Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  “So, when you spoke with the boy’s doctor, the child’s illness never came up?”

  “We never spoke with the boy’s doctor. We were told that the pediatrician wasn’t at the hospital when the boy died. We didn’t feel it was necessary to talk with him.”

  “Why wasn’t the doctor there? Didn’t you say he was meeting Caine and the boy.”

  “Yes, I did. And it’s a very good question. Are you thinking that Caine feels he has a score to settle with the boy’s doctor?”

  “It was a fleeting thought, but I’m sure the doctor must have contacted the Caine family once he learned about what happened,” says Lorraine. “To explain his absence and offer condolences.”

  “I think I’ll stop in at Coney Island Hospital in the morning, before the church service,” says Vota. “I can find out who the doctor was and arrange to talk with him.”

  “Lou, look out the window.”

  “Wow. It’s really coming down.”

  “You’d better get going, before the roads are really bad,” says Lorraine.

  “Okay. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

  “Bring me pizza from L & B’s.”

  “Square or round?”

  “Why not make it one slice of each,” says Lorraine.

  “You got it,” says Vota, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “I love you, DiMarco.”

  “I love you, Vota,” she says. “Be careful out there.”

  Murphy drops his mother at her house in Midwood and takes Avenue J heading west.

  He stops at a red traffic light on Ocean Parkway.

  To the left is Avenue U and another self-medicated hour or two jawing with Augie at Joe’s Bar and Grill.

  To the right is the Prospect Expressway and another two or three hours having a sober one-sided conversation with Ralph before he can unwind enough to fall sleep.

  Murphy turns right when the light turns green.

  He shakes off the snow as he walks through the front door of his house. He swings the door shut and takes a step toward the interior. A sound from behind turns him around. He has time to utter only two words as he reaches for his service revolver.

  “God. No.”

  “God is not here,” says Andre Harris, as he squeezes the trigger of his muted weapon three times at chest level.

  Batman would later say that he probably died before he hit the floor.

  Harris puts the gun into his coat pocket, turns up his collar, and heads out the door and down the front steps. Snow is falling much harder now as Harris hits the sidewalk. He pulls the New York Jets wool cap over his ears, glances quickly in both directions, and he hurries south on foot.

  It is the city that never sleeps, and for some the night is still young.

  For others, it is the end of days.

  TWENTY NINE

  The body wasn’t discovered until six the next morning, when a sixteen-year-old high school co-ed came to deliver the Sunday Tribune to the door.

  She dropped her armful of newspapers and ran screaming down the snow-covered front steps to the street.

  The large, bold headline across the front page of the Tribune read: Killer Speaks, I Will Redeem Another Child.

  An elderly man walking his miniature poodle nearly let go of the leash as the girl ran crying into his arms. When she was finally able to speak coherently, the man hurried into his house and called the police.

  The two officers who responded recognized the victim and quickly found the service revolver and the detective’s shield. The younger officer went down to the squad car to call it in.

  The older officer, a veteran of twenty-seven years, stood solemnly beside the victim. The fallen detective would be in his custody until the ambulance carried the body away, a responsibility he took very seriously.

  The snow had fallen throughout the night, leaving a clean white layer of large shimmering flakes on the sidewalks and streets, sparkling like so many diamonds in a thieves’ lair from an Arabian Nights tale.

  As Murphy runs with Ralph beside him, the sun coming up, the sky clear, the precipitation ended, the sparkling diamonds look to Murphy like snow on the ground.

  Literary metaphor is not one of Murphy’s strong points.

  In two hours, it would be an ugly, dirty slush.

  In a few days he and his mother would be walking into Most Precious Blood Church, not far from the home where Murphy grew up.

  In Gravesend, a Roman Catholic church was never very far from home.

  The funeral service would be attended by scores of friends his parents had accumulated during their long residence in the predominantly Italian neighborhood, before his father had moved the family to Midwood. The animosity between the Italians and the Irish was more myth than reality, particularly when families of police officers were involved.

  Patrick Murphy had been well respected and very well liked in the neighborhood, and many Gravesend parents had Patrick Murphy to thank for keeping their children on the straight and narrow.

  The tragedy was that he couldn’t save his own son, Michael.

  There would also be a large police presence at the church—men and women who had worked with Murphy’s father during his thirty plus years on the force, and those who had worked with Tommy during his ten years. Not to mention all of the women in his mother’s circle, who did work with her at church and played contract bridge on Friday nights. It would be a packed house. SRO.

  As Murphy and Ralph come into their last mile on this quiet Sunday morning, the sun is already beginning to turn the snow into soupy puddles in their path.

  An hour later, Samson gets the call directly from Chief Stanley Trenton.

  “There is no good way to say this, Sam, so I’ll just say it. Lou Vota has been killed.”

  “My God, no,” says Samson.

  “Ambushed at his door last night, he didn’t stand a chance.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Trenton broke it.

  “I know how you must feel,” says Trenton.

  “No one should ever have to know how I must feel.”

  “It was probably Andre Harris. I’m keeping the patrol car outside of your house until we get him. No arguments.”

  “Sure,” says Samson.

  “I need a huge favor, Sam,” says Trenton. “I don’t know who else to ask.”

  “Talk to Lorraine DiMarco?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “She just made it through brain surgery. Jesus.”

  “I know. God has no favorites. And Sam, I’m putting detectives from the 76th on this. I want you to stay on the Caine case. You’re the only one I trust completely to deal with it and I want you to stay as far away from Harris as possible. Understood?”

  “Understood,” says Samson.

  “That’s horrible, Sam. I’m so sorry,” says Alicia, kneading her husband’s shoulders with her fingers.

  “I want you to take the kids to your mother’s,” says Samson, “and I want you all to stay there until they find this guy.”

  “What about the funeral service? I wanted to be there for Tommy.”

  “I would rather you and Jimmy didn’t go.”

  “Who’s going to speak to Tommy about Lou?”

  “I guess I’ll have to, but I want to try putting it off until his brother is buried. Meanwhile, I need to decide how to break it to Lorraine.”

  “Speak to Lorraine’s father, Sam,” Alicia suggests. “It might be better if she heard it from him.”

  “Good idea.”

  “The man who killed Lou,” says Alicia. “Do you really think he might come here?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Can’t people feel safe anywhere anymore?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Mr. DiMarco, I’m sorry to have to call you so early. This is Lieutenant Samson.”

  “No problem, Lieutenant, how can I help you?”

  “I need to speak with you, sir. Alone. Can you get out of
the house perhaps? Meet me on the corner, say, of Kings Highway and West 10th?”

  “How about West 7th, the small coffee shop next to the subway station?”

  “Fine, I can be there at eight,” says Samson.

  “I’ll see you then, Lieutenant,” says DiMarco.

  When Samson arrives, he finds Salvatore DiMarco at the counter. Sal is holding a heavy mug of coffee, engaged in conversation with the counterman. Samson guesses that these two have been going at it together like this for a number of years. He walks over to greet Lorraine’s father.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” the older man says, taking his hand. “This is Salvatore Martucci, the proprietor of this fine establishment.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” says Samson, turning to the man behind the counter.

  “I’ve been having coffee with Signore Martucci for more than forty years, Lieutenant. They call us Sal One and Sal Two around here.”

  “Could we move to a booth, sir?” Samson asks.

  “Certainly, would you care for some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sal, coffee for the lieutenant, please.”

  “I’ll have Paula bring a pot over.”

  “Thank you, paisan.”

  Lorraine’s father follows Samson to a booth in the rear of the small shop. They take seats facing each other. The waitress drops off a pot of coffee and another heavy mug.

  “What is this about, Lieutenant?”

  “Lou Vota has been killed, sir.”

  DiMarco lowers his head and remains silent. Tears well up in his eyes. It is all Samson can do to keep from following suit. Sal DiMarco takes a paper napkin from the table and humbly dries his cheeks. He finally looks up at the lieutenant.

  “I apologize for my embarrassing display,” he says.

  “Not at all, sir,” says Samson.

  “He was a good man.”

  “I thought Lorraine would be better hearing it from you, sir.”

  “Lou has been family since Lorraine completed law school. He was like a son to me. You know we lost a son, years ago.”

  “Yes, sir, I knew that.”

  “You know, Lieutenant, I can’t say why, but I had the idea that Lou was getting ready to ask Lorraine to marry him. This is a terrible tragedy.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” DiMarco says solemnly. “I need to be with my daughter now, Lieutenant. Unfortunately this cannot wait. I appreciate your taking the time to see to this personally.”

  “He was like a brother to me,” says Samson.

  “A terrible tragedy,” DiMarco repeats.

  “Thank you for your help, sir,” says Samson.

  Sal DiMarco rises slowly and moves toward the exit, with a forced smile and a pleasant farewell to Martucci as he passes.

  Samson watches him go through the door. The detective is determined to control his own emotions until he is back in his car. Samson leaves a five-dollar bill on the table, rises from his seat, gives Martucci a quick nod, and rushes out to the street. He doesn’t quite make it.

  Samson leans his hands on the hood of his car and sobs loudly. The sight of a large black man, bent over the hood of the vehicle, stops pedestrians in their tracks.

  “Look Mommy, the man is crying,” says a five-year-old boy, pointing at Samson.

  “Let’s go, Joey,” his mother says, nearly tearing off his arm as she pulls him along.

  Samson rises to a standing position and looks around. People look away and the busy pace of the sidewalk begins again. He sees Martucci watching him from the coffee shop window. Next to him the waitress, Paula, a five-dollar bill clutched in her hand and a sad smile on her face.

  Samson climbs into his car and drives away.

  “You’re just in time, Dad,” says Lorraine, glancing over to the door of her hospital room as Salvatore DiMarco walks in and then looking back up at the TV on the wall. “John Garfield and Lana Turner—it’s just beginning.”

  “Lorraine,” he says, as he reaches the foot of the bed.

  Lorraine looks down from the television and into her father’s eyes.

  “My God, Dad,” she says. “What’s happened?”

  Samson had broken the news of Vota’s death to Rosen and asked if she would join him to bring the news to Murphy.

  Now the three detectives sit in Samson’s car in front of Murphy’s mother’s house. Samson and Murphy talk about Vota. Rosen sits in the back seat, quietly listening.

  “I’d better get over to the Precinct, Tommy,” Samson says. “We have just about everyone out looking for Harris and Caine, and we need someone to sit in the squad room this afternoon.”

  “I can help, Sam,” Murphy says.

  “I don’t want to see you back before the burial,” says Samson. “That’s an order.”

  “I’ll try to stay away,” says Murphy as he leaves the car.

  They watch Murphy walk into the house as Rosen moves to the front seat.

  “How do you think he’s doing?” asks Rosen.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I figure out how I’m doing,” Samson says.

  Andre Harris sits in his car on Coney Island Avenue, across from the 61st. Harris sees two cars pull into the parking area. He watches as Samson and a woman, probably another pig, walk into the Precinct.

  Harris digs into a paper bag and takes out a sausage, pepper and onion sandwich and a quart bottle of beer.

  He is prepared to wait.

  “You really don’t need to stay, Rosen,” says Samson as she follows him into the Precinct.

  “I don’t mind keeping you company for a while,” Rosen says. “Unless you would really rather be alone.”

  “What the hell, stick around if you really want to.”

  Rosen smiles as she follows up the stairs behind him.

  Murphy goes up to his brother’s room. He sits on Michael’s bed and takes out the note his brother left at the Midwood Suites.

  When his mother walks into the room looking for him ten minutes later, she finds her oldest son crying.

  Murphy stuffs the note into his jacket pocket as he hears her approach the bed.

  She sits beside him and silently takes his hand.

  Gabriel Caine reads the front page story in the Sunday Tribune. Though the piece is far more sensational than he would have preferred, it is at least an attempt to express his mission. Gabriel Caine believes that righteous people will understand.

  In any case, he thinks, it will be finished tomorrow.

  “I need to go, Mom,” says Murphy.

  “Are you going home, Thomas?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Will you call me later?”

  “I will, Mom.”

  “I’m going to run across the avenue for some food to take out,” Samson says. “Can I bring you anything?”

  “Is there anything remotely healthy on the menu?” asks Rosen.

  “I think they might do canned peaches with cottage cheese.”

  “Make it a burger and fries,” says Rosen.

  Murphy is driving on Avenue J crossing Coney Island Avenue toward home when he unexpectedly turns left without signaling, causing the driver behind him to brake hard and hit his horn. Murphy wonders why he made the turn at all, but decides to continue out toward Gravesend.

  Samson stops at the front desk to exchange a few words with Washington and another uniformed officer and to ask if either cared for anything from the diner across the avenue before he walks out of the Precinct.

  Harris sees Samson come out of the building, drops the beer bottle, grabs the gun from the seat, and steps out of his car. Samson reaches the corner of Coney Island Avenue at Avenue W just as the traffic light turns green, and he steps off the curb to cross the avenue.

  At the intersection of Coney Island Avenue and Gravesend Neck Road, Murphy spots Samson and is about to call out a greeting when Andre Harris appears. Harris moves quickly across the avenue toward Samson with his arm extended.


  “Motherfucker,” Murphy yells as he puts the gas pedal to the floor and leans on his car horn.

  The horn startles Harris who squeezes off a shot and turns toward the sound. Murphy watches Samson go down and plows into Harris at the same moment. Murphy stomps on the brake pedal and watches the gun skip across the avenue.

  The collision knocks Harris into the air where his body spins once or twice before landing in the middle of the avenue twenty feet from Murphy’s buckled hood.

  The commotion has brought Desk Sergeant Washington and another officer running from the Precinct and racing up to the avenue with Rosen not far behind. Murphy hits the gas again and brings the car to within inches of Andre Harris’ body before braking abruptly and jumping from the car with his weapon in hand. Washington and the other officer reach the body at the same time.

  Murphy looks down at Andre Harris and then quickly over to where Rosen is attending to Samson. She signals that the lieutenant is alright.

  “Jesus, Murphy, I think you broke both his legs,” says Washington.

  “You don’t know how close I came to parking on his ugly fucking head,” says Murphy. “Get this piece of shit out of my sight before I change my mind again. Call for an ambulance, make it two, and make sure that Samson gets to ride the first one that arrives. Grab that gun and bag it. And be careful with the thing—I’m sure that it’s the weapon that killed Sergeant Vota.”

  Murphy moves toward Samson and Rosen as the others drag a screaming Andre Harris to the sidewalk.

  A car slows and the driver honks his horn as Murphy crosses.

  “Touch that thing again and I’ll shove it up your fucking ass!” Murphy yells.

  Rosen is sitting on the street, holding Samson across her lap.