Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  Landis hands Lou Vota a blanket.

  Landis stands just inside the metal door that gives access to the roof from the stairwell. The four-story apartment building has no elevator.

  “Get down and give Mendez a hand,” says Vota. “When help arrives, move everyone back at least fifty feet from the entrance. No one comes up until after Dr. Wayne gets here.”

  Landis heads back down the stairs and Vota carries the blanket back to where Samson is silently letting Campo say whatever the man needs to say. Vota glances out toward the Narrows, looks up further to where the Statue of Liberty sits in the harbor and over to where the Twin Towers once stood.

  “I grew up in the last tall stucco house,” Campo says, pointing up West 10th Street across Avenue S. “My uncle and aunt still live there. My uncle is ninety-five and walks two miles every day. It was the last house on that side of the street for a number of years after my grandfather had it built. It was all farmlands from there on. Across the road there was a large lumber mill. Eddie lived next door. He plowed his Chevrolet Impala into a telephone pole on Stillwell Avenue on the night we graduated from Lafayette High School. Died instantly they said. Carlo lived across the street; he was an All-City sprinting champion. He came back from Vietnam with no feeling from his waist down and now spends most of his time in some tribal casino up in Connecticut.”

  Campo pulls a package of Camel nonfiltered cigarettes from his coat pocket and holds it out to Detectives Samson and Vota.

  Both decline.

  Vota is looking for somewhere to place the blanket, not ready to use it for its intended purpose. He strays back to the west ledge and looks down. Reinforcements have arrived to assist in keeping the curious neighbors at a distance.

  Campo lights a cigarette. He takes a deep pull and finally comes back to the matter at hand.

  “When I was this boy’s age, the Brooklyn Dodgers finally beat the Yankees in the World Series and this whole neighborhood was like a carnival.”

  Campo stops and at last looks back to the small body lying near Samson’s feet on the roof.

  Samson takes it as a cue to begin work.

  “How did you discover the boy’s body, Mr. Campo?” Detective Lieutenant Samson asks.

  Thirty minutes earlier, a woman, who Campo could only identify as Irina since her last name was unpronounceable to him, had rushed out of the apartment building and had miraculously negotiated her way across Avenue S with merely one close call. That being with a Pontiac Firebird shouting rap music so loudly into the street that the driver would have never heard the contact had he knocked the woman all the way to West 13th Street.

  She ran into the grocery store crying out in Russian, the only language she knew. Joe Campo was no linguist, but changes in demographics over the past ten years had necessitated the recognition of basic words relating to food and credit. In this instance, the woman’s body language alone was enough to convince Campo he was being urged to follow her back to the apartment building across the avenue.

  Campo had left his wife behind the counter and rushed off to follow the Russian woman.

  She had led him up to the roof.

  Vota pulls out his cellular phone and calls Detective Murphy at the Precinct.

  “Anything on a missing eight-year-old boy, Tommy?” asks Vota, after the desk sergeant transfers the call to Murphy up in Homicide.

  “Not yet. Missing Persons is going through their log,” says Murphy. “Batman just called in. He was at a meeting in Manhattan and he got stuck crawling in traffic on the Gowanus. He’s just now coming off the Belt at Bay Parkway. He should be over to you in five minutes.”

  “Do we have anyone handy who speaks and understands Russian?” Vota asks.

  “I’ll check around. Need me down there?”

  “No, we need you where you are.”

  “I’ll be here,” says Murphy and rings off.

  Detective Vota looks down again to the street. The uniforms seem to have the crowd under control. An ambulance has pulled up in front of the building; Officer Rey Mendez is exchanging words with the driver. The attendants will sit tight until the medical examiner arrives and then they will wait until he releases the body.

  Vota calls down to Landis and signals for him and Mendez to come up.

  Campo has fallen silent again. Lieutenant Samson waits a few moments before gently nudging him on.

  “And?” Samson says as Detective Vota joins them again.

  “And after seeing the body, I followed Irina back down to her apartment and called it in. Your men were out here in less than ten minutes.”

  “You obviously didn’t call 911,” says Vota.

  Campo nearly allows himself a smile.

  “I called Stan,” he says.

  Vota and Samson exchange looks.

  “Stan?” says Samson.

  “Stan Trenton, your chief. Stan and I played football together at Lafayette High. Stan dropped what would have been a game-winning touchdown toss in the final seconds of a contest against Erasmus and decided on a change in career plans. Stan went to Queens College and eventually into the law school there. I broke my ankle in the season closer at Lincoln, took a job working for Vito in the grocery after graduation, and ten years later, I had enough saved to buy the place from his wife when these things killed him.”

  Campo takes out his package of Camel straights and lights another.

  “Recognize the boy?” Samson asks.

  “No. Irina said he didn’t live in the building. At least that’s what I think she was saying. My son lives in the house where I grew up,” Joe Campo says, gazing back up West 10th Street. “My grandson is the same age as this boy was. If he was from the neighborhood, I’d have known him.”

  Officers Landis and Mendez have come onto the roof.

  Detective Vota walks over to meet them.

  “Dr. Wayne just pulled up,” says Landis.

  “Canvas the apartments,” says Vota, “top to bottom. Maybe we’ll get lucky for a change. Skip 3-B, that’s the woman who found the boy. Sam and I will see her. Murphy is scouting out a Russian translator. Make note of where else we may need one.”

  “Might need someone who knows Mandarin or Hindi,” says Mendez.

  “We can only hope,” says Vota. “Dr. Wayne have anyone with him?”

  “He’s alone,” says Landis. “The city still has him waiting for a new assistant.”

  “Okay, go,” says Vota.

  Officers Mendez and Landis head down, squeezing past the medical examiner, Dr. Bruce Wayne a.k.a. Batman, as the doctor walks up the narrow stairway.

  Wayne moves briskly over to where Samson and Campo stand near the body, Vota tagging along.

  “Sam,” says Wayne.

  “Bruce,” says Samson.

  “Why don’t you guys give me ten minutes alone up here, go do what you guys do,” says Batman.

  Wayne immediately directs his attention to the boy on the ground. Vota places the blanket down near the body.

  “Can I go back to my wife?” asks Joe Campo.

  “Sure,” says Samson, leading the man away from the examiner. “I may want to talk with you again, later on. Thanks for your help.”

  “I’ll be at the store until seven. I’ll buy you a Coca-Cola,” Campo says.

  “Ten minutes, Sam,” Wayne calls as Campo and the two detectives reach the doorway to the stairs, “then send up the stretcher.”

  Samson and Vota follow Campo down, catching sight of Landis and Mendez rapping on doors on the third floor. Campo goes on. Vota and Samson stop for a quick report from the uniforms before continuing down to check the situation on the street.

  When Vota and Samson exit the building, they see Campo enter his grocery across the avenue.

  “What do you think of him?” asks Vota.

  “Just another hardworking guy who would prefer not knowing that these things happen, but can’t stay out of the way.”

  An unmarked car rolls up. It stops on the avenue just past the south
east corner, unable to turn onto 10th Street, which is blocked by three marked police vehicles. A young woman, smartly dressed in pleated slacks and a gray blazer, slides out from behind the wheel. She wears her long black hair in a ponytail.

  She quickly crosses to Samson and Vota.

  “Lieutenant Samson?” she asks.

  “That would be me.”

  She looks up at the huge black man, who stands at least a foot taller and outweighs her by a hundred pounds.

  “Nickname?” she asks.

  “Not exactly, and you?”

  “Marina Ivanov, 60th Precinct Detective Squad. We got word that you were looking for someone who speaks Russian.”

  “This is Sergeant Vota, Detective. Let’s go up,” says Samson, turning back to enter the building. Vota follows. Detective Ivanov hesitates at the bank of mailboxes.

  “Which apartment?” she asks.

  “3-B,” answers Lou Vota, turning back to Detective Ivanov.

  Ivanov reads the name on the box.

  “Kyznetsov,” she says. The t is soft.”

  “That helps,” says Detective Vota. “Is that a rare moniker?”

  “I would guess it’s something like Johnson or Williams over here, two million or so. Ivanov, on the other hand, is twice as prevalent as Smith.”

  “And there are eighty-eight million Wangs,” says Samson from halfway up the first flight. “Let’s move.”

  They run into Landis and Mendez between the second and third floors. The two uniformed officers are coming down.

  “Nada,” says Mendez before Samson can ask.

  The lieutenant glances at his wristwatch.

  “Start hitting the second floor,” Samson says. “Rey, run down and tell the ambulance guys that they can come up.”

  Officers Stan Landis and Rey Mendez continue down, Landis stopping on two and Mendez hurrying down to the street. Vota, Samson and Ivanov come off the stairway onto the third floor and find the door to apartment 3-B. Ivanov taps on the door and a few seconds later it is opened by a woman in her early thirties. A girl, four years old, hangs on to the woman’s dress. The woman looks from face to face at the three detectives, finally stopping at Samson’s.

  One glance into the woman’s eyes made it an easy call for the lieutenant.

  “Maybe you should speak with her alone, Detective Ivanov,” he suggests. “We’ll meet you back out front.”

  Marina says a few words to Mrs. Kyznetsov in Russian and the two women disappear into the apartment. Samson and Vota hear steps coming down from above and wait at the landing to be joined by Batman. At the same time, the two ambulance men arrive at the landing with a folded gurney, followed by a two-man forensics evidence team, causing a serious traffic jam on the stairway. The detectives and the medical examiner make way by stepping into the third-floor corridor while the others pass.

  “The boy was killed somewhere else and then brought up here,” says the M.E. “There was physical trauma to the head involved, but there may be more. I didn’t see signs of anything sexual. That’s all I can tell you until we get him down to the lab, so don’t bother asking.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the marks on his face, Bruce?” asks Samson, unable to resist.

  Samson has resisted asking about the boy’s hand; he is unprepared to accept even the most clinical hypothesis as to how that could have happened. And Dr. Wayne is on the same page.

  “I’m not sure. Looks like the cuts on his face were made with an X-Acto knife, maybe a box cutter, but very precise. If it’s what I think it is,” says Wayne, “well, I’d rather not think about it.”

  “Having a bad day, Doc?” asks Vota.

  “Did you happen to look into that boy’s eyes?”

  “I did,” says Samson.

  “There’s your answer,” says Batman, and the medical examiner moves quickly down the stairway without another word.

  “What is it, Joseph?” asks Roseanna Campo, seeing the expression on her husband’s face as he joins her behind the counter of the grocery.

  It is an expression of disillusionment.

  The two teens who had been playing handball against the building are rifling through the cooler, seeking out the coldest root beers.

  “A dead boy, around little Frankie’s age,” says Campo solemnly.

  “My God, Joe.”

  “Yes.”

  Reluctantly, Roseanna Campo asks the question. “Is it someone we know?”

  “I didn’t recognize him.”

  The boy’s own mother won’t recognize him, Joe Campo sadly thinks.

  Detective Ivanov has joined Vota and Samson in front of the apartment building.

  “Her husband is the building superintendent,” Ivanov says, filling them in on her talk with Irina Kyznetsov. “He’s out working a second job. He had called asking her to check the roof antenna; they were getting complaints about TV reception. She went up and found the body. She says that she didn’t know the boy. Says that she didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “Why am I not surprised,” says Vota.

  “We may need you again, Ivanov,” says Samson, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’d love it. It’s been a little slow at the 60th.”

  “Consider yourself fortunate,” says Samson. “Thanks for your help.”

  Detective Ivanov returns to her car as Officers Landis and Mendez come out of the building.

  The steeple bell at Most Precious Blood Church peals four times.

  “No luck, Lieutenant,” says Officer Landis. “Not many people are back home from work yet. The few we found at home had nothing to contribute. A few apartments had kids back from school waiting for their parents and smart enough not to open the door to us. We’ll have to return later to do the rest.”

  “Okay, let’s leave four officers here to clear the street. Why don’t you guys get some dinner and start up again in an hour or so.”

  “The body is on the way down,” says Rey Mendez. “The forensic team is going to stay up there and get whatever they can while there’s still daylight.”

  “Good. Lou and I are going back to the Precinct to see if Murphy has come up with any missing kids,” says Samson. “Call me after you canvas and feel free to call me at home.”

  Officers Landis and Mendez walk off to instruct the other uniforms, still struggling with the crowd, as the ambulance men come out with the gurney. They hurry the small body into the vehicle and drive quickly away from the scene. The uniformed officers are trying to dodge questions and get the people on the street to return to their homes.

  “What do you think, Sam?” asks Lou Vota.

  “My daughter Kayla is that boy’s age. What am I supposed to think? And when we learn who the child was, we have notifying his parents to look forward to. What do you think?”

  All Vota can think about is the finger.

  TWO

  Lorraine DiMarco sits restlessly at the defense table of Courtroom D in the Kings County Criminal Courthouse on Court Street in downtown Brooklyn. It is late in the day on the first Friday in February and there is no one in the large, cold room who would not prefer being almost anywhere else. Except the prosecutor, perhaps, who has a visit to his dentist scheduled for later that evening.

  To Lorraine’s right, her assistant Victoria Anderson is staring at the large clock behind and above the judge’s podium, rapping a Krupa beat on an 8½-by-14 inch yellow legal pad with a No. 2 lead pencil. Anderson is a third-year law student attending New York University, working the summer in the Law Office of DiMarco and McWayne on Remson Street in Brooklyn Heights. Lorraine slaps Anderson’s knee under the table, and Victoria drops the pencil and clasps her hands in front of her like a kid in Sunday school.

  On Lorraine’s left sits the defendant, Bobby Hoyle. Lorraine would not allow a pencil anywhere near Bobby. The kid is so nervous he would probably stab himself to death with one. Hoyle is charged with first-degree murder and is, of course, innocent.

  The defense is self-defens
e.

  According to Hoyle, he had run out of the house in the wee hours to grab a pack of cigarettes from an all-night deli at Bay Parkway and 85th Street. Bobby had borrowed his brother’s 1965 Mustang convertible, without permission. Hoyle left the car idling in front of the small deli and started toward the entrance. Before entering, Bobby saw a stranger at the passenger door of the Ford, ready to climb behind the wheel. More concerned about having to face his brother with news of a stolen vehicle than about his own safety, Bobby accosted the intruder. A struggle ensued, a gun appeared, a gunshot was discharged and Bobby jumped into the Mustang and sped away. Discovering that the gun had found its way into his hand, Bobby dropped it to the floor. Hoyle was stopped by a police cruiser after running a red light at 20th Avenue. Bobby insisted he was rushing to the 62nd Precinct on Bath Avenue to report the shooting. An officer found the weapon at Bobby’s feet and Bobby found himself cuffed in the back seat of the police car.

  Back at the scene of the shooting, a second patrol car had responded to a 911 call. The victim was DOA. The shop clerk, who had been stocking canned goods in the rear of the store, could not verify that Bobby had left the vehicle before the shooting occurred. When he ran to the door to investigate, the clerk saw the Mustang speeding away and the body of the victim in the street. He went back to the telephone to call the police. A second witness looked out the window of her apartment across the avenue after hearing a gunshot and also saw the Mustang speed off and the body on the ground. She left her vantage point to call 911.

  The accounts of both witnesses sounded very much like the description of a drive-by shooting.

  The victim was later identified as Johnny Colletti. The store clerk was able to aid in the identification, recognizing Colletti as a local troublemaker, which was helpful since no wallet or other ID was found on the body.

  To compound Bobby Hoyle’s dilemma, the only prints found on the weapon were his own. The defense contended that sometime while the witnesses were making their phone calls to the police, someone had come along and grabbed Colletti’s wallet and the pair of gloves he must certainly have been wearing during the attempted carjacking.