Aamon turned and drifted away into the darkness behind the huge goat statue.
Finn was breathing heavily. For an instant, he felt as if the huge goat was freezing his legs in place. Suddenly, as if he had been poked by an electric prod, he was out the door, down the steps, and into the sanity of the Grammercy Park night.
Finn hesitated on the sidewalk taking several deep breaths to regain his composure. A shrill voice interrupted his meditation.
“That bastard left me again.” Carmen had an angry scowl on her face. “I don’t believe he did this to me again.”
Finn shrugged and again experienced a cold chill when Carmen’s scowl transitioned to a smile and she began rubbing his back. “Where are you going now, Finn? Are we going to take the train together?”
Finn began backing away. “Umm…no…I have to pick something up for my mother.” Finn turned and began trotting down 22nd Street. In the distance he heard the shrill cry, “Screw you too!”
The rocking of the LIRR train was not the cause of Finn's anxiety. He was shaken. Obviously, the masks, the chanting, the goat statue, and Carmen's performance were enough to shake anyone, but there was something about Aamon Lasalle that Finn found especially unsettling. Finn was looking out the window at the passing Queens landscape, but all he could see was that complexion as pale as the full moon, and those wide, black, sunken eyes, staring at him like a cobra seeking its prey. Then there was the slicked back hair, deep shadows under protruding cheek bones, and evil glint in his eyes. Finn shuddered and shook his head. He did not want to see that guy again.
It was around midnight when Finn carefully turned the key in his front door and tiptoed into the house. He was instantly surprised with the activity in the living room. His dad was nestled in his usual chair, cozy with a blanket, his eyes glued on the television. The scene caught Finn by surprise. "What are you doing up, pops? You never watch late night TV."
"Oh, hey Finneous." Patrick Delaney diverted his attention from the screen. "I just got a DVD in the mail today."
"What movie?"
"Three Cheers for the Irish."
"Never heard of it," Finn shrugged.
"I didn't think you would," Patrick replied. "It's a corny old 1940s movie about an Irish New York City cop."
"An Irish New York City cop," Finn chuckled. "How unique."
Patrick held up the DVD envelope that contained the handwritten movie title. "I hadn't seen the movie in years, and it was impossible to find online."
"Must be a great movie," Finn joked.
Patrick ignored his son's jab. "I finally found someone selling it on Ebay."
Finn took a close look at the handwritten envelope. "That's a bootleg copy. That's illegal"
"I won't tell anyone if you don't," Patrick snickered.
"I'm shocked," Finn scolded. "A deputy chief in the New York City Police Department dealing in bootleg videos. What's the world coming to?"
"Ok, smartass, are you going to sit down and join me?"
"Why not," Finn immediately assumed an outstretched position on the sofa.
"Hey!" Patrick chided. "If you're going to put your feet up on the couch, take your shoes off."
Patrick displayed the remote control and turned toward Finn. "Are you ready?"
Finn held up his hand. "Wait a minute, dad. Don't hit play yet. I want to ask you something."
Patrick put the remote down on the coffee table. "OK, Finneous, shoot."
"Remember I told you I was hired by the mother of the kid convicted of those murders in Alley Pond Park."
Patrick nodded. "Yeah, the Demon Murders. How's your case going?"
"Well," Finn explained," I don't really have any idea where it's going."
"What have you done, so far?" Patrick asked.
"I interviewed the kid at the mental hospital."
"How did that go?"
"You mean besides being totally depressing?"
"Yeah," Patrick laughed. "Those aren't very happy places."
"I don't know," Finn continued. "The kid doesn't seem like he'd be capable of murder, but that whole story of demons flying in - maybe he is nuts."
"What else have you done?"
"That's where I'm coming from," Finn continued. "The kid's mom found this card for the Church of Satan in Manhattan. She thinks this church is somehow involved."
Patrick's tone became somber. "Be very careful with this stuff, Finneous. Some of it is really dark."
Finn rolled his eyes. "Don't I know"
"What happened?"
"It was all so creepy. I went with Kevin and there were masks, and goat statues, chanting, conjuring demons, and the high priest, or whatever he calls himself, was a real ghoul."
"What did Kevin think of it?"
"I'll find out later today?"
"Why later today?" Patrick asked.
"Because he ran away and I haven't seen him."
Patrick threw his head back and laughed. "Your friend is some piece of work."
Finn shook his head. "I don't know what I thought I was going to accomplish, but the net result was that I accomplished nothing."
"Don't be so negative, Finneous," Patrick cautioned. "Investigations are a step by step methodical approach - leaving no stone unturned. You might think you accomplished nothing, but somewhere down the road, something you learned tonight may be valuable."
"Well," Finn continued. "I must be a lousy investigator because right now I feel like I'm at a dead end with no place else to go."
Patrick stretched and yawned. "Well, let's see if I can open the road for you."
"What's that mean?"
"I'm going to arrange for you to see two people."
"Who?"
"First, Paul Taggart."
"Who's he," Finn asked.
"Paul is a detective in the 111 Precinct Squad. Rusty McGowan was the detective who actually caught that Demon Murder case, but he retired right after he closed the case. Paul was there, however, and worked on the case."
"Thanks," Finn exclaimed. "That will be great."
Patrick held his hand up. "Just a minute, Finneous. There's another person I want you to talk to."
"Who else?"
"Chris Moritz. He's a sergeant in the Internal Affairs Bureau."
"IAB," Finn recoiled. "I don't think I understand."
Patrick waved his hand. "His assignment has nothing to do with why I want you to talk to him."
"Why do you want me to talk to him?"
"In his off-duty time, Chris is a demonologist."
Finn sat up in the couch. "Gimme a break. You can't be serious."
Patrick's expression remained serious. "Like I said before, don't fool around with this demon stuff. If you're going to continue with this case, I'm insisting that you talk to Chris."
Finn had seen the expression on his father's face many times over the years, and he knew from experience there would be no debate.
"Ok," Finn chirped. "I'll talk to him."
"Good," Patrick pressed play on the remote. "It's late and I haven't even had one cheer, no less three cheers for the Irish.".
May 11th
Finn woke up as if it were an emergency, as if sleeping had become a dangerous thing. His heart was beating fast and there was a buzzing in his brain. Finn remained on his back and allowed his respiration to return to normal. He sat up, dragged his feet off the bed and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes. Finn lingered on the edge of the bed with his face now buried in his hands. Had the crazy activities from the night before and that creepy ghoul had this effect on him? He shook his head as he searched around his pillow for his phone. His home screen pronounced the time as 10:05. Finn sprung from the bed and began rifling through his closet. He was late. He displayed a sense of urgency as he rushed to the bathroom carrying shirt and jeans when he was overcome by a logical thought. Why was he rushing? He was the boss. He could be late, couldn't he?
The beauty of the day was clear as soon as Finn was out the front door. The weathe
r was so nice, he bypassed his Camry and began a leisurely walk to his office. Daily walking was an important recommendation for Finn's injured knee. It was about six blocks from home to the office, and Finn was aware that he had not been walking as much as his doctor has recommended. Finn had become self-conscious about his walking. He believed he had an odd gait, and that he was slightly lurching as he walked. Perhaps he was leaning too far forwards, it was hard for him to tell. Whether it was all just in his mind, Finn felt it had the effect of making him stand out in a crowd, and not in a good way.
Finn reached the top step, took a deep breath and smiled as he turned the corner to enter the office. His grin was part of his new campaign of enlightened management, and an enlightened manager was always polite and cordial to an 83- year old secretary.
"Good morning, Gladys," Finn sung out, smile still intact.
"You're late," Gladys lamented, without raising her head from her newspaper.
Finn's knuckles were white from clenching his fists too hard, and his gritting teeth in an effort to remain silent had turned his smile into the look of a bizarre mannequin.
Gladys looked up from her paper. "What's wrong with you?"
There was a lot Finn wanted to say to a woman who was late at least three times each week. He cleared his throat and managed a low "nothing" from between still gritting teeth.
Finn had several case folders on his desk. He opened the folder on the left, but quickly slammed it closed. He pushed back his uncomfortable chair and began walking toward the office door.
"Where do you think you're going? You have several potential clients to call this morning."
Finn ignored his secretary's calls. Her voice was fading as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "Have a drink for me, although I'm sure that degenerate bartender friend of yours has already started without you."
Finn hesitated at the street entranced and dramatically flashed his middle finger toward the top of the stairs. He realized this behavior was not in line with his enlightened management campaign, but he rationalized what Gladys didn't know couldn't hurt her.
Finn was not fully through the pub door when the verbal assault commenced. "I told you I didn't want to go back to that place, didn't I?"
Finn nodded his head and agreed sarcastically as he approached the bar. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You told me."
Kevin was pacing back and forth behind the bar, waving his arms. "And I told you several times I wanted to get out of there, but no, you had to stay and watch that goat headed asshole whipping up demons and screwing Carmen in front of me and everyone else."
Finn shrugged. "Look, I'm sorry, but it wasn't like I had a playbill. I didn't know what the next act was going to be."
Kevin waved his hand in disgust. "That's what I get for helping you."
There was silence as Kevin walked away and began wiping down the bar. Finn stared at the bar top as he pondered the advisability of his next words. It probably wasn't a good idea, but he couldn't help himself. "Hey Kev."
"What?"
"Next time, maybe you should ask her to go bowling."
The bar towel flew across the bar and struck the left side of Finn's face.
Kevin followed the towel and stood across the bar from Finn, staring menacingly into his eyes. "Oh, what the hell." Kevin broke the stare down and plopped two shot glasses on the bar, quickly filling them with Sambuca. Kevin raised his glass.
Finn followed suit and provided the toast. "Here's to goats."
Kevin wiped his mouth and dropped his shot glass on the bar with a force that caused Finn to fear it may have cracked. A smile appeared on Kevin's face. "Everything's good because I took good care of that goat headed bastard."
"Uh, what did you do?" Finn feared the worst based on the history of his friend's poor judgement.
"I called the ASPCA and told them I knew where a guy was killing live chickens. That will fix his wagon."
Finn shook his head. "I don't know if you should have done that."
"Why, what's he gonna do to me? Something worse than having sex on stage with my date?"
"I just don't think it was a good idea."
"Screw him and his entire goat herd."
Chapter 7: Demonologist
May 15th
Monday at 9:25 AM found Finn laboring up the street stairs of the Queens Plaza subway station. The new day was drenched in sunlight, but Finn could hardly tell, as the presence of an elevated subway structure along with a seemingly endless row of factories and office buildings combined to keep Northern Boulevard and 26th Street permanently overcast.
The western Queens neighborhood of Long Island City was as diverse as the City of New York. Quiet streets with rows of single family homes were only minutes away from loud, congested commercial districts. Finn’s pace on the sidewalk was faster than the multitude of motor vehicles sitting stationery on Northern Boulevard. New York City rush hours were nightmarish to begin with, but this stretch of Northern Boulevard was as bad as it got, with several access roads coming together in Long Island City to feed the Queensborough Bridge. The blare of horns never ended as agitated drivers coped with their daily trek into Manhattan. Finn hesitated on the sidewalk in front of 31-26 Northern Boulevard. This looked like no police facility he had ever seen but a quick check of the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket confirmed the address.
31-26 was a modern looking, 6-story office building crammed between two ancient looking factories. Finn pushed through the revolving door and paused at the lobby directory. There were listings for doctors, lawyers, accountants, therapists, and even an astrologer, but there was no listing for any NYPD unit. In fact, there were no listings at all for offices on the 2nd floor, the location scribbled on his paper.
The elevator door slid open on the 2nd floor revealing a large, circular reception desk with a marble countertop. The solitary item on the countertop was a standard NYPD log book. Taped to the countertop directly below the log was a handwritten message directing all NYPD personnel to sign the log. The reception desk seemed to be made to accommodate more than one person, but the only figure behind the desk was a heavyset, 30-something, Black female wearing a pink sweater with a gold NYPD detective shield dangling from a chain around her neck. The detective was deeply engrossed in a paperback, and Finn perceived a distinct air of annoyance at the disruption to her reading. “May I help you.”
“I have an appointment to see Sergeant Moritz,” Finn responded
The detective did not respond to Finn, but instead picked up the phone at the desk. “There’s someone out here to see you, Sergeant Moritz.” She hung up the phone and went back to her novel.
Finn took a couple of steps away from the desk and peered down the long hallway. It was abnormally wide and about 100-feet long. The shiny tile floor and white sheetrock walls were very clean and bright, but the entire hall was free of any type of decorations. There were no pictures or plants, and the silence made the atmosphere seem very sterile.
"Delaney?" The questioner had already guessed the answer based on his extended hand.
Finn accepted the handshake. "That's me."
Based only on a handshake Finn made a complete assessment of Sergeant Chris Moritz. He looked like he had been born in a suit. Finn couldn't picture him as a child or infant. He looked like a serious man with little time for humor. Chris had the standard issue white face with ubiquitous square shoulders and squarer chin. The closely shaved sergeant with the baritone voice would not be considered a small man, but his 5’ 8”, 160lb. frame certainly did not cut an imposing figure. Finn had been a cop for about a year and a half and had a lifetime of experience being around the NYPD via his father. Finn knew that being a police officer was not a one size fits all affair. He understood that cops came in all shapes and sizes - different sexes, lifestyles, and personalities. Still, Finn could always recognize a cop. Even with the diversity within the profession, there was just something about the way a cop carried him or herself that was unmistakable. Chris Moritz did
not display this cop vibe. Finn found Chris more akin to some of his teachers at Christ the King High School - serious and cerebral, with little tolerance for nonsense.
Chris moved his hand to Finn's back and guided him toward the elevator. "Let's take a walk."
Finn saw no color in Chris Moritz, no shades of grey either. For this sergeant, Finn perceived everything was black/white, right/wrong, legal / illegal. Finn mentally scolded himself. What was he expecting? A man in a wizard's hat and robe, or at least someone walking down the hall waving a crucifix.
Back with the chaos on Northern Boulevard, Chris nodded for Finn to follow him to the right. “Peaceful walking environment, isn’t it?” Chris deadpanned.
“Any walking is good for my knee,” Finn responded.
“Yeah, the Chief told me about what happened to you. Tough break.”
“Thanks,” Finn responded. “There’s no use crying over spilled milk – or shattered knees,” he snickered.
“Guess not,” Chris replied.
Chris looked back over his shoulder and nodded. “So, how do you like my office?”
“It sure doesn’t look like a police facility.”
“It’s not supposed to,” Chris said. “This is the Internal Affairs Bureau. Investigating cops is supposed to be super-secret – even our work locations.”
“How do you like IAB?” Finn asked innocently.
Chris turned and stared at Finn. “Are you serious? I guess you weren’t on the job long enough to know IAB is the land of the rats.”
Finn was confused. “Well, if it bothers you to be a rat, why did you come to IAB?”
“I was drafted,” Chris shot back. “I was a detective in Manhattan North, and when I made sergeant I wanted to go back to the Detective Bureau, but before I can get back to the Bureau I have to do two years in IAB.”
“How long have you been there?” Finn asked.
“I have eight months and sixteen days to go, but who’s counting.” Chris pointed to the right. “We’ll turn right on Honeywell Street and walk over the train yards. It’s a little less chaotic.”
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