by Owen Parr
They both eyed each other. Finally, Charles answered, “Joey, no matter what you think of us, the captain likes you and knows you have a nose for solving cases. The moment he got a call from the commissioner, he knew something was up. The fact is, we’ve been tagging you ‘cause the captain felt you were onto something and he wanted us to help you when and if it became necessary.”
Farnsworth added, “And here we are, making sure the chain of custody isn’t broken with your evidence.”
I didn’t know if this was bullshit or if these guys were being honest with me. But I was stuck with them. I gazed out the window as Farnsworth drove to the precinct, not really focusing on anything I was seeing.
My cell phone vibrated; it was Marcy. “How’s Lucy?”
“She’s banged up, probably a concussion, but I think she’ll be fine.”
“What about the item?” she asked.
“Under police protection. Are you still at the pub?”
“Father Dom and I are making calls like you asked. So far, everyone has reluctantly agreed to come.”
“Great. I’ll be back after we lock this up at the precinct,” I said, and then I remembered Mr. Edmonton. “Do me a favor, Lucy. Call the director, Jimmy, at Downing Homeless Shelter in Jersey, and inquire about Mr. Daniels. Call me back after you speak to him. Thanks.”
“What about Edmonton?”
“I had Jersey police detach a squad car to pick him up. I was concerned about his safety. If this hit-and-run was on purpose, then someone knows what we have, and his life could be in danger.”
“Really, you think that?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“I’ll find out his whereabouts,” Marcy said, as I disconnected my phone.
26
The scent of the detective squad hadn’t changed; it was like I was home again. You could smell the food that lingered around various desks, from morning coffee to stale bagels and doughnuts. I hung around the precinct while Farnsworth and Charles logged the evidence, greeting other detectives and friends that were in this morning. Everyone moved around doing their duties in the coordinated chaos that always existed in the room.
As Farnsworth and Charles walked out of the evidence room, my cell phone vibrated again. I was hoping it was news about Edmonton, but the caller ID read “Roberts.”
“This is Mancuso,” I answered.
“Joey, Harry here. Can you come over to New York Presbyterian?”
“Of course, Harry, what’s up? How’s Lucy?”
“She’s gone into a coma, but before she did, she kept saying your name.”
“I’ll be right over, Harry. Hang in there; she’s going to be all right,” I said, not really knowing if she would be.
I turned to the guys and asked, “Can you drop me off at New York Presbyterian?”
Charles replied, “Of course, man, why?”
“Lucy is in a coma. Her husband would like me to be there.”
“Let’s go,” Charles said. “Did you say hello to the captain?”
“Never got around to it, maybe after. I appreciate this,” I replied.
We took off in their car, lights and sirens blaring again. Once there, I rushed to the emergency room as Farnsworth and Charles wished the best for Lucy.
I could see the long faces of Harry and his sons, Dean and Sammy, as I approached them in the waiting room. We hugged, and few words were exchanged.
I sat next to Harry. “How is she doing?”
“They found a brain aneurysm, but they’re treating it. She’s still in a coma.”
“Anything else?”
“Just the concussion, nothing else, no.”
“I know it’s hard, but both of those are treatable. Where’s Frank, your oldest son?”
“He’s driving from White Plains. He should be here soon.”
I wanted to make small talk, but found it tough. “What’s he doing in White Plains?”
“He’s with IBM now. Great opportunity for him, and he’s not that far from us.”
“He’s a bright boy. He’ll go far in whatever he does,” I said, not knowing what else to add. I patted his right knee as he sat back, and we both closed our eyes. People were moving around through the wide hallways with white-tiled floors. Patients were being scooted in gurneys every which way, and the all-too-familiar loudspeakers kept asking doctors to report somewhere. Hospitals had a rhythm and sound of their own. I hated that.
As I sat back, I went into a semi-conscious sleep that took me back to when the roles had been reversed. Two years ago, Lucy and I responded to an active shooter, “10-32,” a person with a gun call, in upper Manhattan. We were first on the scene, and an incident commander hadn’t been established yet. One of the various 911calls said one shooter shot people on the tenth floor of the building. The dispatcher informed us that the space was leased to a small company that was an online marketer of various electronic products. It was called OnlineSales, and the shooter hadn’t been identified.
Not waiting for backups, Lucy and I decided to enter the building and took the elevator to the ninth floor. Our plan was to cautiously walk up the stairs to the location of the 10-32.
We carefully entered the floor with me leading the effort and Lucy behind and covering me. Moans and screams could be heard from various offices. As we attempted to enter some offices, we found doors locked—certainly a response to the first of three protocol rules that many office building and companies began to adopt for occupants and employees after the incidence of these type of crimes increased.
Had the shooter been there already, and people hurt? Or was the shooter still in one of these offices? We had no way of knowing the location of the shooter, unless he fired again. Something we were hoping would not occur. After what seemed like an eternity but was only a few minutes, we heard a man screaming in one of the offices. We both approached carefully and quietly.
As I put my ear to the door, I could clearly make out the voice of a man, with a certain Asian accent, demanding to know where the owner of the company was hiding. From what I could hear, his demeanor was rapidly becoming agitated as he got louder and louder in his demand.
“I kill her if you don’t tell,” I heard him say. Based on that, I assumed that there must be two people in that office besides the shooter. He was talking to one and threatening the second. Or, while others could be in the room, the “I kill her” could mean he was pointing his gun at a specific person, ignoring however many others could be present.
Not knowing how many victims were in a room and, more importantly, the location of the shooter was not an ideal situation for bursting into a room with guns ablaze. Calling to him could exacerbate the situation. From training, we know that, in these events, the shooter has an acute awareness that he or she is not going to survive. They know that there are three choices, two of which lead to their likely death: being shot at the scene and committing suicide are the most common, with being arrested a third but improbable result. Knowing that, the shooter is likely to attempt to cause the most damage as his or her imminent end nears.
The next thing we heard after his last loud demand was a shot and a scream. In a matter of seconds, I told Lucy I was going in and heard her say my name. I slammed into the door, with my upper body and left shoulder leading the way. It all turned into a slow-motion movie, although things were happening at incredible speed. In movies, the hero breaks down the door, locates the perpetrator, and shoots them on the spot, saving the day.
But I wasn’t in a movie. I broke open the door but fell on top of it as my body kept going from the energy I had generated. Unlike a Hollywood scene, I saw the Asian man holding one pistol in each hand as I rolled on the floor. I remember his eyes opening wide with surprise. Before I had a chance to recover from my embarrassing entrance, I saw him lower the gun in his left hand, again in slow motion. I think I even saw the round as it left the barrel of his gun and traveled directly to my left hip. The pain that overtook me left me frozen on
the floor.
In my peripheral vision, I saw a shadow over me and heard three rounds fire in rapid succession. My first thought was that the shooter was finishing me off, but I felt no more pain. The shadow had been my partner, Lucy, as she entered the room and killed the perp on the spot with two shots to the head and one to the chest. He died before he even touched the ground.
The last thing I remember was the word “ass.” Later, Lucy told me she leaned down and said to me, “Wait ‘til I tell the story of your entrance and falling on your ass, cowboy.” We found out subsequently that the Asian man had been an employee who was fired a week before.
My eyes opened, and I realized I’d fallen asleep on the chair. As I focused, I could see Frank, Harry’s oldest son, embracing his dad and two other brothers.
“I’m sorry, guys. I fell asleep.”
“Nothing to worry about,” said Frank, embracing me as I got up, with a little smile.
I asked, “Good news?”
Harry turned to me and replied, “Nothing official yet, but one of the nurses inside Lucy’s room gave us the thumbs up through the window. We’re hopeful.”
27
Lucy was going to be all right. The meds to combat the aneurysm were working, and she’d awakened from the coma. Only Harry could walk in her room and be with her for a few minutes. Her only response had been to smile at Harry, but that itself was a good sign.
Marcy arrived at the waiting room and embraced Harry's boys. Nodding for me to remove myself from the group, she said, “Edmonton is fine. Jimmy, the director of the shelter, had him taken to another shelter in Newark, and an officer stayed behind.”
I was relieved. “That’s good news. We don’t need anyone else hurt because of this.”
“I can’t help but remember the last time I was here,” Marcy began. “It was you then. I thought you were—” she paused.
“I know. I just had a flashback to that event, a few moments ago.”
“You lost so much blood; we were all concerned.”
We were standing a few feet away from the waiting room. Looking at her face, I grabbed both her hands and asked, “Was that the moment you decided you needed more time to think about us?”
She remained quiet for a few seconds. Taking a deep breath, she said, “It was, Joey. Like I’ve said before, with Dad’s death in ‘Nam and then Alberto deployed in Iraq for a year, it was hell for Mom and me. I don’t think I can live with the daily fear of losing you. You and I have witnessed too many of those stories.”
“The good news is, I’m not in law enforcement anymore. I’m not risking my life every day.”
“I need to know: would you ever consider going back to law enforcement?”
So that was her fear, me going back to work as a detective. I said, “When I joined the NYPD sixteen years ago, I wanted to make a difference. In all honesty, it was either be a part of righteousness, or follow in my dad’s footsteps in a life of crime. So, I dedicated myself to being the best at what I was doing, always with the goal of being a homicide detective. It bothered me, and still does, to see innocent people die at the hands of others. You can say that my father taught me a lot of what not to do.”
“So, it wasn’t Father Dom that pushed you into the police force?”
“Dom had a big influence in my life. He may have been the catalyst or offered the guidance for me to see a better way of life. But it always bothered me to see the injustices committed and the total lack of respect for life that some displayed around me when I was a kid. No, Father Dom didn’t push me; he showed me a different way: I could be a good person, something I was searching for myself.”
“I understand. But I can’t live with the fear that I might come home one day, and you won’t come back from work.”
“You still want to know if I would, assuming I could, join a police force?”
“Yes.”
I gazed into those beautiful green eyes of hers and knew she wouldn’t be happy with my answer, but I had to be honest with her. “Marcy, I don’t want to have to rule it out or make promises that I may not be able to keep. Who’s to say what the future holds for us? We’re young. You can’t define your future with certainty. You can plan and wish for something, but destiny is dealing the cards. The best we can do is learn and be prepared to deal with the opportunities and the challenges dealt to us.”
“It hurt me when you refused to take the medical disability offered you then. You could’ve walked out with almost your entire salary as disability pay.”
“Why would that hurt you?” I asked, somewhat confused.
“It showed me that your job was your number-one priority, and I was second. You ignored my pleas then, and that hurt me.”
I could’ve turned that around about her job. But I’ve learned never to ask a question I don’t already know the answer to. What if she said, “Yes, I’ll give up my work for you anytime.” Then what? Instead, I embraced her and said softly, “I see it now, but I didn’t see it then. I was selfish, but honestly, back then, I thought you were being selfish asking me to give up a career I loved. I’m sorry, Marcy. I do love you.”
“Thank you, that means a lot. I love you,” she replied, pushing back a bit and kissing me gently on the lips.
I smiled. “Then. That settles it.”
She let go of the embrace and stepped back, smiling. “Not so fast, cowboy. Let’s finish this case. I may still get transferred to Siberia.”
“The FBI has a field office there?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, but you just might end up running the office here in New York, if we put all these clues together.”
“We’ll see.”
“Regardless, my clock is ticking,” I said, laughing. “Mancuso, your clock is just fine.”
Frank walked over to us. “Joey, Dad says to come over. You can go in and see Mom now.”
Lucy was alert and talking. She seemed weak, yet was in good spirits. She flashed as big a smile as she could muster when I walked in and waved me closer. “Is Edmonton okay?”
That was probably what she wanted to ask me before she went into a coma. “He is, Lucy. He’s safe.”
She smiled and closed her eyes, adding faintly, “Sorry about lunch Sunday.”
“Hah, you have a rain check on the moros. We’ll do it soon. Not a problem.”
Marcy and I said our goodbyes to Harry and the boys. It was time for the family to be together, and we had to plan our reveal for Monday morning.
28
Sunday
I was stressing about the presentation on Monday. Sunday's break was perfect to plan and prepare. Marcy and I enjoyed a peaceful day in her apartment. In the evening, we headed back to the pub to help Mr. Pat and the staff close. I wanted to set up for Monday’s whodunit game. Upon closing, we moved all the tables that covered the center of the establishment to the walls. We lined up the captain’s chairs theater-style, with their backs facing the front door of the pub.
From last count, I knew we had a full house showing up. The five participants, or our suspects, had all agreed to come in. Some of them had said their attorneys would accompany them to this “charade,” as one called it. Then we had law enforcement personnel who had also been invited and acquiesced to participate, albeit unwillingly. Finally, I had two more groups, our humble team, including Agnes and a handful of surprise guests. It isn’t that I have a flair for the dramatic, but it’d be fun to expose some of these folks in front of an audience.
We’d worked hard to put all these clues together, and we’d uncovered a series of other potential wrongdoings along the way. Someone was guilty of a double murder, maybe more, and Joey Mancuso wasn’t going to let innocent people die without exposing the perpetrators.
Jonathan Parker may have been guilty of a few things himself, after all he wasn’t without sin. But murder wasn’t the way his life should’ve ended. I’ve noticed that there is a credit and a debit counter. There is a double-entry system in life. While my
brother will tell you exactly who the Master Accountant is without hesitation, for us wishy-washy believers, all I can say is, someone is keeping score. Regardless of our position in life, the double-entry system works. Some call it karma. Jonathan Parker was a son to his parents and a husband to his wife. Perfect or imperfect, his life shouldn’t have ended as abruptly as it did.
Kathy Miller, our Stella, was another innocent victim. She was in her twenties, full of life, with a young boyfriend to partake in a future they together should have chosen. Her righteousness and willingness to do the right thing cost her the ultimate sacrifice. I wasn’t going to let her killer go free.
And then there was John Doe, my unsolved murder, in my last case at the force. Homelessness itself is a penalty, brought about by circumstances and probably in some cases, by choice. I don’t know if the double-entry system had caught up with my John Doe. Perhaps it had, but it wasn’t for another person to cash him out the way they did. Whatever the reason, my Mr. Doe was homeless. Whatever penalty he was paying, if any, was his to live with. This case was allowed to go cold—thus, my indignation at the time. My investigation became a cold case. Not because we couldn’t find a perpetrator, but due to some political pressure. The lack of respect for his life by whoever decided to close his murder investigation was beyond my comprehension. This case was a bitter remembrance for me, and I’d carried that bitterness with me for over a year. I was excited to finally unveil Mr. Doe’s killer.
As usual, I ended up at Marcy’s for a quiet evening, some adult beverages, and a romantic night. My life was good, but I still wasn’t fulfilled. I really felt that I’d found in Marcy my soul mate, and I didn’t want to lose that opportunity. I’ve always heard that luck happens when opportunity meets preparation. I was prepared to do whatever, including giving up a chance to be in law enforcement again, if the opportunity to be with Marcy forever became a reality.