by J. L. Abramo
“Tasty?”
“I’m only relating what I was told. The witness will also testify that he saw Lombardo go into Bobby’s cell, and that he clearly heard Bobby protesting before Lombardo hit the wall.”
“It sounds too good to be true.”
“Absolutely,” agrees Lorraine, “but I’m not inclined to look this gift horse in the mouth.”
“Okay then,” says Victoria. “How about we accept it as incredible good fortune?”
“I don’t see how we can do otherwise,” says Lorraine, suddenly reminded of the doctor’s appointment scheduled for later that afternoon. “I can only hope it doesn’t use up my daily quota of luck.”
They somehow manage to get all four parents to the 61st Precinct by nine-thirty on Friday morning. With Samson is Sandra Rosen of the 63rd, called in to be a familiar face for Mrs. Addams. Also present is Lou Vota, who is meeting Detective Rosen for the first time.
Lieutenant Samson had prepared a speech, had gone as far as practicing aloud on his drive in from Douglaston.
“What I have to say is not easy for me to say,” Samson begins, wondering why it had sounded so much better in the car, “and will be difficult for you to hear. I only ask that you keep an open mind, that you believe I have no wish to offend anyone, and that you make very certain not a word of it leaves this room.”
He pauses, expecting questions.
Vota resists the strong urge to raise his hand, ask if Lieutenant Samson would be kind enough to restate his demands.
Murphy would not have missed the opportunity.
Samson continues.
“We have come to the conclusion that both your sons were killed by the same man,” he says, hearing one or both of the mothers gasp at the suggestion, “and we have come to the conclusion that these boys were targeted for a reason, that they were not random victims.”
“My God, what reason?” cries Mary Ventura. “Our Billy was eight years old.”
“That is what we are trying to find out,” says Samson. “That is why we need your help.”
“How could any of us possibly help you?” asks George Addams. “What could any of us possibly know about a sick maniac who kills innocent children?”
“We believe something happened to this man that hurt him profoundly. That somehow he holds you accountable.”
“That’s crazy,” says Paul Ventura. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“Something that you or your wife did, or didn’t do, Mr. Ventura. And you or your wife, Mr. Addams, or perhaps Kevin himself. Something that you did, or failed to do, which may have caused the loss of someone very important to this man.”
“This is scandalous,” George Addams yells. “Are you trying to blame us for our son’s death, trying to blame Kevin? Trying to justify the actions of a murderer?”
“We are not trying to blame or excuse anyone. We are pleading for help. We are asking that you think about it. That you try recalling something, anything you might have done, without malice, which nevertheless may have been seen as turning away from someone in dire need of assistance.”
Twenty minutes later, the three detectives are alone in the squad room.
“That went well,” says Samson.
“Don’t beat yourself up, Sam, you played your heart out,” says Vota. “I haven’t heard a better speech since Governor Cuomo at the ’88 Convention. And you remember how much that one did to get Dukakis elected.”
“Oh, you’re a big help,” says Rosen.
“Lou has a point,” says Samson, “and he was being relatively kind. If Murphy was here, I’m sure he would have brought up Al Gore’s concession speech.”
“That thing about helping to prevent another innocent child from being senselessly killed was a nice touch,” says Vota. “Face it, you were playing a tough crowd, Sam.”
“An impossible crowd,” says Samson. “These people are in total denial.”
“Don’t give up hope quite yet,” says Rosen. “I was watching George Addams very closely.”
“And?” says Samson.
“He was thinking about it.”
“What will it take for him to start talking?”
“What everything takes,” says Rosen. “Time.”
“We don’t have time,” says Samson.
Officer Landis sits with Detective Murphy in Murphy’s Chevy on East 3rd Street near Avenue V.
“What convinced you we’d find him here?” asks Murphy.
“Our informant gave it to us with a money-back guarantee,” says Landis.
“That’s good enough for me.”
“Stump says the guy’s mother lives here,” says Landis. “Word has it she’s down in Philadelphia visiting her other son,” he adds, trying unsuccessfully to repress a laugh.
“Not that funny. You know what to do, Stan. We need to get him outside.”
“I know exactly what to do, and I feel ridiculous in this thing. How do I look?”
“Please don’t ask me how you look, and don’t forget that it was your idea.”
“I just thought it was wasteful. The Department paid a lot for it,” says Landis, “and it hardly gets used.”
“Well, there you are,” says Murphy. “Let’s go. And please fix your nose, it’s crooked.”
They leave the car and walk over to the house.
Landis awkwardly climbs the stairs to the front porch. He places a hundred-dollar bill at his feet.
Murphy moves out of sight to a spot at the side of the stairs, near the entrance to a basement apartment.
Landis rings the doorbell. A minute later the door opens slightly and Landis puts on his goofiest smile.
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” asks the man standing behind the partially opened door.
Landis grins and bears it.
“I’m collecting donations for the Ronald McDonald House.”
“I gave at the office, Ronald; try me again in a few months. Nice shoes by the way,” the man says, and notices the money on the ground.
“Thank you, sir,” says Landis. “Have a nice day.”
Landis turns his back to the man and moves toward the stairs, stopping momentarily to gaze up the street. He can hear the man step out of the doorway and onto the landing. When Landis turns back, the man is standing with his foot covering the hundred-dollar bill. Landis quickly moves to block the front door.
“Hey, what the hell is this?”
Landis pulls his badge from the pocket of his baggy yellow pants and pulls the bushy orange wig off his head.
“Victor Sanders,” Landis says, “you are under arrest for the sale of stolen pharmaceuticals.”
Sanders scoops up the cash and charges down the front stairs. Murphy steps out to meet him at the bottom.
A well-placed kick in the shin has Sanders face down on the pavement. Murphy has Sanders cuffed before Landis can maneuver the huge floppy shoes down to join him.
“Good seeing you again, Vic. Glad we caught you,” says Murphy. “Let’s take a ride.”
Landis helps Murphy lift Sanders to his feet.
“I can’t believe I got taken down by a fucking clown,” Sanders mumbles as they lead him away.
“Sorry, Victor, luck of the draw,” says Murphy. “The Bearded Lady was out on another bust.”
Lorraine DiMarco walks out of the Brooklyn Courthouse. With Lorraine is Frank Sullivan, Bobby Hoyle, and Bobby’s brother Ron.
“I don’t know how you did it,” says Bobby.
“I’m not quite sure myself,” Lorraine says. “We still have a trial to deal with, but it’s looking very good for probation.”
The judge had not reinstated bail. Instead, with the testimony of Frank Sullivan and the witness from Rikers, bail had been waived and Bobby Hoyle released on his own recognizance.
“Thank you, Lorraine,” Bobby says, “and thank you, Mr. Sullivan. You saved my skin in there.”
“I should have come forward sooner. I caused you a lot of unnecessary trouble,” s
ays Sully.
“Better late than never, Mr. Sullivan,” says Ron Hoyle. “We realize that it wasn’t easy for you.”
“Call me Frank. After all, we’re neighbors now.”
“Neighbors?” says Bobby.
“I rented the apartment in Sal DiMarco’s basement,” says Sully.
“That’s great, Frank,” says Ron, “and convenient. We can give you a ride home.”
“Did you come in the Mustang, Ron?” Bobby asks.
“Yes, I guess I’ll get to keep it after all. Need a lift anywhere, Lorraine?”
“No thanks, I’m just walking back to the office,” she says, and starts toward Remsen Street.
The three men move off in the opposite direction.
In spite of the nasty headache and her anxiety over the impending doctor’s appointment, Lorraine can’t help but shake her head and laugh when she hears Bobby’s pleading voice behind her.
“Can I drive?” Bobby Hoyle asks his brother.
“Pancuronium bromide, Vic, Pavulon,” says Murphy. “We need to know who you sold it to.”
“I don’t know who the guy was. I try hard not to know. And I don’t know how he found me,” says Sanders. “He called on the telephone; he told me what he wanted and how much he was willing to pay.”
They sit at a table in the Precinct interview room.
“Did he ask for Pavulon, specifically?”
“Yes, or anything else like it,” says Sanders. “He wanted something that would approximate the sensation of being held under water. I thought it was some kind of kinky sex thing. Figured him for one of those freaks who puts his head in a noose when he beats off, or whose wife likes being choked while he’s banging her.”
“There are people who do that?” says Landis, finding it hard to believe.
“Are you kidding?” says Sanders. “You’ve been away with the circus too long, pal.”
“Alright, Vic,” says Murphy, “let’s stayed focused. So, he called you?”
“And I told him to give me a few days and call back. And he did, and we met to do the deal.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere. Anywhere. What’s the difference? Who the fuck remembers? The train station at 59th Street and 4th, maybe.”
“Calm down, Vic. What did he look like?”
“He looked like every other fucking clown out there. No offense, officer,” he says, scowling at Landis. “I could ID the guy if I saw him again, but I can’t tell you what he looked like. The thing is, I think I’d seen him before.”
“Oh?” says Murphy.
“At the unemployment office, over in Sheepshead Bay. I’m pretty sure it was the same guy. I doubt he remembered me. The only reason I remember him is he had a little kid with him, a boy. I nearly tripped over the kid. He was sitting in the middle of the floor, drawing in a coloring book, crayons spread out all over the fucking place. Had the whole room jammed up.”
“Don’t you think it was quite a coincidence, seeing the guy before?” asks Murphy.
“Sure it was a coincidence. The world is chock full of coincidence, Detective,” says Sanders. “I ran into you twice, didn’t I? And I’ve been very cooperative; I hope you won’t forget that.”
“You haven’t given us shit,” says Murphy, “and I’ve forgotten you already. Stan, go lock this asshole up and call over to the 68th for someone to come get him out of here.”
“Let’s go, Sanders,” says Landis. “The show is over.”
“And please lose the costume, Stan, before you get too attached to it,” says Murphy. “We’ll take a nice, leisurely drive over to Sheepshead Bay; try to find out if anyone at the New York State Department of Labor office can remember stepping on a Crayola.”
Vota tries reaching Lorraine at her office. Victoria tells him that Lorraine is in court. He tells Victoria he will call back.
“What are you up to, Lou?” asks Samson.
“Nothing really.”
“Let’s do something.”
Samson stops at Kelly’s post on the way out.
“If anyone cares, we’re out looking for a beat-up Oldsmobile,” Samson says.
“Try Garcia’s Bargain Lot on New Utrecht,” suggests Sergeant Kelly.
The trip out to the unemployment office turns out to be a colossal waste of time.
The place is nearly empty. A few people, looking very bored, filling out endless forms. Only one office employee, looking much more bored.
“Where is everyone?” Murphy asks.
“It’s Friday afternoon, it’s Valentine’s Day, and it’s the start of a three-day weekend. What do you want?” says the clerk.
Murphy struggles to be polite. He asks about kids.
“They bring their brats in here all the time,” says the clerk. “What do they think this is, a day-care center?”
“Okay, look, we can see that you’re very busy,” says Murphy, unconsciously clenching his fists. “We’ll be out of your hair in a minute. Try to recall a specific child. A boy, a coloring book, crayons.”
“You should talk to Mrs. Livingston. She’s the one who usually deals with the little animals. Millie’s the grandmotherly type. She’ll be in Tuesday.”
“Is that what the unemployed have to go through just to get the measly few hundred bucks they’ve earned?” asks Landis as they walk out. “Makes you feel lucky to have a job.”
“As long as it’s not his fucking job,” says Murphy. “How about a hot dog while we’re in the neighborhood?”
They sit at the counter at Nathan’s on Surf Avenue in Coney Island. Murphy has three hot dogs on a paper plate in front of him. Smothered in mustard and sauerkraut. Landis works on a solitary potato knish.
“How can you eat those things?” Landis asks.
“Are you kidding? I adore these things. Remind me to grab a couple for Ralph before we leave.”
“Where to after this?” asks Landis.
“I don’t know, guess I should check back in at the Precinct,” says Murphy. “Why, you have something to do?”
“I was hoping that I could get off early today.”
“Oh, right, Valentine’s Day. Have a hot date?”
“We’ll see,” says Landis.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
“He’s new; I met him last weekend at church.”
“Another cop?”
“God forbid,” says Landis. “How about you?”
“How about me what?”
“A date tonight?”
“I haven’t had a date in so long I’ve forgotten the feeling of anxiety and terror.”
Lorraine DiMarco was about to meet Dr. Rowdy Barnwell for the first time.
Dr. Barnwell had been referred by Dr. Laura Vitiello, Lorraine’s primary care physician. Lorraine knew that Dr. Vitiello, a board-certified gynecologist and a very radical feminist, would never have recommended a male neurosurgeon unless Barnwell was the best in his field.
“Rowdy?” Lorraine had said. “It sounds like a nickname for a cattle hand.”
“It’s actually his real name,” Dr. Vitiello had said. “His nickname is Headhunter.”
Dr. Barnwell’s office is located in the NYU Medical Center at 33rd Street and First Avenue in Manhattan, where Lorraine had come for the MRI.
Lorraine takes the subway from Boro Hall in Brooklyn. She arrives exactly on time at 3:00 p.m., and is sitting with Barnwell at exactly 3:02.
“This is a first,” she says. “No waiting, no stack of forms to fill out.”
“I don’t believe in waiting rooms, and I have all the paper I need from the medical file that Dr. Vitiello faxed over,” says Barnwell. “So, how would you like it, straight from the hip or beating around the bush?”
“Shoot,” she says.
“The MRI showed a tumor. About the size of a grape. It is most consistent with, which is to say most likely, a meningioma. A meningioma is usually benign and seldom fatal. As you can tell by the adjectives, there are exceptions. The tumor is pressing against the
optic nerve, causing the headaches. It is operable. The success rate is above average. Any questions before I go on?”
“What kind of grape, Thompson or red globe?”
“More the size of a flame seedless,” says Barnwell. “Here’s the clinical jargon if you’re interested, and I have pictures.”
Lorraine reaches over for the written consultation.
After a quick look, she hands it back.
“Why don’t you read it to me, Doctor. I’m sure you could do it more justice.”
Barnwell reads in a deep melodic voice: “Axial T1, T2, FLAIR and sagittal T1-weighted images of the brain were obtained before and after the administration of intravenous contrast. Study demonstrates a well-circumscribed extra-axial homogeneously-enhanced mass located near the left anterior clinoid process measuring approximately 1.5 centimeters at its greatest dimension. This is most consistent with a meningioma. The optic nerve canal is poorly visualized and the optic nerve at this level is felt to be compressed. There are no additional areas of abnormal contrast enhancement. The ventricles and sulci are normal. There is no evidence of a brain mass lesion, midline shift, mass effect, or extra-axial collections. There is no parenchymal signal abnormality.”
“It rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it,” says Lorraine.
“It’s my favorite language. I find it very musical, but I’ve found that most patients prefer the English translation first.”
“I appreciate that. So, what now?”
“We go in and get the little devil out of there. That should take care of the headaches. Then we can take a closer look at how nasty the tumor really was.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. I would recommend scheduling no later than a week from Monday.”
“Okay, a week from Monday it is,” says Lorraine.
Murphy cuts Landis loose and heads back to the 61st. When he finds the squad room empty, he buzzes Desk Sergeant Kelly.