Law and Order

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  Brian roughly rubbed a hand over his face, took a deep unhealthy drag on the cigarette and said hoarsely, “He’s lying. His story doesn’t hold water.”

  Ed Shea’s voice was steady and calm, as though he hadn’t heard what Brian had just said. He spoke softly and rationally, almost persuasively. “We’ve got a dead patrolman, Brian. Killed in the line of duty. And we’ve got a dead perpetrator, killed right on the spot by the patrolman’s partner.” His hand on the table turned palm upward; his dark brows rose simultaneously. “I don’t see any problem.”

  “Ed, this guy, Martin Osmond, was a professor at C.C.N.Y. He was waiting to pick his son up from work. They’re both clean, father and son. Upstanding citizens. Why the hell would he suddenly pull a gun and shoot”—Brian snapped his fingers—“just like that?”

  “Lots of strange things happen, Brian,” Ed Shea said reasonably. “Maybe he thought the officers were trying to hold him up. Maybe he panicked. As far as it being unlikely, Christ, kid, you and I’ve been around long enough to know you can’t vouch for anybody. These days I’d bet ninety per cent of all black people carry one kind of weapon or another.”

  He leaned back courteously as the waiter put the plate of food on the table before him. He asked for ketchup and waited until it had been brought to him before he spoke again. “Being a college professor doesn’t give a nigger, or anybody else, for that matter, the right to shoot a cop, Brian.” He carefully seasoned the hamburger and cut it in half.

  Brian crushed the cigarette and leaned forward. “Ed, the kid who got killed last night, the patrolman, Peter Caputo, came to me about a month ago and told me there was a pad operating in your division. He was pretty vehement about it.”

  Ed Shea bit into the hamburger and chewed carefully, then wiped his mouth. “A month ago? You only told me about it last week.”

  There was some vague accusation, some mild reproof that seemed inappropriate, that registered somewhere in Brian’s brain. He felt himself becoming more alert, more tense than exhausted. “I handled it exactly as I would handle any other similar allegation brought to me, Ed. I put it through Internal Affairs.”

  “Aaron Levine?”

  “He claimed the charge was unfounded. That was why I finally came to you last week, Ed. The kid was a friend of my son. I think he was telling the truth. He implicated his partner.”

  Ed Shea said, “But you said Aaron came up dry.”

  Impatiently, Brian said, “I don’t know shit about Aaron Levine or what the hell kind of follow-up he did, Ed. I do know this kid was getting very tense lately. And now this thing last night.” He rubbed the back of his neck, irrationally thought he needed a haircut. “I don’t know. Too coincidental. I want to know about Johnnie Morrison.”

  Ed Shea put his hamburger on his plate, carefully opened his napkin, wiped his mouth and hands. “Brian,” he said quietly, “I think we ought to just let this dead police officer have his inspector’s funeral. I think, in the best interests of the Department, this ought to be handled quickly and discreetly as a closed matter.” He regarded the puzzled, uncomprehending expression on Brian’s face, clicked his tongue, sucked out a piece of meat from between his back teeth and waited.

  “Wait a minute, Ed. What the hell are you talking about?”

  Ed Shea reached into his breast pocket and took out a long thin cigar, which he stripped of its cellophane wrapping. He bit the end off and lit it. He rolled it between his fingers thoughtfully for a moment and then slowly and as though picking his words with great care, he said, “Hell, Brian, let’s give the kid his inspector’s funeral. After all, the Department did as much for your father.”

  Brian stared incomprehensibly across the table: the words made no sense, were incohesive, as though spoken in another language by a stranger. He stared at his own hands as though to reassure himself of reality, then looked back at Ed Shea with a stupid, puzzled, almost apologetic smile, bewildered.

  “Hey, Ed, hold it a minute, huh? What are we talking about?”

  Ed Shea held the cigar between his thumb and forefinger, examined it for a moment, then said, “Brian, what I’m talking about is this. Let it alone. The kid is dead. The guy who killed him is dead. All the civil liberties groups in the city can scream from now to doomsday. They’ve got nothing. We’ve got the murder weapon and the only witness to what happened. It’ll all die down. Now”—he turned his face politely, so as not to blow smoke in Brian’s face, then turned back again with a strange, bemused expression on his face—“for the good of the Department, Brian, let it rest there. Right there.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Ed?”

  “Why, Brian, what I’m talking about is collection time, kid. Your turn to pay back. The Department took care of you and your family. Gave your old man the hero treatment. Let him into his grave with honor, right? Now you’ve got to pay your debt and see to it that no dishonor comes to the Department.”

  Brian felt as though he were the observer of some disconnected conversation between two strangers, yet he knew consciously that he was seated across the table from Ed Shea, that he was physically present, that his presence had a basis in reality even if things seemed to be dissolving into unreality, the way a movie scene loses its meaning if your mind wanders and the conversation has been very intense and intricate and clever. He was conscious of Ed Shea watching him through dark slit eyes, with a strange, unfamiliar, unpleasant smile at the corners of his mouth. He tried to find the joke, the prod, the needle, the old friendly familiarity which would enable him to shake free of the irrational yet persistent, growing apprehension that something terrible and inevitable was about to happen and he was powerless to stop it, some act of total destruction that he tried to avoid with a quick grin.

  “Hey, Ed. What the hell?”

  Ed Shea pursed his lips as though he was about to whistle and blew a thin acrid stream of smoke into Brian’s face.

  “Okay, Brian,” the hard unknown voice told him, “okay, old buddy. I’m gonna tell you exactly how your old man died and how my old man and several others took care of you O’Malleys. And then you’ll know exactly why you’re going to back off on this Morrison thing.”

  FORTY-TWO

  THERE WERE TOO MANY things for him to think about all at the same time. His mind filled and expanded with vague impressions, fleeting, half-remembered, yet strangely retained vaporous impressions: a glance turned away quickly; a secret amused smile; some sly reference beyond his comprehension. Things directed at him, yet which had bounced off him. Christ. Christ, had everyone known, everyone in the whole goddamn Department?

  Brian held his hand over his forehead, locked his eyes, leaned his elbows on his desk. No. Just a few of them knew; just a few of them and they had passed it down the line, just in case the knowledge should one day prove useful.

  He tried to visualize his father but nothing came, not form or feature or shape or essence. It was ludicrous to try to think of a thirty-nine-year-old man as your father when you were older than he’d ever been. Brian couldn’t even begin to come to terms with his father, not now, not yet.

  What he felt more vividly, more painfully, with a sense of the most overwhelming loss and grief, was this new concept of Ed Shea. Thirty years of friendship; beneath the warm, familiar, trusted man was someone he’d never imagined existed; someone waiting his time, garnering his knowledge, coldly and unemotionally using it to protect himself when Brian never even knew Ed Shea needed protection.

  When the phone rang, Brian reached toward it instinctively, then held his hand in midair. He’d instructed lieutenant Fitzgerald to take all calls except from the Commissioner or the Chief Inspector. He didn’t want to talk to any of the many people who suddenly insisted on talking to him.

  He didn’t want to see anybody. The reporters were holding court in the outer office waiting for his latest statement. The various civil liberties and black organizations had representatives camping at his door demanding explanations. He had an appointment w
ith the district attorney in an hour. His desk was filled with reports and requests for more reports and his head was filled with too many things he felt he just couldn’t handle right now. Not here. Not now. He needed a hot shower, a couple of hours of sleep, of total, uninterrupted, uncorrupted blankness.

  He needed someone he could trust completely, and suddenly he felt the raw pain of realization: the first person he thought of was Ed Shea.

  He grabbed the container of coffee, drained it to the bitter granular bottom and dialed his brother’s office.

  Kevin’s voice, tight, sharp, with that odd policeman’s accusation even when answering a telephone, responded on the second ring. “Arson, Lieutenant O’Malley.”

  “Kev, it’s me.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears, hollow, false.

  Kevin adjusted his tone, didn’t quite conceal his surprise. “Hey, Brian, hey, how’s things?” And then, to show he was aware, he added, “Hey, you guys must be busy now, huh?”

  “Kevin,” he said tersely, “I need a job done. Can you come over to my house tonight, about nine?”

  “Why, sure, Brian. Sure. What’s up?”

  “We’ll talk then, okay?”

  “Jesus, sure, Brian.”

  They hadn’t spoken in a long time. There was more than physical distance between them, more than the distance in rank. They were different from each other, Kevin respectfully remote and impressed by his brother. But that, at the heart of the matter, was where their connection lay; they were, after all, brothers.

  At the district attorney’s office, Johnnie Morrison was the calmest person present. He leaned easily into his chair, responded politely and at length. Never once did he change his original statement or contradict or in any way alter anything he’d previously said.

  He adjusted his wide gold tie, brushed imaginary flecks of dust from the shoulder of his dark-gold-and-brown-plaid sports jacket, ran a hand lightly along the curled edges of his slightly long hair, leaned forward attentively when he didn’t quite catch a question and requested that it be repeated for clarity’s sake.

  Brian O’Malley stood against the window sill, arms folded across his chest, and speculatively observed the cool, perfect performance. He formed a definite, sickening opinion: Johnnie Morrison was a man capable of anything.

  The D.A. was young and earnest and concerned; the shootings had generated a great deal of publicity and civic interest.

  He sat, one leg dangling from the corner of his desk, and said to Morrison, clearly pacing his words for the steno-typist, “Now, officer, is there anything, anything at all, that you’d like to add to your statement at this time?”

  Johnnie Morrison pursed his lips, stared thoughtfully at the small diamond pinky ring on his left hand, really concentrated, then looked up and said, “No, Mr. Reeves. Everything was exactly as I told you.”

  “You understand that I will be going before the grand jury with this matter? You understand that you will have to appear before the grand jury?”

  Morrison inclined his head slightly, and when he spoke, it seemed to Brian he was trying to reassure the young district attorney. “Yes, of course, Mr. Reeves. That’s routine. Any shooting...” He spread his hands to indicate that this was no special matter.

  It was Brian’s job to be at Morrison’s side as he faced the battery of reporters outside the district attorney’s office. He was hardly needed. Morrison fielded questions coolly, expertly.

  “I have nothing to add to what I’ve already told you fellows,” Morrison said smoothly. “I just went through the whole thing with the D.A. and it’s a matter for the grand jury now.”

  “Come on, Johnnie,” one reporter called out with the tough, easy informality of a man impressed by no one and nothing, “how about your own personal opinion as to why this Osmond pulled a gun and shot? You must have some opinion.”

  Johnnie Morrison adjusted his shoulders; his mouth pulled down; his slate eyes narrowed. His voice went low and soft. “Listen, all I know is that my partner is going to be buried tomorrow. These days who the hell can figure out why anyone does anything?”

  Brian gave a quick signal and Morrison tilted his head and indicated he had nothing more to say. He stood aside, properly, and let Brian enter the black Pontiac first, then he sat beside him and deftly pulled the door closed.

  “Jeez, those guys can get on you like a dirty shirt, can’t they, Chief? Man, I’m really beat.” He didn’t look it and he didn’t sound it.

  Brian lit a cigarette and blew out the match with his first exhalation of smoke. “What kind of cop was he?” he asked without preliminaries.

  “Cop? Oh, you mean Pete Caputo.” Morrison played with his pinky ring for a minute, then looked up, his expression sincere and confiding. “He was a good enough kid, Chief, but he shouldn’t have gotten shot, if that’s what you mean. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but hell, the kid’s reaction was too slow, like he froze when he saw the nigger’s gun.” Johnnie Morrison shook his head and added, “He lacked that basic instinct to survive, if you know what I mean.”

  “But you’ve got that basic instinct, right, Morrison? To survive?”

  Johnnie Morrison nodded slowly and said thoughtfully, “Oh, I’m a survivor, Chief. Yeah, I’m what you’d call a survivor.”

  Mary Ellen waited for him at the door; she must have seen him drive up the circular driveway. It was obvious she had something to say, something immediate, something that couldn’t wait. Just like everybody else today.

  “Brian...” She spoke as though fearful of being overheard in her own home.

  “Mary Ellen, look, could it wait a while? Christ, I need a shower.”

  “Brian, Patrick is here,” she whispered, and as she spoke, their son came from the study, stood in the doorway for a moment, then turned away without greeting his father.

  It was funny. It struck Brian that it was as though he was being summoned into the study by his son. He remembered, years ago, doing exactly that, standing there to make it clear that Patrick was to present himself, then turning, wordless, assured Patrick would do what was expected of him.

  “He seems very upset, Brian,” Mary Ellen said unnecessarily. “He wouldn’t eat anything and he’s hardly spoken.”

  “Okay,” Brian told her. She stood there in the large hallway, ghost of her mother, ghost of her past, waiting to be told what to do, to be reassured, her large eyes dependent and clinging.

  “Go and make some coffee,” he said. He reached out, squeezed her shoulder once and nodded and it was all she needed to lift the burden of confused concern. It was in Brian’s hands; it was between the men of her family and she would just keep out of the way.

  Patrick stood facing the huge fireplace, staring at the huge log which had been set in place for years because it was just the right size, not for burning but for show. His hands were jammed in his pockets; his shoulders were hunched forward. He wore Levi’s and a blue work shirt and his thick blond hair curled over the collar, and when he turned, Brian noted that his sideburns were down along his cheeks nearly to his jaw.

  Patrick’s face had a thin, gaunt quality, revealed and vulnerable, as though the cool, confident mask had been ripped bluntly to expose the raw pain.

  “Pat,” Brian said quietly, “I’m sorry about your friend Pete. It was a hell of a rough break.”

  The gray eyes had the pale, hard, translucent quality of crystal and they impaled him with accusation. His son’s voice was a thin, hard stretch of bitter emotion and certainty. “He was murdered.”

  The accusation didn’t have to be clarified; they both knew he meant by Morrison.

  Brian poured Scotch, too much of it, into a wide short glass, swallowed it down, felt it hit his stomach then rise to his face. He shook his head slightly as the alcohol jolted him, then he turned to his son. They were the same height; Brian always thought his son was smaller than himself but they were eye level now.

  “There’s one thing I want to know,” Patrick said. His shoulders
hunched forward as though that movement, that tightening, held his body together. “Is it going to be your job to keep the whole thing under wraps for the Department? Is that what the Deputy Chief Inspector in Charge of Public Affairs does, protects the Department, no matter what the hell the truth is?”

  Brian rubbed his eyes; Christ, they ached. His throat ached and his head ached. Every part of him ached and his son, an extension of himself, pain-filled, confronted him, accused him. There was so much he wanted to tell him, but it had its beginnings too far back and there was no end anywhere in sight.

  He said simply, “The matter is being investigated, Pat.”

  “Jesus,” Patrick said in a tone of wonder. He took his hands from his pockets, placed them low on his narrow hips, shook his head. “Jesus, you sound like you’re talking to some dumb-ass reporter. ‘The matter is being investigated.’” His laugh was short and bitter. “Jesus jumping Christ, Dad, this is me you’re talking to, okay? Petey was murdered. And so was that other man, that poor son of a bitch who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and it just happened to work out to Morrison’s advantage and he’s going to get away with two murders to protect the whole goddamn corruption that Pete was trying to expose. ‘The matter is being investigated.’ Nice. Neat. Really neat.”

  His son’s righteousness angered him more than his innocence, which assumed that wrongs could be righted by simple methods.

  “Patrick,” he said tensely, “grow up. For the love of God, grow up. There isn’t a fucking thing that could be proved. Accusations are cheap and easy—”

  “Did you think Pete’s accusations were cheap and easy, Dad?”

  “I thought they had some validity and—”

  “And you sat on them, right?”

  For one quick moment he wanted to justify himself, to defend himself to his son, but the need passed, left him drained and sickened; he couldn’t try to defend and explain himself as though he were a stranger. There were too many lifelong strangers confronting him: friends and ghosts and now his son. He clenched his teeth and turned back to the bottle, not wanting it, just automatically pouring the amber liquid into the stubby glass.