Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  “It’s very close to here,” says Father Santini over Samson’s shoulder.

  “Chen, get over there. Call as soon as you arrive,” says Samson. “I need to bag this evidence.”

  “I can handle it, Lieutenant,” says Stone. “I’ll meet you and Agent Ripley there. Father Santini can show me the way.”

  “Thanks,” says Samson, pulling off the gloves. “Chen, take Father Donovan with you, Agent Ripley can ride with me.”

  The four men rush out of the rectory.

  Stone gets to work bagging the evidence.

  Father Santini prays.

  The large house sits on a corner lot, opposite Fort Hamilton High School’s track and playing field. Samson immediately spots the realtor’s sign on the lawn.

  “Chen, call that phone number. Get permission from someone with authority to go into the house.”

  Ripley and Samson walk around the outside of the house in opposite directions while Chen makes the phone call.

  Samson approaches the front entrance.

  Ripley peers through the back porch and can see the damage to the kitchen door.

  “Do we need someone from the realty office down here?” Chen calls out.

  “No,” yells Samson, “just get a verbal okay.”

  “Okay,” shouts Chen a moment later.

  “Back here, Lieutenant,” calls Ripley.

  “Chen, cover the front door,” says Samson as he heads for the rear. “Father Donovan, please stay where you are.”

  Agent Stone and Father Santini arrive at the scene.

  Samson takes out his weapon as he reaches Ripley.

  Ripley does the same as they step into the house.

  Ten minutes later they are all crowded into the bathroom.

  The number 291421 is written on the wall above the bathtub in blue crayon.

  “He was planning to bring another victim here,” says Samson.

  “He still may be,” says Ripley.

  “This is from Isaiah, Chapter 14, Verse 21,” Father Donovan says, consulting his Bible, “The offspring of the wicked will leave no name behind them. Start slaughtering the sons for the guilt of their fathers. Never again must they rise to conquer the earth and spread across the face of the world.”

  “Why the water in the bathtub, Father?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Chen, call in a forensic team,” says Samson, “and we need a few cars watching this house until Caine is found.”

  “How about this, Lieutenant?” says Stone, holding the large plastic evidence bag that holds the manila envelope.

  “Let’s have a look,” says Samson, reaching for the bag.

  Samson removes the note and places it into a separate clear bag. It is written on the inside of a torn coloring book jacket. In crayon.

  Samson hands the note to Donovan.

  “Would this explain the filled bathtub, Father?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, it would.” says Donovan. “It could also explain the use of the drug you mentioned, which I was told had an effect similar to being submerged in water.”

  “You’ve lost me, Lieutenant,” says Stone.

  Father Donovan hands Agent Stone the note.

  “It’s from the Gospel of Saint Mark,” the priest says.

  Stone reads the note aloud, “Go out in the whole world and proclaim the Good News to all creation. He who believes and is baptized will be saved; he who does not believe will be condemned.”

  Gabriel had said very little to his wife at breakfast. She had tried talking, and asking him about the work he had mentioned. All he would say was that he had a job to do. And that it was good work.

  Gabriel stares silently at his infant daughter. Pure and without sin. When would she take her first steps, and who would see to it that her innocence was not lost.

  After breakfast they leave the restaurant on Bayshore Boulevard, leave her car parked in front, and walk to the end of Baypointe Circle, Gabriel pushing the child’s stroller. They sit at a bench, looking out over Tampa Bay.

  In silence.

  Karen tells her husband that she has to be getting to work. They walk the short distance to her office.

  “Here are the car keys,” she says to Gabriel. “Can you find your way back to the house?”

  “I can,” he says.

  Karen walks into her office.

  Gabriel Caine walks back toward the Bay, to the water, pushing Beth in the stroller ahead of him.

  Samson asks Chen to stay at the house, to wait for and remain with the evidence technicians.

  Two unmarked cars arrive, carrying officers in street clothing sent to cover the first surveillance shift.

  Father Donovan walks back to Our Lady of Angels.

  Stone drives Father Santini back to St. Anselm’s.

  Ripley and Samson talk on the corner of the street, waiting for Stone to return for Ripley.

  “Using pancuronium bromide to baptize his victims, that’s way out there,” says Samson.

  “Caine is far past being rational,” says Ripley. “I find it much more fascinating that the man has chosen to administer the sacrament, by whatever means. In his mind, he is protecting the souls of innocents.”

  “Would you and Agent Stone care to join us for our meeting at two?” Samson asks. “Everyone working on the case will be there. I could treat you both to lunch before we go back to the Precinct.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Lieutenant, but I have a mountain of work on my desk and you have things well in hand. And here’s Agent Stone now. Please, don’t hesitate to call us if you feel we can help in any way.”

  “Good meeting you,” says Samson, surprised to be saying it.

  “Same here,” says Ripley, thankful not to be in the other man’s shoes.

  Stone pulls the car up to the curb where Lieutenant Samson and Ripley are standing. She watches the two men shake hands.

  Samson crosses to his car as Ripley climbs into the passenger seat beside Stone.

  “Did you happen ask him about the so-called Colletti shootings?” asks Stone.

  “I like the guy, and he has enough on his mind,” says Ripley. “I’d rather try finding out through other channels before we bother Samson.”

  “Understood. Do you have a second hand on your wristwatch?”

  “As a matter of fact I do.”

  “Time me,” says Stone. “Ready?”

  “Go.”

  Stone crosses Narrows Avenue, turns right at the next intersection, Shore Road, continues to the next street and stops.

  “We’re here,” she says. “Time?”

  “Forty-two seconds,” says Ripley. “Where is here?”

  “Tony Territo’s home.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, yes,” says Stone.

  “I talked to Vincent Territo, Pop,” says Richie. “He can see you at one-thirty. He can come out here and meet you on Emmons Avenue at Randazzo’s Clam Bar. He needs to be back to his granddaughter’s wake by two.”

  “Will it be safe?”

  “Jesus, Pop, it’s Randazzo’s not Umberto’s. In the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. Of course it’s safe.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet him at one-thirty,” says Colletti. “And if he cannot convince me that his son had nothing to do with Sonny, I will hang Tony Territo from the flagpole of his car lot with John Giambi’s blessing.”

  Murphy is having a dream. He is twelve years old. He watches as his father applies Mercurochrome to a nasty gash above Michael’s eye, a result of a fall from the back-yard swing set. Two-year-old Michael is screaming wildly.

  “How did you let this happen, Thomas?” asks his father as he works on the ugly cut. “Didn’t I ask you to take care of your brother?”

  Murphy feels as if he is being shaken.

  “Michael?” he says aloud as he comes out of sleep.

  “Thomas, wake up,” says his mother. “It’s noon. I’ve fixed lunch for you.”

  Stone and Ripley sit in a small Greek res
taurant on Queens Boulevard, close to the Field Office. Stone had made a few calls as soon as she was back at her desk and came into Ripley’s office looking like the winner of an Easter egg hunt. Ripley suggested they talk over lunch.

  Agent Stone is trying to sell her theory to Ripley as if it were the true deed to the Brooklyn Bridge. Stone is so involved; she has hardly touched the grilled octopus.

  “Remember I told you that someone heard what sounded like the word sunny or the name Sonny at the scene where Brenda Territo was attacked.”

  “Vaguely,” says Ripley, digging into the lemongrass.

  “Dominic Colletti’s oldest son was shot to death in Brooklyn last night, shot three times, and then one more to the head after he was down. Less than an hour later, Dominic Colletti’s bodyguard, Sammy Leone, was shot in his car. Execution-style.”

  “Let me guess,” says Ripley, “Dominic Colletti named his oldest boy Sonny.”

  “He sure did.”

  “And you reckon that if Tony Territo decided it was Colletti’s son who assaulted his daughter, it makes Territo the front-runner in the Best Suspect category for the two executions.”

  “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely. But don’t you think the Brooklyn detectives have already figured that out?”

  “I’m sure they have.”

  “So then, what is this all about? Why are you letting your food get cold over this?”

  “What if Sonny Colletti really had nothing to do with the assault,” says Stone. “What if he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  Ripley pushes his plate away and gives Agent Stone a hard look.

  She is wearing a Cheshire cat smile.

  “You think that Tony Territo’s daughter was a victim of Gabriel Caine.”

  “You saw how close the assault was to the house across from the high school playing field.”

  “Why Territo?”

  “What if Tony was the driver of the second vehicle?”

  “Jesus, Stone. Is it that small a world?”

  “It’s Brooklyn.”

  “Let’s try finding out if Territo had bodywork done on any of his vehicles lately,” says Ripley.

  “I’ve already started making calls,” says Stone. “Do you think they would warm up the octopus if I ask nicely?”

  Officers DeRosa and Andrews sit in an unmarked car on Oriental Boulevard across from Dominic Colletti’s home in Manhattan Beach.

  “We finally get to wear plain clothes,” says DeRosa. “And here we are, freezing our asses off babysitting this old dinosaur and his demented son.”

  “The view isn’t bad,” says Andrews, looking out over the beach to the Atlantic.

  “I’m sure the view is a lot better from the window of the old fuck’s living room,” says DeRosa, looking up at the house. “Makes you wonder about crime not paying.”

  “How are you feeling, amigo?” says Landis, sticking his head through the doorway of the hospital room.

  “Stop it, Landis,” says Rey Mendez, holding his side as he sits up in the bed. “It hurts when I laugh.”

  “What’s so damn funny?” asks Landis, walking in.

  “It’s the way you say amigo, Stan, you make it sound like a letter in the Greek alphabet. Did you stop at Alfredo’s on your way over here?”

  Landis reaches into his coat and pulls out the roast pork sandwich, wrapped in aluminum foil and still warm from Alfredo’s San Juan Deli.

  He tosses it over to his partner.

  “Thank God,” says Mendez, tearing at the tinfoil with both hands. “All they ever feed me in this place is boiled-to-death chicken and blue Jell-O. What the fuck flavor is blue supposed to be? Can you stick around for a while?”

  “A short while, there’s that big powwow at two. I’ll come back later. Try not to swallow that thing whole.”

  Murphy finds Samson alone in the squad room.

  “Are we still on for two?” asks Murphy.

  “Yes. And Trenton will be here. I spent the morning with two Feds.”

  “That must have been a ball.”

  “It wasn’t too bad. The SAC of the Brooklyn-Queens Field Office, Ripley, and his assistant. They were both very sharp. Ripley is no glory hound. In fact, I invited him to join us and he passed.”

  “Well, that’s refreshing,” says Murphy. “An FBI Agent who doesn’t live and breathe to show us poor city cops how incompetent we are. What are you studying; did someone give you the answers to the Captain’s exam?”

  “Very funny. I’m studying Gabriel Caine’s file from the unemployment office. He was laid off his job six months ago, his benefits are about to run out. He went to work for the company straight out of high school. Downsizing. Twelve years and so long, it’s been good to know you. His wife was expecting any day, they lost their health insurance and they had just bought the house before he got the ax.”

  “Jesus,” says Murphy. “Anything on the wife and the other kid?”

  “An address for the wife’s parents just came in. The Tampa PD is sending a car over there now.”

  Stretch Sacco parks the large car on the beach side of Oriental Boulevard, halfway between the Colletti house and Kingsborough Community College.

  It is a late-model Mercedes sedan that looks as if it came off the assembly line a few days too soon. It is missing the grill, front bumper, both headlight assemblies, trunk lid, side view mirrors, passenger seat, door panels, back seat and nearly the entire dashboard.

  Stretch reaches down for the plastic gasoline can.

  He gives the inside of the car a thorough dousing.

  A moment later, Stevie Territo pulls his Jaguar up beside the Mercedes.

  Stretch gets out of the Mercedes and climbs in beside Stevie.

  “Yo, Stevie,” says Sacco.

  “Hey, Stretch,” says Territo.

  Stretch Sacco strikes a wooden match against his front tooth and tosses it through the open window of the Mercedes as Stevie floors the accelerator.

  “Jesus Christ,” says Officer Andrews, nearly dropping his coffee thermos. “What the fuck is that?”

  “I would say it’s a car in flames,” says LaRosa.

  Officer LaRosa starts the engine and quickly pulls away from the Colletti house toward the burning vehicle.

  Gabriel Caine phones his wife at her office. She answers on the third ring.

  “Franklin Leasing, this is Karen.”

  Gabriel stands at a pay phone, holding the Bible.

  He speaks the one word loudly, competing with the noise of the busy airport.

  “Goodbye,” he says.

  “Gabriel? Where are you? I can barely hear you.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Gabriel?” she says again before the line goes dead.

  Karen Caine quickly calls home, the line is busy.

  She hits the redial button, frantically, again and again, begging the telephone to ring. Finally it does ring, and her mother picks up.

  “My God. I thought you’d never answer.”

  “Karen? What is it dear? You sound frightened.”

  “Mom, where’s Beth?”

  “Beth is right here, Karen,” says her mother. “Pushing around the crayons that Gabriel bought for her after they left you this morning. Gabriel went out again, about an hour ago; he said he needed to walk. Is there something wrong, dear?”

  “No, Mom, it’s alright. Give Beth a kiss for me.”

  “Richie, go start the car,” says Dominic Colletti. “I don’t want to be late to Randazzo’s.”

  Richie Colletti steps out through the back door of the house as his father moves to a hall closet for an overcoat.

  Dominic hears two quiet pops followed by what sounds like a heavy object falling to the ground.

  “Richie,” he calls.

  “Going somewhere?” says Tony Territo, finding Colletti getting into his coat. “I think you need a new driver.”

  Territo is pointing the weapon directly at Colletti’s forehead.r />
  “Territo, are you insane?”

  “Are you kidding, I’m just coming to my senses. My father sends his regards. He asked me to tell you that he’s sorry he had to miss your appointment.”

  “You’re a dead man, Territo,” says Colletti. “John Giambi will have your head for this.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that. I’d better take some time to meditate. Okay, done.”

  Territo puts a bullet into Dominic Colletti’s chest and another into his head after the old man collapses to the floor. He walks out the back door, steps over Richie Colletti’s body, and walks out the driveway to the street where Stevie’s Jaguar waits to pick him up.

  Landis walks into the detectives’ squad room a few minutes after two. He is the last to arrive.

  “Sorry I’m late, Lieu, I lost track of time sitting with Mendez in his hospital room,” says Landis. “You know how engaging Rey can be.”

  “Don’t we all. How is he doing?”

  “I think he’s planning a breakout. So. Who’s who?”

  “This is Detective Rosen from the 63rd and Detective Chen from the 68th, and you know Detective Ivanov,” says Samson. “Have you met Chief of Detectives Trenton?”

  “More than once,” says Trenton, walking up to greet Landis. “Officer Landis is very active and vocal on issues involving discrimination in the Department. We’ve had a number of discussions, Stan to Stan.”

  “I never realized that Trenton had a sense of humor,” whispers Murphy to Vota.

  “It’s limited,” says Lou.

  “Okay,” says Samson. “Let’s get started.”

  Samson quickly reviews the status of the Gabriel Caine case for the benefit of those in the room who may only have bits and pieces of the whole picture.

  He pauses briefly for questions and moves on.

  “We’re running short on available units for stakeout and surveillance, Chief,” Samson says. “We have two cars at the Caine house, one at Victor Sanders’ place, one at his mother’s, one at the house opposite the high school, and one at the Bowers’ house. Not to mention the car watching Dominic Colletti. We’ll hold that topic for later, when we get around to new business. If we find Victor Sanders, and if he identifies Caine as the man who purchased the drugs, we should be able to get a warrant to search Caine’s house. And if we’re real lucky, we’ll find enough evidence there to bring Caine in before he does any more harm.”