Black and Blue

by David Rosenfelt

  That out of the way, and since this is a multiple-murder investigation and not a pity party, I let her have it. “You lied to me.”

  “What? No—”

  “Yes, you did. You told me that you spent the night of the murder at the hotel eating heroes with your father and watching a baseball game.”

  “I did.”

  “Who was playing?” I ask.

  “I don’t … the Mets.”

  “The Mets were off that day,” I say, having no idea if that’s true. “And your father ate dinner at Patsy’s.”

  McKinney jumps in, trying to avert a disaster. “Lieutenant Brock—”

  “I’m not talking to you,” I say. “So please don’t interrupt. If you do, Julie and I will conduct this interview at the station, alone.”

  I turn back to Julie. “Now, we were discussing the time you lied to me. Which, by the way, is against the law.”

  She nods, hiding behind some tissue dabbing. “I just didn’t want you to think my father could have done these things.”

  “Okay. From now on, let’s stick with the truth. When was the last time you saw your mother?” I ask this knowing that she was seen leaving that house not long before the shooting.

  “Yesterday. A short while before she was shot.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “My father. We argued about him, just like always. She hated him.”

  “Did he hate her as well?”

  “He didn’t really care about her either way. He was over that a long time ago.” Then, “And he didn’t kill her.”

  “Do you know where he was at the time?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he is now?” I ask.

  “Why? Is he missing?”

  “Let’s go with my question. Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “Let me know if you find out. You’d be doing him a favor.”

  I leave, not knowing whether or not Julie actually knows where her father is. But she’s lied to me before, so I have no reason to think she wouldn’t do so again.

  I call in and make arrangements to get a judge’s permission to place a tap on Julie’s phones. If Phelan calls her, I want to learn what they say and, hopefully, where he is.

  Scott Holman, like most people in the Metropolitan area, watched Captain Bradley’s press conference.

  He hadn’t watched the previous ones because he had been working, but he was certainly aware of the shootings and had even been going out less frequently, just to be cautious.

  There had been a story in the paper about how local restaurants have been suffering, because many people had also decided it was just more prudent to be at home. Holman had no trouble believing that.

  Holman lived in Leonia and worked in Manhattan doing corporate publicity. He had his own small, boutique agency, which meant he could make his own hours and work from home as often as he liked. He was at home this particular day because he wanted to focus on another project apart from his job. And with his wife out and his kids in school, he could do so without much interruption.

  Holman was one of three people on his high school reunion committee. His was the Englewood high school class of 1994, so it was the twenty-fifth reunion. It was the first one the class had ever had, so it had taken months to gather as much contact information as they could on their former classmates, so as to contact and invite them.

  Holman had taken on the responsibility of putting it all together. It was a huge job, much more than he anticipated, but he had finally gotten a handle on it. This day would pretty much put on the finishing touches. The RSVPs had come flooding in, and now he would go through them and find out who was coming, as well as whether they wanted the chicken or the fish.

  But he stopped what he was doing to watch the press conference. He listened as the police captain welcomed the assembled press, thanked them for coming, and said that he had a couple of announcements to make.

  He briefly summarized the killings that everyone already knew about, but then said that the investigation had uncovered another murder that could be attributed to the same perpetrator. It was then that he stunned Holman.

  The photograph they showed on the screen was Helen Mizell, who had been one of Holman’s teachers at Englewood High. She taught English, and Holman remembered that she was known as “Hollerin’ Helen,” a term that came about because she was exactly the opposite of that description. She spoke so softly that the only people in the class who could hear her were those in the front. Since no one had any particular desire to hear her, the front seats always filled last.

  In fact, all these years later Holman remembered his first day in her class. Not knowing about her soft way of talking, he had taken a seat in back. When she first spoke, he turned to a friend named Tom Ireland, who was sitting next to him in the last row.

  Holman said, “I can’t hear her back here,” and Ireland had responded, “That’s the beauty of it.”

  As Holman remembered it, he only had her for one class. He had no particular feeling about her either way, neither liked nor disliked her, possibly because he couldn’t hear her. Other than that it was an unmemorable class and a nonexistent teacher-student relationship, but it still seemed weird and disconcerting to have this connection to a murder.

  If Holman thought that was a shock, he was about to experience an earthquake. Captain Bradley followed this up with some news that the public had been desperate to hear. They had a “person of interest” in the killings. He was careful not to label that person a suspect, but certainly that was the impression he left.

  The announced person of interest was Daniel (Danny) Phelan. They put up a photo of Phelan, which Holman recognized immediately. It had been almost twenty-five years since he had last seen Phelan, back in the days when they were both in the same class at Englewood High.

  Holman had heard something about Phelan being in prison, and, in fact, had not been able to get any contact information to invite him to the reunion. But seeing his photo like this, and hearing that the police clearly considered him a candidate to be the serial killer, was beyond stunning.

  The fact that Helen Mizell had been killed and Danny Phelan was the possible killer was way off the coincidence charts. Bradley said that they did not know where Phelan was, and he gave the tip line number for any and all information.

  But what the hell could he have had against Helen Mizell? Had she done something to him twenty-five years ago that drove him to kill her? How could that be possible? He strained to remember some incident that might have happened, but could come up with nothing.

  For all Holman knew, the police were aware of the high school connection already. But he still felt that he should call and point it out, just in case they did not know.

  So he picked up the phone, and as he did, he knew one thing for certain: Danny Phelan would not be having either the chicken or the fish.

  Danny Phelan seems to have dropped off the face of the Earth.

  Ten minutes does not go by without a tip coming in from a citizen swearing that they have seen him. Phelan is either eating at the diner, or sitting on a park bench, or taking in a movie, or riding a bus, according to these people. Unfortunately the next tip to pan out will be the first.

  It’s only been three days, which is not that long a time, but it feels longer. What worries me the most is Phelan’s infantry experience; more specifically, the training he would have had that could facilitate his apparent disappearance.

  It’s why I am in Manhattan meeting with General Willard Thielen in his hotel room. The general is in town to give a speech at an American Legion event, and the army has offered him up as a gesture of cooperation with our governor, who did the asking. The fact that the governor was himself a former general certainly would have facilitated the cooperation.

  General Thielen is a decorated combat veteran. He’s approaching sixty now, but he’s got the body of a forty-year-old, and the eyes of someone considerably younger than tha
t. I consider myself reasonably tough, but I’d much rather be meeting him in a hotel room than a dark alley.

  At our request, Thielen has reviewed Phelan’s service record, and prefaces his comments with the caveat that he is not personally familiar with Phelan and only knows what he has read.

  “I understand that,” I say. “But he’s a fugitive, so I need to understand his capabilities.”

  “They are considerable,” Thielen says. “You already know he’s a marksman.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Tell me more about his training.”

  “Well, certainly he is well trained in the combat skills, hand-to-hand and otherwise. His proficiency scores are about average, but we are talking about a group of people with very high skill levels in these areas. His was a very special unit. He also had considerable survivalist training.”

  I nod. “Which means he has a significant ability to remain concealed?”

  He thinks for a moment. “Here in an urban environment like this? Probably not much better than anyone else. I see no evidence that he is a master of disguise, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And elsewhere?”

  “Put him in the deep woods and he could outlive us all. By definition he’s been trained to survive by living off the land. If he’s somewhere like that, and he doesn’t choose to come out, it would take battalions to find him.”

  “And if he comes out, it will probably be to shoot people.”

  “I sympathize,” Thielen says.

  “Is there anything else in his record that would help us?”

  “Well, are you aware that he did not leave the service voluntarily?”

  “He was dishonorably discharged?”

  “No, that was avoided. He had some incidents; one was drug related and the other two were assaults while off base. In situations like that, it is frequently suggested to the soldier that he find other employment.”

  I nod. “He wound up having drug issues that eventually put him in prison.”

  “That is no surprise.”

  “Thank you, General. One last thing: Would you have a record of the people he served with? In his units?”

  “I could get it easily, with one phone call. What is it you want?”

  “I want to know if Walter Brookings or Alex Randowsky turns up anywhere in there.” I write out the names for him to refer to.

  “I can certainly find that out. Shall I call you at your office?”

  “Yes, please,” I say, and I give him my number. Then I thank him and leave. When I get in the car, the traffic report tells me that the George Washington Bridge is backed up and the Lincoln Tunnel is the better way to go.

  So I decide to go through the tunnel, but apparently everyone else had also listened to the report, so it takes me an hour to get through.

  By the time I get to the station, the general has delivered, and there’s a message that he has the information and I should call him back. It’s impressive, but I guess when you’re a general you can do impressive stuff.

  Once he’s on the phone, he’s short and to the point. Walter Brookings served in the same basic training unit as Danny Phelan. Randowsky’s name is nowhere to be found.

  So Brookings and Phelan served together and therefore obviously knew each other.

  What a coincidence.

  Richard Decker always joked that he should be the mayor.

  He’d lived almost his entire life, all thirty-eight years of it, in Sussex, New Jersey. The only exception was the time he spent in college, brief though it was. Decker had gone to Fordham, on its beautiful campus called Rose Hill, incongruously tucked into the Bronx.

  It turned out that academics really weren’t Decker’s thing, and he only lasted two years before he and the university agreed that they were not a good fit. His time in college was not covered in academic glory, but he had a damn good time.

  But the reason that Decker jokingly aspired to be mayor of Sussex is that it was originally called Deckertown when it came into existence in 1891. It was named after its founder, Peter Decker.

  Richard could find no evidence that he was related to Peter Decker, even eagerly buying one of those retail DNA kits to make the connection. That didn’t work out so well for his main goal, though it did connect him with a previously unknown second cousin.

  So the non-mayor had been dutifully and successfully working away at his service station near the intersection of Routes 23 and 284. In terms of traffic it was not exactly the West Side Highway, but since everyone in town patronized the place, there was more than enough business for him to make a good living.

  Tuesdays were not particularly busy days for Richard, so he usually manned the station by himself. He had the townspeople coming by in normal fashion, but not too many transients came through. People traveling, those going camping, usually started and ended their trips on weekends.

  Richard was inside the station, changing the tires on Roger McFarland’s car. Roger was an old friend; they grew up together. And he was a great customer. Roger was on the road all the time as a salesman, so he changed tires about as often as most people change socks.

  Richard heard the sound of a car pulling up, and he looked out and saw Betty McCain. New Jersey is the only state in America that doesn’t allow people to pump their own gas, but in Betty’s case it wouldn’t matter. Betty was not the gas-pumping type.

  So Richard walked out to pump the gas, as well as clean her windshield and check under the hood. He believed in providing the best service at all times, even though he was the only game in town. In fact, that may have been one of the reasons he remained the only game in town.

  Richard liked to make small talk with his customers, particularly the locals, but in Betty’s case that was pretty tough. She had no interest in sports, and he knew from town meetings that they were on opposite sides politically. She was said to be an outstanding weaver, but Richard didn’t have too many weaving anecdotes to share.

  That left the old standby, weather, and Richard figured the crisp fall air would be a good place to start the chat. But he never got a chance to mention it. One step out of the station and he was set back by the force of the bullet. He was dead long before he hit the ground.

  “Brookings and Phelan were in the same army unit together,” I say.

  Nate has just gotten back from some time in the field conducting interviews. “No shit? Brookings was army infantry? How the hell did we miss that?”

  I shake my head. “No. They were in basic training together, then after those eight weeks were up they went their separate ways. Brookings was actually a reservist, but they do basic with the regular army guys. After that, once Brookings put in his time as a weekend warrior, he was a civilian all the way.”

  “Do we know anything about their time together?” Nate asks. “Any disputes, fistfights, arguments over a girl?”

  “I don’t know; I’m following up on that now with the general. But he said that unless there were some serious disciplinary measures taken, there probably wouldn’t be a record of that specifically. We should also try and find other guys that were in that same unit. Maybe they’ll remember some issues between Phelan and Brookings.”

  “Will do,” he says. Then, “Phelan is definitely our boy.”

  I nod. “I know. But we still don’t have anything solid. No DNA, no ballistics, no eyewitnesses, nothing.”

  “He ran off … consciousness of guilt.”

  “For all we know he’s on a fishing trip. The fact that we don’t know where he is won’t get us anywhere with the prosecutor, never mind a jury.”

  “The victims include his army buddy and ex-wife. That’s pretty compelling evidence, or some wild-ass coincidence.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “What else did you learn from the general?” Nate asks.

  “That Phelan can hide out as long as he wants, especially if he’s in the woods. Give him a couple of sticks and a toothbrush and he can live forever; he can make a three-course dinner using tree
bark.”

  “We don’t know he’s in the woods,” Nate says.

  “We don’t know anything.”

  “So let’s stick with Brookings for the moment. Let’s say he knew him, which seems logical at this point. Can’t be a coincidence that they were in the same basic training unit. So what does that tell us?”

  “That he must have had a grudge against Brookings, whether warranted or not,” I say.

  “So the same must be true for the other victims as well?”

  “Probably, but not definitely. He could have liked the feeling of killing Brookings and decided to recapture the magic.”

  The phone rings and I pick it up. It’s a member of our team, Sergeant Eddie Rosario, and his message is quick and to the point. “Lieutenant, we appear to have another victim. He’s a gas-station owner in Sussex.”

  I get the specific information from Eddie and hang up. “Phelan is still recapturing the magic,” I say to Nate. “We’ve got another one.”

  I inform Captain Bradley of the news and we head out to Sussex, a small town in Northern New Jersey. The drive would ordinarily take an hour, but we make it in forty-five. Not that there is any great reason to hurry; the perpetrator will be long gone, and his handiwork is not going anywhere. Besides, the place is no doubt already swarming with cops.

  By the time we get there, state cops have secured the scene and the forensics people are doing their jobs. The location of the shooter is being pinpointed, and witnesses, few though they may be, are being questioned.

  The gas station is in the middle of a wide-open area, which would have given the shooter few potential hiding places. In this sense it is different than the other killings, all of which afforded the shooter the ability to remain unseen.

  The other side to this, of course, is that this is a very rural area, which means that there would have been very few witnesses around. Still, if Phelan shot from an area within view, there is always the possibility that someone saw him, even if he or she was not aware of the significance in the moment.

  I interview a woman named Betty McCain, who is said to be the only known witness to the shooting, though not the shooter. Her Audi is still at the pump, but she is sitting in the rear office of the station.