNOW—what anyone knows—of Dominic Lloyd Mazurich’s last few hours, is pieced together from police and forensic reports, a few witnesses, and public records. It goes something like this . . .

Mazurich holds his last press conference at Cleveland City Hall at about 6:30 in the afternoon. It is in a small meeting room off of Council Chambers that is packed with reporters. The scene of the press conference, as was the City Council session that preceded it, is more hectic than usual. The Supreme Court has just issued a ruling against the city about jurisdiction over the Portal, which happens to be the city’s prime—pretty much only—natural resource. The expectation, of course, is that Mazurich will issue some sort of statement about impending federal annexation of northeast Ohio’s golden goose.

That is not what is on Mazurich’s mind.

Mazurich is a large man in every conceivable dimension. Tall and wide, with an expansive personality. He started as a union organizer, and he retains that blue-collar air. He can stand at the head of a roomful of a thousand people and make everyone feel as if he is one of them. He can give anyone the impression that he is on their side, if he wants to.

He walked out of a shutdown West Side steel plant two decades ago, and walked into City Council with a promise that he would pull his ward out of the economic depression the steel collapse had left it in. In his first three years, he pulled off a minor miracle, halving an unemployment rate that had started at nearly forty percent. By the time the Portal opened, the decommissioned steel plant had been replaced by a high-tech office park—built largely by the local labor force.

When the chaos from the Portal hit, he hooked his star to Mayor Rayburn, and managed to get the companies in his ward a major slice of the city contracts rebuilding the information infrastructure in Cleveland. When the dust settled, two years later, the unemployment rate in his ward was below the city average for the first time in a quarter century.

When Rayburn won reelection, Mazurich was elected as council president. He’s been council president for eight years, and the current consensus is that the only thing that might keep him from serving eight more would be a successful run for the mayor’s office.

Mazurich walks in frowning, an uncharacteristic expression. He steps in front of the lectern, facing the room of reporters. For a few moments, the assumption is that his displeasure is due to the Supreme Court ruling. No one in city government is happy about it. The federalization of the Portal represents a loss of jobs, money, and power for the city of Cleveland.

Mazurich clears his throat and pulls a dirty, wrinkled piece of paper out of his pocket. He glances down at it and says, “I only have a short statement, and I’m afraid I will not be taking any questions.”

He takes a deep breath and deflates a little. His tie is somewhat askew, a detail picked up by many political cartoonists. Suit and tie have never worn well on Mazurich’s large frame.

“Effective 7:30 PM today I have resigned my position on City Council.”

There is, perhaps, a second or two of shocked silence. Something rare in the journalistic profession, complete, sincere, and universal surprise. There have been no rumors, no leaks, no hint of anything like this on Lakeside Avenue or off.

“Brenda Carlson will be acting councilwoman in my absence, and I have directed my staff to work with the next council president to effect a smooth transition. I have served my ward for twenty years, and it is my deep regret that I cannot serve them any longer.”

Then, of course, the questions. Everyone shouts at once in the vain hope that Mazurich—who’d been, up to his announcement, the second most powerful man in Cleveland—might break and answer a question out of frustration, if nothing else. People ask him if he plans to run for mayor, if he consulted with Mayor Rayburn—or anyone—about his decision, and, of course, everyone wants to know—

Mazurich stares at them. His expression is odd. He’s a career politician, but he looks shocked and slightly afraid, as if the attack of journalists is a surprise to him. He stands at the lectern as if dumbfounded, a state so incongruous that the questions slack off a bit.

To the consternation of his audience, Mazurich doesn’t utter a single word more. He turns and exits the room without any further acknowledgment. As the door closes behind him, the sound of shouted questions is replaced by electronic clicks and beeps as the reporters rush to make cell phone calls and e-mails to catch the next edition, and in a few cases, the next broadcast.

Mazurich dismisses all his staff around 6:45 PM. They are all loyal, and have been working for him for over a decade in some cases. The feelings range from betrayal to despair. No one understands what he is doing, and the impact leaves the half dozen city employees shell-shocked and mute. Most of them end up in a bar down the street from City Hall and remain there for the next four hours.

Mazurich’s secretary, Pam Lebowitz—who’s worked for him the longest, close to eighteen years—doesn’t join the others at the bar. At 7:00 pm, she walks into Mazurich’s office to see him sitting at his computer. Mazurich looks up at her and closes the briefcase on his desk.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks.

His answer is abrupt and uncharacteristically cold, “I’ve said all I’m going to say on the subject.”

“You owe me, all of us, an explanation.”

“Owe you?” Mazurich shakes his head. “Owe you? I’ve given my life to this city. I lost a marriage and two kids. I gave and gave until this thankless job is all I have left. Now I’ve given that. How dare you. Owe? Owe?” He slams a large fist down on the desk, and stands up, toppling the precariously balanced briefcase. It tumbles to the floor spilling papers and CDs. “This city owes me!”

His dumbfounded secretary looks down at the spilled briefcase and bends over. “I’ll get that, sir.”

He steps in front of it and says, “You’ll get out. I don’t want you in here.”

Mazurich’s expression softens. “Please, Pam. I can’t tell you what you want to hear. It’s over. Leave it at that.”

“Let an old man go home.”

Pam knows him well. She senses the pain, which only adds to her own confusion. She’s run this man’s life for nearly two decades, set up his meetings, his travel plans, rallies large and small. She’s been a part of every decision he’s made in his public life—except this one.

“Please, Pam. You can’t help me anymore.”

Something in his voice causes her to back away, a decision she will regret the rest of her life. “Dominic, please, if you need to talk . . .”

“I’m your friend. We all are.”

“I know. I just need to be alone now, please.”

Pam leaves him as he picks the papers up off of the floor. Behind him, the screen of his workstation is flashing block letters on an otherwise blank screen, “Format Complete.”

At some point before 8:30, he drives though his hometown neighborhood, and pulls into the driveway of his two-story frame house. The house belonged to his father, and his grandfather, both steelworkers and union to the core. Twenty years ago, you could have seen the stacks of the steel plant from the front porch.

No lights greet him as he pulls in the driveway. His two children are grown and his wife is separated from him—has been for three years now. The only thing preventing their divorce is the fact that both of them still hold Catholic beliefs.

He sits in the driveway of the empty house for some time. According to a later statement to investigators, a neighbor walks his dog past Mazurich’s house and sees him sitting in the darkened vehicle at 8:30, then at 8:45.

A little before 9:00, Mazurich walks into his house. He doesn’t turn on any lights, and he doesn’t lock the side door behind him. At this point, he knows what he’s doing. He walks upstairs, feeling his way in the dark. In the bedroom he sits down on the edge of the bed, by the nightstand. He takes off his shoes and sets them neatly on the floor by the nightstand. He loosens his tie and slips it off over his head, hanging it on the corner of the headboard. He takes his wedding ring off and sets it on the nightstand. He places his wallet next to it.

Then, he opens the drawer to the nightstand and pulls out a thirty-two caliber automatic. He takes out the magazine and removes every bullet except one, setting the ammunition neatly back in the drawer. With one bullet, he replaces the magazine and chambers the round. He places the barrel in his mouth.