Hypocrisy

by D. M. Annechino

  “I’m impressed, Amaris. Quite the noble gesture on your part.”

  “It’s not really that noble.” She chewed on her lip. “It’s the one day a year I get the double whammy.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you my mother died of breast cancer. But what I didn’t tell you is that my daughter was born on the 4th of July eighteen years ago. The 4th has never been a good day for me. Obviously. In fact, after I complete the walk, I usually stay home by myself and spend the day crying, drinking, and feeling sorry for myself, asking the same haunting question: Why did I give up my baby? I keep praying that by some miracle, she’ll find me or I’ll find her. But for all I know, she may not even know I exist.”

  “I’m so sorry, Amaris. I wish there was something I could do.”

  Neither spoke for a few minutes. Something struck Dupree that had never crossed her mind before. What if—she could barely reflect on the thought—her daughter wasn’t even alive? A chill shivered through her body as if her blood had turned to ice. She couldn’t even imagine such a devastating possibility. Still, she couldn’t dismiss it.

  “How about you?” Dupree asked. “Big plans for the 4th?”

  “Nothing special. Just driving to Jersey for a barbeque. My parents have a little bash every 4th of July.”

  “Sounds great.” Dupree wished that she had a family to bond with on the holidays.

  “Here’s a thought,” T.J. said. “Why don’t you drive to Jersey with me and join the party? I’d love for you to meet my family. I’m not leaving until noon so it would give you plenty of time to finish the Making Strides walk and freshen up. How about it?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Would you really rather be alone?”

  “Actually, I would.” She thought about that for a minute, tempted to accept his offer, but was afraid at some point she’d completely breakdown and didn’t want to subject anyone to her private pity party.

  “Okay, partner, I won’t push it. But if you change your mind—”

  “I won’t.”

  Just then, her phone sang, “Set Fire to the Rain,” by Adele.

  “Hi, Brenda. What’s cooking?”

  “I ran the plate number through DMV and the registered owner is Ivan Tesler. His last known address is—”

  “Hang on Brenda, let me get something to write on.” Dupree pointed to the glove box. “There’s a pad and pen in there,” she said to T.J. “Hand them to me, please.”

  “Okay, Brenda, shoot.”

  “The DMV records show him at 751 Cedar Street, Unit 3, in Yonkers. I also checked with the Tax Assessor’s office and he doesn’t have an account with them so he’s probably a renter.”

  “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

  “Hey, Girlfriend, that’s what I do. You didn’t ask for this, but I ran his name through the New York and FBI criminal records database, and also through the AFIS archives. He’s been a busy boy. Been arrested and charged with assault, breaking and entering, auto theft, resisting arrest, and petty larceny. But get this: he’s never been convicted.”

  “Must have a hell of an attorney.”

  “Or he’s connected to somebody powerful.”

  “I appreciate your help, Brenda. Have a nice 4th.” For the first time since beginning the investigation, Dupree felt as if she’d uncovered a significant lead. But she tried to harness her enthusiasm. How many times in the past had a supposed good lead taken her to a dead end street?

  From her past experiences, Dupree estimated that the ride from Park Slope to Yonkers could take as long as two hours.

  “Ready for a long trek?” Dupree said to T.J. who had already reclined his seatback.

  “Not really, but do I have a choice?”

  “Sure. You can catch a cab. Or better yet, thumb a ride.”

  “Funny girl. Have you ever thought about being a stand-up comedian?”

  “No, but I guess I might consider it when my twenty years are up.”

  T.J. brought the seatback to its upright position. “Seriously? You’re going to go the twenty-years-and-out route? Taking your measly pension and running with it? I figured you for a lifer.”

  “That’s the current plan but you never know what tomorrow might bring. Circumstances change. Objectives change. Life situations change.” Dupree glanced at T.J. and noticed a stern look on his face. “And how about you? What’s your plan?”

  He seemed nervous, fidgety.

  “Everything okay?” Dupree asked.

  “Ever since we met for a few drinks and you told me your story, I’ve had a strong urge to share mine with you.”

  It seemed like an inappropriate time, but who was she to judge T.J.’s motives? Dupree reached over the center console and squeezed his arm. “Hey, I’ve got broad shoulders and empathetic ears. Besides, we’ve got a long ride, so if you feel like talking, I feel like listening.”

  “Where do I start?”

  “Makes no difference. Just start.”

  She could see that his mind was racing, maybe searching for the right words.

  “I grew up in Long Branch, New Jersey, not far from the Atlantic. I can’t give you a hard-luck story about a poverty-stricken childhood, or a detailed account of my rebellious teenage years. You see, Amaris, I lived an abundant life. My father was a doctor—a cardiologist to be more specific—and my mom was a high school guidance counselor. I wanted for nothing. In fact, my parents spoiled me rotten.

  “Although they pushed me hard to attend college, I made up my mind to join the Navy when I graduated from high school. My big dream was to become a Navy Seal. I passed all of the fitness and underwater tests, and aced the written exam. Once I was accepted into the program, they shipped me to the Naval Special Warfare Center, Coronado, near San Diego. That’s when I found out what it’s like to be in hell. From beginning to end, the training lasts for twenty-five weeks. Most guys drop out within the first four weeks, when your shoulders feel like they’ve been pulled out of their sockets, when your knees make popping sounds you never heard before, when your muscles ache and throb so fiercely, you live on pain pills.”

  T.J. closed his eyes, his face looked as if he were in pain right now. “Week number twenty is what got me. I tore my ACL and it was lights out. They booted me from the program. No second chances. Twenty friggin’ weeks of brutal training. Five weeks away from the finish line, and I crapped out.”

  “Wow,” Dupree said. “I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have felt like.”

  “So close. So damn close.”

  Neither spoke for a long, awkward few minutes.

  “That had to be the worst experience of your life.”

  “Not even close.” He dropped his chin to his chest.

  Dupree was completely absorbed, feeling that the rest of the story was going to be difficult for T.J.

  “My parents, once again, tried to convince me to attend college. But I wanted no part of it. My brain was too messed up. So, for the next few years, I hopped from job to job—construction, car sales, bank teller—never really finding anything that felt like the right fit. Then something amazing happened. I met a woman who absolutely knocked me off my feet. I know it sounds so cliché, but if there is such a thing as love at first sight, then Haley and I were living proof.”

  T.J. paused and gazed out the windshield. By the uptight look on his face, Dupree had a sense that he was dealing with some powerful emotions.

  “Haley and I got married less than a year after we met. My parents offered some financial assistance, so we bought a small fixer-upper home in Jersey City. Haley was a legal assistant and I settled in a job selling BMWs. I wasn’t crazy about it, but I was a pretty fair salesman, the money was really good, and we were living a decent life.”

  T.J. appeared to be deep in thought, as if he were playing a game of chess and couldn’t figure out his next move. He seemed gripped by some powerful anxiety.

  �
��The BMW dealer I worked for put together a weekend tent sale. I liked these events for the money, but hated the hours. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from eight a.m. to midnight. I had an awesome day on Saturday. Sold eight cars and earned over six grand in commissions. I couldn’t wait to get home and share this with Haley. We never had a real honeymoon so we were saving for a Caribbean cruise.

  “By the time I wrapped up my last deal of the day, I didn’t leave the tent sale until one a.m. I was going to call Haley and let her know I was on my way, but I figured she was probably passed out in front of the TV waiting for me to come home, so I didn’t want to disturb her.

  “When I walked in the door, the TV was on and the volume way too high. But I knew my Haley. She could sleep if a bomb went off under her pillow. I checked out the couch, certain I’d find her curled in the fetal position. But she wasn’t there. I turned off the TV and couldn’t figure out why she’d left it on and went up to bed.”

  T.J. tightened his fists.

  “I tiptoed into our bedroom. There was enough light spilling in from the hallway for me to barely see that Haley was lying on her back sleeping on the bed. But she wasn’t under the covers. At first glance, it didn’t hit me, but then I remembered that Haley hated sleeping on her back. She had always been a side-sleeper. I figured that she must have been really tired and didn’t care what position she was in as long as she was sleeping.

  I flipped on the nightlight in the master bath just so there was enough light for me to see what I was doing. As I began to undress, I glanced over at Haley…”

  T.J. wiped the corners of his eyes with his hands and his voice was unsteady.

  “I noticed that she was completely naked. I went to her and gently touched her arm. That’s when I saw it…my necktie wrapped around her throat. No pulse. No breathing. When I turned on the light, I could see by the bruises on her breasts and upper thighs…that she’d been …raped.” He paused. “Now I understood why the TV was blaring. They didn’t want anyone to hear her…”

  Dupree didn’t utter a sound, her mouth wide open. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t come up with even a drop of saliva. She recalled the rape-murder. It had been in the headlines for weeks and had made national news. “I…I don’t know what to say, T.J.”

  “Forensics determined that it was more than one assailant. Probably three.” He looked out the side window. “They also discovered that Haley was about six weeks pregnant.”

  At this point, Dupree wished there was a way to ease his pain, but all she could do was show him as much empathy and compassion as possible.

  “Odd how composed I remained after discovering her body. My brain completely shut down. I could feel nothing—not even hatred for the animals who’d killed her. But then, a few months later, it walloped me. My emotions woke up and I went into a total tailspin. Had it not been for my parents, I’d be in a padded cell wearing a straitjacket.

  “I didn’t do much for the next few months except watch TV and constantly ask God, ‘why her?’

  “Once I cleared out the cobwebs, I felt a strong pull towards law enforcement. So, I got a degree in criminology, landed a job as a beat cop, and eventually made it to detective. Maybe that’s why I’m so intense when I’m interrogating suspects. When I look into their eyes, I ask myself, ‘was it you?’”

  Dupree still didn’t know what to say. In a situation like this, what could she say? Right now, all she wanted to do was hold T.J. tightly and cry with him.

  “Working as a cop, trying to make some sense of it all, hoping to make a difference, just didn’t seem enough. I needed to do more. So, a few months back, shortly after we became partners, I volunteered to work at the Rape Crisis Center in Harlem. I’m not really qualified to be a counselor, but they’re so desperate for help they accepted my application. I helped them out on an ‘on-call’ basis. As it turned out, they always called me for graveyard shifts—midnight to four a.m. Needless to say, working the demanding schedule as a detective and then dealing with the Crisis Center, my body and brain were on total meltdown. That’s why I was always coming in late and walked around like a zombie.

  “When you finally called me out on my poor performance, I realized that I couldn’t continue this pace or I’d jeopardize my career. So, I stopped volunteering.”

  Dupree’s stomach twisted into a knot. Guilt ridden, feeling as if it was her fault that he quit volunteering for something he felt so passionately about, she thought she would throw up. “T.J., I…I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s not about you; it’s about me. I’m glad you kicked me in the ass. I was headed on a crash course and needed someone to shake some sense into me. You did exactly that, and that’s what partners are supposed to do.”

  “Is there any way you can work just a few hours a week?” Dupree asked, feeling stupid as soon as she asked the question.

  “It wasn’t just the impossible schedule that got to me. Can you even begin to imagine what it’s like to spend sixteen to twenty hours a week dealing with rape victims?” He fixed his eyes on Dupree’s. “Each woman I spoke to reminded me of Haley, made me relive the nightmare. Had I not resigned, I would have ended up in Bellevue.”

  If ever there was an awkward silence, Dupree thought, this was it.

  “So, Amaris, maybe now you understand why I didn’t carry my weight for such a long time, why I played the role as some carefree playboy. It was my way of hiding the truth. I’m sorry. I placed you in an impossible situation.”

  “T.J., I have no words to express—”

  “I understand.”

  “Does anyone else in the department know about this?”

  “Other than my parents, you’re the only soul on Earth.”

  Having shared the intimate details of their lives, Dupree felt a visceral connection to T.J.—something she’d never felt before. Maybe now, their partnership would reach a new level of mutual trust and respect.

  “Well, there you have it, Amaris. The whole agonizing story. Unabridged and unedited.”

  For the remainder of the ride, the few words they shared were strictly incidental.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dupree and T.J. finally arrived at Ivan Tesler’s apartment. Dupree looked up and down the street but didn’t see a white Ford Fusion. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t home. Most of the big homes in this neighborhood had multiple apartments and some of the garages were behind the structures, hidden from the street.

  To the left of the front door, Dupree saw an intercom system with four call buttons and the name of each resident glued to the side of each button.

  “Interesting,” Dupree said. “There’s no name next to unit 3.”

  She pushed the button.

  Nothing.

  She pushed it a second time.

  “Who is it?” The man’s voice crackled through the small speaker.

  “New York City Police. We’re looking for Ivan Tesler.”

  No response.

  Dupree pushed the call button again. “Hello.”

  Still no answer.

  “I’ll stay here,” Dupree said, “You go around back.”

  T.J., showing his athleticism, didn’t even use the steps. He held onto the wobbly railing with one hand, braced himself, and like a gymnast, sailed over the railing and landed a perfect 10 on the driveway. Watching T.J. hit the asphalt, thinking about the ACL he had torn, Dupree didn’t quite understand why he’d risk another knee injury. He took off, sprinting toward the back of the home. When she heard T.J. yelling, she hopped down the front steps and jogged to the driveway. T.J. was nowhere in sight. Dupree drew her handgun, pulled back the slide, and cautiously moved towards the backyard.

  “T.J.,” she yelled, picking up the pace.

  “Back here!” he shouted When Dupree reached the end of the driveway, she cautiously came around the corner. About twenty feet away, she saw a man lying face down on the grass, just past the end of the sidewalk. T.J. straddled the man’s body and was in the process of cuffing him.
Dupree eased off the trigger and holstered her handgun.

  “What have we got here?” Dupree asked, slightly out of breath. She recognized Tesler from his rap sheet.

  “I caught him hopping out of the back window and tackled him just before he made it to the fence.”

  T.J. stood the man upright. “Detective Dupree, meet Ivan Tesler—in the flesh.”

  The man was tall and lean, his hair greasy. It hung in his eyes and over his ears. Pockmarks covered his cheeks. Tesler’s jeans looked like they’d never been washed and printed on the front of his grease-stained T-shirt were the words, “Bad Ass Motherfucker.”

  “It doesn’t bode well that you tried to run away,” Dupree said.

  “Why are you pigs always hassling me?”

  “Maybe because your rap sheet is thicker than a New York City telephone book.”

  “What the hell is a rap sheet?”

  With that statement, Dupree guessed that Tesler probably wasn’t a scholar.

  T.J. pushed the man forward. “Let’s take a ride, Bad Ass.”

  “Hey you,” Dupree said, “Why the hell did you jump over the porch railing? Weren’t you afraid of reinjuring your knee?”

  “The Navy doesn’t agree, but my orthopedic surgeon says my knee is one-hundred percent.”

  “Well, you sure proved that.”

  With Ivan Tesler restlessly fidgeting in the back seat, his wrists still handcuffed, Dupree and T.J. headed back to the 40th precinct. Their car was not equipped with a protective cage separating the front and back seats, so for most of the ride, T.J. sat sideways and kept his eyes on Tesler. Although neither of the detectives talked much during the ride—they didn’t want to unintentionally disclose anything about the investigation—Tesler had no problem expressing his irritation.