Haunted

by James Patterson

  An officious assistant principal in a surprisingly tight dress and anything but a schoolmarm air approached me.

  “Detective Bennett?” the attractive fortysomething woman asked.

  “And you are?”

  “Toni DiPetro. I’ll be your contact for everything related to this incident.”

  “And why wouldn’t Officer Chapman help me?”

  “The school board thought it was best if I lead you through the hallway and emphasize that we’re attempting to keep this off the radar for as long as possible.”

  As we strolled the hallways, I asked general questions about problems they’d had on campus. I also noticed that none of the kids paid any attention to us. Even when the classes changed, they floated around us like we didn’t exist.

  I finally found a quiet area where I could start asking more pointed questions. “Miss DiPetro.”

  “Please—call me Toni.”

  “Okay, Toni. Has any of the faculty expressed any theories about why something like this would happen to a student? Because I gotta tell you, I’ve been doing this a number of years, and this shocks even me.”

  “Do you work much in the public school system?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I think if you did, you might not be shocked by it. Teachers are expected to do more and more, and much of the parenting authority has been ceded to us by the parents. In the media they call it teacher accountability, but really it’s a lack of parent accountability. There’s no respect anymore. I’m afraid I find the violence in this case shocking but not exactly the murder itself. Does that make sense?”

  She had a cute way of raising her voice at the end of sentences, like she was asking questions rather than making statements.

  I nodded and said, “I understand. I see it in police work as well. So all that being said, do you have any theories?”

  She leaned in close and said, “I’ve heard rumors, but I can’t have them associated with me.”

  I nodded.

  “The student was involved in selling drugs. Everyone knew it. Everyone knows he was killed as part of a drug hit, no matter what we’re peddling to the public.”

  “A drug hit? On a fifteen-year-old?”

  “That’s not all. It was a specific hit man. I’ve heard about him for months now. I don’t have a name or any concrete info.”

  I said, “Do you have anything at all?”

  She nodded. “He’s a New York City high school student. That’s how he’s able to move so freely without raising any suspicion.”

  Chapter 10

  It was hard to shake Toni DiPetro. I finally explained that I couldn’t have her present during my interviews with students, and she pointed me to a couple of areas where I might find kids willing to talk to me. It made sense that kids in the library might be more studious and less involved in criminal activity than others. Still, I realized, asking questions out of the blue might not be the best approach, especially since I was an adult male dressed in a suit. I could always change it up if it didn’t work.

  There was a study area behind the library where kids were allowed to have drinks and snacks. A cute young woman, maybe sixteen years old, sat reading a giant textbook and holding her nose only a few inches from the pages. I approached her slowly, and before I even pulled out my badge and identification she said, “I have nothing to say to the police.”

  “Really? You’re not even going to let me ask a question?”

  “Do I need to refer you to my dad’s attorney?”

  “How do you even know I’m a cop?”

  She didn’t miss a beat as she flipped a strand of blond hair out of her face. “If you’re a lawyer you would be dressed in a better suit. And if you’re a teacher you wouldn’t be wearing a suit.”

  I took that as a cue to move on. The assistant principal had provided me with a list of several names. I made a quick cell-phone call and asked her to summon those kids to an administrative office. Clearly I wasn’t going to get anywhere just wandering the halls.

  The first kid I met in the comfortable office, which had a wide couch and a TV on the wall, was a stocky Latino named Robert Hernandez. He had dark curly hair parted down the middle and a teenager’s attempt at a beard, with stubble sprouting between a moderate case of acne.

  I identified myself, and he seemed friendly. He just shrugged and said, “This is about Gary, right?”

  “It is. Is there anything you could tell me that might help us catch who killed him?”

  “Not a thing. In fact, I don’t want anyone to see me in here talking to you for too long, so if it’s okay, can I go?”

  “Your friend’s life meant that little to you?”

  “No. It’s more like my life means that much to me. You’re not gonna find anyone to talk.”

  “Are you worried about reprisals from a gang?”

  “These guys are beyond a gang. You can see gang members coming. These guys use people you would never expect. I’m sorry. I can’t stay.” He sprang up and darted out the door before I could try to persuade him to stay.

  The next student was a lanky senior with long greasy hair and a voice that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a kid or an adult. He wore a loose plaid shirt over a Nirvana T-shirt, and I understood exactly the look he was going for. His name was Jimmy Hilcox, and I quickly realized that no one at his house had ever taught him the meaning of the word respect. That deficiency almost never worked out for kids as they got older and entered society. It didn’t work out that well for society, either.

  He was more sullen than Robert Hernandez and, for the most part, wouldn’t acknowledge me. He didn’t even admit that he knew Gary Mule, despite the fact that I’d been told they both played on the lacrosse team and had three classes together.

  Finally the dour young man looked at me and said, “Why do you even care what happened?”

  “I care anytime someone is murdered in the city. Especially a kid. It’s my job to care. But probably the biggest reason is that I have kids of my own.”

  “Aren’t you worried what might happen to your kids if you push this too hard?”

  “I always worry about my kids, no matter what I’m doing. Why? Do you know these guys? Can you just give me a name?”

  Now his eyes shifted to me. They ran from my shoes to my head. Then he said, “Did you go to college?”

  I nodded. “Manhattan College.”

  “What did you study?”

  “Philosophy.”

  “What did you want to do before you settled for being a cop?”

  Damned if that wasn’t a pretty good question. Then I caught myself. I didn’t settle for anything. Police work is what called to me after I finished school.

  I leveled my gaze at the young slacker. “I’ve saved lives. I’ve raised kids. I sleep at night.” I paused as the kid stared at me. “Most people are lucky if they can achieve any of those things. One day, when you’re not working so hard to be an arrogant little prick, you might realize that.”

  The kid looked at the ground and mumbled, “If you give me your number I might be able to find a name. But it could take a while. And you can’t ever tell anyone.”

  I didn’t hesitate. I’d even take a couple of prank calls if it meant I could catch a lead that would stop this killer.

  Chapter 11

  I left the school feeling like a wolf who was still hungry for sheep. I needed adult interaction. Someone I wouldn’t feel guilty about hitting. Or at least scaring. The kids and Miss DiPetro had me thinking in different directions. That was good for a homicide detective. You’ve got to keep your mind open.

  Traffic was snarled as usual, so I left my city-issued Impala in a garage and decided to walk in my search for the right person to talk to. I had several choices, and they were all on the west side of Central Park. At least they would be this time of day. I didn’t care, as long as I didn’t have to stop at another school today.

  I couldn’t face another smart-ass teenager unless it was one I
had raised. I knew I could help Brian. I just had to find the right person and think in the right direction. I held out hope that something would happen to save Brian.

  That’s another ingredient necessary for a good homicide detective: hope. You always have to have a little hope. It’s the only way to keep your sanity. It’s easy to operate in my world and lose sight of the fact that there are still good people out there.

  The next thing important to a good homicide detective, believe it or not, is faith. Faith in God. Faith in family. And faith in yourself. I knew I could help Brian. I had faith that if I could find his supplier, we might be able to cut a deal. If we couldn’t cut a deal, at least I’d know who would be made to pay for all the pain he had caused my family.

  I found Walter Nussbaum in an Irish bar not far from Columbus Circle on West 57th Street. It was a dark, nasty little hole where I knew he and some of his backward friends liked to hang out. This was not a place tourists wandered into by accident. I pushed through the door and noticed three construction workers at the bar. If they cared who I was, it didn’t show on their faces. I felt like a sheriff in an old saloon as I scanned the small room for Nussbaum.

  He was sitting alone at a table in the corner, thumbing through the latest copy of Firearms News. He didn’t look up until I was already halfway across the room. He tried to conceal his shock. He probably didn’t realize I knew this was one of his hangouts.

  “Hello, Walter.”

  He didn’t offer me a seat, but I took one anyway.

  I scooted the chair close to him and said in a low voice, “I don’t have a lot of time to chat. What did you find out for me?”

  “This is uncool, man. I can’t be seen talking to you here.”

  “Then let’s leave, and you can talk to me in five minutes. But you’re gonna tell me something useful, and you’re gonna do it soon.”

  “You don’t understand.” The young man couldn’t even hold a page of the magazine. It fluttered in his hand, betraying his jitters.

  “No, Walter, you don’t understand. I need to know who’s using schoolkids to push dope. You said you’d find out.”

  “It’s not that simple.” His eyes darted past me.

  I heard someone behind me say, “This guy bothering you, Chill?”

  I took a quick glance at the two twentysomething shitheads. Bother-me gym rats with thick arms and probably heads to match.

  I turned back to Walter and said, “Chill? That’s your street name?” I almost laughed out loud.

  Walter didn’t answer.

  One of the gym rats, dressed in jeans and a Rutgers hoodie, said, “You need to leave, old man.”

  “Old man?” Seamus was an old man.

  “We decide who comes in here and who gets to talk to our friends. We don’t like the way you look.”

  I said, “Is it the age thing? I mean, that’s got to be some kind of discrimination, right?”

  The other guy, wearing a New Jersey Devils jacket, said, “Leave him, Jake. We don’t want to explain why we beat an elderly man’s ass.”

  Walter added, “Yeah, guys. Leave him alone. I’m fine.”

  Now Rutgers stepped in close and poked me in the chest. “I don’t care what Chill says. I don’t want you here. Scoot.” He poked me again. “Now.”

  I reached up with my right hand and grabbed his extended finger. I cranked it down with a little force. It looked like I used a pair of pliers by the way this punk dropped to his knees.

  He let out a cry that sounded like “Let go.”

  I didn’t acknowledge him. I looked at the other guy and said, “Wanna try your luck now?”

  The musclehead had no idea what to do. He finally balled his right hand and stepped forward, ready to throw a punch.

  I jerked the whimpering guy on the floor in front of me and tripped the attacker. As he fell forward over his friend, I threw my left elbow into his chin.

  That was it. No one said another word. They both whined, but they never completed a sentence.

  I said, “You two stay right there on the floor until I’m ready to leave. Understand?”

  They both nodded.

  Now I turned my attention back to Walter. I didn’t have to say anything.

  He stammered, “Okay, okay.” He gathered his thoughts. “There’s a group. A new group. They’re using different kinds of people to run their product. Using a lot of students. That’s all I hear. They’re using students to do all kinds of stuff. The students are making meth, distributing, even enforcement. One kid is the muscle. Real ruthless. I’m trying to find out his name. You gotta give me more time.”

  I growled, “I want this asshole.”

  Walter said, “I want nothing to do with this guy. You may be a big, scary cop, but this kid is a killer. The worst kind.”

  Chapter 12

  It was a rare quiet time in our apartment. An apartment an NYPD detective could never have afforded on his salary alone. But Maeve, my late wife, had cared for the man who had owned it in his later years. She had made such a difference in his life that he left the apartment to her in his will. That’s the effect Maeve had on people.

  With ten kids, I needed a place like this. Close to Riverside Park, close to Holy Name, four bedrooms and a makeshift maid’s room, a big living room, dining room, and kitchen. It was as if God knew what our family needed and provided it.

  And now, without my oldest boy, it felt empty.

  I sat on the couch and gazed out at the city lights. I kept thinking of the kids I talked to and Walter Nussbaum’s voice as he told me what he knew. They were all scared.

  Mary Catherine plopped down next to me on the comfortable couch. She snuggled in close. I wrapped an arm around her and appreciated her head resting on my shoulder. We relaxed in silence for a few minutes. I needed this.

  Then Mary Catherine said in a quiet voice, “Can we talk?”

  “Sure.”

  She sat up to look me in the eyes. “You know, Michael, I’ve never told you about some of the dark parts of my past.”

  “No, but I realize Ireland is not all pasture and friendly folk. People there have their issues.”

  She nodded. “They have the same issues any modern country faces. I was part of those issues. I’ve sold drugs before.”

  That caught me by surprise.

  “When I lived in Dublin, I fell in with a bad crowd. I started to not care what I was doing. I shoplifted during the day and sold marijuana and even some cocaine at night. It was turning into a very harsh and nasty cycle.” She took a moment to let her mind drift back. “I also got used to the money. And even the drugs.”

  “I had no idea.”

  Mary Catherine said, “That was the point. I’ve kept that part of my past locked away. I started a new life. I came to America. And now I have you. I don’t even want to think about some of the things I did.”

  I was astonished but somehow managed to ask, “How’d you turn it around?”

  “My family.” She said it like it was an obvious answer. “My brothers in particular. You know the story I told about my brother Ken and how he couldn’t come to America?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The man he hit was a drug dealer. It was no simple barroom fight. He meant to hurt that dealer. He wanted men to be scared of him so they wouldn’t try to use me. He gave up his dream to save me.”

  I stared into that beautiful, delicate face and tried to understand what she was saying. I wanted to understand how to apply it to our family now.

  Mary Catherine said, “You’re doing all you can for Brian. He has a good, strong family. He’ll survive, no matter what happens.”

  I said, “I keep asking myself why he did it.”

  “There is no why. It just happened. My family couldn’t stop me from entering that life, but they saved me from it. You can’t blame yourself for what happened to Brian.”

  I said, “I’m Catholic; I have to.”

  We both had a laugh for the first time in days.

 
Chapter 13

  I made the tough decision to not allow the kids to come to Brian’s trial. I wanted their lives to go on without the spectacle of seeing their brother in court. It wasn’t easy to convince them that this was best. Especially Jane and Juliana, who felt they were old enough to understand the proceedings. I wasn’t sure if I was doing it for them or for myself. Brian was the only child I could concentrate on at the moment.

  It had been some time since he was first arrested, and I kept working on finding his supplier as well as trying to find the killer of Gary Mule. I wasn’t happy with my progress in either case. There was something going on in town. Something different and hard to explain. I had battled drug lords. This was scarier, because the killer could be anyone. Even a schoolkid.

  A wave of anxiety ran through me as we approached the New York County Courthouse, on Centre Street in lower Manhattan. The thirteen-story Roman-style government building had been in countless movies, including The Godfather. It looked like something out of the twenties. To the south, I saw the federal courthouse, now named for former US Supreme Court justice Thurgood Marshall.

  I had been through a dozen trials here over the years, but always as a witness for the prosecution. Being the father of a defendant was a new experience. It was a perspective I had not considered before. But I would in the future.

  The high ceilings and ornate murals depicting justice spoke to the age and history of the building. I caught Mary Catherine taking in the enormity of the structure. My grandfather, walking on the other side of her, had been unusually quiet and held Mary Catherine’s hand as we approached the courtroom on the fourth floor. For the first time ever he looked frail to me.

  The judge wasn’t on the bench yet, and Brian’s attorney, Stacy Ibarra, met me near the door, then led me into the hallway.

  She had been a bulldog of an assistant district attorney, and now those intense green eyes met mine. Instantly I knew this wasn’t going to be good news.