Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  “Fuck,” says Murphy when he picks up the phone and all he hears is the loud sound of a click on the other end.

  “Fuck,” says Vota when his phone rings, waking him after he finally managed to put pictures of brain tumors out of his mind and somehow fall asleep.

  “Lou,” he hears before he can even say a word. “We’ve got another one. Missing a finger.”

  “Shit, where?”

  Samson tells him where and then adds, “Lou, I’m down here at the Midwood Suites and Tommy’s brother Michael just got wasted by a cop.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Michael got made by a beat cop down here, Perry. Ties him to a liquor store homicide that went down yesterday and goes in with two other uniforms to make the bust. Two at the door, third down in the alley out back. Michael goes out the window and gets nailed on the fire escape.”

  “Was Michael armed?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Internal Affairs is down here and they’re all over the shooter. Name’s Davis, twenty-four-year-old rookie. Fired four rounds, almost popped Perry leaning out the window.”

  “Tommy?”

  “Can’t get hold of him, and we need to get our asses down to this other thing now.”

  “I can’t fucking believe this shit. Listen, Sam, one of us has to wait for Tommy. I’m closer. Scare up Ivanov or Rosen and I’ll meet you after. I don’t want some nobody asshole breaking this to Murphy.”

  “You’re right. See you later.”

  “Nicky.”

  “Yeah, Pop?”

  “That kid you were with tonight, you play ball with, what’s his name?”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. You seeing him tomorrow?”

  “Hadn’t planned it, why?”

  “I need help moving a couple of tables, thought maybe you and he could give me a hand. He looks like a strong kid. Give you each a twenty.”

  “I can ask him.”

  “Ask him good,” says Phil Diaz. “It’s important.”

  Vota hadn’t wanted to leave Lorraine all alone at the hospital earlier, but was surprised by the relief he felt when he did. He wasn’t handling her problem very well.

  Vota knew that another missing finger and Murphy’s brother getting blown away was just about what it would take to get him to forget just how terrified Lorraine’s impending operation had made him. And the thing of it was, he was as frightened for himself as for her.

  Rey Mendez is sick of being in bed. Mendez can’t sleep, again, and decides to call the Precinct.

  Maybe a little shoptalk would help.

  After Hackett fills him in on all the action he is missing, Mendez only feels worse.

  “I need to get the fuck out of here,” he complains.

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “These fucking doctors. Test this. Test that.”

  “They got you tied down?”

  “What?”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, I can fucking walk.”

  “Then walk the fuck out of there,” says Hackett with perfect nonchalance. “By the way, you got a call earlier. Character calling himself Stump.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “Didn’t say. Asked for you, then for Landis. Told him you were both out and asked him if I could help.”

  “And he said?”

  “No.”

  “Wish I knew what he wanted.”

  “Really? How much?”

  “Enough, thanks,” says Mendez and he starts to pull himself out of the hospital bed as he hangs up the phone.

  Murphy tries to phone Sandra Rosen—her line is busy. Her line is busy because Samson is calling for her to meet him at the scene of a homicide involving a missing finger. Murphy replaces the receiver just as the knocking on his apartment door begins.

  After waking Rosen, Samson goes back to Perry.

  “I’ve got to go, Perry. Unless you hear otherwise from me personally you will not breathe a word to anyone about this kid being the brother of a police detective.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Nobody. Tell me that you understand me perfectly. Nobody. Leave it to me.”

  “What about my CO?”

  “Damn it, Perry, get the shit out of your ears. No-fucking-body.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Don’t fuck up.”

  And then Samson has to go, like so many times before, to where he did not wish to go.

  The telephone rings and the bartender picks it up.

  “White Owl, Red speaking.”

  “Is Stump there?”

  “Been in and out. You a cop?”

  “No, his cousin. If he shows up ask him to call Rey. He knows the number.”

  “What, 911?”

  “I’m not a fucking cop, asshole. Just give him the message,” says Mendez.

  “Okay already, I’ll give him the message,” says Red. “Officer.”

  Murphy is rushing to the door and yelling at Ralph to stop barking.

  “Mike, you little cocksucker, I’m going to beat the living shit out of you. Don’t you fucking move an inch.” And he gets the door opened and it’s Vota standing there.

  “Lou? What’s up?”

  “Can I come in Tommy?”

  “Yeah, come in.”

  “Can you get this dog off my leg?”

  “Before or after you come in?” asks Murphy smiling. Vota is not looking very well standing there, Murphy calls Ralph off and steps aside to let his partner enter.

  “What’s going on, Lou?” he asks.

  Asking as if he already knows the answer.

  Michael Davis is twenty-four years old. Just a kid. And he has just killed another kid his own age. Another kid named Michael.

  Harry Jacobs is twice his age, twice his size. Jacobs is from IAB. Internal Affairs Bureau.

  Cops learn pretty quickly not to be intimidated by IAB investigators. But Michael Davis hasn’t had time enough to learn.

  It is routine for IAB to investigate all incidents involving the shooting of a civilian by a police officer. Jacobs had to talk to Vota and Samson about the Harris shooting just days ago. Jacobs has a nickname among the population of cops of which he was once a member. His nickname is fuckface.

  Investigators from IAB usually work in pairs. Tonight is no exception. Along with Jacobs to interview Davis is Marty Richards. He is younger than Jacobs, and newer to the Bureau. As such, he may remember more about what it was like to be a regular cop and what regular cops think of cops like him who go after them. Maybe not. His nickname among his former peers is also fuckface.

  Michael Murphy was struck by two bullets fired by Officer Davis. Michael fell four stories to the alley below and his neck was broken. Whether Michael was dead before he hit the ground may or may not be determined by the medical examiner.

  Davis has told Jacobs and Richards that the suspect was pointing what he thought was a gun and so he fired up at the man.

  “I saw something in his hand pointed down at me. It was metal—I could see light reflecting off of it,” says Davis.

  Davis is very frightened by these two men.

  “You hear that line in a movie?” asks Jacobs.

  “Fuck you,” says Davis, trying something he did hear in a movie.

  “No. Fuck you,” says Jacobs.

  And Davis knows that he didn’t pull it off and wishes he would have believed himself when he told himself that he couldn’t pull it off before he tried.

  “I don’t think we need to remind you that no shots were fired other than those you fired and no weapon has been found on or about the body of the alleged felon,” says Jacobs, reminding him.

  “I think I would like to speak to a lawyer,” says Davis, using the last in his limited repertoire of movie clichés.

  Jacobs and Richards return to their car.

  Richards opens his mouth and lets out the words he has been afraid to let escape because he knows that once they are uttered the
y can never again be left unsaid.

  “It’s very hard to believe that this Murphy kid was a suspect in both a stabbing and a homicide and his detective brother didn’t know anything about it,” says Richards.

  “Oh, he knew about it,” says Jacobs.

  Vota quits beating around the bush.

  “Tommy, it’s your brother. He’s been killed resisting arrest.”

  “Motherfucker,” is what Murphy says and throws a lamp against the wall sending Ralph scrambling for cover under the kitchen table. “I’d better call my mother.”

  “It’s one in the morning, Tommy. Let her sleep.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At the morgue by now.”

  “Do I have to go down to identify?”

  “No. Sam did the ID at the scene.”

  “Sam was there? How the fuck…?”

  “He arrived after the shooting,” Vota interrupts. “It happened too fast.”

  “Why the fuck did Michael get shot at? He couldn’t have been armed.”

  “He went out a hotel window. An officer down in the alley got nervous and started shooting.”

  “Who was it, Lou?”

  “A cop. Jesus, Tommy, come on. Michael was running. They had him pegged for a felony homicide. Everyone was edgy. It was too fast. No one could slow it down.”

  “Michael didn’t do that liquor store.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “He never had the chance, but he was my brother for Christ’s sake. I know what he could do and what he couldn’t do. It’s my fault—I had him and I let him go. I need a fucking drink.”

  Vota grabs the bourbon. He pours two tall glasses.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Vota says, hearing how benign it sounds even as he says it and handing Murphy the drink.

  Murphy quickly drains the glass and hands it back to Vota for a refill. Murphy is boiling inside. Very close to the surface. He is very angry. At himself, for letting Mike off the hook so many times that this could happen. At the trigger-happy cop who killed his brother. At Vota for being here. At Samson for not being here.

  Murphy is raging at his helplessness, his inability to change what has happened.

  The finality of it.

  And just before his rage and his anger are about to explode out of him, he is overwhelmed by a sincere sadness. The hand that takes the glass from Vota begins to tremble where a moment earlier it would have sent the glass the way of the lamp. He sinks into a chair, brings the trembling hand up to his face and drinks. And he knows that the most difficult thing he has ever had to do in his life will be explaining to his mother why he couldn’t protect his little brother.

  Her youngest child.

  “I’m really sorry,” says Vota.

  “So am I,” says Murphy and then, “Thanks for being here.”

  “Sam would be here too, you know; if he could.”

  “Yeah, I know. Of course I know that.”

  “And I’ll go with you to see your mom. If you want,” says Vota. “I mean we both will, Sam and me.”

  And Murphy rises, but not as if he’s headed anywhere. And Vota fights the urge to go to Murphy, but loses the battle and is soon holding Tommy in a standing embrace. And Murphy is hugging back. And then the moment passes.

  And they are quickly apart and Murphy is heading for the bourbon bottle and Vota is thinking he needs to call in real quick, check in with Samson.

  “Shit, I left my cell phone and pager on my desk at the 61st,” Vota says.

  “Use the landline in the bedroom,” Murphy manages to suggest.

  “What a fucking mess,” says Samson, looking over Batman’s shoulder at the corpse on the floor.

  “Makes you appreciate how neat and clean Gabriel Caine works,” says Wayne, not looking back.

  The body is that of a female Caucasian, mid-twenties, attractive, unclothed. Her right hand is missing a thumb. There is blood everywhere.

  There are signs that this woman was bound and gagged. There is a large bruise on her left cheek. She has been sexually abused. She is obviously in her own apartment.

  This is a crime of passion. The sight of it is making Samson sick.

  And Sandra Rosen, who has come up behind him, looks down and has to quickly look away.

  Someone has tried to imitate an MO he read about in a newspaper. The result is nothing even vaguely resembling the previous murders.

  The result is much more like a plane crash or a train wreck.

  “At least this guy will be easy to find,” says Samson to no one in particular, as if there were anything about a mess like this to be thankful for.

  “Lieutenant,” speaks a voice behind him.

  “What is it?”

  “Sergeant Vota is on the phone, sir. Wants to know if you need him down here.”

  “Tell him I don’t.”

  “He said if you didn’t need him down here he could use you up there.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “He said to come alone and to bring ice.”

  “They’re bringing in the witnesses to identify your brother,” says Vota.

  “The guy that got stabbed will say yes; Duffy from the liquor store will say no.”

  “And what will you say?”

  “To fuckface? Nothing. I don’t know anything.”

  “What about a knife, maybe the cop in the alley saw a knife.”

  “So, he starts shooting? Fuck he think? Michael was going to throw it at him?”

  “Maybe he saw something, thought it was a gun.”

  “Did they find a knife or anything that resembled a gun?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then what are you talking about?” asks Murphy, reaching for the bourbon bottle.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You feeling sorry for the shooter, Lou?”

  “I’m feeling sorry for everyone. You. Your mom. The mothers of Billy Ventura, Kevin Addams and Brenda Territo. Myself. Lorraine.”

  “What’s with Lorraine?”

  “Pass the bourbon,” says Vota, and then, “Tommy, I’m scared shitless about Lorraine.”

  Samson takes about fifteen minutes with Rosen to make sure she understands everything that needs to be done in the next few hours on the case at hand. He says that he has to leave on important business. He tells her that she is in charge, and where he can be reached if anything broke or she needed advice. Samson tells her that he has Hackett working on getting Landis down to assist her if he could be located. He tells her that odds are the murderer knew the victim, most likely a past or present boyfriend or husband. He tells her that no suspect was to be approached without first notifying him.

  Samson starts to leave.

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Yes.”

  “Murphy told me something that I think I have to tell you about.”

  “And that would be?”

  “That his brother was the perp in a recent stabbing incident.”

  “Listen, Rosen,” says Samson as calmly as he possibly can. “Very carefully. I know about Tommy’s brother, and the situation has changed drastically. I don’t want to go into it now; I really need to get out of here. I want you to forget that Detective Murphy mentioned anything to you about his brother. Anything at all. Do you understand?”

  “I’m not sure that I do, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s simple. Forget it. Trust me on this, Sandra.”

  “I need to hear more.”

  “Can you wait at least?”

  “I can wait,” says Rosen, “but don’t let me wait too long. If I’m putting myself on the line for you or Tommy, I want to know the score.”

  “Okay, deal. Be careful.”

  “You too.”

  “So, how’s Lorraine taking it?”

  “She’s strong, but she’s pretty shook up.”

  “So, what the fuck are you doing here?” asks Murphy. “You should be getting rest so you can be at the hospital first thing in
the morning to help her through this.”

  “I’m here because you just lost your brother.”

  “Thank you and bullshit.”

  “I didn’t take the news very well, Tommy. And I think that Lorraine sensed it. Shit, Tommy, I feel as if I let her down.”

  “Is that what you feel?” says Murphy. “Don’t fold on her, Lou. Lorraine needs to hear that it’s going to be alright. And you’d best start believing it yourself. Don’t leave Lorraine out in the cold, the way I left Michael out there all alone.”

  “C’mon, Tommy, it’s not the same.”

  “It’s exactly the fucking same. Something falls hard on the person next to you and you’re checking yourself for damage. Someone who you’re supposed to love and care about gets kicked in the ass and your first reaction is to cover your own. Mike had no one else to turn to. Lorraine isn’t going to wait for you to come around; she needs to know she can count on you. Can she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let her know. What time is it?”

  “Time to stop hoarding that bourbon,” says Samson, walking in with a bag of ice cubes under his arm.

  “I’m really sorry about your brother, Tommy,” says Samson, taking a glass of bourbon from Vota.

  “I want to know about the cop who shot him, Sam.”

  “Tommy.”

  “It’s alright, Lou,” says Samson, and then to Murphy, “Kid’s a rookie. Name’s Davis. IAB is on it. So, how are you doing?”

  “My kid brother just got blown away by Hopalong Rookie. Take a guess.”

  “The kid thought he saw a gun.”

  “He thought? Did they find a gun?”

  “They’re looking.”

  “They’re looking. And what are they gonna thought when they don’t find one?”

  “Look, Tom, I didn’t come here to argue with you,” says Samson.

  “Right. You came to bring ice.”