Midwest
Firefighter paramedic led secret life as mafia hitman before family fell apart: son
In 2013, Ken Tekiela revealed a secret to his son that he had been keeping for over 20 years.
At the time, he had been battling a crippling heroin addiction for about a decade and had been estranged from the 28-year-old for about five years. But his firstborn, who believed things were worsening for the patriarch, put him in a detox facility to help him get clean.
“He relapsed a few times, but his journey to recovery was positive,” Kyle Tekiela told Fox News Digital. “Once he felt like he had recovered . . . I think that opened up some doors for him. And I think it gave him the confidence to tell me. But it was a huge shock. It was like, ‘Did I hear that correctly?’”
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Ken Tekiela at the firehouse, circa 1984. (Kyle Tekiela)
Tekiela, a celebrated firefighter paramedic and father of two, confessed that he had led a secret double life as a hitman for the Chicago mob.
Kyle is now detailing his father’s story in a true-crime podcast titled “Crook County,” a co-production of iHeartPodcasts and Tenderfoot TV.
It explores how Tekiela, known as “The Kid,” reportedly rose through the ranks of the Chicago Outfit and its lasting impact on his family. It features candid sit-down interviews with Tekiela and other loved ones.
Kyle Tekiela is an award-winning filmmaker and Ken Tekiela’s oldest son. (Kyle Tekiela)
“These are family secrets that probably should have stayed buried,” Kyle admitted. “But they’ve come to light, and it’s not easy to digest.
“It took a long time for me to process it before I was confident enough to share it with others. But I did have to ask myself, is this something we bury forever? Or do we own it and say, ‘This is who we are,’ and make the best of it and maybe learn some lessons from it, too?”
Ken Tekiela is seen here cooking in the firehouse kitchen. In 1982, he passed all his tests to become a firefighter paramedic. Kyle Tekiela said his father asked the original capo who invited him into the Outfit if he could pursue his dream of working for the fire department. The capo, whose name wasn’t revealed, gave him his blessing. (Kyle Tekiela)
Growing up, Kyle saw his father as “a local hero” who was revered in his community. Working 24-hour shifts and being away from home was normal for Tekiela and his family. However, he always remained devoted to his most important role – that of father.
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“Crook County” is available for streaming. (iHeartPodcasts and Tenderfoot TV)
“That was his job,” said Kyle. “We thought we had a super dad growing up. He was a firefighter paramedic, and their schedules are typically somewhere around 24, 48 hours or somewhere in between. That gave him a lot of time away from home.”
Tekiela’s dedication to duty stemmed from tragedy. In 1979, American Airlines Flight 191 crashed near Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. A total of 273 people died. Tekiela was about 23 years old at the time.
Aerial view of emergency vehicles the morning after the plane crashed at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago on May 26, 1979. (UPI/Bettmann Archive/Getty Images)
“Watching all these first responders, firefighters and paramedics go and try to get control of the scene inspired him,” said Kyle. “That’s what made him go, ‘I want to be that. I want to help people.’ At that point, he had been working for the mob, not helping people.”
According to “Crook County,” Ken Tekiela successfully kept his mafia life a secret from his family and closest friends for over two decades. (Kyle Tekiela )
But before duty called, Tekiela described having a tumultuous childhood. He said he was kicked out of his house by his mother at age 16. Struggling to find a way and living out of his car, a desperate Tekiela robbed a drug dealer, who turned out to be the nephew of a capo. The FBI describes a capo in the mafia as a ranking made member who leads a crew of soldiers, similar to a military captain.
The Chicago Outfit was the city’s branch of the American mafia. Its most notorious leader was Al Capone. (Photo12/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)
Tekiela was 17 at the time. Kyle said the capo found his father and questioned him. Then he made an offer that the patriarch couldn’t refuse.
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Ken Tekiela’s high school photo. (Kyle Tekiela)
“It was the wrong place, wrong time, wrong decision,” Kyle explained. “But he had spunk. And the capo saw that. So they brought him in. He had nowhere else to go, so he had no choice. . . . He was the little guy under their wings. He was ‘The Kid.’ And he wanted to impress them.”
According to Kyle, Tekiela’s role in the Outfit was to “take out the people that the mob wanted out of the mob.”
“People who were f—–g up and being selfish, or stealing from the organization,” Kyle explained.
Ken Tekiela with his then-girlfriend, Holly. They married in 1984. (Kyle Tekiela)
Kyle believes that the secret to his father’s survival – not getting killed or thrown in jail – was “not asking too many questions.” In 1982, Tekiela became a firefighter paramedic, making him an asset to the Outfit.
“It was about just doing your job, doing it well, and going home – not doing anything extra,” said Kyle. “A lot of these guys did stuff on the side to get extra money. They’re selling drugs, which you’re not supposed to do. They were running girls. They were stealing. . . . He didn’t want to be like those other guys. And I think mentally, that took him a long way.”
The Chicago Outfit was active in the city during the ‘70s and ’80s. Seen here is a mugshot of Chicago Outfit mob boss Joseph “Joey” Hohn Aiuppa (1907-1997), circa 1980. (Potter and Potter Auctions/Gado/Getty Images)
“Who knows what would have happened if he didn’t become a firefighter,” Kyle reflected. “And I think selfishly, the mob realized that, as a first responder, he’s an asset. They’ve got someone going to crime scenes. . . . He can have a family, be a civilian, but [the mob] also has a guy on the inside who can do their bidding – or their beating, I should say.”
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Ken Tekiela in his 20s. By then he was working with the Chicago Outfit, his son claimed. (Kyle Tekiela)
Tekiela’s wife never suspected that her husband may have had a double life. They married in 1984 and Kyle was born a year later.
“For my mom, ignorance was bliss,” said Kyle. “She believed everything he told her. She didn’t dig. She wasn’t suspicious. And if she’s not suspicious, the kids are not suspicious.
“He was able to keep that whole world away from our little home that he kept outside the city in the suburbs. It was just a regular middle-class town. And because of his career as a firefighter, he had respect in the community. And he had that time away from the house to do whatever he needed to do for the Outfit.”
Ken Tekiela fighting a fire. In 1999, he suffered a work-related injury that resulted in an addiction to heroin. (Kyle Tekiela)
Things took a turn when Kyle was in high school. When he was about 16 years old, his parents began fighting frequently. He noticed that his father’s inflamed veins “were terrible” and that he acted “erratic.”
“When I was 14, he got into an accident,” said Kyle. “He was holding a ladder for a firefighter who was going up into the attic of a tall ceiling warehouse during a fire. . . . The ladder kicked out, and it fell on top of the firefighter.
“The ladder and firefighter fell on top of my dad. . . . It almost killed him. He had a bunch of surgeries, and the doctors were prescribing opiates. . . . Then he just started using [heroin]. In his words, ‘I took a liking to those painkillers, but after a while it wasn’t enough.’ He got addicted, and it just became out of his control.”
Ken Tekiela with his wife Holly. Kyle Tekiela was 17 when he first suspected that his father was using drugs. (Kyle Tekiela)
The podcast details how Tekiela ultimately lost his job, and “everything fell apart pretty quickly” with the mob.
It was during Tekiela’s recovery at a detox facility, and a yearning to rebuild his relationship with his son, that he started opening up about his past.
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“I think . . . he feels relief and has accepted his reality, his history,” said Kyle. “He hasn’t lived a very good life over the last 10, 15 years. . . . It’s been hard. . . . I pay his rent. I just bought him a car. He’s like a child. And I think everyone knows my dad f—d up big time and destroyed our whole family. But they didn’t know why.”
Kyle Tekiela said the last time he saw his father was in 2023. (Kyle Tekiela)
“Even though the context is horrible, it’s still his story, and his story has meaning,” Kyle reflected. “I think for him, he thought, ‘Am I going to be a drug dealer or a drug addict who ruined my family, or am I going to finally tell people who I was, how I got there, how I tried to get out but couldn’t and how it fell apart?’
“Even after he told me all this stuff, even after all the pain and struggle we went through with his addiction, I still love him,” Kyle continued. “And I respect him more now that he finally told me everything. . . . Now I know there was a reason why he was keeping secrets. There’s a reason why he was on drugs. It’s hard to keep a secret, and he had to deal with the pain somehow.”
Kyle, himself a husband and father to a 10-year-old son, said that speaking to Tekiela for the podcast has been “a healing experience.” Today, Kyle and Ken speak on the phone “occasionally.” Kyle said he assumes his father is “still using in some capacity.”
Kyle Tekiela speaks to his father on the phone occasionally. (Kyle Tekiela)
“I can see the real remorse in him,” said Kyle. “When he tells these stories – these awful things he had to do – there’s real remorse. He’s ashamed of it all.”
Today, Tekiela has “zero fear” of speaking out. Kyle feels the same way.
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Ken Tekiela tells his story in “Crook County.” (Kyle Tekiela)
“This is not just another story about the mob,” said Kyle. “It’s a journey of discovery between a father and a son. . . . There’s a lot of growth. And the thing is, a lot of people don’t want to talk about their feelings. They feel it’s weak to talk about your feelings or to seek therapy. But by watching my dad essentially treat me like a therapist and tell me everything – I could see the weight lift off of him.”
“I think it’s so important for families to talk about hard truths,” said Kyle. “As soon as you start keeping secrets, that’s when it all falls apart.”
New episodes of “Crook County” are available for streaming weekly.
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Detroit, MI
Tigers’ Framber Valdez ejected as benches clear after hit-by-pitch
Scott Harris introduces Framber Valdez to Detroit Tigers after signing
President of baseball operations Scott Harris introduced left-hander Framber Valdez to the Detroit Tigers on Feb. 11, 2026, in Lakeland, Florida.
Detroit Tigers left-hander Framber Valdez was ejected from his start Tuesday, May 5, against the Boston Red Sox before recording an out in the fourth inning.
The 32-year-old was ejected by third-base umpire and crew chief Dan Iassogna for hitting Red Sox shortstop Trevor Story with a first-pitch 94.4 mph four-seam fastball – immediately after giving up back-to-back home runs.
The hit-by-pitch appeared to be intentional, especially because the pitch registered as the only four-seam fastball that Valdez has thrown in the 2026 season.
The Red Sox scored 10 runs off Valdez, including two in the fourth inning on home runs from Willson Contreras and Wilyer Abreu, both with bat flips. That’s when Valdez hit Story, who absorbed the pitch with his back.
Players and coaches from both teams’ benches and bullpens poured onto the field at Comerica Park.
Valdez stood near the mound during the skirmish, all while his teammates and coaches exchanged words with players and coaches from the Red Sox.
There was no brawl.
Before benches and bullpens cleared, Story stared down Valdez from near home plate, and Valdez took several steps in front of the pitching mound.
The two never came close to a fight.
Afterward, the umpires gathered, discussed what had happened and ejected Valdez. He didn’t protest the ejection, simply walking off the mound and into the clubhouse.
Both teams were warned not to retaliate.
Valdez – a two-time All-Star in his nine-year MLB career – allowed 10 runs (seven earned runs) on nine hits and one walk with three strikeouts across three-plus innings, throwing 45 of 60 pitches for strikes.
He generated six misses on 34 swings for a below-average 17.6% whiff rate, while the Red Sox averaged an above-average 93.3 mph exit velocity on 16 balls in play.
Valdez has a 4.57 ERA in eight starts.
The Tigers – led by president of baseball operations Scott Harris – signed Valdez in early February to a lucrative contract that will be worth three years, $115 million if he exercises his player option for the third season.
The deal set the MLB record for the highest average annual value guaranteed to a left-handed pitcher, at $38.3 million.
So far, the results have been disappointing.
The hit-by-pitch in Tuesday’s meltdown didn’t help.
Contact Evan Petzold at epetzold@freepress.com or follow him @EvanPetzold.
Milwaukee, WI
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Minneapolis, MN
Rosy Simas on Creating a Space for Peace in Minneapolis
MINNEAPOLIS — On February 12, Trump-appointed “border czar” Tom Homan announced the “end” of Operation Metro Surge, during which more than 4,000 federal agents aggressively targeted immigrant communities in the Twin Cities, causing massive chaos throughout the area and killing Renee Good and Alex Pretti. It seemed meaningful that the same day as Homan’s announcement, Minnesota-based interdisciplinary artist Rosy Simas opened A:gajë:gwah dësa’nigöëwë:nye:’ (i hope it will stir your mind) at the Walker Art Center. The contemplative installation slows the viewer down, inviting a soft sense of communion with objects such as salt bottles made from woven corn husks, each hung from a grid on the ceiling in honor of one of Simas’s relatives, and offering a site of peace amid fear and confusion.
The exhibition is inspired by her fifth great-grandfather’s half-brother Handsome Lake (Ganyodaiyo’), who experienced a vision after years of war and began teaching his people about working from the Seneca notion of a “good mind” in the early 1800s. The aforementioned sensory work, on view through July 5, is part of a two-part project, which also includes performances on May 13–16. Simas is most known for her choreography, but she has long explored visual art in tandem with dance, at times mounting installation exhibitions and performances concurrently, as she does with this project. She’s also been gaining national recognition as a visual artist, recently earning a Creative Capital Award for that side of her practice. Here, she discusses her latest endeavor.
Hyperallergic: How has the work changed since January?
Rosy Simas: The installation became more subtle. It was always intended to be a space that didn’t provoke, but maybe evoked. It is a space for people to rest their nervous systems, but also to inhabit a space made by a Haudenosaunee artist reflecting on what it means to try to create from a place of generating peace. I am interested in response, as opposed to reaction.

H: What is your experience of opening an exhibition in the midst of a federal occupation?
RS: When we knew that it was becoming more difficult for people to just exist around here, asking people to gather, that was sort of a no-brainer — that is not something that we can do. This isn’t a “just push through” moment. At the same time, I think having these kinds of spaces is really important during what feels like an oppressive occupation. It’s not even about a safe space. It’s a space where people can be with themselves.
Making work for a museum gallery is really difficult for me, because I like to think of the work as iterative, even within the time that it’s being shared. So for me, it’s difficult to put something up and let it be there until July, because things change.
H: You tend to want to go in there and shift things around?
RS: Yeah, the static nature of exhibitions is really challenging for me. That is part of why we’re doing so many community engagement activities around it, and also why there are two shows. The performance has more of a presentational aspect to it, where there is something being shared that has more dynamic ebb and flow, and it is also intended to draw an audience’s focus into what’s happening with the performers themselves — what they are expressing and what they are sharing.
That’s different from creating an environment for people to be inside of, where they can be with their own individual experience. There’s still something relational being asked of the people who go into the gallery. They’re asked to contemplate what I’ve put forward in terms of materials and what those materials mean. But it’s a little different than performance, where they’re being asked to exist in relationship to the performers.
H: One of the things that I experienced with the exhibition was the different spaces that you move through. You’re being invited to sit or to visit each station in an active way. It seemed almost like it’s choreography for the participant who’s viewing the work.
RS: In Haudenosaunee world, we do everything counterclockwise. There is an invitation to come in, turn to your right, and see the embroidery and the first set of treaty cloth panels. And then to see the salt bottles, the deerskin lace, the treaty panels with the corn husk, and end up back where the language pillar is, where you can feel the vibration of the language — how it feels through a sense of touch, and not just a sense of hearing. Nobody’s telling people to come in and move counterclockwise, but people are invited in that way.
My work as a body-based moving artist here is an important reference. The corn husk panels are hanging from a grid, and that’s intentional. The grid is made to reflect the way that I think as someone who primarily makes work in a theater setting: The way that the panels hang references how I think about stage design and how we experience performance in space.
H: On social media, you commented about the need for visibility for Native, BIPOC, and queer voices. Why is creating a space for that presence so important right now?
RS: Those voices are the ones that are being suppressed in all of this. We have to keep making work. There are people who haven’t been leaving their houses. There were people who became paralyzed and were unable to do their work. I have had serious moments of paralysis, for six to eight hours at a time, and that has been going on since January. And it’s not just because of this recent occupation, but it’s cumulative in many ways.
H: The space feels sacred. Was that something that you were going for?
RS: I don’t know that I would use that term, but what your experience of the space and how it feels to you is probably the most important thing to me.
It’s the same as making the dance work. From the first residency until now, the ideas around the dance work — not the meaning behind it, but the way that it’s presented and the space around it — shift depending on what environment we’re currently living in. And in Minneapolis since January, we’ve been experiencing a very particular environment, and my work happened to be made in that timeframe. I’ve put a lot of thought into creating a space that I think people need right now, in this very time.
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