by J. L. Abramo
“What happened? I set the alarm for seven.”
“So sue me,” says Alicia.
“Please hand me the telephone,” Samson says. “I need to call my lawyer.”
There is no answer at Murphy’s, so Samson calls the Precinct.
“Twelfth, Kelly.”
“It’s Samson, fill me in.”
“Mendez is asleep down here, looks like he just got out of a hospital bed. Jefferson is out on bail.”
“Jefferson?”
“Junior Jefferson. It seems he was waiting outside of Vota’s place with a contract from Andre Harris to hit Lou.”
“Andre Harris?”
“Brother of the cat you and Lou sent to Boot Hill last week. Seems Harris is out for revenge. We put out an APB. We have an unmarked outside Vota’s house.”
“How about outside mine?”
“Look out the window.”
“What else?”
“Rodney Roland is being held for arraignment later today. Rosen and Landis took off. She said she’d like to hear from you; he said he’d rather not. Fuckface called. Said that he and fuckface would love to see you and Murphy this afternoon at four, sharp. I have a corn on the little toe of my left foot that’s killing me.”
“Did Duffy from the liquor store show up to take a look at Michael Murphy?” asks Samson.
“Oh, yeah, that too. Duffy said the Murphy kid wasn’t the shooter.”
“Have you tried Dr. Scholl’s?”
“You mean the celery soda?”
“Never mind. I’ll be here at home for a while if anyone cares.”
“Copy that. Over and out, Lieu.”
“Are you going in?” asks Alicia.
“Not right away, I’m starving.”
“Well then, how about I fix a big breakfast?”
“Sounds perfect. Can I help?”
“Help yourself to some coffee, and throw some bread in the toaster. And go out back to ask your daughters if they will grace us with their presence.”
“How about Jimmy?”
“Not here.”
“Oh?”
“Went to help a friend move some furniture.”
“The Diaz kid?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Got a phone number?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
Andre Harris is laying low.
Harris knows that Stump fingered him. He also heard that Jefferson had been picked up. Harris doesn’t know if Junior had fingered him as well.
Stump is lying very low.
Stump knows that Harris knows that Stump fingered him.
Junior Jefferson is out on bail, lying a little low.
Jefferson knows that he hadn’t fingered Harris, but doesn’t know if Harris knows that he hadn’t fingered him.
The phone rings.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Jimmy. Where are you?”
“I’m with my friend Nicky. His father wants to talk to you.”
“Okay, put him on.”
“Lieutenant Samson, this is Phil Diaz.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Diaz?”
“You may or not know that I’ve had a little trouble with the law in the past. I just want you to know that my Nicky is a good kid and that your son is safe with us.”
“I hope so.”
“That said, there’s a guy named Andre Harris who might be looking to do you or your family harm. I can’t tell you much more than that, but I assure you that he will get no help from me and he will get a lot of grief from me if he tries.”
“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Diaz. I think that until this thing is settled, it would be safer for Jimmy and Nicky if they kept away from each other. If you see or hear from Harris again, please let me know immediately. Thanks for tipping me.”
“Sure. I’ll explain to Nicky that it’s temporary. They’re pretty close buddies.”
“Absolutely. I’m sure that Jimmy will be disappointed also. Let me speak to him.”
“Tommy, it is not your fault. Your brother was very mixed up. No one could have done more than you did to help him. My biggest regret is that your father wasn’t around longer to give him guidance. My only relief is that your father is not here to see what happened to Michael.”
“Mom, I’ll make sure the kid who shot Michael pays for this.”
“And do what? Destroy another young man like Michael? Bring suffering to another mother? I’m certain the officer was as terrified as your brother was. He didn’t go out to kill someone. He felt that he was protecting himself.”
“From what? Mike didn’t even have a weapon.”
“Are you sure?” asks his mother.
“What do you mean am I sure?”
“Tommy. Your father’s service revolver. It’s not in the closet.”
The phone rings.
“Samson residence.”
“Lieu, this is Kelly. I’ve got some bad news and some very bad news. Which do you want first?”
“The bad news.”
“I just got word that IAB has a gun found in the alley where Murphy’s brother was shot last night. It was never fired. In fact, it wasn’t loaded.”
“Jesus, no bullets. What’s the very bad news?”
“The gun belonged to Murphy’s old man.”
“Murphy’s Law.”
“Sorry, Lieu.”
“Sit on this, would you?”
“My lips are sealed.”
Jimmy Samson gets home in time to grab the last two pancakes as Alicia begins clearing the breakfast dishes.
“Want my last piece of bacon?” asks Lucy.
“Sure, thanks.”
“Okay. Twenty-five cents.”
“Real cute, Luce,” says her father, trying to suppress a smile. “Kayla, please help your mom clean up. Jimmy, I’d like to talk with you before I go in to work if you have a few minutes.”
“Sure, Dad, anytime,” says Jimmy. “Would you take a dime, Lucy?”
“Fifteen cents.”
“Deal.”
The phone rings.
“Hello.”
“Sam, it’s Lou.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital, Lorraine is just now coming out of the OR.”
“Where’s Murphy?”
“With his mother,” says Vota.
“IAB wants Tommy in for questioning,” says Samson. “This afternoon at four.”
“Jesus, Sam. He just lost his brother. Is IAB that fucking anxious?”
“I’d like to think they’re unaware of the timing, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“I haven’t been home,” says Vota. “I need to shower and change. Unless you need me now.”
“No, go ahead. I’ll call if I need you.”
“If I’m not home, I’ll be back at the hospital. I want to be here when Lorraine is out of recovery.”
“No problem. Give her my love. And Lou, watch your back. Looks like we have someone gunning for us.”
“What’s that about?”
Samson fills him in on Andre Harris.
“Tommy.”
“Sam.”
“How’s your mom doing?”
“Not great, but she’s a tough old Irishwoman.”
“Listen, Tommy. IAB wants to see us this afternoon. They found your father’s gun.”
“Good, my mother will want it back,” Murphy says. “Michael left the bullets here.”
“I can call Chief Trenton, see if I can get him to call off the dogs until after your brother’s funeral,” says Samson.
“What time this afternoon?”
“Four. They’ll come to the Precinct.”
“Let’s do it, Sam. Get it the fuck over with,” says Murphy, “so I can get on with my so-called life.”
Junior Jefferson is doing what he always does on a Friday morning, throwing hoops with his homeboys at the local schoolyard.
Jefferson has just sunk a three-pointer when he he
ars a familiar voice behind him.
“J.J.”
“Andre, my man,” says Junior. “What it is?”
“Got a minute?”
“For you, bro? Absolutely. Hey Slick, hold my spot. Be back in a shake.”
As they cross the yard, Junior can see the anger in Harris’ every motion.
“Heard the man picked you up last night.”
“Yeah. You believe that shit. Some gimp spic cop sandbagged me and dragged me to the 61st.”
“What did you have to say?”
“Nada. They got nothing on me and less from me. All they’ve got is a brother with a gun. Big deal. My lawyer says no sweat. Doesn’t think there was PC.”
“Mention my name?”
“Fuck no. What do you have to do with the price of pinto beans? Don’t sweat, bro. You don’t figure in this shit.”
“Glad to hear it, J.J. Seen Stump?”
“Not in a week, brother.”
“I think he fingered me. You see him, you sit on him until you can get me over to chat with him. And if you have to sit on him real hard, don’t worry about having to tell me he won’t be talking to me. Or anyone. Get it?”
“Got it. What about the cop?”
“Guess I’ll have to take care of that myself. You just find Stump. Soon.”
Sal and Frances DiMarco sit waiting for news from the doctor. Shortly before noon, Dr. Barnwell approaches them. His expression is neutral. His news could be summed up as so far, so good.
The operation had been successful, the tumor removed, no complications observed. Lorraine was in recovery. She would be tested when she came through anesthesia for any abnormality in brain functions. Again, no reason to expect any problems. A biopsy would be done to establish whether the tumor was malignant or benign.
“So, if the biopsy comes back negative and Lorraine wakes up able to recite the preamble to the Constitution?” asks Sal DiMarco.
“Then she will be pretty much out of the woods and just as she was before this whole business started,” says Barnwell. “The headaches should be gone.”
“She has one less headache already,” says Lorraine’s father.
“How’s that?”
“She won’t have to worry for a while about what to do with her hair.”
“I’m going to love chatting with Murphy and Samson at the 61st,” says Jacobs.
“Be easy on the guy, he lost a brother last night,” Richards reminds him.
“His brother was a punk, and a criminal.”
“You’re just upset that the gun takes the Davis kid off the hook,” says Richards, trying to lighten things up and wondering why Jacobs seemed to like his job so much.
“The gun puts Murphy right on the hook.”
“Ease up,” says Richards, hoping he isn’t going too far with the senior investigator. “The gun wasn’t loaded. And the Murphy kid didn’t kill anyone; he was cleared on the liquor store shooting.”
“He stabbed a man and left him bleeding in the street, and who knows what else.”
“And you’re so sure that Detective Murphy knew about it?”
“Positive.”
“And how are we going to prove it? He’s not going to give it to us on a silver platter.”
“Maybe he’ll slip up.”
“He may have already slipped up, and it cost him a brother,” says Richards. “Maybe it’s just not worth the hassle. Maybe he’s been punished enough.”
“I hope you’re not going to have trouble executing your duties, Sergeant,” says Jacobs.
“Absolutely not, Lieutenant.”
“Good, so we go and we get this guy.”
Samson finally dragged himself to the Precinct at noon and has been sitting alone in the squad room for nearly three hours. No word on Harris or Caine or Territo.
Ballistics on the bullets from the gun found in Brenda Territo’s coffin had been positively matched to the bullets that killed Sammy Leone, Dominic Colletti and Colletti’s two sons.
Fuckface and fuckface are due in an hour. Samson decides on fresh air and a stale hot dog. On his way out he bumps into Rosen coming in.
“Howdy, Lieu.”
“Well, Sandra, what brings you around?”
“Paperwork on that Roland psycho. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Always. Can I bring you back a dirty-water frank?”
“How do you eat those things?”
“Chew slowly and use a lot of mustard.”
“I’ll pass, but you can bring me back a Diet Pepsi,” says Rosen. “How’s Murphy doing?”
“Rosen, you got a thing for our Tommy?”
“I’d have to be nuts.”
“Granted,” says Samson. “But that doesn’t answer the question.”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. So, how is he?”
“He’s holding his own. A little too much angst if you ask me, but nobody does.”
“I’m a little worried about IAB, if they call me in.”
“They have no reason to involve you. No offense, but they probably don’t know you exist. But I do want us clear on this Michael Murphy thing. Let’s see how clear we are when I get back with your soda.”
“Just in case fuckface knows I do exist?”
Murphy walks into the squad room at three-thirty. Detective Rosen is already gone.
“Glad you came early, Tommy,” says Samson. “We’ll meet with Jacobs and Richards in the interview room. Let’s have coffee and prepare for our little ordeal.”
“Yo, Slick,” calls Andre Harris, interrupting the Friday afternoon half-court basketball game. “Where’s J.J.?”
“Didn’t know it was my turn to watch him.”
“Take a guess.”
“Well,” says Slick. “If a bus leaves for Baltimore at 1:45 p.m. traveling at fifty miles an hour…”
“What the fuck?” asks Harris.
“Probably somewhere near Philadelphia,” says Slick, looking at his watch and then going for the rebound.
“Detective Murphy, a week ago your brother was the perpetrator in an attempted robbery. The mugging victim received multiple stab wounds during the incident.”
“Alleged perpetrator,” says Samson.
“The victim later identified Michael Murphy from a photograph,” says Jacobs.
“That is not a conviction, Lieutenant Jacobs.”
“Take it easy, Sam,” says Richards. “We’re not here to crucify anyone.”
“I wish I could be that certain,” says Samson, glaring at Jacobs.
“Okay, Lieutenant. Alleged perpetrator. Now, do you think that Detective Murphy can speak for himself?”
“Yeah, I can speak for myself, Jacobs. What the fuck do you want to know?” says Murphy.
“Detective, you are speaking to a superior officer.”
“That’s a laugh.”
“Tommy, shut up,” says Samson. “Ask your question Lieutenant Jacobs.”
“Were you aware, Detective, that your brother may have been involved in the incident?”
“No, I was not.”
“Did you have occasion to see your brother after the incident occurred?”
“No, I did not.”
“Was it usual that you not see your brother for almost a week?”
“It was not unusual.”
“Even though he lived with your mother?”
“He was out a lot.”
“Your mother said that you spoke with him on the phone this past Sunday.”
“You bothered my mother?”
“It’s routine.”
“Routine. She just lost her son you callous fuck.”
“Tommy, calm down. Jacobs get to the point.”
“Did you speak with your brother on the phone?”
“Are you calling my mother a liar?”
“Lieutenant Jacobs,” says Samson, jumping in again. “You asked the detective if he had seen his brother. He told you he had not. Now, you are asking something entirely different, and you introduced
the question in an unusually adversarial manner. We are well aware of the fact that you outrank Detective Murphy, but there is no proof that he is undeserving of your respect. Please try to be objective. Ask your questions and let us get back to work.”
If looks could kill, Richards would have been the only survivor.
“Detective Murphy, did you speak with your brother on the phone last Sunday?”
“Yes I did.”
“And he said nothing about being involved in the incident in question?”
“He did not.”
“And were you aware that he was in possession of your father’s service revolver?”
“No I was not.”
Jacobs pauses. Looks at Richards, back at Murphy, and then to Samson. The room is silent for nearly a minute.
“Is that it?” says Samson.
Jacobs remains silent.
“Good,” says Samson. “Nice talking with you fellows. Let’s go Tommy.”
Samson and Murphy get up to leave.
“We’ll be in touch,” says Jacobs, finally freeing his tongue.
“Can’t wait,” says Samson, ushering Murphy out of the room.
“Well?” says Jacobs after they are gone.
“Well, what,” says Richards. “We got nothing. Forget it, let it go.”
“He’s lying through his teeth,” says Jacobs.
“So what.”
“Ms. DiMarco, I want to talk with you about what was done and what you can expect, before we invite your parents in,” says Dr. Barnwell, settling into a chair beside her.
“Okay, and please call me Lorraine.”
“Lorraine, please let me lay it all out before you ask any questions.”
“I was under the impression that appropriate bedside manner allowed for the patient to jump in at any time.”
“It’s not my style.”
“I’ll try. But I am an attorney, Doctor. And I have a habit of interrupting.”
“Try your best,” says Barnwell, respectfully. “The tumor we removed this morning was a primary brain tumor. Meaning the original source of the tumor was the brain, as opposed to a metastatic brain tumor caused by cancer somewhere else in the body. It was accessible, not deep in the brain and fairly easy to remove.”