Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  Samson opens the small leather case he has brought in from the trunk of his car. Inside lies an assortment of evidence gathering paraphernalia.

  Samson pulls on a pair of latex gloves. He places the plastic bag into another plastic bag. He hands it to Chen. Samson picks up the envelope and reaches inside. He slides out the coloring book cover. He places the cover and the envelope into separate flat, clear plastic bags.

  “Is there a copy machine here, Father?” Samson asks.

  “In the basement,” answers Eddie Conroy from behind him. “I can show you.”

  “Who are you?” asks Samson.

  “Eddie Conroy, our custodian,” says Donovan. “He found the envelope on Monday, in one of the confessionals, and placed it here with the other mail. I was away; I just got around to opening it.”

  “Stay here, Eddie,” says Samson, “we’ll want to speak with you. Lou, take these down and make copies. And call Tommy. Ask him to find Ivanov and get her over to the 61st as soon as possible. Bring the copies and the originals back up here. We need to get them to the lab right away.”

  Vota heads out to find the copy machine. Samson asks one of the uniformed officers to tag along.

  “What should I do with this?” asks Chen, holding the bag containing the small finger far from his body, as if afraid it might poke him in the eye.

  “Try not dropping it,” says Samson. “Okay, let’s begin with you, Mr. Conroy. Tell me about finding the envelope.”

  “Thank you for coming in,” says Lieutenant Samson.

  “Anything I can do to help,” says Father Donovan.

  The priest had driven with Samson to the 61st Precinct, where Murphy and Ivanov were waiting in the squad room.

  Vota had gone to hand-deliver the three evidence bags to the Central Crime Laboratory. He would join them later.

  Samson had asked Detective Andy Chen to remain at the church, where a two-man forensic team would begin searching for evidence throughout the building, particularly the area in and around the confessional where the envelope was first discovered.

  Eddie Conroy had been questioned and sent home.

  “Does this mean anything to you?” Samson asks.

  He hands the photocopy of the note written on the coloring book cover to Father Donovan.

  Testimony to the crime of Gibeah.

  “Gibeah,” says Donovan. “I know it only from the Old Testament. Is there a Bible here? I didn’t think to bring one.”

  “There is a Bible here,” says Murphy.

  He walks over to the bookshelf and digs out a beat-up Bible, wedged between volumes of New York state statutes and dog-eared detective novels. He carries it to Father Donovan.

  “How long has that been there?” asks Vota. “I didn’t know we had it.”

  “About twenty-five years,” says Murphy. “My father kept it here when he was on the job; he left it behind when he retired.”

  “I hope I can find it,” says Donovan, turning pages. “I’m fairly certain that it is somewhere in the Historical Books, which follow the first five books that comprise the Pentateuch. We may have go to the Internet, do a keyword search.”

  “Take your time, Father,” says Samson.

  “Should I make a fresh pot of coffee?” asks Murphy.

  “Please,” says Ivanov.

  “I could use it,” says Samson.

  “Father Donovan?” asks Murphy.

  “I wouldn’t mind a Diet Coke, if one were available,” says Donovan, not looking up. “Here it is. Judges, 19th Chapter. Give me a minute to look this over.”

  Murphy starts the coffee and then goes out to the hall to fetch a soda from the vending machine. Samson and Ivanov sit silently, watching the priest read.

  After a few minutes, Father Donovan closes the book, holding the place with his thumb.

  “This is very disturbing,” the priest says.

  The three detectives wait for him to continue.

  “In reaction to the crime of Gibeah, human body parts were sent out to the twelve tribes of Israel.”

  “My God,” says Ivanov, involuntarily.

  “What was the crime?” asks Samson.

  Donovan reopens the Bible. After a moment he reads.

  “And they went off the road there with the purpose of stopping for the night in Gibeah and he went into the town, seating himself in the street, for no one took him into his house for the night. Judges, 19:15.”

  “And?” says Samson.

  “The inhospitality of the people of Gibeah resulted in a death,” says Donovan, “and the body of the deceased was portioned and delivered throughout the land as testimony to the crime.”

  “Did you say 1915, Father?” asks Murphy.

  “Yes.”

  “The number on the wall, Sam, at the Ventura crime scene. It was 71915.”

  “Yes, that would be it,” says the priest. “Judges is the seventh book of the Old Testament, although it would normally be indicated by the standard abbreviation, by the letters JG.”

  “Well,” says Murphy, “what d’ya know.”

  “And the letters PR, Father?” asks Samson.

  “That would be Proverbs.”

  “The twenty-fourth book?”

  Donovan opens to the front of the Bible and runs his finger down the list of contents.

  “Why, yes,” he says, surprised, “the twenty-fourth book.”

  “And 242113. Proverbs 21:13?” asks Samson.

  Donovan quickly finds the place.

  “He who shuts his ear to the poor man’s cry shall himself plead and not be heard.”

  “I want the parents contacted,” says Samson. “I want them all down here, together. First thing in the morning.”

  Sonny Colletti finds his father at Fontana Sushi of Bay Ridge at 3rd Avenue and 96th Street.

  “How can you eat raw fish?” asks Sonny.

  “With chopsticks,” says his father, demonstrating. “It’s brain food. You should try it. What do you want?”

  “Lombardo kicked the bucket.”

  “Sonny, please, show some respect for the dead,” says Dominic Colletti. “Did he talk?”

  “No. Do you want me to make other arrangements for the Hoyle kid?” asks Sonny.

  “We don’t need another fiasco like this one. We’ll wait until he is out on bail before we make another move.”

  “It could be a while. Bobby Hoyle’s bail was revoked. There’s a hearing in the morning, but I doubt they’ll let Hoyle out unless they can be convinced Lombardo was responsible for the attack.”

  “I don’t have a while. Your Aunt Carmella is torturing me.”

  “Then we have to hit him inside,” says Sonny.

  “I have a better idea. We help get him out,” says Colletti. “Find out who is defending Hoyle at the hearing tomorrow. We’ll make sure that they have some good news before going into court.”

  “Okay, Pop, I’ll take care of it. Did you get the BMW for Richie?”

  “I’m still waiting to hear from Tony Territo.”

  “How long are you going to wait? Richie’s birthday is Saturday.”

  “I’m well aware of that. I’ll wait until tomorrow.”

  “And if you don’t hear from Territo?” asks Sonny.

  “Sonny, you are ruining my appetite,” says Dominic Colletti. “Get out of here and do what you need to do.”

  Detective Marina Ivanov drives Father Donovan back to Our Lady of Angels.

  “Father,” she says, “I’m having trouble understanding this man’s actions, from a strictly psychological point of view. I think we would agree about his motivation, based on what we’ve learned. It seems as if this man suffered a terrible trauma, and holds the Venturas and Addams somehow responsible. It seems as if he may have reached out for help and was turned away. It seems as if he has taken it upon himself to determine and execute punishment.”

  “I would agree with those assessments,” says Donovan. “Our training in these areas is probably quite similar. I hold a ma
ster’s degree from Columbia University in Clinical Psychology. Our approaches to analyzing the behavior of an extremely troubled human being would not be very different. Where we might differ is in our counseling.”

  “I understand that, Father. What has me stumped is why has he targeted the children? Granted, Kevin Addams was nineteen years old. It is plausible he could have been one of the persons who somehow sinned against this man. But Billy Ventura? He was only eight years old. I have to believe he was innocent. Why the boy? There is nothing I can recall from my textbooks that helps me to explain it. I was hoping that there might be an answer in yours.”

  “In the Bible?”

  “Yes, since this man seems to be using that particular text to express himself.”

  “I can only speculate.”

  “I understand.”

  “I can only speculate,” Donovan repeats, “based on the reference to the events of Gibeah as described in Judges, that there was a death involved. I believe that this man has lost someone very dear to him. So dear, that he has been pushed far beyond reason. I believe that he no longer perceives, no longer imagines, any other choice but to seek retribution. And I am afraid that I must come to the sad conclusion that this man lost a child of his own.”

  “A child for a child?” says Ivanov, horrified by the suggestion.

  “The God of the Old Testament,” says Father Donovan, “was not one to pull punches.”

  “Father?”

  “Yes.”

  “If this man truly believes that he is following a mandate from God, that he is complying with a course of action demanded by his faith, then is he insane?”

  “If you are asking if this man could or should be considered legally insane, I don’t know the answer.”

  “What I am asking, Father, is do you think that this man has lost his mind?”

  “He has lost much more, Detective,” says the priest. “He has lost his soul.”

  Brenda Territo sits up in her bed reading a novel by D. H. Lawrence. She is interrupted by a knock at her bedroom door.

  “What?”

  “Brenda, dinner is ready,” says her father.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Brenda, can I talk with you?” asks Tony Territo.

  “I’m doing my homework,” she answers, putting the novel under her pillow and reaching for a trigonometry workbook.

  Territo opens the door and steps into the room.

  “I wanted to make sure you were ready for tomorrow. We are leaving around three. I want to beat the traffic and be down there in time for dinner.”

  “I told you that I’m not going.”

  Territo has tried every other argument, and every time it has ended in anger and shouting. Tony decides to try a new tactic.

  “Please, Brenda, it will make your mother happy.”

  “If you want to make Mom happy, stop fucking the office help.”

  Territo moves quickly across the room and slaps his daughter’s face.

  “Fucking tough guy,” she says, hiding the pain. “You are pathetic.”

  “I’m sorry, Brenda. I lost my temper. Please be reasonable.”

  “Do you think no one notices the way she looks at you. She may as well have it written across her forehead. The only idiot who doesn’t seem to know that you’re fucking the whore is Mom.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Get out,” Brenda says, giving her father a look that scares Territo more than ten Dominic Collettis ever could.

  “Brenda,” he says, backing away.

  “If you are not out of this room in two seconds I will march downstairs and tell my mother about you and your slut secretary.”

  “Is Brenda coming down?” Barbara Territo asks when Tony takes his seat at the dinner table.

  “She’s not hungry,” says Tony. “We had a little talk. I agree with you, there’s really nothing for her to do down in Atlantic City. She may as well stay home.”

  “Can I stay home, too?” asks Anthony Jr.

  “Shut the fuck up and eat,” answers his father.

  Serena spots Chen standing out in front of Casa Pepe. She turns her coat collar up against the stiff, chilly wind that has come up from the Narrows and the Atlantic.

  “It’s cold out here,” she says as she approaches, “you could have waited inside.”

  “I wanted to reach you,” he says. “I needed to cancel dinner tonight. I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. I’m sorry that you had to come all the way out here.”

  “That’s okay, it didn’t take me long. It’s my fault for not letting you know how to reach me. I’ll give you the phone number where I’m staying. We’ll do it another time, if you would still like to.”

  As she reaches into her purse for a pen, Serena can see the anguish in Chen’s face. Illuminated by the light from the restaurant window.

  “I would like to,” Chen says. “I just can’t be with anyone tonight. I wouldn’t be very good company.”

  She waits for him to say more, but he doesn’t speak.

  “Did something happen?”

  “I really can’t talk about it,” he says, fighting to hold his tongue. “I can’t think about it.”

  He knows that he can’t let himself look at her. He knows that he needs to get away from there.

  “Andy, what’s wrong?”

  He lets his eyes meet hers.

  “It was so horrible, you can’t imagine,” he says, losing the battle. “I held it in my hand, in a clear plastic sandwich bag, as if it were some sort of gruesome leftover. I can’t get it out of my head.”

  Serena Huang wants to hear every detail. She is smart enough to know not to push him.

  “It’s alright,” she says, reaching out to take his hand. “Let’s just walk, quietly. Whatever it is that’s upset you, please try thinking about something else. You don’t need to talk about it.”

  But Andy Chen does need to talk about it.

  And as they walk, he does.

  Frank Sullivan cleans the dinner dishes.

  Sully had prepared a humble meal for himself. Baked chicken breast with garlic and basil, steamed broccoli, a cucumber and tomato salad. Nothing very special. Except for the fact that it was served on a ceramic plate, with real silverware, and a cloth napkin.

  At a table, seated on a chair.

  It has been a very long time since he has enjoyed a meal so much.

  He has left the ranks of the homeless.

  Sully throws the switch on the electric percolator and finishes the cleaning while the coffee brews.

  It had been a long day.

  Arriving at Campo’s grocery at seven in the morning. Lifting cartons of canned and dry goods from the foot of the metal ramp that ran from the street down into the store basement, breaking out the individual units and setting the inventory neatly on shelves. Campo taking over the heavy work from time to time as promised.

  Standing in for Joe at the front counter when Campo was down below. Meeting many of the regular customers, the neighbors. Helping set out the various salads, the rice balls, the sausage and peppers and other cooked foods that Roseanna Campo had prepared at home that morning and had delivered before the lunch hour. Preparing sandwiches for takeout, on fresh Italian bread from the local bakery.

  In the afternoon, taking the van to make deliveries.

  It had been a tiring day, but an important day.

  It has been a very long time since he has felt so useful.

  He has left the ranks of the jobless.

  Sullivan pours coffee into a ceramic cup and carries it to the bedroom. It has been a long time since coffee has tasted this good.

  He goes through the small closet, selecting the clothing he will wear the following morning.

  Tomorrow will be another important day.

  He will stand witness in a court of law, his testimony will be recorded, his voice will be heard.

  He will leave the ranks of the disenfranchised.


  He chooses a pair of slacks, a shirt, a necktie. He hangs them on the outside of the closet door.

  He walks into the bathroom, looks into the mirror above the sink.

  His face is clean-shaven, his hair is neatly cut, his eyes are clear.

  It has been a very long time.

  You have rejoined the world of the living, he whispers to his reflection.

  The face in the mirror speaks back, but the words fall on deaf ears. Deafened by newly regained innocence.

  The world of the living is a perilous one.

  Beware.

  EIGHTEEN

  Lorraine DiMarco arrives at her office very early on Friday morning. She had been up half the night, dividing her attention between writing and rewriting a statement for the Hoyle hearing and fighting a merciless headache.

  She sits at her desk, putting finishing touches on her motion to reinstate bail. She feels confident that with the testimony of Frank Sullivan she will ultimately be able to bargain a plea of self-defense in the Colletti shooting, involuntary manslaughter at worst. That she will be able to win an argument for probation with no jail time.

  The assault at Rikers is much more problematic.

  Lorraine had not heard from Lou Vota. No one has come forward with any help. Lorraine will have to argue reason. Lombardo was a violent, repeat criminal. Bobby Hoyle is an unfortunate victim, having no prior trouble with the law. Very convincing on paper. But Lorraine understands that reason is the weakest possible argument in a courtroom.

  The telephone on Lorraine’s desk rings at nine. The phone conversation is short. A few minutes later she is standing at Victoria Anderson’s desk. The expression on Lorraine’s face is one of unmistakable disbelief.

  “Pinch me, so I know I’m not dreaming,” she says.

  “My God, Lorraine, sit down before you fall down,” says Victoria. “What’s happened?”

  “Bobby Hoyle’s defense in the Rikers incident was just handed to us on a silver platter.”

  Lorraine takes a seat before continuing.

  “One of the inmates who shared the cell with Bobby and Lombardo came forward. He’s ready to testify that Lombardo had been talking all that day about what a pretty boy Bobby was, about how tasty Hoyle was going to be.”