Was that because he didn’t trust his own police department?
“And you’re saying his visits … this was a Mob thing.”
“Had to be.”
“Why?”
“The cars we stole were going out in containers. No one could run an operation like that for long without those guys muscling in. They control the unions, and the unions control the waterfront.”
There it was.
The Mob connection.
But not Jack’s Mob connection.
Lucy was tortured with questions. Jack had sometimes discussed his investigations with her—in fact, more often than she had admitted to Ernie Tait. Why had he never mentioned this one? Why hide the USB drive? What was he involved in? Was this the reason he was killed?
It must be.
Lanza had told the truth. Jack wasn’t on his payroll. But maybe Lanza had lied about the main question. Maybe he lied when he swore he had nothing to do with Jack’s death.
Lucy sat very still in her chair. Minutes became an hour; an hour stretched toward two. Over and over, she weighed taking her discovery to the BPD. She no longer knew anyone in the Department. A few officers, maybe. Some of the older ones. Faces but not names.
She couldn’t ask Ernie Tait for advice—not now that she knew the man’s deceased ex-partner had been at the center of Jack’s investigation.
Jack had always been a bit standoffish when it came to fellow cops. He’d never been big on drinking with the boys. He would join them for the occasional celebration—a court victory, a promotion party—but he’d frankly preferred his wife’s company. Over the years he had taken more than his share of ribbing about that from fellow officers. Lucy had heard some of the wisecracks. Rightly or wrongly, Jack had tried to protect her from the grittier elements of his life in law enforcement, and, as a couple, they had tended to socialize with some of her fellow teachers, and with a handful of friends from outside their professions.
But they had spent most of their spare time with each other, running in the park, working in the garden, going to movies, drinking wine, and playing cribbage—Jack had learned the game from his grandfather, a retired Navy submariner, who had left him his prized scrimshaw pegging board. Yes, they had had their disagreements, but the thing about their relationship was that neither of them had a default position that automatically put the other one in the wrong.
They had been truly, genuinely, compatible.
They had been loners—but loners together.
Always together.
She knew that was the reason Jack’s death had almost destroyed her.
The result of it all, five years on, was that Lucy Hendricks didn’t know any of the detectives at the Bureau. But even if she had, she questioned whether any of them could be trusted. They had seemed all too ready to suspect Jack of corruption—especially after they learned that he’d failed to report the offer of a free week’s stay at a “reputed Mob hangout” hotel in Key West.
The hotel chain executive and his secretary (and lover, Lucy suspected) had both given statements insisting that the offer had been made to Lucy, not to Jack. That explanation had left Detective Carla Scarlatti unmoved. Lucy’s later statement to Scarlatti—that Jack’s simple motivation had been the chance to surprise her, and for them to spend an uninterrupted week in a romantic setting while trying to start a family—was something the stone-faced investigator seemed incapable of imagining. She had flatly told Lucy that she suspected Benjamin Gennaro, the hotel executive, was himself somehow Mob-connected.
“‘Connected!’” Lucy had thought violently, just before she ordered the woman out of her house. “Why is everyone in New Jersey obsessed with that fucking word?”
Kevin appeared next to her chair.
“Mommy?”
There was the little face she loved, the one with the child’s eyes.
“What is it, dear?”
“When’s dinner?”
Startled, Lucy checked the time. It was well past six o’clock. She’d completely lost track of time. She’d lost track of everything.
“Oh, darn!”
“What’s wrong, Mommy?”
“Mommy forgot to make dinner.” She gave him a big smile. “Whatever-will-we-do?”
Kevin loved those code words. A big grin spread across his face. “Pizza!” he cried, and gave his mom a high five.
Oh God, how I love this little man …
* * *
Yes, Lucy loved her little man. She lived for his care, and she lived for his happiness.
But he was beginning to frighten her.
Who was she going to tell?
Who would take her seriously when she announced, “I’ve got a problem with Kevin.”
“What problem?” she would be asked.
“Well, I’m convinced he’s inherited Jack’s memories.”
“Say that again.”
“It’s as if Jack has been reborn in Kevin.”
“Really? Have you considered psychiatric help?”
“For Kevin?”
“No. For you.”
That night, after Kevin was asleep, Lucy returned to her computer and ran a search sequence: childhood memory past life.
The report that appeared at the top of her screen astounded her—About 4,900,000 results (0.36 seconds)—but the first tier of links was even more unsettling:
Case studies—children’s reports of past-life memories …
Two-year-old remembers being his own grandfather …
Past life memories not uncommon, say psychiatrists …
Child recalls life as a World War II pilot—recounts details he could not have known—aircraft found …
As she clicked with increasing amazement through screen after screen of academic papers, news articles, and blogs, the name that kept popping up was that of Professor Jim Tucker of the University of Virginia. She discovered that he had published a book about the scientific investigation of children’s memories of past lives. After further searching, she located an article he had written for an online journal back in 2008.
Arresting phrases leaped out at her.
… forty-five years of case studies … over 2,500 cases … subjects tend to be young children … typically begin describing past life memories at age two or three … usually stop by six or seven … some children have birthmarks or birth defects that appear to match wounds, usually fatal ones, suffered by the previous personality …
The last passage hit Lucy with a jolt. Kevin’s limp, she thought. That weak right arm! She knew Jack had suffered crushing injuries to his right side.
The sliding door near her desk was partly open, and the evening air was cool, but Lucy’s brow was beaded with perspiration by the time she worked her way to the website of the UVA Medical School’s Division of Perceptual Studies, where Dr. Tucker had spent over a decade studying these cases.
What she learned in the next two hours filled her with inexplicable hope, and at the same time … with paralyzing dread.
The next morning, while Kevin ate his cereal, she topped up her coffee mug and parked herself at the breakfast table. She just sat there, looking at him. Lucy usually gulped down her morning coffee while she tidied the kitchen or emptied the dishwasher, so her change of routine must have made the boy feel uneasy.
“What’d I do?”
“What’s your name?”
“Silly, you know my name!”
“Tell me.”
“Kevin!”
Advice to parents of children who are spontaneously recalling past life memories …
“I thought your name was Jack.”
He put down his spoon. “That’s my Daddy’s name!”
Avoid asking a lot of pointed questions …
“Do you remember being big?”
“You mean big like you?”
This could be upsetting to the child and … could lead the child to make up answers …
“Bigger. Big like Daddy was.”
Kevin’s eyes
held hers. As she watched, they seemed to age.
Parents are sometimes more upset by the statements than their child is …
Kevin pushed back from the table and stood up.
“I’m not big anymore, Luce. But I’ll protect you.”
He turned and limped away, leaving his mother stunned.
16
“Mrs. Hendricks?”
Lucy looked up with a start. She’d been nervously flipping through a magazine, seeing nothing. The man who stood before her appeared to be in his early forties. She took in pomaded dark hair, dark eyes, and a pleasing face wearing a slightly quizzical expression.
“Yes.” She rose to her feet.
“Mrs. Lucy Hendricks?” The emphasis was on Lucy.
Hell! Not another one …
“That’s right,” she replied stiffly.
The man smiled warmly and extended a hand. “It’s very good to meet you. I’m Robert Olivetti. Would you like to come to my office?”
Lucy was taken off guard. She managed a thankful nod.
He escorted her down a short corridor to an office door. A sign on the wall announced his ponderous title:
Deputy First Assistant Prosecutor Robert Olivetti
They entered a corner office furnished in soulless institutional style—a small desk that looked like it belonged in a child’s bedroom, mismatched bookshelves lined with binders and loose papers, and a pair of stiff-backed guest chairs. Olivetti noticed Lucy’s reaction. “The boss’s office isn’t much better. Comes with the job.”
“I’m more surprised by the location.” Lucy nodded at the industrial scene outside the windows behind his desk.
“This is actually a satellite office. Most of the prosecutors work in our offices at the courthouse on Newark Avenue. We run specialized units out of this building. It helps us keep a low profile.”
“Does one of those units investigate homicide?”
“Every homicide investigation in the county is run out of this building.” He gestured toward a guest chair. She sat. He asked, “Would you like some water, or coffee?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
Instead of moving behind his desk, he settled on the other guest chair. “First off, Mrs. Hendricks, I want you to know—”
“Lucy’s fine.”
“Thanks. I’m Robert. Lucy, I knew your husband. I prosecuted some of his cases. I know what’s been said about him, so let me try to clear the air right now. I considered Jack Hendricks to be a fine detective. Period.”
Lucy felt the tension drain from her body. Finally, someone in law enforcement who hadn’t passed judgment. And Robert Olivetti wasn’t just anybody in law enforcement. He was a senior member of the Prosecutor’s Office.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Maybe I’ll have that coffee, after all.”
“How do you take it?”
“Black, no sugar.”
“Coming right up.” He got up and left the room.
Lucy had started the day by phoning the Jersey City Police. She’d been hoping to track down Detective Trousdale. Despite the deep pain he and Carla Scarlatti had visited upon her during their investigation into Jack’s murder, Trousdale had left her with a lingering impression of being an open-minded cop—a quality that had seemed singularly lacking in his partner.
She was put through to the Detective Bureau, where a disembodied male voice informed her that Trousdale had left the Department two years earlier.
“Oh? Is he still a police officer?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the voice responded.
“Can you tell me how to reach him?”
“That might be difficult, ma’am. You’ll have to call the Army.”
“The Army?”
“Yes. He joined the military police. And, we heard a few months ago that he’d been deployed.”
She didn’t bother to ask for Detective Scarlatti. She thanked the officer and hung up.
After a few moments of thought, she decided she had only one option left. She called the Hudson County Prosecutor’s Office and asked to make an appointment with the county prosecutor.
“Relating to which case, ma’am?” the receptionist asked, in an impertinent tone.
“Relating to the false accusations against my husband, Detective Jack Hendricks.”
“Are you referring to—?”
“Yes. The detective who was murdered back in 2006.”
“May I have your name, please?”
“Lucy Hendricks.”
“Please hold.”
After an interminable wait, the receptionist came back on the line. “Mr. Van Camp is currently on sick leave. If you would like to meet with one of his deputies, Mr. Olivetti will see you. I can slot you in for late this afternoon.”
“What time?”
“He can see you at four-thirty.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there.”
* * *
Lucy set down her mug.
The coffee was surprisingly good, considering it came from a government lunchroom. Robert’s mug sat untouched. For the past several minutes, he’d been frozen in his chair, listening with rapt attention as Lucy had taken him, step by step, through the aftermath of Jack’s murder.
She’d told him about Tait bringing her the news of Jack’s death, about his pre-Christmas visit to tell her about the brewing suspicions about his activities, and about the post-Christmas visit from Trousdale and Scarlatti with even more allegations. She gave him a succinct overview of the past five years of her life—the poorly investigated break-in at her house a few months after Jack’s murder, her move to Florida, Kevin’s birth, and the break-in at her storage unit. She told him about Garrett Lindsay’s phone call and her return to Bayonne. After she described the foiled attempt to abduct her in Stephen Gregg Park—he’d heard about it and, predictably, offered admiring compliments for her quick thinking—she jumped straight to the main point of her visit. She told Olivetti that Jack had been quietly investigating an extensive car theft operation, and she believed that was what had gotten him killed. She also mentioned what she’d read about Aldo Gianotti, the alleged Lanza family enforcer who had escaped from prison.
“I don’t know what ‘physical evidence’ they were talking about in that article,” she continued, with rising emotion, “unless it was just that bracelet the coroner found in Jack’s throat. Either the Lanza family had Jack killed, or someone tried to make it look like they did. All I know is that my husband was conducting a legitimate investigation, and that he was definitely not corrupt!”
For reasons Lucy couldn’t even explain to herself, she stopped short of disclosing Dominic Lanza’s visit to her home.
“And you have evidence of this? Evidence of Jack’s investigation?”
“Yes. I found this hidden in our house.” Lucy opened her purse and retrieved the flash drive. “It was inside a heating register.” There was no way on earth she was going to reveal how Kevin’s preternatural behavior had led her to the object.
“What’s on it?”
“Proof that I’m right.”
“You found it in a heating duct?” He sounded slightly incredulous.
“I was doing some serious housecleaning,” she lied. “It was in an envelope taped under the register. At first I thought it was something left by one of my tenants.”
“May I look?”
She handed him the drive. They went to his computer, and she led him through the files. Then they started to listen to the audio file.
“Cal Parrish!” Olivetti exclaimed. He paused the playback.
“What about him?”
“Your husband came to see me about him! Before he was killed.”
“Why did he come to see you?”
“A prisoner had told him he had information about Parrish. The man wanted to make a deal. Jack wanted authorization to discuss a deal with him.” He told her about Jack’s visit to his office. “The man he was talking to on that tape must b
e that prisoner. I don’t remember all the details, but I’m pretty sure it was a robbery case. I’ll get the file pulled.”
They listened to the rest of the recording.
“It sounds like the guy wrote down a name. Did you ever find a notebook among Jack’s things?”
“No. If there’d been one, the police would have taken it when they searched. All I remember them taking was my laptop.” She pointed at the flash drive. “What about that? Doesn’t it need to be preserved? Marked as an exhibit or something?”
“This office has a property and evidence unit. It’s run by three police officers. The supervisor is a Bayonne PD lieutenant. Do you want to get the police involved now?”
“What’s your advice?”
“I can understand that you want to move as quickly as possible to clear your husband’s name. You’ve been living under this cloud for too many years. But think about it, Lucy. Cal Parrish was a respected Bayonne detective. He was killed a year or so before your husband. No one ever suggested that Parrish was corrupt, but as you know, a lot of Bayonne cops now believe that Jack was. It looks like he was investigating Parrish’s possibly illegal activities, and perhaps his murder as well, but I just think we need to know more before we tell the Bayonne police that they’ve got it all backwards. Does that make sense?”
Put in those terms, Lucy had to agree. “I see what you mean.”
“Good. Let me do a bit of digging on this myself before we decide the next move. What I suggest is this: I’ll get a new, unused USB drive from our stock room. I’ll copy the contents of this one onto it, in your presence. That will give me a working copy. Then we’ll seal this one in an exhibit envelope, we’ll both initial the label, and I’ll lock it in my safe.” He opened a door in the right-hand pedestal of his desk, revealing a hotel-style room safe with a combination touchpad. “Is that acceptable?”
Lucy found the man’s straightforward manner comforting. She didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
She stood next to him as he went through each step of the process he had suggested. He uploaded the contents of Jack’s USB onto his desktop, downloaded it onto the new drive, and then deleted the copy from his desktop and emptied the recycle bin. He dropped the original USB drive in an exhibit envelope, sealed it, and they both signed across the seal. She watched him lock it in his safe.
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