by Robin Cook
Suddenly the animated conversation was interrupted by someone within the TAC House yelling “Police! Police!” followed by a series of non-lethal rounds being fired, indicating that the simulation drill that was in progress when Brian arrived had terminated in gunplay. The blanks were particularly loud in the confined spaces.
“That’s it, guys,” Carlos called out to the group. “We’re on deck, front and center!” He then picked up a ballistic shield that he had leaning against his leg. He was going to be the lead man on the next assault simulation. Another officer picked up a Blackhawk Halligan bar used to breach the outer door. Every member of the assault group had a specific, planned role to play to maximize safety, which was key if it were a real-life situation.
“Where’s the tactic sergeant?” Brian asked Carlos.
“He’s up on the catwalk,” Carlos said, pointing to the wooden stairs to Brian’s right.
“Good luck,” Brian said, making a halfhearted salute gesture. He then walked to the stairs and started up. At the top Brian could see down into the illuminated mock living room/kitchen below, which was empty for the moment. Raising his eyes, he searched the maze-like elevated walkways that created an opportunity for the instructors to closely follow the activity below during a simulated assault. Brian could make out Sergeant Sal Benfatti with two of his instructors at the far end over the bedroom area. The tactic sergeant was leaning over the railing while talking down to the assault team below. Brian assumed he was giving a mixture of both praise and criticism regarding the simulation.
By the time Brian made it over to where the group was standing, Sal had finished his analysis with the group below and was conferring with the two instructors by his side. Below, Brian could see the team that had just completed the drill along with several instructors who had been acting as the bad guys. Brian had the sense the drill had been a mock-up hostage situation.
“Ah, Brian Murphy,” Sal said welcomingly, seeing Brian approach. They knew each other well, not only from Brian’s cadet days, but also because Brian had frequently helped out and participated in TAC House activities. Sal introduced Brian to his two instructors, who’d come on board since Brian’s retirement.
As expected, Brian initially had to weather a brief conversation with Sal about Emma, but they soon turned to discussing why Brian was there; namely, to participate in a number of assault simulations. “I hope you weren’t counting on starting today,” Sal said. “This next drill is our last.”
“That’s fine,” Brian said. “With your permission, I’d like to come back in the next couple of days.”
“Terrific! We’ll look forward to it. We’d love to have you. Do you want to stay and watch the next drill with us?”
“Absolutely,” Brian answered.
The group moved from over the bedroom area to over the living room/kitchen. On this occasion there were to be two armed suspects, one in the kitchen area behind an island and the other in the living room sitting on the couch. When all was ready, Sal initiated the assault with a remote device. In the next second the front door was quickly breached with the Halligan bar, and Carlos swooped into the room with his ballistic shield followed closely by his team, all yelling “Police! Police!” at the top of their lungs while executing a predetermined set of movements.
On this occasion, with the two suspects in the front area of the sham apartment, there was an immediate shootout. Since the two officers directly behind Carlos precisely followed their preordained ballet with one concentrating on the kitchen and the other on the living room area, they bested the suspects. Within seconds the drill was over to well-deserved acclaim.
Twenty minutes later Brian walked out of the TAC House building, feeling particularly good about the visit. Having watched the drill and having experienced the palpable esprit de corps of the people involved made him progressively confident that rejoining the ESU was the proper decision for him, especially when he compared it with some of the security gigs he’d done. A number of those jobs involved squiring around and kowtowing to the demands of entitled wealthy narcissists and their spoiled offspring. In many ways Brian was coming more and more to identify himself as a blue-collar kind of guy who liked to get his hands dirty. It almost seemed as if the NYPD ESU, with its constant action, was tailor-made for him.
Rounding the northern end of the admin building, Brian walked into the middle of a dozen ESU officers who’d just finished a recertification SCUBA dive and were busy rinsing their equipment. In a repeat of what had happened when Brian first entered the TAC House, there was a warm interaction with condolences about Emma and encouragement for Brian to rejoin the ranks.
Entering the largest of the four buildings that formed the ESU complex, Brian walked into the SCUBA section. Passing through the storage and maintenance area, he entered Detective Jose Garcia’s cramped and rather messy office. The detective was at his desk with the guts of a regulator exposed, as he did most of the upkeep and repair work himself. Similar to Michael Comstock, Jose was a big, thickset man, and except for a significant difference in complexion, they could have been brothers, down to the shaved heads. The main difference was that Jose had an impressive number of tattoos covering his forearms from a stint in the US Navy directly out of high school.
Although Brian would have preferred not to talk again about Emma’s passing, he knew he didn’t have a choice. Emma was extraordinarily well liked both at the academy and in the unit, probably more than Brian because of his mild but recognized self-righteous streak on certain subjects, including extremists on both sides of the political divide. One of Emma’s admirable qualities had been her acceptance of others.
“So, Michael says you are interested in doing a recertification dive with us,” Jose said.
“I am,” Brian confirmed. “It’s not critical since I’m still certified, but I would enjoy it. It’s your fault. You turned me from a committed terrestrial into an amphibian.”
Jose laughed with true mirth. “You were a tough cookie to crack, but I was optimistic.”
They then spent a few minutes reminiscing about some of the dives they’d done together, particularly one to retrieve the body of a suicide jumper in the East River, where the currents can be notorious.
“Well, then,” Jose said when there was a pause in their reminiscing. He slapped his desk with the palms of both hands and stood up. “Let’s get you ready for a dive by setting you up with a locker, a wet suit, whatever else you might want, including one of our newest regulators. You are going to love it.”
Fifteen minutes later, with all the dive equipment set aside in a locker, Brian left the SCUBA area and walked the length of the large hangar-like building. He emerged back out in the sunshine on its west side, and from there it was a short route back to the admin building. As he neared it, he felt really good about his visit as well as progressively convinced that in the not-too-distant future he would be back to being an ESU officer.
“Deputy Chief Comstock had to leave for an impromptu meeting downtown with the police commissioner,” Helen Gurly explained when Brian approached her desk. “But no worries. He had me make the arrangements with Rodman’s Neck and all you have to do is show your ID at the gate and then meet up with Captain Ted Miller, one of the firearms and tactics instructors, at the gunsmith. He’ll be expecting you, provided you get there before six. There’s also a surprise for you waiting on the deputy chief’s desk that I’m told you already know about.”
“You are talking about the Remington?” Brian asked.
“None other. Have a good day, I’m outta here.” With that, Helen grabbed her bag, said that it was a joy to see him again, and pushed past on her way out into the corridor.
Entering Michael’s office, Brian saw a camouflaged rifle bag with a shoulder strap on the desk along with five boxes of ammunition: three in 7.62mm NATO caliber for the rifle and two in 9mm for his pistol. Unzipping the bag, he found himself admiri
ng a particularly lethal-looking, light tan sniper rifle with a folding stock and a suppressor. What impressed him immediately was the amount of customizing adjustments available, and how intuitive they were to utilize. Within minutes he adapted the length between the stock and the trigger to his needs, as well as the height and position of the cheek piece and the position of the scope. As for the finer adjustments of the telescopic sight for parallax and minute of angle, he’d do that at the shooting range when he’d be able to experience how well engineered the firearm actually was in comparison with the older Remington 700. After refolding the stock, Brian returned the weapon to its bag and slung it over his shoulder. Picking up the boxes of ammunition, he headed back out to his Subaru.
As he climbed into the car, he felt pleased with his visit to ESU Headquarters and more inclined to believe that rejoining the NYPD would be a wise move for many reasons. What especially encouraged him was that Michael Comstock, the commanding officer, had ostensibly recovered from his pique about his and Emma’s retirement and wanted him back on board.
CHAPTER 33
September 2
Ten minutes later Brian was heading north on the Belt Parkway with Jamaica Bay off to his right and sparkling in the summer sunlight. The traffic was moderate, but being late afternoon and rush hour, he knew that would significantly change despite the pandemic. As far as the timing was concerned, he thought it was a good time to visit the Rodman’s Neck shooting range. As an active NYPD officer, he’d been there more times than he could count for various firearms classes and recertification exercises, which usually had been in the mornings when it was always crowded. There were seven shooting ranges, of which six were for pistols and one for rifles, and the complex was used by not only the NYPD, but also the FBI, NYC Correction, New York Fire Marshals, and even ICE.
As he drove, his thoughts drifted back to Juliette and how the day had begun, including the aggravating visit to the ED. After the disturbing call with Roger Dalton earlier and finding out the cost of yesterday’s visit, he wondered what the charges were going to be for today. Reluctantly, he assumed it would be equally as outrageous considering what he now knew about hospital business practices.
Facing at least an hour of downtime before arrival at Rodman’s Neck, Brian thought it a good opportunity to check in with Camila to give her an idea of when he’d be arriving home. He also considered broaching the idea that he was thinking of rejoining the NYPD, as such a move would impact her life, though he realized it wasn’t the best time. As for Juliette, he was relatively confident she was doing okay following the positive news about her behavior he’d gotten earlier. Surely if anything significant had changed, Camila or Jeanne would have called or texted. For that reason, it was shocking when Camila started the conversation by saying that Juliette’s fever had returned.
“Good grief!” Brian responded with alarm. He sat up straighter, gripping the steering wheel. This was not what he wanted to hear. “How high?”
“Not high,” Camila responded. “Nothing like this morning. It was 100.5.”
“What made you decide to take her temperature?” he asked. He relaxed slightly, settling back into his seat. He wasn’t happy about the fever returning, and it brought back with a rush his frustration that he’d been unable to get the ED doctors to do any kind of testing, even a simple blood count. Although he was the first one to admit he wasn’t a doctor or a psychologist, his daughter’s on-again-off-again symptoms bothered him, and he had a reluctance to ascribe them to being psychosomatic at this point.
“She suddenly had a visible chill,” Camila said. “Both Jeanne and I saw it. When we asked her about it, she said she wasn’t feeling good and wanted to go up to her room. It came as a surprise because she’d eaten well and was clearly having fun playing Dinosaur.”
“What about her headache?” Brian said. The headache seemed to be the one constant symptom.
“Yes, she still says she has a headache,” Camila said, “but that’s it: no other complaints like sore throat or upset stomach. I asked her specifically. As for the headache, I thought it had improved given the way she was interacting with us. She seemed to be her old self.”
In the back of his mind, he wondered what should be done if a high fever returned, vowing that there was no way he’d take her back to MMH Inwood. Briefly he considered taking her to one of the neighborhood urgent-care centers, but he nixed the idea because they wouldn’t be able to do a Covid test and have the results right away. Instead, if need be, he decided he’d drive her down to Columbia-Presbyterian in Washington Heights, thinking that was probably what he should have done originally. “I’ve finished my meeting at the ESU Headquarters,” Brian said after a pause. “I’m on my way to the NYPD shooting range for an hour or so. But I could cancel and come directly back home if you think I should.”
“Not for Juliette’s sake, if that’s your thought. While I was taking her temperature, she got very sleepy. She’s up in her room resting. I’ve just checked on her. I think we should let her sleep.”
“Okay, fair enough.” Preoccupied with this surprise news about Juliette, Brian decided against bringing up the issue of his possible return to the police department. “Call or text if there is a change in her status, and I’ll come back straightaway. What about Jeanne? Is she still there?”
“No, when Juliette went to sleep about a half hour ago, Jeanne left. She did take the papers that your friend Grady Quillen dropped off. I hope that was okay.”
“That’s fine,” he assured her.
After ringing off with Camila, Brian considered contacting Jeanne to get her take on Juliette, but he held off, thinking it might be best to first check on Juliette himself when he got home. He worried he was taking too much advantage of her generosity by contacting her so often; plus, if this was a medical problem and not a psychological issue, he wasn’t sure she could add much.
As he expected, traffic did slow up considerably approaching the Whitestone Bridge to cross the East River, but then it sped up again once he was on the other side. All in all, he turned in to Rodman’s Neck peninsula just about an hour later. For the next quarter of a mile, after passing a broad field containing a baseball diamond and a number of warning signs about unauthorized entry, he drove through virginal forested land that was almost as unexpected within New York City as was the wide-open expanse of Floyd Bennett Field.
Ahead appeared a guard gate similar to those on military installations. He pulled to a stop. Lifting his mask up over his nose and mouth, he rolled down the window and presented his NYPD ID to the friendly uniformed NYPD officer. There was no problem thanks to Helen Gurly’s efforts, and Brian was permitted to drive into the shooting range. Reminiscent of Floyd Bennett Field, it was composed of a motley group of buildings, some in better shape than others and some reflective of their military origins. Like Floyd Bennett Field, Rodman’s Neck had a history that included use by the armed forces, this time both the army and navy, although the facility eventually had been given over to the NYPD. Besides the shooting ranges there were also outdoor TAC facilities and even a biohazard safety level 4 lab, and at the far end of the peninsula there was an isolated pit for detonating bombs and other explosive devices like confiscated fireworks.
As he expected, the expansive parking area was nearly empty this late in the afternoon, allowing him to park directly in front of the admin building. Although he’d been mildly concerned about finding Captain Ted Miller of the Firearms and Tactics Unit, it turned out to be extremely easy, as the man was expecting Brian and was waiting for him just inside the entrance door.
“You just made it under the wire,” Ted said. He was a mildly overweight man with a salt-and-pepper crewcut whom Brian recognized from having dealt with him in the past. “There’s been no one using the rifle range for more than an hour and Mark Bellows, the range master, has been eager to close up shop, so we best head there first and then use the pistol range after. Is tha
t okay with you?”
“Fine with me,” Brian answered, thankful for the man’s assistance.
Once he had been supplied with the required eye and ear protective gear, they used Ted’s vehicle to drive the mile or so out to the rifle range. It was hardly an impressive physical setup and the immediate area looked more like a partially deserted dump thanks to a handful of abandoned vehicles and storage containers sprinkled about. Brian had used the range in the past, so he wasn’t surprised. The row of connected shooting positions was constructed of rough-hewn, unfinished lumber that had grayed over the years and, taken together, looked a little like the starting gate at a horse racetrack. Ahead stretched a grassy field of more than three hundred yards facing a dunelike hill.
Sergeant Mark Bellows was a beefy firearms and tactics officer who looked somewhat long in the tooth and ready for retirement. He was friendly enough but clearly eager to leave for the day. “What distance are you looking to use?” he asked in a tired voice.
“I’d like to use all three,” Brian said. He knew the range was set up for one hundred, two hundred, and three hundred yards, so he wouldn’t have to use a range finder.
“Okay,” Mark said resignedly. “Pick any firing position that suits your fancy and let’s do it. I’ve refreshed all the targets, so you are good to go. Just let me know when you are ready.”
Brian didn’t care which position he used and just picked one at random as Ted and Mark stood back and chatted together. After getting the rifle out of its bag, he unfolded the stock and placed the gun on its bipods, using the rifle bag under the stock for added stability. Once again, he appreciated the mere appearance of the gun as a stunningly formidable weapon, particularly with its perforated handguard and suppressor. The fact that he knew it was reportedly deadly accurate close to a mile added to his sense of awe.