Black and Blue

by David Rosenfelt

  The shooter in the park was waiting for Randowsky; there were plenty of other people he could have killed. So Randowsky may have been chosen at random, but he was chosen in advance, and he was specifically targeted. Just the fact that the shooter seemed to have known what car Randowsky was driving and where he was parked lends credence to this argument.

  When we get back, it’s almost four o’clock. I figure I’ll read more of the file for a couple of hours, and then leave. Jessie will probably be home before me, so she’ll have walked Bobo and then started dinner. I’m hoping pizza, but I probably won’t get my wish.

  There are a few pieces of mail on my desk, one of which attracts my attention. It’s a plain white envelope, addressed to me, in large print letters. There’s no return address, which is what seems strange.

  I have pretty good instincts on things like this, and my gut is telling me that this envelope is worrisome. I should take it down to the lab to have them look at it; for all I know there could be anthrax in there. But that’s not my style, so I open it carefully, slitting the edge so as not to interfere with it too much.

  There’s a piece of paper inside, folded over once. It is a short message, in the same block letters as the address on the outside. It says:

  “Ninety-seven creeps on the wall. If one of those creeps should happen to fall … ninety-six creeps on the wall.”

  “That note says a lot,” Jessie says.

  We’ve just finished our barbecue dinner, a day late, and we’ve followed our rule of not talking business during the meal. It took a lot of willpower to stick to that this time, and once the last dish is put away, Jessie jumps right into it. I think I know where she’s going with this, but I don’t interrupt.

  “First of all,” she continues, “that ‘on the wall’ game always starts with ninety-nine, so if there are ninety-six left it means there’s a third murder we don’t know about, which in turn means he is not always using the same MO with the same rifle. Because if he was, we would know about it, no matter where it happened.”

  “Unless the victim’s body wasn’t found.”

  She shakes her head. “Very unlikely. This note means he’s bragging. You don’t conceal something if you’re going to brag about it. Not only is he not deliberately concealing it, but he’s actually announcing it.”

  “I agree,” I say. “So if there is a third victim, it means maybe he hasn’t been away or inactive for the eighteen months; there has been a murder in the interim.”

  She nods her agreement and continues. “It also demonstrates that he’s not finished, which I suppose we could have figured out anyway. There are, in his mind, ninety-seven more victims to fall.”

  “There’s one other thing,” I say. “I think it’s significant that he addressed the note to me.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m just one of a group of us working it. How would he know me? How does he know about what we’re doing?”

  “Maybe it’s because of how well known you are.”

  I’ve been on a couple of major cases recently, and have gotten some notoriety for preventing terrorist attacks. That plus my amnesia history has made me a big story for the media to cover; I was their flavor of the month, at least for a couple of weeks. “It’s possible, but I don’t think so. Somehow he knows I’m on it.”

  “Maybe he waited around in the park to see the police response and saw you when you showed up. We need to get ahold of every picture taken there; he might be in one.”

  “Definitely. But Nate was there also, and he stands out somewhat more than I do. The Paterson cops were everywhere as well; Pete Stanton was in charge. It’s also possible that the shooter knows me because of the investigation last time. I could even have come in contact with him.”

  We’re coming up with a lot of possibilities, but that’s all they are. Every one of them has to be followed all the way to the end, and each will take a hell of a lot of manpower.

  The phone rings and it’s Nate. He doesn’t waste any time. “We got a hit on the silent alarm.”

  I know exactly what he means. Frank Muller, the guy who killed his wife in her Passaic apartment, has shown up in Englewood, at the house where they lived. We’d installed secret motion detectors and a silent alarm at the house, so that we would be tipped off if he came back to get some of his stuff. He had left everything there when he went on the run.

  “Let’s do it,” I say.

  There is no need for us to improvise here; we have a plan to put into effect for this eventuality. I ask Jessie to call in to the dispatcher to get it started, and I head for the Englewood house. Nate lives closer to it than I do, so he’ll get there first, but he knows not to do anything until we’re both there.

  Nate and I are going to go in alone, at least until and unless we call in help. The area is a maze of houses and driveways, and under the cover of nighttime darkness, we don’t want to spook Muller into taking off.

  That doesn’t mean the operation is just ours, though. Jessie’s phone call will result in a blockade two blocks square around Muller’s house. Air support in the form of helicopters with floodlights will be on call as well, but that’s only if we lose him and he escapes into the adjacent area. But in that case it could be tough to find him regardless, which is why Nate and I want to make sure we nail him at the house.

  Of course, it might not be Muller at all; it could be some kid trying to rifle the house, or maybe someone that Muller sent to get some stuff for him. If that’s the case, then no harm, no foul, and we’ll make any necessary arrest and head back home.

  As I’m about to leave, Jessie gives me a hug and says, “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “And don’t forget, this is the new you.”

  Jessie and Nate have frequently told me that the pre-amnesia Doug was a wild card, prone to take chances and not always worrying about personal safety. They say the post-amnesia me is more cautious and prudent, and they consider that a good thing.

  I don’t know either way, because I can’t really remember meeting the old me. He sounds like he was more fun than the new me; someday I’d like to spend some time with him.

  As planned, I park a block from the house. Nate’s car is there, but he is not, which is annoying, but not entirely unexpected. He must have already gone ahead, probably to confirm that it’s Muller, and to intervene if he tries to leave. We had left him that option, with the caveat that he doesn’t reveal himself or try to take Muller down on his own.

  There’s nothing for me to do but head for the house myself. There’s one obvious route from here, so maybe Nate will be waiting for me along the way. It’s not an easy walk because it’s a very cloudy night, meaning the moon is giving me nothing to cut through the darkness. The only light is coming from some rooms in a few of the houses, but that’s barely enough for me not to bang into poles and dumpsters as I walk.

  There’s no sign of Nate as I go, and I’m starting to get worried. He can handle himself, but he shouldn’t be trying to do anything like this on his own, if that’s what he’s doing. I draw my gun, so as to be ready for any eventuality.

  It starts to rain lightly, which is of little significance except that it could make things a bit slippery if we’re called on to run or make any sudden movements. Of course, that would be true for the bad guys as well as the good guys, so it’s literally a wash.

  I finally get within sight of the back of the house. There is one light on in a side room, which is a bit more than I could have hoped for. But it’s still quite dark.

  “Come join the party, dipshit!” It’s a voice coming from the direction of the house, and it immediately triggers my worst fear. Nate had for some reason gone in first, and Muller had gotten the upper hand.

  Within a few moments I see what I am dealing with; Muller and Nate have come into my line of sight. Nate is in front and Muller is directly behind him. He has a gun to Nate’s head and is looking in my direction. He is also wearing night-vision goggles, something we had
not anticipated and which no doubt allowed him to get the drop on Nate. It explains how Muller could see both of us coming.

  “Come on over here, asshole, and join your friend.” When I don’t move or respond, he says, “Now, or your partner won’t have a head.”

  He obviously sees me, and I can’t take a chance on him following through on his threat, so I step out into the open. I’m bathed in darkness, but with those night-vision goggles he’s wearing, I might as well be sunning myself on the beach.

  Once I’ve moved about ten paces toward him, he says “That’s better.”

  I’m holding my gun with two hands in shooting position, aimed at his head. There is a very narrow window past Nate, maybe six inches. Nate is much taller than him, so his eyes are barely above Nate’s shoulder. I will take the shot at the top of his head if I have to, but I wouldn’t be confident about it, so hopefully I won’t have to.

  “Drop your gun,” he says, causing me to speak for the first time.

  “No fucking way,” I say, since I am my most eloquent under pressure.

  He doesn’t seem impressed; in fact, he laughs. “Let me put it another way. Drop your gun or your partner goes down now.”

  “We have a situation,” I say. “If you shoot him, it will be the last move you ever make; that I can guarantee. If you try and shoot me, once you do he will grab your arm and break it like a twig. And then he’ll follow up and do the same to every bone in your body.”

  Another laugh. “You think I care if I die? You think I would have come back here if I cared? I just want to take as many of you as I can with me. And I’m starting with this big piece of shit. So you’ve got three seconds to drop the damn gun, or I’ll drop him.”

  This is a worst-case scenario; people who are quite happy to die are notoriously hard to intimidate.

  “One.”

  I quickly go through my good options, which doesn’t take long, because I don’t have any. I could drop my gun, but that seems likely to get both of us killed; Muller has just announced that as his goal.

  “Two.”

  I could take the shot; but it’s a difficult one, made more so by the dim light. I could definitely miss, in which case Nate is dead for sure. Or I could even hit Nate; he’s a pretty big target.

  But I do believe that when he gets to “three,” Nate is finished.

  So I fire, and I blow off the top of the son of a bitch’s head.

  I never did forget how to shoot.

  “Holy shit,” Nate says, as I walk toward him.

  I’ve still got the gun pointed at Muller, though he is now lying facedown on the ground. His gun has fallen a few feet away, and I kick it to the side, but it’s really not necessary. Muller is not making a comeback.

  “Holy shit,” Nate says again.

  “You mentioned that already.”

  “You had about a three-inch window,” Nate says.

  “Turned out to be enough.”

  “You could have hit me.”

  I nod. “If it’s any consolation, that would have ruined my night. Can you imagine the paperwork? And then the media would have been brutal. Headline would have been ‘Fat Cop killed by Hero Cop.’”

  Nate doesn’t say anything. It takes a lot to shake him up, but this experience has done it. It would do it to anyone. My jokes aren’t having any effect, and they haven’t stopped my own legs from shaking.

  “Nate, he was going to shoot you. I had to do it.”

  He nods. “I know and believe me, I’m fine with it. I can’t believe you made that shot, under that pressure.”

  “No pressure,” I say. “You were the one he was going to kill.”

  I don’t bother asking Nate how he got into that position in the first place. I have no doubt that Muller set a trap for us, using his night-vision glasses, and that Nate walked into it first. It’s probably better this way; had we gone in together he could have gotten the drop on both of us. Besides, the facts will all come out in the endless interviews that we are going to be put through.

  Within a few more seconds the area is swarming with cops, all armed and ready for anything. The sound of my shot drew them in from the perimeter. No matter what had occurred, Muller wasn’t getting out of here alive.

  Officer-involved shootings result in a great deal of paperwork and post-incident analysis, and in this case officers were very involved. I am positive I acted correctly, and would do the same thing again. And I also am sure that there will be no negative repercussions.

  Nate and I go down to the station to fill out our statements and sit for the first of the interviews. Captain Bradley is there waiting for us. “You have fun?” he asks.

  “A blast,” I say.

  “Okay, tell them what they want to know, and then get back on your real job.”

  So we tell them everything, and it’s past one in the morning before we are cleared to leave. Our cars have been brought to the station by other officers, and at least a dozen of them have waited around until the end of the interviews, in a show of support. These are gestures I very much appreciate, and I’m sure Nate does as well.

  Nate and I walk to the cars, which are parked next to each other. As we reach them, Nate stops and says, “Doug … thanks. No kidding … thanks.”

  “Forget it, Nate. You would have done the same thing.” Then, “But you would have missed.”

  He nods. “I would have missed intentionally.”

  Then he smiles. Welcome back, Nate.

  Many cops go their whole careers without firing a shot in anger, and now I’ve killed four people in the line of duty. Two of them I remember; besides Muller I killed an organized crime figure who was involved in a terrorist plot. It’s part of the reason I’m sort of famous today.

  The other two I don’t remember at all. Nate told me they were both guys who deserved it, and in both cases I apparently fired in self-defense and with good cause. I’ve gone back and read media reports of those incidents, as well as a lot of the internal reports that were generated by the department.

  There is absolutely no indication that I did anything wrong, and the two guys that I shot were apparently total scumbags who had themselves committed murder. But even so, I took their lives, and it somehow seems weirdly disrespectful that I have no recollection of doing so.

  Jessie has waited up for me; she is clearly well aware of what has gone down tonight. She greets me with a serious hug, which eases sort of naturally into a serious kiss. I’ve joked with Nate and acted nonchalant, but the events of the night have shaken me, and this is light years better than coming home to an empty house.

  “This is the high point of my night so far,” I say.

  “I’m glad.”

  “Emphasis on the ‘so far.’”

  She smiles. “We’ll see about that. First we need to walk Bobo. I’ve been waiting to see if you were going to call. I didn’t want to miss it.”

  So we walk Bobo. It’s amazing; when I walk him by myself, he pulls me down the street like he’s a horse and I’m a wagon. When Jessie walks him, he shuffles alongside her, matching her stride like they are the Rockettes. I have no idea how she does it.

  Of course, in both cases I am left carrying the bag, literally. It’s plastic, and its sole function is to pick up Bobo’s shit. And believe me, Bobo can shit with the best of them. He could single-handedly fertilize Nebraska.

  As we walk, I ask who she spoke to tonight.

  “Captain Bradley. He called me as soon as it went down, just to say that you guys were okay. Then Nate called; I spoke to him a little while before you got home.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” I say. “This wasn’t the old me, or the new me. I had to do what I did; any me would have done it.”

  “He knows that, and he’s grateful. He said the guy would have shot him in the head. He was about to try and take the guy down, but he doesn’t think he could have done it without him pulling the trigger. He couldn’t believe you made that shot.”

  “Let’s not talk abo
ut it anymore, okay?” I ask.

  “You’re upset that you killed him?”

  “Not even a little bit. I’m upset that I hesitated.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “The asshole was counting to three. I let it go too far; I should have shot him on ‘one.’”

  She laughs. “Now that’s the old you.”

  “Let’s go back and get to the high point of the evening,” I say.

  “Yes. Let’s.”

  Captain Bradley follows my advice and calls a press conference about the Randowsky killing.

  Of course, the fact that it was my advice would have meant close to zero. That is because I gave the advice to Bradley, but by his own design he is not the decision maker. He is nothing if not careful, and he would have cleared this with the chief, the police commissioner, the mayor, the governor, and the emperor, if New Jersey had one.

  There was a debate as to whether the commissioner, and even the mayor, should show up for this press conference. The commissioner wouldn’t have spoken either way; Bradley is handling that solo. It was finally determined that if the commissioner and mayor were there, it would lend too much importance to the occasion. The powers that be want people to understand what is going on so that they’ll be alert. But they don’t want them to think that the situation is dire and worthy of panic.

  Of course, I think that the main reason Bradley was given the whole show for himself is that this is the bad-news part. This is telling the public that the killer is on the loose. When the good-news part comes, when an arrest is made, there won’t be a room big enough to hold all the brass looking to claim credit and bask in the glory.

  So it’s just Nate and me standing behind Bradley as he puts the message out. “Preliminary ballistics in the Alex Randowsky shooting,” he says, “confirm that the weapon used is the same one that was used in the murder of Walter Brookings eighteen months ago.

  “We are asking everyone with any information about either or both of these crimes to call and tell us what you know. You can do so anonymously, and a tip line has been set up that you can use. I urge you to do so.”