The Squad Room

by John Cutter

  “This is the only picture I have of the two of them,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Silvio died not long after it was taken.”

  “I see,” Morrison said. “Was Louis close to his father?”

  Mrs. Galipoli’s brows knitted for an instant as she looked down. “No,” she said quietly. “Not really. Silvio was—he was very demanding. He could be hard on Louis. He was hard on everyone,” she added, and her fingers twisted the tissue she was holding.

  “Was Louis’s father ever violent toward him?”

  Mrs. Galipoli nodded, her eyes still averted. “He loved us, but he had a temper,” she said.

  “How did he pass?” Morrison asked.

  The bluntness of Mrs. Galipoli’s answer was almost shocking. “He was murdered,” she said simply, and burst into tears. Morrison looked at O’Dell and McNamara as they tried to console her.

  “I know it’s difficult, Mrs. Galipoli,” he said when she’d quieted again, “but it could be important to our investigation. Could you please tell me a bit about your husband’s death?”

  She nodded, wiping her eyes. “It’s all right,” she said. “It was so long ago—I’m used to talking about it. I’m more upset that Louis is in trouble.”

  “I understand completely, Mrs. Galipoli. Go ahead. Where did it happen?”

  “It was a few blocks from here, at the park. We were living in a little place on Ninety-Fifth back then, right across the street from there.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, Louis was late for dinner, and his father went looking for him,” she said. “I begged him not to go, but he was in one of his moods. He went out with—with his belt in his hand.”

  “Go on.”

  “Louis came home a little later, maybe an hour later. He was scared he was in trouble. I told him I’d always protect him, and I wouldn’t let Silvio hurt him. I was afraid of Silvio, but I was angry too. We were both angry, under the fear; Louis was always very angry at his father.

  “In the middle of the night, I heard a knock at the door. I thought it was Silvio, but when I answered it, it was a policeman. They’d found Silvio in the park. He was beaten to death. Whoever did it took his money, but left his wallet.”

  “Whoever did it? They didn’t find his killer?”

  “They never did, no.” She wiped her eyes again. “Just imagine that, as a boy—being so angry at your father, fighting with him all the time, then that happens. How could he be expected to deal with that?” She looked at them imploringly, as though to plead with them for understanding. “All these years—how does anyone deal with that?” She broke off, the tears flowing freely again. Morrison held his tongue.

  He knew, too well, the way some people dealt with that.

  A few hours later, they were still talking when one of the Crime Scene detectives pulled Morrison aside.

  “Cap, we’re wrapping up here, if you want to take another look in the room,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Morrison said. He headed down the hallway and walked in, seeing a good-sized group of bags marked by Crime Scene piled up by the door. The walls were bare.

  “I see you found the photos,” he joked. “Anything else of interest?”

  “Yeah, a bit,” the detective told him. “Some hardcore porn, a paper bag with some panties in it—pretty standard-issue stuff, though, all things considered.”

  “We’ll have to see what the lab makes of that.”

  “Yeah.” The detective pulled up short. “We did find another photo you should see, though,” he said. He handed Morrison a plastic bag. “This one wasn’t on the wall—it was in a box on the top shelf in the closet.”

  Inside the bag was a Polaroid photograph, so worn and dilapidated that at first Morrison didn’t see what it was of.

  Then he took a closer look, and almost dropped it.

  It was of a man lying contorted on the ground, a belt wrapped tightly around his neck. The grass around him, trampled in places from the struggle, still shone vividly with fresh blood. His pale face wore the ubiquitous slack expression of the dead. Beyond this, it was almost unrecognizably battered; but Morrison knew in an instant who it was, and what it meant—though he also knew he’d almost certainly never be able to prove it.

  It was a photo of Lou Galipoli’s father, taken within minutes of his death.

  42

  There truly was no rest for the weary.

  Everyone but Koreski was back in the squad room, taking congratulations and going over case notes. It had been decided that Medveded was going to take the arrest for the task force, but everyone had done their part in securing a rock-solid case against Galipoli—who’d been moved downtown to await trial—and the rest of the precinct had been coming in and out of the squad room congratulating them on a job well done.

  Still, it was hard praise for the team to enjoy. None of them had slept more than a few hours over the last two days. Among other loose ends, they still didn’t know where or who Galipoli’s additional victims may have been. Had his comment to Medveded been truthful, or only another empty boast? Even the last speculation about his father, as shocking as it had been, was inconclusive; it only proved Galipoli had been there shortly after his father’s death, and didn’t tie him to any of the current crimes. Garriga and Simmons, along with a team of Tyvek-suited Crime Scene detectives, had gone over every square inch of Galipoli’s car, and found some intriguing additional evidence there—particularly the bottles Galipoli had given to Koreski to drink out of, and a Pennsylvania license plate hidden in the trunk—but nothing they were able to draw any ready conclusions from.

  In the midst of the hubbub, a call came through for Garriga. He raised his hand for quiet, scribbling on a pad. The rest of the room went silent as they waited for him to hang up.

  When he was off the phone, he looked around the room.

  “I think we’ve found the other victims,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” Sergeant Rivera said, speaking for them all. “How many more bodies do we have?”

  “Actually, it’s not quite like that,” Garriga said. “Apparently he’s been busy on the Hutchinson River Parkway, pulling over women and sexually abusing them. They have about twenty cases reported, and probably a lot of others that didn’t report it. He apparently tried to pull it with an off-duty female sergeant from White Plains.”

  The room laughed in spite of themselves.

  “So what’s the connection?” McNamara asked. “How do we know it was him?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m getting to,” said Garriga. “Apparently he had pulled this off-duty cop over, but took off when a Westchester County PD came up behind them. The sergeant got his license plate number—and guess where the plate was from?”

  The room reverberated as practically everyone present shouted their answer at once.

  “PENNSYLVANIA!”

  “You got it,” Garriga said. “Looks like our boy’s looking at up to twenty additional counts of sexual abuse.”

  “Thank God,” McNamara said. “We got him. Twenty additional counts!”

  “Lord knows the bastard deserves them,” Simmons said. “And an off-duty cop, too!” Rivera pointed out. “Guy really likes to fuck around with the wrong women, huh?”

  As if on cue, a high voice came from the back of the squad room. “Hey, I know you’re all busy, but can a girl get a seat around here?” The room erupted in shouts and and applause as Tina Koreski came in, fit as a fiddle—aside from a light bruise across her cheekbone where Galipoli had slapped her—and smiling from ear to ear. One by one, each of the team stood to hug her and shake her hand. She blushed as Leo Kasak self-effacingly offered her his chair.

  “Ah, you’re making a lot of it,” she said. “I couldn’t have done it without you guys.”

  “And you think we could’ve flirted with that asshole all night?” Kasak laughed. “Think again.”

  “Hell of a job, Detective,” Marchioni agreed. “Hell of a job.”

  “How’r
e you feeling?” O’Dell asked. “You get enough time in that hospital bed?”

  “Enough to last me a good long while,” Koreski said, smiling. “I’m doing fine—great, really. A hundred percent.”

  “Hundred percent, huh?” Rivera laughed, looking around the room. “That good enough for Kelley’s? I know nobody here’s slept in a day or two, but I for one couldn’t rest without raising a glass to you, if you’re up for it.”

  “I’m in,” she said, beaming as her team cheered her again.

  Later that evening, after everyone else had headed out, Bill Morrison sat alone in his office.

  He’d just hung up from a long conversation that had needed to happen for a while, but which he hadn’t thought himself capable of initiating—a call with his wife Kathleen. He’d always dreaded bringing up their distance, as it had never led to anything but hostility between them before; but lately, with Claudia in the picture, the need had become pressing. There was not much guilt to it for him—they’d been living on separate planets too long for that to be the case—but he felt it as a weight, an attachment to a previous life that, until he finally and decisively freed himself from it, would hold him back from the life that could be.

  So today, in the first real breathing space he’d had since their case had escalated, he’d made the call. To his surprise—but then, why would it surprise him?—Kathleen had anticipated what he had to say, almost to the word. She had arrived at the same conclusion differently, and though it was difficult, she knew as well as he did that a final separation was the right thing for both of them.

  They spent the better part of an hour talking, about their lives, their kids, and most conspicuously, Bill Junior. His death had been the breaking point for them, and their inability to speak to each other about it had provided each of them with an ongoing proof of that crucial divide.

  Now they talked about it, to such an extent as they still could with one another; and the conversation was pleasant, unpressured, the undisguised communication of two people who had nothing to hide from one another anymore. There was a definite tinge of melancholy to it—they both seemed to have known that this sort of conversation was the only context within which they would ever truly open up to each other again—but it was more than they’d talked at once for five years, and when it drew to an end, it ended well.

  Now, the strange warmth of their conversation still with him, Morrison picked up the framed photo of his son he’d been looking at as they’d talked.

  “Billy, I—uh—I think I’m going to be okay,” he said at last, touching the photo. “It really feels like some things could be turning around for me. I know you’re in a better place—I have to believe that—but if I can help it, I’m not going to be seeing you anytime soon.”

  He kissed the photo and returned it to its place on his desk, then picked up the phone again. The others were all out at Kelley’s, celebrating Tina, but he had one more call to make before he joined them. This one, at least, he was more excited about. He hadn’t spoken to Claudia since their pursuit of Galipoli had kicked into high gear. Now he had good news for her on all fronts.

  “Bill!” her light voice greeted him. “I’ve missed you so much, darling. Are things settling down a bit for you?”

  “Oh, relatively speaking,” he laughed. “God, Claudia, do I have a lot to talk to you about!”

  “Good news, I hope?”

  “Definitely—a few different pieces of good news.”

  “Ooh! I’m intrigued. Are you done for the night? You can come up now, if you’d like.”

  He smiled at her eagerness; it was so unusual a happiness for him. “I’m going to get a couple of celebratory drinks with the team, and get some much-needed sleep—but I can drive up in the morning, if you have time then.”

  “Of course. I’ll be looking forward to it until then! Have a good time tonight.”

  “Thanks, babe.” He caught his reflection in the window, smiling like a jackass. And so what if I am? he thought. That’s what happy men do. “I love you, Claudia—I’ll talk to you in the morning, all right?”

  “I love you too, Bill. Have a good night!”

  He hung up and stood, grabbing his coat. It was odd; he didn’t particularly feel like drinking. This was better than any buzz, this new feeling he’d found; it was like he had a new chance at life.

  But he wouldn’t miss Kelley’s for the world tonight. It had been a long day, and his family was waiting for him.