Superbia s-1

by Bernard Schaffer

  Frank shrugged and said, “Clear it, I guess.”

  “Is there any chance you reacted like you were trained when you saw Vic’s gun and cleared the weapon?”

  Frank squished his eyes together and said, “I don’t know. It’s all a blur.” He turned on the two detectives and said, “Did he kill himself? Jesus, how could he do that? He’s got a wife and two kids, for Christ’s sakes. What a selfish son of a bitch.”

  The male detective smiled gently and put his hand over Frank’s, “All indications are that it was accidental, Frank. Just a horrible, horrible accident.”

  Frank pulled his hand back and said, “Did someone tell his wife and kids yet?”

  “Your new Chief sent someone to make the notification,” the woman said. She looked over her shoulder at Erinnyes, who was hunched over, speaking to the District Attorney. The bastard already looks ten years older, Frank thought. Where’s your smug look now?

  Frank leapt to his feet and shouted, “I don’t care what you say, Vic Ajax shot himself because of that fucking asshole! He told me so himself that he had been waiting five years to kick Vic out of detectives. Congratulations, you fat fuck. Nice first day of command. You killed him! YOU!”

  The DA turned to Erinnyes, who was shaking his head so rapidly his jowls flapped against his jaw. The two County Detectives were on their feet yelling at Frank to calm down, to take his seat, but Frank kept hollering, “This police department lied to that man for five fucking years and your stupid ass killed him. Somebody get me a reporter! I want a fucking reporter right now!”

  WINTER

  15

  It was January.

  The sign marked Lethe Rehabilitation Center was covered in snow and icicles hung from it like stalactites. He drove past the sign and parked in the visitor’s area. Nurses in heavy coats smoked outside of the building, wearing thick white nylons and sneakers.

  He walked through the front door and went up to the desk, reaching into his pocket. “Can I help you?” the woman said.

  He showed her his gold badge and said, “I know you aren’t supposed to let anyone in, or even confirm that someone is a patient here, but I need to speak with one of your patients in reference to an investigation. Her name is Aprille Macariah.”

  The woman picked up a phone and said, “And your name is?”

  “Dez Dolos.”

  The woman held up her finger as the phone rang. “I have a visitor at the front desk. He says he’s here on official business.” A pause. “Dez Dolos.” The woman hung up the phone and said, “You can go up after you sign the visitor’s log, Mr. Dolos.”

  Frank smiled at her and thanked her as he bent to sign.

  He waited for the elevator to ding and as the doors opened, he found a hallway that was much like a hotel floor. He walked past the rooms until he found the one he was looking for and rapped gently on the door.

  Aprille was smiling as she opened the door, still young, still pretty, but with bags under her eyes. The smile faded when she saw Frank. “You lying son of a bitch,” she said.

  “Sorry,” Frank said. “I didn’t think you’d let me in.”

  She walked back into her apartment, leaving the door open. “Probably not. It’s O’Ryan, right?” she said.

  “That’s right.” He closed the door behind him and followed her into a small living room with a worn couch and sitting chair. “This place looks pretty good,” he said. “I thought it would be a hospital.”

  “It is, when you first get here. People who graduate from the first floor get moved up here in an effort to re-acclimate them to living on their own.”

  “I guess I should say congratulations, then.”

  Aprille laughed harshly, “Yeah. Big whoop. I am almost able to make it a few days on my own without snorting up a dozen bags of heroin. I can’t believe how excited I got when I thought you were Dez. That probably set me back another six months, you asshole.”

  Frank scratched his head and said, “I’ve met the guy a few times. Forgive me for saying it, but I just don’t see it. To each their own, I guess.”

  “Actually, I thought he was here to talk about Vic. Not one person came to see me, not one letter, not one single communication. If I hadn’t read it in the newspaper, I’d never have known.”

  “No offense, but you kind of put yourself off the radar,” Frank said. “I had a hell of a time tracking you down.”

  “So what are you doing here, anyway?” she said. She smiled suddenly and said, “I get it. You are Erinnyes’s new bitch now that he’s Chief and Vic is out of the way. You came to officially notify me that I am fired, right? Is that right, delivery boy?”

  Frank smiled back at her and said, “You got the delivery boy part right.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded letter bearing her name. “This is for you. I’m going to let you read it one time, and then I’m going to take it back and destroy it. If anyone asks you about the letter, or if I was even here, you are to deny it. Are my terms clear?”

  Aprille folded her arms over her lap, unfolded them, and then crossed her legs as she tried to work up a response. “Excuse me? Who the fuck are you, again?”

  He had the letter pinched between his two fingers. “Yes or no? I’m leaving in five minutes either way.”

  She reached out for the letter and said, “Okay, tough guy. Anything you say.”

  Frank handed it to her and sat back, folding his hands in his lap as she opened the pages and pressed her hand against her face. He already knew what her letter said. He’d committed it to memory. Tears spilled down her face and she looked away several times, unable to go on until she wiped her eyes and was able to compose herself enough to continue.

  Aprille folded the letter up carefully, taking a moment to look at the writing on the first page that spelled out her name. She handed Frank the pages and said, “Thank you for letting me see this. I knew it wasn’t an accident. There was no way.”

  Frank stuck the letter in his pocket and stood up. “When you are ready, if you are ever ready, give me a call. I could use a hand from someone I can trust.”

  Aprille laughed harshly. “And what makes you think you can trust me?”

  “Because he did.”

  She stopped laughing and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I can’t think of one good reason for me to ever go back there. Especially now.”

  “What about for revenge?” He reached into his coat’s inner pocket and removed the photograph of her and Vic, kneeling over the stack of cocaine kilos. “I thought you might want this. It’s the only photograph of Vic I have. If you think it belongs in the station, come back and put it up yourself. Once that happens, I’ll tell you my plan.”

  * * *

  Frank left the rehab and got into his unmarked police car. He turned his cellphone back on and saw that there were two missed messages. The first, sent from the patrol supervisor’s cellphone: Complainant on station asking to speak to a Detective. Advise your ETA. Chief E. is freaking out.

  The second was from Dez: Yo, Frankie! Surveillance detail tonight. Meet up at the Yard.

  It was winter.

  Fresh snow covered up the cars and streets and buildings and ground in blankets of white. Covering up the grime. Making everything temporarily pure.

  Frank pulled out the letter bearing his name and opened it one final time.

  Dear Frank:

  I am sorry. There, I said it.

  Vic

  He pulled out his phone and dialed a number, listening to it ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad. It’s me.”

  “Hey, Frank. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to come over tonight. We need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “A few things. Mainly, the Truth Rabbit.”

  There was a nervous laugh on the other end of the line, and Frank’s father said, “Bring a six-pack for that conversation. Actually, bring two.”

  Frank hung up the phone and drove onto t
he highway, turning his windshield wipers up as high as they would go. The sun was melting everything on the street into a soup of dirty slush. The phone buzzed again with another message from the station and Frank tossed it into the backseat without looking. He drove slow. No need to rush. I’m going to walk down this hill and screw you all.

  Acknowledgements

  The obvious question people will have upon reading this book is, “How much of it was real? Who were the characters based on?”

  The answer is no one.

  The answer is everyone.

  My police career began as a part-time officer 1997 when Chief Robert Furlong opened his office closet to show me a collection of old uniforms and said, “Pick out whatever fits you, kid.” Since that time, I’ve worked with hundreds of police officers from all over the country. Some of them are still here. Some of them aren’t. Some were fired. Some quit when they realized the job wasn’t for them. Some died. Some killed themselves.

  Others, like me, stuck around. Despite all the never-ending bullshit both inside and outside the station house, we are still here. Still holding the line. Still the people who show up when everybody else is running the other way.

  Not for the money. No matter how much money we make, it could never be enough to compensate for what we experience.

  Not for the glory. That wears off after the first few years when you realize exactly how meaningless and replaceable you really are.

  Not for the recognition. Newspapers don’t put cops in the paper when they do good things. They reserve headlines for cops who get arrested.

  I keep a binder by my desk that contains all my certificates and awards and official documents, a physical representation of my many hours of training and accomplishments. That’s the unimportant part of the binder. In the back are the collection of letters and Christmas cards I’ve received from kids who were being abused. Kids who are okay now. Those mean more to me than any medal you could pin on my chest.

  I’m tightening up right now thinking about it. Maybe I’ll cry. It happens.

  The truth is, not many people know what any individual police officer has done in the course of a career. How many lives he’s saved. How many crimes she’s stopped. But if you do the job correctly, I can guarantee you one thing: The victims know. Their families know.

  This book was me opening up my own personal closet for everyone to see. After all these years dealing with cops, kids, bad guys, the dead bodies, I’ve got quite an assortment of stories. If you’re still wondering how much of it is real, I’m going to tell you like Chief Furlong told me. “Pick out whatever fits you, kid.”

  To my family. All of you. For everything I put you through both as a police officer and as a writer. I can’t imagine which one is worse.

  To the Kindle All-Stars who formed the incredible support team for this book. Laurie Laliberte, who edited the manuscript. William Vitka, Keri Knutson and David Hulegaard who read the earliest draft and provided detailed feedback course correction, and encouragement.

  To the men and women of the multiple law enforcement agencies throughout Bucks and Montgomery Counties, and the City of Philadelphia, past and present. I’ve always feared this book will spell the end of my time among your ranks, but I want to be clear about one thing. I wrote it anyway, because I wrote it for you.

  2/2/12 Update

  Turns out I was right. I was removed from the detective division and narcotics unit today.

  I don’t regret a damn thing. And now the gloves are coming off.

  Sneak Preview of SUPERBIA 2

  Available Now on Kindle

  They fly helicopters over police funerals.

  Enormous, powerful machines from any surrounding agency fortunate enough to have one. They swoop in low above the crowd of mourners, reminding everyone of the power and force of a unified Blue. One officer falls, but the line does not falter. The line is still held.

  And what a crowd it is.

  Law Enforcement from all over show up in their Class A uniforms. High collars and spit-polished leather, looking for the attendant with the cardboard box of clean white gloves.

  New Jersey State Police always march in unison from the parking lot to the church in perfect formation. Other, smaller departments see them do it and try to copy it like children chasing after a parade float. There’s a kind of “me too” aspect to the entire proceeding. Frank felt sick.

  Danni Ajax sat in the front row of the church dressed in black gown and long, elbow-length gloves. Every bit of her, the grieving widow she became the instant they knocked on her front door to tell her Vic was dead. Vic the bastard. Vic the no-good estranged husband forking over half his salary every week, only to be screamed at that it was not enough. Every basket of fruit and bouquet of flowers and monetary donation to her children refined her appearance of grief. She’s getting good at it, Frank thought. But then, this is the big show. Pretty soon she’ll be in the full throes of hysteria.

  Beside her, the enormous figure of newly-minted Chief Claude Erinnyes. Sergeants, Lieutenants, Commissioners, Mayors, all filed toward him and said the same thing: “How you holding up, Chief? Everyone in our department is so sorry for your loss.”

  Erinnyes would nod and sigh thoughtfully and nod and sigh thoughtfully again, sucking in their good wishes and attention like an engorged tick.

  All the high-ranking officials and honored guests flanked Chief Erinnyes and Danni and Jason and beautiful little Penelope Ajax. They filled up the rows closest to the casket with their brightly polished badges and eagle emblems and gold-trimmed sleeves. They were gracious in their allowance of letting all the mourners in attendance draw strength from them, just by being in the midst of such supreme police command presence.

  The crowd parted along the right hand side of the church and Frank saw Dez Dolos leading a tall, grey-haired figure through the horde. “That’s the FBI Director,” someone whispered. “Holy shit.”

  Dez made a gracious gesture toward Chief Erinnyes, who stood up and clasped hands with the Director, both of them smiling pleasantly. The Director continued down the line, shaking hands with each person. “I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sorry for your loss,” repeated to each person he passed, including Vic’s children, his wife, and then the next seven people in the pew beside them. The Director reached the end of the line and Dez quickly escorted him back through the church, taking him down the front steps and into a limousine waiting outside.

  “You absolute mother fucker.”

  Frank sat six rows back. To his right, he saw the only other person from his PD who arrived early enough to sit up front behind the roped-off RESERVED seats. Jim Iolaus was wearing his brand-new Class A uniform, bought for him by the Chief just for this occasion.

  An hour earlier, Frank watched Iolaus and Chief Erinnyes pose for pictures on the church’s front steps. Quite a momentous occasion, Frank thought. Why wouldn’t you want a framed photograph of how you looked at someone’s funeral?

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Frank ignored the words of the man sitting next to him. Ignored the smell of gunpowder. Ignored the blood smeared across the front of his shirt.

  “I’m talking to you, mother fucker. You stole my death!”

  “No I didn’t,” Frank whispered. “Go away.”

  “Yes you did! I shot myself to make a point and you stole that from me. You think I wanted all this? You think I wanted to give Fat Fuck the chance to sit there and play the benevolent leader? You betrayed me, Frank.”

  “Fuck you, Vic. Leave me alone.”

  “Real, real nice,” Vic said. “On the day of my funeral it’s, ‘Fuck you?’ In a church?”

  “You just called me an absolute mother fucker! Look, knock it off. I’m trying to pay attention, okay?

  Vic grimaced at the sight of Danni. “Look at her carrying on. What did she say when you gave her the letter?”

  Frank shifted in his seat and stared straight forward without speaking.

>   Vic slammed the wooden pew in front of him with his hand, “Jesus Hirschfield Christ, Frank! What the hell were you thinking? I asked you to do one fucking thing, and you couldn’t even do that for me?” Vic spun on him, glaring into his face, showing him where the worms had eaten through his cheeks and bored holes in his eyeballs. Bugs tumbled out of his hair and fell on the floor, fell on Frank’s lap while he sat there motionless. “I’m not done with you, rookie. Not by a long shot.”

  Frank O’Ryan bolted upright in his police car, slamming his knees into the radio console.

  The early morning sun was fierce, reflecting off every car surrounding his vehicle in the bank parking lot. The lot had been empty when he pulled into it at three o’clock in the morning. Frank watched a mother holding her little girl’s hand come out of the bank and head for their car. Both of them were looking at him.

  “Mommy, was that policeman sleeping?”

  The mother instantly shushed her daughter and yanked her away. Frank put his head down and drove out of the parking lot, stomping on the gas as soon as he was on the street.

  About the Author

  Bernard Schaffer is the father of two children. Born and raised in the Philadelphia area, his work has ranges from best-selling gritty police procedurals to fantasy westerns.

  A real life police officer, in 2012 he released a series of books titled SUPERBIA about a dysfunctional police department that reached the Kindle Top 100. As a result, he was stripped of his detective rank.

  Schaffer is the founder of the Kindle All-Stars. All profits from their collections are donated to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

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