by John Cutter
“I understand,” Rivera nodded. “But I thought you were still in the service.”
“No, I left. I’m in the reserves, but now I own my own business—computer IT.”
“All right,” Rivera said. “Well, whatever you can remember will be helpful, I’m sure. For starters, can you tell us anything about Lieutenant Gerald Lyons?”
Dyer smiled fondly. “Ah, Jerry was one of the finest men who I ever served with,” he said. “Got his CIB—er, sorry, Combat Infantryman Badge—”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Rivera assured him. “Both of us are former military.”
“Oh, all right. Well, he got his CIB his first week on the ground. Real soldier’s soldier. He wanted to go to Ranger school at the end of his tour, but he never made it home.”
“What happened to him?” asked O’Dell.
“We took a mortar attack at the base,” Dyer said quietly. “He was one of three killed. Four others were wounded.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Rivera said. It was clear the Captain was still troubled by the loss. “Can you tell us when exactly the lieutenant was killed?”
“Sure,” Dyer said without hesitation. “That was October 6, 2006.” When the other two sat in significant silence, he went on. “It was a pretty widely known date. It was all over the media—so many false reports about what happened that day.”
“I’m sure there were,” Rivera said. “And what about Louis Galipoli—does that name ring any bells for you?”
Dyer’s face darkened. “It sure does,” he said. “That man was one of the loudest, most undisciplined soldiers”—he shook his head—“strike that, human beings I’ve ever known.”
Rivera and O’Dell nodded. It seemed Galipoli’s way of winning friends and influencing people hadn’t worked for him in the military, either.
“I see,” Rivera said. “Well, besides that general statement, what can you tell us about him?”
“Oh, he was bad news from day one in Camp,” Dyer said. “One complaint after another. The icing on the cake was when he tried to rape a female soldier.” He nodded as the other two exchanged glances. “That’s right, despicable but true. I don’t remember her name, unfortunately. She was lucky that someone walked in on them; otherwise she’d have been raped.”
O’Dell leaned in, deciding to go for the main point. “Captain, I know this is going to be a tough question,” he said, “but in your opinion, how does a guy like that go from being on the block for a court martial to being awarded a Silver Star?”
Dyer favored them with the incredulous look they’d come to know well. “What? You must be crazy,” he said with a laugh. “There’s no way he was put in for a Silver Star! The guy was the most useless individual ever to serve in our military. He was well on his way to being drummed out of the service. Silver Star—! He wasn’t even allowed outside the wire! All the non-coms were afraid to take him out; they thought he’d frag one of them.”
O’Dell took some papers out of his folder, including a copy of the commendation write-up for Galipoli’s Silver Star.
“Can you take a look at this and tell us what you think?” he asked. Captain Dyer carefully looked over the paperwork, shaking his head.
“Conspicuous gallantry,” he mumbled in disbelief. “This guy was a coward—a disgrace to the uniform. And signed by Lieutenant Lyons—! Absolutely impossible. This is a fake, I’m sure of it—a total fake. Look here: it was written on the day Lieutenant Lyons was killed.”
The two nodded. Neither of them had missed the connection. “Do you think it’s possible that Galipoli forged the lieutenant’s name on this commendation?” O’Dell asked.
Captain Dyer picked the papers up again and looked over the signature line. “Well, this is going back some years now,” he said, “but I don’t recall his signature looking like this. I couldn’t swear to it, but I’m pretty sure that’s not his signature. I’m guessing this guy is the reason you wanted to speak to me about Camp Falcon, then?”
“Yes, sir,” Rivera answered. “We’re trying to verify some things about his past.”
“He wanted for something?”
Rivera cleared his throat. “Actually, he’s a detective in the NYPD now.”
“A detective?” Dyer repeated. “Man, you guys must have really lowered your standards to let that guy aboard. He’s a maniac.”
“You don’t need to tell me,” Rivera said. “But let me change topics a moment. What can you tell us about Ernesto Gonzalez?”
Dyer blinked. “He’s a great soldier, and a better man,” he said. “He’s one of the few people I have kept in touch with over the years, though I haven’t spoken to him in a while now. Don’t tell me he’s mixed up in something too—?”
“Not at all,” Rivera said. “We just spoke to him yesterday. He’s the one who gave us your name. He said he wrote Galipoli up for most of his complaints, including the last one for attempted rape, and also said that Galipoli was brought to Lieutenant Lyons’s tent shortly before the attack that killed him, and—”
“Stop right there,” Dyer said, raising his hand. “Are you telling me that on October 6th, 2006, Galipoli was with Lieutenant Lyons during the attack? If that’s what you’re saying, how could he not have been injured?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that,” Rivera said. “I wasn’t there. But I do have a somewhat sensitive question for you. Once the attack was over, did you see Lieutenant Lyons’s body?”
Captain Dyer looked down at the floor, the color draining slowly out of his face. He sat stock-still for a moment, breathing deeply.
“Are you all right, Captain?” Rivera asked gently.
After a moment, Dyer looked up again. “Talking to you today has brought back a lot from my past that I’ve tried to keep there,” he said. “Jerry Lyons was one of my closest friends in the military. The day he was killed was extremely difficult for me, and one of the primary reasons I left active duty.”
“I understand,” Rivera persisted, “but did you see his body the night he was killed? Believe me, Captain, I’m only asking because I have to; it’s very important, possibly critical, to what’s going on right now.”
The captain looked directly into Rivera’s eyes, his own welling up with tears.
“No, I didn’t,” he said finally. “I saw the body bag he was in, but I never opened it. I couldn’t. Maybe that sounds weak to you, but he was my best friend.”
“It’s not weak at all,” Rivera said, shaking his head. “We’ve each been in the same position, many times.” He waited a moment before posing the most difficult question of all. “Captain,” he said, “do you think there’s any possibility that he—that Louis Galipoli may have killed Lieutenant Lyons after the attack started, and used the attack to cover it up?”
Captain Dyer sat breathless for a long time, his eyes searching sightlessly over the tabletop.
“Oh my God,” he said quietly. “He killed Jerry Lyons. This piece of crap killed him, and because I couldn’t look at his body, the motherfucker got away with it.”
O’Dell and Rivera’s eyes widened. O’Dell began to say something, but stopped himself as Dyer went on.
“The non-coms all told me he was capable of fragging them,” he said. “I never believed it was actually possible, but it all makes sense now. The guy was on his way to being court martialed, and because of a freak attack at the wrong time, he was able to kill my best friend, destroy the paperwork for his court martial, and replace it with this bullshit Silver Star commendation.” He slapped the paper in disgust. “I’m sorry, guys, but we have to stop here. I have to notify the CID—the United States Army Criminal Investigation Command,” he explained, forgetting in his passion that his listeners were military men. “They’ll want to talk to you guys—this is serious shit, gentlemen. God, thanks to me he could have gotten away with it!” He stood abruptly, shaking his head. “Listen, I’m sorry I can’t give you more, but this is mind-blowing for me right now,” he said. He took out
his phone. “I just need to get in touch with someone at the CID—I need to talk to them right away.”
“It’s all right,” Rivera assured him. “You’ve been very helpful, really. I’m just—are you sure you’re going to be all right, Captain?”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Dyer answered, with an effort. “I just have to make sure this gets put right. This means a lot of work! They’re going to need to get in touch with Jerry’s family to exhume the body, have an autopsy done—this is no simple matter.” He shook hands hurriedly with the two detectives. “I’m really sorry to go like this, gentlemen,” he said, “but I think you’re in a position to understand my concern.”
“We certainly are,” O’Dell said, looking over at Rivera. “And anyway, don’t worry about it—from what you’ve told us, it sounds like we’re going to have some work to do ourselves.”
34
The news from Rivera and O’Dell was the last straw, and Captain Morrison instructed his top three sergeants to call an emergency meeting of select members of his task force. The meeting was scheduled to take place at Luigi’s—this was a matter too sensitive for the precinct at large—and Morrison waited apprehensively at their table in back for his team to file in.
The first to arrive were McNamara and the Coke boys. “What’s going on?” Leo Kasak asked Morrison as they sat. Morrison looked at McNamara.
“You didn’t tell them?” he asked.
McNamara shook his head. “I figured it was best held for when we were all together,” he said.
“All right, then,” Morrison said. “Sit tight, boys; I don’t want to have to go over all of this twice.”
The remainder of the group—Rivera, Simmons, O’Dell, Garriga—showed up within the next few minutes. Koreski and Medveded, out surveilling Galipoli, were conspicuously absent.
As the team seated themselves, an air of somber mystery restraining their usual high-spiritedness, Morrison felt a swelling of camaraderie mingling with his apprehension. Everyone around the table, sergeant or detective, was someone he trusted with his life. Now he would have to trust them with Tina Koreski’s as well.
He cleared his throat.
“All right, listen up, everyone,” he began. “Some of you know why we’re here, and others don’t, so I’m just going to go over everything with you. Ultimately, I’m going to ask you to be involved in something that you might not want to get involved in, and I want you to know that if you’re uncomfortable with it, I understand, and I won’t fault anyone for dropping out. I don’t expect everyone to agree with what I’m about to tell you; it’s a difficult thing even for me to bring up, especially because it may involve one of our own.
“As you all know, since the Boston boys’ murders, we’ve had a copycat killer running around the city. We’ve all been particularly struggling to figure out how this person had access to certain information regarding those early crime scenes that wasn’t released to the press. As we have discussed before, there were really only two possible explanatory scenarios. One was that Anderson and Rutherford had told someone else about what they’d done. The other was that it was someone on the inside—someone within the department. Since the arrest of those two psychopaths last week, and their denial that anyone else was involved, certain information has come to light that leads me to believe, very strongly, that we have a serial murderer on our team.”
The table was eerily quiet. Everyone remained completely focused on Morrison, waiting to hear the name spoken. Under the intensity of their gaze, he felt the full weight of what he had to tell them.
“I admit, this is very difficult for me,” he continued at length. “I’ve always considered the police to be the good guys, as you all do, and given the benefit of the doubt to our brotherhood at every opportunity. The fact that we’re all even here should demonstrate my conviction that our information is reliable. I’m sick to my core with what I have to tell you, but it needs to be said: Louis Galipoli is our copycat.”
The silence deepened into shock. Despite the universal dislike of the new detective, no one could believe—could even want to believe—that one of their own could commit the atrocities they’d seen. Kasak and Marchioni stared at Morrison, confounded; they knew he wouldn’t bring up such a thing lightly.
“Jesus,” Kasak said finally. “I always knew the guy was a jerkoff, and no one could stand his egotistical attitude, but to think he’s a rapist and a murderer—man, that’s pretty hard to deal with.”
Bill Morrison raised his hands to quiet the murmur of agreement that ran around the table. “I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know. I’ve really been struggling with this myself. And once you hear what some of us already know, you can make up your own minds as to whether it’s the right conclusion or not. And I want to stress again that at that point, you can bow out if you want to.”
Next he had the other members of the squad tell the group what they’d discovered over the past few days. Sergeant Rivera started off with the information they’d collected from the military personnel they’d spoken to. He recounted Gonzalez’s and Dyer’s allegations of attempted rape and murder, pointing especially to the connection between Galipoli’s slapping and punching his intended Army victim in the face, and the severe facial bruising they’d found on their copycat victims. He also mentioned, to the horror of the team, Captain Dyer’s suspicion that Galipoli had killed his former lieutenant to cover up his wrongdoings.
This information was followed by the discovery from the car. Francisco Garriga explained what he’d found inside the gym bag, and each item described raised the pitch of anger around the table. When he mentioned the last item, the sap gloves, Kasak and Marchioni leaned back from the table in disgust.
“I don’t know about any of you,” Mike Marchioni blurted out furiously, “but I’m in. Whatever you want us to do, Captain—I’m in. And I know I speak for Leo and myself when I say, give us the word, and we will fuck this guy up. Beating on women—! This piece of shit isn’t a man, he’s a monster, and he needs to be stopped.”
“Absolutely,” Kasak agreed. “Give us ten minutes alone with him! No backing out here, Cap.”
Around the table his sentiment was echoed to a man. Everyone felt the same; no one was backing out of the assignment, no matter what it was. Morrison was touched, but hardly surprised; good cops can never stand bad ones. There was no “blue wall of silence” or tolerance for a cop who could do such a thing; a cop who crossed that line was no more than a disgrace to the job.
Again Morrison raised his hands to quiet the table.
“Now you all know how I’ve felt, these past few days,” he said. “It’s a hard and unusual position to be in, to wish your professional instincts were incorrect, and have them proven right anyway. But there’s still some room for error here; and we can’t act until we’re a hundred percent certain that Galipoli’s the copycat. As compelling as the evidence is, we need to be patient and put together a solid case against him, before we charge out of here to grab him. That’s where the plan comes into play.”
Rivera was waiting for this. “Okay, Cap,” he said. “What’s the plan?”
“You may have wondered why Tina and Alex aren’t with us this evening,” Morrison said, to a ripple of nods around the table. “They’re currently conducting surveillance on Galipoli. I’ve discussed my plan thoroughly with them already, and they’re in full agreement with it. But they’re going to need your help to make it work.
“So far, we’ve been lucky, and Galipoli’s been tied up in court processing the Rutherford/Anderson case,” he continued. “Karma’s a bitch: his hijacking of the arresting-officer commendation has actually worked in our favor. As of an hour ago, he’s been at home; he’s scheduled to come into the precinct tomorrow morning for regular duty.”
“Excuse me, but what about the radio car?” O’Dell asked. “Won’t he be suspicious if he comes back and doesn’t find his bag there?”
“We’ve returned the bag, with all its contents except the pan
ties and shorts,” Morrison explained. “Those are with the Medical Examiner’s Office; hopefully he won’t notice they’re missing until too late.
“Now, we’re going to be playing a dangerous game of spider and fly, boys,” he went on, “and we can’t risk him catching onto us until we’ve got him. Based on everything we know about him, Galipoli has used his supposed charm on the women he’s attacked; tomorrow we’re going to turn the tables on him. Tina Koreski’s going to be our spider. Before you ask, she’s the one who came up with the idea; I was hesitant to allow it, but she wants to catch him as badly as any of you do, and her thinking is sound. Galipoli’s been after her since he met her on the taskforce: asking her out, telling her it’d be their little secret, et cetera. If he asks tomorrow when he comes back, as we have reason to think he will, she’s going to say yes.
“We think his insistence about it being kept secret from the squad goes further than the usual professional reasons. To put it mildly, we think he has plans for Tina beyond the typical first date. Now I want to stress this: if we’re right, and he is our copycat killer, Tina is going to be in serious danger the whole time she’s with him. This means we all need to be on point in keeping her safe. Some of you may know she was let down before; that cannot, that will not, happen again. She’s asked that Leo and Mike be her primary backup team.”
The Coke brothers looked surprised.
“She asked for us specifically?” Kasak asked.
“It was her one condition for doing this,” Morrison said.
Kasak and Marchioni nodded. Despite the gravity of the situation, they were unable to keep their pride from showing through.
“We won’t let anything happen to her, Cap,” Marchioni said. “We swear it on our lives.”
“I know you won’t,” Morrison said. “That’s why I agreed to any of this. Now, everyone else will also be out on the street during this operation—except Alex Medveded. After his interview of the one guy in Boston, Galipoli has been talking to him more and more: telling him how much he admired his work, how well he handled all the gory details, and so forth. Alex has been playing along with him ever since, and he believes he may have Galipoli suspecting that he, too, is into the shit those psychos did.”