Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  “So, the boy is brought in here, maybe killed here and then carried up to the roof. Is that the going theory?” asks Murphy.

  “At the moment,” says Landis.

  “Why take the chance of being seen carrying the body?”

  “Couldn’t say,” says Landis, “unless he wanted the body to be found sooner.”

  “Or later,” says Mendez.

  “So, what do we have here?” asks Murphy.

  “We have a hypodermic needle for starters,” says Mendez.

  “This guy shot up while he was here with the kid?”

  No one had an answer.

  “Then there was this,” says Mendez, leading Murphy into the kitchen.

  The numbers were written on the wall opposite the open refrigerator in what appeared to be red crayon. One of the forensic investigators was scraping a sample from the top of the large five.

  “71915? What the fuck is that supposed to be, a date? A zip code? A fucking lottery number? What?”

  Landis follows as Murphy storms back out into the front room. A second investigator is dusting the door for fingerprints. The calzone is hurling itself against the walls of Murphy’s stomach. He wants to sit. He walks over to the wooden step stool and sees the blood.

  “And this?” asks Murphy.

  “Has to be where he cut the boy,” says Mendez.

  “Did what?”

  “Didn’t Samson or Vota tell you about the boy’s finger?”

  “What finger?”

  “The small finger of the right hand. The missing finger,” says Landis.

  Lucy Samson has just blown out the five candles on her birthday cake and Samson is ready to cut into it when the telephone rings. He hands the knife to his wife Alicia, and walks over to take the call.

  “Sorry to bother you at home, Lieutenant,” says Kelly.

  “No problem, Kelly, what have you got?”

  “We got a call on a missing kid, a boy, eight years old,” says the desk sergeant. “It sounds like it might be the one you’re looking for.”

  “Who called it in and when?”

  “The mother, ten minutes ago.”

  Samson looks at the kitchen wall clock.

  “What took her so long?” he asks.

  “She says she had to work late. She has another kid, four-year-old girl, who stays with a neighbor. The boy was supposed to go over there after school, but never showed up. There was some cross-up in communication and the neighbor wasn’t expecting him. When the mother arrived to pick up her children and discovered that the boy wasn’t there, she called it in.”

  “Does she know about the kid on the roof?”

  “No.”

  “What about the father?”

  “He doesn’t live with them. They’re separated. We got an address on him from the mother.”

  “Damn it, I was hoping I’d know more from the medical examiner about what happened up there before I had to deal with parents,” says Samson.

  “There is more. Murphy just got back. I’ll let him fill you in.”

  Kelly transfers the call and Murphy tells Samson about the empty apartment and what was found there.

  “What are you doing now?” asks Samson.

  “I’m writing it up.”

  “I mean, do you have plans?”

  “I know better than to make plans on a Friday night, Sam. What do you need?”

  “Can you try to locate the father of the boy?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m coming back in. I’ll see the mother. Check in with Batman to find out if he has anything from the medical exam and ask him to get the boy ready for a possible ID. Call me on my cell phone after you speak to him.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Thanks, Tommy.”

  “Like I have a choice,” says Murphy.

  “Of course you have a choice,” says Samson.

  “A fine dinner, Mrs. DiMarco, thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome, Lou, it’s my pleasure.”

  “We heard about the boy they found over on 10th Street, Lou,” says Sal DiMarco. “Were you there?”

  “Unfortunately, yes, but I can’t say much about it yet.”

  “How about coffee?” says Fran DiMarco, changing the subject.

  “Sounds great,” says Vota, and changing the subject again he turns to Lorraine. “I may have a lead on the man who lifted Johnny Colletti’s wallet the night your client Bobby Hoyle was picked up.”

  Vota tells her about his talk with Levine at the liquor store.

  “Can we go look for the homeless man tonight?” asks Lorraine. “We have to get Bobby Hoyle out of Rikers before things get worse for him. The kid is a mess.”

  “Sure, we can go over to the train station after ten, see who’s camping out.”

  “What a terrible thought,” says Fran DiMarco, bringing the espresso pot and pastries to the table.

  No one disagrees.

  Samson is using the Belt Parkway for the trip back into Brooklyn. The evening is cold and damp; the traffic heading toward Manhattan is mild. As he speeds past the Flatbush Avenue exit his cell phone chirps. He would rather not answer the call.

  Samson is expecting Murphy on the other end of the line, but is not entirely surprised to find Batman there.

  “I’ll make it quick, I have two more to do tonight,” says the medical examiner. “The boy was struck severely on the back of the head. If it didn’t kill him, it definitely would have left him unconscious. The hypodermic needle that was sent to me from the scene contained pancuronium bromide. It’s a serious muscle relaxant; you may have heard it referred to as Pavulon. It’s often employed in hospitals to facilitate the use of artificial respiratory devices during surgery. It shuts down the patient’s normal breathing mechanisms. In this case, administered in large dose by injection, it would make it impossible for the victim to breathe.”

  “The boy suffocated?”

  “By all appearances. You saw his eyes.”

  “Was it painful?”

  “It would be something close to drowning; the trauma would be more mental than physical.”

  “How accessible is the drug?”

  “Today, Sam, there is nothing you can’t get if you look for it. This Pavulon, by the way, is used in lethal injections in most prisons for capital offense executions. It’s what makes the victims appear so calm and remain silent while they are strapped onto the gurney. The drug renders the victim literally speechless.”

  “Tell me about his hand.”

  “The boy’s finger was removed postmortem, if it’s any consolation. I’m guessing a pair of shears. Something was used to cauterize the wound, to stop the bleeding.”

  Samson has heard more than enough, but he needs more.

  “What about the boy’s cheek?” he asks.

  “The cuts were deliberate. As I said earlier at the scene, I’m guessing a sharp razor knife, the kind used for layout and design. Maybe a scalpel, but less likely.”

  Samson waits for the bad news, though he suspects that he knows already.

  “It’s a message of some kind. Two letters, J and G.”

  Samson feels a chill run through his entire body; he recalls the disappointment in the eyes of his two young daughters as he left the birthday celebration to attend to this thankless business.

  “I’m on my way to see a woman who may be this boy’s mother and may be bringing her over for identification,” says Samson. “Somehow, we miraculously avoided the press this afternoon. I don’t want anyone getting wind of the missing finger or the cuts on the face. I hate the idea, but we need to hide it from the mother.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” says Wayne.

  Joe Campo has decided to treat his wife to a movie. It is a damp, chilly evening, but they agree to walk the five blocks to the Marlboro Theater on Bay Parkway from their home on West 9th Street.

  Holding hands.

  As they walk, Joe Campo thinks back to his childhood. When he and Carlo and Eddie walked Wes
t 10th Street to the same movie theater for Saturday matinees. When there was only one screen, not four. When the boys went equipped with hot, homemade hero sandwiches of veal and eggplant parmigiana. When the price of admission was twenty-five cents. When they watched the now classic Universal horror films like Creature from the Black Lagoon and an audience packed with preteens screamed in unison every time the Creature raised his huge claw from the dark depths.

  The films today were far more terrifying, telling unfathomable tales of current-day creatures who committed unthinkable atrocities. And still more horrifying were the creatures of the real world that these contemporary movies attempted to represent and failed to explain. Tonight, the Campos have chosen a romantic comedy. Lighter fare. But even modern comedy had an uneasy edge that has Joe Campo pining for Tracy and Hepburn.

  Tony Territo pulls up in front of the Velvet Lounge on New Utrecht Avenue in Borough Park. Sammy Leone moves toward the Jeep Cherokee from his post in front of the busy nightclub. Territo climbs out of the car and meets Sammy halfway.

  “Where’s the Beemer?”

  “In the shop. I’m already very late,” says Territo, “and my wife is waiting to serve dinner. What do you need?”

  “The old man is inside. He wants to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About how you managed to get his nephew killed.”

  “I had nothing to do with what happened to Johnny.”

  “The kid was trying to pinch a vintage Mustang; the old man seems to think the kid was working for you.”

  “I don’t deal with antiques. And Colletti knows it. And no disrespect, but I wouldn’t let that kid wash a car for me, let alone steal one.”

  “Tell it to the old man,” says Leone. “Wait here.”

  Leone walks over to the entrance and opens the door. As he goes in, the deafening sound of a band covering an old Rolling Stones song spills out into the street.

  Territo lights a cigarette and looks at his watch. He knows he’s going to catch hell from his wife. After a few minutes, Dominic Colletti walks out of the lounge. The old man tells Territo what he expects and how much he would hate to be disappointed.

  Territo knows enough to hold his tongue.

  Ten minutes later, Tony Territo is tearing up 65th Street. Racing home to placate his wife and to call his father.

  Murphy has located the apartment building on Ocean Parkway where Paul Ventura is said to reside. He parks at a fire hydrant in front and enters the lobby. He finds the buzzer for apartment 6-R and pushes twice. He listens for a sound from the intercom speaker, wondering how he is going to tell the man that a dead boy on a roof may have been his son. After thirty seconds, Murphy presses the buzzer again, three times. He returns to his car and calls Samson.

  Samson takes the Bay Parkway exit and finds the house on 81st Street, just across Stillwell Avenue from the public school. He pulls into a parking space a few doors down and switches on the dome light. Samson looks down at the notes he took from Sergeant Kelly on Mary Ventura, whose missing son may have been the boy on the roof.

  Twenty-seven years old. Two children. William, eight. Wendy, four. Separated from her husband, three months. Mary sells and rents co-op apartments out of a real estate office on Third Avenue in Bay Ridge.

  She answers the door holding the young girl in her arms. Her face is streaked with tears.

  “Mrs. Ventura,” he says, softly. “I’m Detective Samson from the 61st Precinct.”

  “Have they found Billy?” she asks.

  “May I come in?”

  He follows her into the house and then into the kitchen.

  She offers him a seat at the table. She offers coffee. He accepts both. She places the girl down; the child hangs on to her dress. She pours two cups and sits across from Samson, taking the child into her lap.

  “May I ask you a few questions?”

  “You haven’t answered mine,” she says.

  She reaches to a wallet on the table, opens it and removes a photograph. She hands it across to Samson.

  “Billy,” she says.

  He glances at the photograph and somehow manages to look back up into her eyes.

  “I’m deeply sorry.”

  Murphy has been sitting in his car, the engine running to fuel the heater, Cat Stevens on the stereo. He calls Samson’s cell number.

  “Nothing yet, Sam, want me to hang?”

  “I’ll send a couple of uniforms over. Wait for them and then go home.”

  “Was it the Ventura kid?”

  “Yes. The mother insisted she drive herself. She’s following me now to Coney Island Hospital. She doesn’t believe that her husband would harm the child, but we need to find out where he’s been.”

  “I don’t mind staying,” says Murphy.

  “That’s okay, just wait there for the uniforms, I know it’s your weekend off, but I’ll probably need you tomorrow morning. Sorry.”

  “Sure. Just call me.”

  The Territos finally sit down to dinner. Barbara Territo is complaining about the roast drying up in the oven. Thirteen-year-old Anthony Jr. is complaining about how hungry he is. Brenda, sixteen, would rather skip the whole thing altogether and get over to the party at her friend Diane’s house. All Tony Territo can think about is what old man Colletti had the fucking balls to say to him outside the Velvet Lounge. And about how his father, Vincent Territo, was making Tony wait until morning to discuss the situation.

  Mary Ventura looks at the body of her son from the other side of a large glass pane. It is very much like the one she looked through when he was a newborn infant in the nursery in this same hospital.

  Batman has done a fine job. He has covered the facial cuts with makeup and turned the carved side of the face away from the window. Dr. Wayne has covered the boy’s body with a stark, white sheet to hide the small hands.

  She begs to be allowed into the room to hold her boy. Samson has to choke out the refusal.

  Finally he manages to tear her away from the window, reminding her that her little girl is waiting for her at the nurses’ station above.

  As he drives back to Douglaston, Samson realizes that he is very angry.

  Vota and Lorraine arrive at the 25th Avenue train station shortly after ten and climb the stairs to the platform. A woman sits on a bench, positioning a small cloth bag she will use as a pillow. There is a large suitcase tied with a short piece of clothesline to her wrist. She wears a pair of work boots, at least two sizes too big for her feet, the laces wrapped around the legs of her pants at least three times and tied in front.

  She is about to lie down when they walk up to her.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she says.

  “We’re looking for Sully,” Vota says.

  “Are you his brother?”

  “No.”

  “He’s always talking about his brother, you know, how his brother is going to come for him and take him home.”

  Lorraine cannot help staring at this woman. The woman is very close to Lorraine’s own age.

  “Can you tell us where Sully is?” asks Vota.

  “Are you buying?”

  Lorraine reaches into her purse and removes a twenty-dollar bill. She hands it to the woman.

  “Wow, you must want him bad. What’s he done?”

  “Nothing,” says Detective Vota. “We just need to talk with him.”

  “He should be back Sunday night. He went up to the Bronx to visit a friend for the weekend.”

  “Do you know the address?”

  “Sure. The Kingsbridge Road train station near the end of the D Line.”

  “Okay, thanks for your help,” says Vota, as he takes Lorraine’s arm to turn and leave.

  Lorraine pulls up short and turns to the woman.

  “What’s your name?” Lorraine asks.

  “Annie. Annie from Bay 38th.”

  Back down on the street, Vota starts the car and then turns to Lorraine beside him.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” he say
s.

  He goes to the trunk and pulls out a heavy green wool blanket and walks back up the stairs of the train station.

  When he drapes the blanket over the woman’s body, she is already asleep.

  When he had left the roof that afternoon, after he had carried the dead boy’s body up to the top of the building, he had walked calmly down the four flights of stairs and out of the front door of the apartment house. He had been in the building for close to forty-five minutes and had seen no one.

  No one, it seems, had seen him.

  He crossed West 10th Street and walked the one block to West 11th, where his car was parked at the end of the street facing Avenue S. He pulled away from the curb, turned right onto S and headed east. He slowed the car briefly to take a last look up at the apartment building as he passed.

  As he turned onto the street where he lived, he saw a car up ahead crossing the avenue. It was the skis on the roof rack of the vehicle that caught his eye. He continued past his house to the corner at 6th Avenue.

  He stopped at the intersection and watched the other car double-park in front of a small house. A male driver left the vehicle running and walked up to the door. A moment later, a woman came out carrying a suitcase and a pair of ski boots. He drove across the avenue and passed the double-parked car as the man loaded the luggage into the trunk. The woman climbed into the passenger seat.

  He drove back around to his house and pulled into the driveway. He took a cloth tool satchel from the car seat and entered his house. He removed a small plastic bag from the satchel and placed it into the refrigerator’s freezer compartment.

  He poured himself a tall glass of Scotch and set to work at the kitchen sink, washing the small pruning shears and dropping the empty drug vial and what was left of the red crayon into the garbage disposal.

  He took his drink and went to his son’s room.

  Later that night, he walks to the house on the next street where he had seen the couple leave earlier for what he felt confident was a weekend on a ski slope upstate or in Vermont. It was exactly what he needed, a place that would be empty until at least Sunday morning.