Then he left.
FORTY-FOUR
ARTHUR POLLACK LOOKED THE way Brian O’Malley felt, fatigued beyond any sense of his own being. He spoke mechanically in a dull hoarse voice; occasionally, his hand touched his throat as though to comfort an ache.
He waved Brian across the broad expanse of the Chief Inspector’s office, leaned forward, hunched over the desk which practically devoured him. He peered over the rim of his reading glasses, then searched the array of papers on his desk, held up first one memorandum, then a second.
“Brian,” he said, “these were handed to me within the last hour. First, Aaron Levine. Then, Ed Shea. Brian, you knew all along these would be submitted?”
Brian flung one leg over the arm of the wooden chair and shook his head slightly, then said, “Only as of a few hours ago, Arthur.”
“Brian, how much is there to tell? How much are you going to tell me?”
“As much as I know, Chief.”
Carefully, slowly, wearily, meticulously, he told Arthur Pollack exactly as much as he felt Arthur Pollack needed to know.
The staff meeting lasted for nearly two hours, as Arthur Pollack outlined the various procedures of cooperation that would be established between the New York City Police Department and the interim investigating committee established by the mayor. Each top staff member was assigned to a specific area.
“The main concern at this particular time is that we not only give the impression of internal house cleaning, but that we actually become totally involved in this activity.”
It sounded to every man present in the room like a direct quote from the Commissioner. It probably was. What the hell other line could they take?
When the meeting ended, Brian O’Malley and Arthur Pollack labored far into the night preparing the tone of the news releases and how the matter of Patrolman John Morrison’s sudden and unexpected contrition and willingness to expose himself and his fellow officers had come about.
Late that afternoon, Arthur had received word that the grand jury had exonerated Patrolman Morrison with a finding of justifiable homicide. There was no other finding possible under the prevailing circumstances.
“You think the media will buy this story, Brian?” Arthur asked.
“Fuck the media, it’s what we’ve got to go with.” He stood up, pulled his loosened tie farther downward, rubbed one bare forearm, adjusted his rolled-up sleeve. He picked up the rough draft, paced up and down as he read softly, almost to himself, “Patrolman John Morrison, grief-stricken by the death of his young partner, Patrolman Peter Caputo, and after much soul-searching and struggling with his conscience, has come forward to the Manhattan County District Attorney with an offer to testify before a special grand jury now being formed to investigate corruption in the New York City Police Department. He has also offered to appear before the Webb Commission just formed by order of the mayor. He has further agreed to waive immunity before the grand jury.”
Brian shrugged. “More or less, that’s it and we’ll stick with it.”
Idly, Arthur picked up the resignations of Deputy Chief Inspector Aaron Levine and Inspector Edward Shea. “And these resignations represent a form of apology for not having properly done their jobs.” He shrugged, let the papers fall on his desk. “I don’t know, Brian. Such a sudden surge of morality in the midst of all this immorality.” He shook his head sadly, and his weak eye turned inward. “Well, I’ll have the Commissioner go over these first thing in the morning. I have to get top clearance on this, Brian. It’s unusual, but, God, this whole thing is ‘unusual.’”
Brian rolled down his sleeves, rumbled with the buttons on his cuffs, seemed unable to manipulate his fingers. He took his suit jacket from the back of a chair and put it on, adjusted his tie.
“Brian,” Arthur Pollack began tentatively.
Brian held a hand up, then let it fall heavily to his side.
Pollack came beside him, searched his face earnestly. He put his hand on Brian’s arm. “Brian, how did you get Morrison to turn himself in?”
Brian leaned forward, brushed his fortieth cigarette of the night into the overflowing ashtray. He could hardly see Arthur Pollack’s face through the heavy smoke and his overused, agitated eyes.
“Christ, Arthur, you look like hell, kid. Whyn’t you get home and get some sleep?”
Mary Ellen was waiting for him in the kitchen. She sat over a cup of coffee and there were two half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray, which was unusual since Mary Ellen rarely smoked.
“Brian...”
He kissed her lightly and said, “You didn’t have to wait up for me, honey. How come you’re drinking coffee this time of night?” He glanced from the kitchen wall clock to his own wristwatch as though in confirmation. “Jesus, it’s two-thirty. Come on, let’s get to bed.”
She rose slowly, grasped both of his arms as though to steady herself. She seemed about to speak, but unable, and her large blue eyes filled with tears.
“Mary Ellen? What is it?”
She licked her lips quickly, then said in a shaking whisper, “It’s your mother, Brian. Kit telephoned an hour ago.”
“My mother?”
Mary Ellen shook her head, shuddered, held him tighter. “Heart attack, Bri. She’s gone.”
There was a cool, remote, unreal quality about the room. It was large and subdued and theatrical. Groups of well-dressed men and women stood speaking in well-modulated whispers, careful of sound and gesture, as though they’d all been rehearsed in proper behavior.
Brian played his part too, stood, hostlike, greeted those who’d come to pay respects on his behalf. It seemed so peculiar, so strange, that all these hundreds of people who had never known his mother, never seen her, spoken to her, touched her, been touched by her, came to this midtown Manhattan funeral parlor, nodded with deference, expressed regret, looked sad, approached the coffin, offered the quick automatic prayer, then, duty done, quickly scanned the crowd for a familiar or sought-for face.
She lay all but forgotten, his mother, Margaret O’Malley. The banks of flowers which nearly stifled them in their profusion seemed limitless and bore cards from all the various organizations which he or his brothers and sister Kit belonged to as well as offerings from relatives and neighbors and friends.
Martin arrived from his parish in Chicago, his leave quickly arranged, and was there in time for the first night. He embraced Brian and Kevin, hugged Kit, inquired about Roseanne, who was flying in from California. His hair was still fair, but gray now instead of blond, and he wore it longer than Brian remembered, unpriestly, but then Brian remembered that Martin worked with the young people in his parish and had said something about hair being one of the minor but important bridges. And rock Masses. Christ, the last time he’d seen Martin was two years ago at Christmas and Martin played the guitar for them all and said he played in his parish’s rock Saturday-night Mass.
Martin was thin and tall and the gathered spectators identified him to each other with some sense of awe and respect: the priest-son. They watched as he went to his mother’s side, leaned close to the open coffin, privately whispered something no one was ever to hear. Then he knelt for a long, long time, then turned and gestured for his brothers to join him, and when they knelt by his side, Martin did a strange thing. He placed an embracing arm around each of them, totally mindless of the audience. He joined them together, her sons, for a brief prayer, then he pressed his hands to their shoulders, then into his eyes to smear away the tears without shame.
Kit had arranged everything in her quick and orderly way. Thin, intense, efficient, she consulted with the funeral directors, gave instructions, greeted and introduced and thanked the vast numbers of visitors from her political sphere. Martin was to say the Rosary on the third and final night. Then Margaret would be transported from Manhattan to the Bronx for the funeral Mass at St. Simon’s, then burial would be in Woodlawn, next to their father.
Beside Kit, dark eyes filled with apprehension and awe, fing
ers nervously working, stood Juan and José. Kit put her arms around them both, confidently introduced them to judges and state senators and district leaders as her “two youngest brothers who are going to live with Murray and the rest of our brood now.”
After many numbing hours, after the endless walking back and forth from the center of the room to the small alcove where, discreetly, unobtrusively, the coffin was under soft indirect lighting, people seemed to forget where they were, for what occasion. Voices rose a little, conversations picked up, crisscrossed, photographs of children and grandchildren were shown, stories were exchanged, laughter was heard from time to time.
At one point, Brian heard one of Kit’s political friends say shrewdly, “You’re a real cutie, Kit. Not only have you tied up the Jewish vote with that beauty of a name of yours—Kit O’Malley Weinstein—now you’ve got the Puerto Rican vote with these two little brothers of yours.”
Two old women came on the last night, two shy, old neighborhood women who had known his mother as a person, contemporary, human being, rather than as the mother of one or the other of them. With gentle gratitude, with renewed awareness of the occasion, Brian escorted them, studied them with some odd memory as they perused his dead mother’s face. They nodded, prayed, briefly held his hand and left for there was no one else present for them to speak and whisper with.
Francis Kelly and his wife, Marylou Delaney Kelly, came toward Brian, carefully picking their way through the crowded room. He hadn’t seen either of them for several years. It was difficult to see them now, to recognize them, to find some memory of them.
Francis Kelly had retired after putting in his twenty years and he had gone fat and bald and diffident from years of messenger work in a bank. He offered a large moist hand to Brian, briefly reached for his arm, then dropped his hands quickly, as though he’d taken a liberty. He’d always been intensely aware of and uneasy about the differences in their departmental rank, for Francis Kelly had never gone beyond patrolman.
“Chief,” he said, as though to a stranger, “I’m sorry for your troubles. We just heard about it and came as soon as we knew.”
“Well, thanks for coming, Francis.”
Marylou embraced him clumsily; she seemed overwhelmed by the number and importance of the people present “Sorry for your troubles, Brian.”
He inclined his face toward the alcove and they went, regarded the doll-like figure, knelt briefly, said their prayers, stared again and withdrew. Brian felt a surge of memory and affection and emotion when he saw the tears glisten in Francis Kelly’s innocent blue eyes and he felt a gratitude: there was still some memory of his mother alive.
Roseanne O’Malley Delaney arrived just as Francis and Marylou were leaving and the two women embraced and tried to examine each other after nearly twenty years, but in the dimness and under the circumstances, it was nearly impossible.
Kit reached her sister first, then Brian felt her shudder as he embraced her tall, thin body. She pulled back, searched his face, her eyes wide and dry with apprehension, and he realized with a dull shock of wonder that beneath the facade of mature woman was Roseanne, still his young sister, and though it was in some way absurd, he whispered to her, “It’ll be okay, Roseanne.”
It was absurd for their mother’s death affected none of them, did not threaten or change any of them or assign them other roles in life for they, her children, were all middle-aged and parents, adults with their lives already mostly in the past, yet Brian found something still remembered in Roseanne and for one brief instant they were each of them who they had been so many years ago.
Roseanne swallowed dryly, glanced at all the strangers and asked her brother, “Will we have some little time alone with her, Brian? All these people...”
He nodded. “At the end of visiting hours tonight, we’ll stay on. Just the family. And you can be alone with her.”
He and Martin and Kevin went with her then and Roseanne knelt, her face tightly drawn and pale, and she couldn’t seem to rise to her feet again and her brothers helped her. Mary Ellen and Maureen led her to a quiet corner of the room and sat with her on a velvet couch and after a while the three women fell into quiet conversation about children and weddings and cousins and grandchildren.
Patrick O’Malley stayed at his father’s side throughout the three days of the wake. He was close-shaven and neatly cropped and fair and handsome in a dark suit and white shirt and black tie. They didn’t say much to each other, there was little occasion, but Patrick filled in, took over for Brian easily, naturally, without being asked. Brian felt a bond with his son he’d never felt before, but couldn’t examine it, just wondered if Patrick felt anything toward him or was just doing his family duty as his cousins did for their parents.
The family hour with their mother was an anticlimax; they were all too exhausted for any real feelings and it had all been extended too long, dragged out until they felt no connection with the presence in the coffin. Brian’s mind wandered and drifted and couldn’t seem to fasten on his mother because she was nowhere present in this artificial setting. Only Roseanne cried finally, neared hysteria, was quickly controlled and briefly apologetic: the long flight, the lack of sleep, the anxiety as well as her held-in grief. She hadn’t seen her mother for nine years. Margaret had flown out to California for two weeks and they’d gotten on each other’s nerves, but they corresponded regularly and spoke on the telephone every month and got on well enough on that basis.
The day of the funeral was clear and autumn-crisp. There were twelve cars in the procession. It was a Low Mass and the graveside service was simple and swift and they all returned to Brian’s house for something to eat.
Mary Ellen had hired a very capable couple to prepare and serve food to the mourners. Everything was ready for them; everyone was hungry and filled with surprise at their appetite: their affirmation.
Martin and Roseanne left together for Kennedy; he would see her on her plane for Los Angeles an hour before his flight to Chicago. Kit would see to Mom’s apartment. Since no one really wanted anything, she’d see that it was all dispensed to people who could use what little she’d left.
Finally, they all left, his brothers and sisters, his daughter and son-in-law, the close friends and distant relatives who returned to the house with them. Mary Ellen worked with the catering couple, cleaned up and put away and tidied.
Just he and Patrick remained, alone, for the first time since Margaret died.
“Let’s have a drink,” Brian said.
Patrick loosened his tie, gestured for his father to sit down while he poured for both of them.
Brian leaned back and studied his son and he didn’t need the taste of Scotch, the warmth of alcohol, to relax him. “It meant a great deal to us, your mother and me, Pat, to have you with us these last few days.”
Patrick nodded. “I’m really sorry about Grandma, Dad.”
“I know you are, Pat. Christ, the whole thing kind of turns into a circus after a while, doesn’t it? It doesn’t really have much to do with the person who’s died. Well, cheers.” He drank deeply, then put his feet up on the table between them. “Want to talk, Pat?”
“Is this a bad time? I do want to talk to you, but if you’d rather let it ride a while—”
Brian shook his head. “No, go ahead. Christ Almighty, Pat, let’s talk. Let’s get it out or try anyway.”
“Okay.” It was the serious, earnest face of a man who confronted him. “I’ve been following what’s been happening in the newspapers and through...other sources. You got two at the top, Levine and Shea, to turn in their papers. You got Morrison to turn himself in and agree to testify. That was you, right?”
Brian shrugged but didn’t answer.
“And the investigation will go deeper than just skim the surface, right?”
Brian looked up at his son, steadily held his eye. “That was the goal, wasn’t it?”
Patrick put the glass on the table and leaned toward his father. “Okay, the goal is being
reached, or at least approached. But what about the methods? I don’t know how you got two top men to retire. I don’t know how you got that bastard Morrison to turn. I do know that it had nothing at all to do with the corruption at hand.”
“Which means what?” Brian asked softly.
“Which means more corruption.” Patrick held his hands up, his mouth fell open, he shook his head. “Christ, isn’t there a moral way to commit a moral act?”
There was a ragged, pained edge in his son’s voice and the pain showed on his face, which had lost the boyish soft innocence, had acquired the beginning hardness of knowledge. Brian felt sad for his son and for himself.
Gently, he said, “Patrick, I am fifty-one years old. In all of my life I’ve found that morality counts shit when it comes to getting a job done. What counts is doing it any goddamn way you can, but get the job done. Your way, Pete Caputo’s way, nothing. Absolutely nothing. No proof, just charges. We examined the contents of Caputo’s safe-deposit box. He kept nice, neat, uncorroborated records: dates, names, places, amounts paid, et cetera. Okay. Now Morrison will corroborate. Never mind why or how. The fact stands. Yeah, I got Morrison. That’s what counts.”
Patrick held his hand over his eyes for a moment, shook his head. His voice was hollow and helpless. “Johnnie Morrison murdered Pete Caputo and that other man. You got him as a crooked cop, acting as a cooperative witness. He’ll get away with everything; he’ll turn everybody in and walk away.”
Brian whistled for a moment between his slightly parted lips, then said, “For a while he’ll seem to get away with everything. But I’ll take a bet that within a year you’ll see Johnnie Morrison up on homicide charges.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Pat. Christ. He’s going to screw so many people; he’s going to upset so many standard operating procedures. He’ll get his. He won’t get away with murder. They’ll pin something on him and make it stick.”
“So it’ll all come out even, then?” Patrick demanded bitterly. He stood up abruptly, jammed his hands into his pockets, strode up and down the room before he stood absolutely still. “Does that make it all come out even?”
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