Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  Then, on the eve of his return to the Six-one, Chief of Detectives Stanley Trenton had visited Samson at home.

  The news was Lieutenant Samson would be rejoining the troops at the 61st Precinct as Captain Samson.

  The news was not a huge surprise.

  The position had been vacant since before Christmas, when Captain Pulaski had lost his battle with lung cancer. Samson had been running the squad by default since. And Stan Trenton had threatened Samson with the permanent assignment a number of times.

  The captain sat at his desk in the small office behind the deserted squad room staring distastefully at a pile of paperwork. Samson often felt isolated in the small space even when the larger room was bustling with activity. He took consolation in the thought that, so far, he had been doing a good job.

  Samson had succeeded in pulling together a strong detectives’ squad.

  He had recruited Sandra Rosen and Marina Ivanov, spiriting them away from neighboring precincts, after witnessing their diligence and good instincts while they worked the Joint Task Force in the Gabriel Caine case.

  Samson first ran across Marty Richards when Richards was the junior member of a two-man team sent by the Internal Affairs Bureau to interrogate Murphy. Samson saw something in the young man that inspired him to try rescuing Richards from a dreadful fate, a despised life with IAB. It took some convincing, but Richards was eventually persuaded to come over to the 61st.

  And then there was Bernard Senderowitz.

  Bernie and Samson had once worked as a team, longer ago than either cared to remember. Senderowitz was on the verge of an early out, being fed up and dismayed about how things were being run at his precinct in Staten Island. Not to mention it was in Staten Island. When Senderowitz told his old friend about his decision, Sam offered Bernie the option of sticking it out at the Six-one and getting in his time for full retirement. Bernie took the offer.

  Senderowitz was a clever, seasoned detective, a priceless source of wisdom for the younger members of the squad.

  Samson’s greatest challenge was finding someone to fill Lou Vota’s spot at the Six-one.

  Lou had been shot and killed in February.

  For Samson, Vota could not be truly replaced. Samson had sincerely admired and cared for the slain detective.

  But Samson had finally made a choice, deciding on someone who he believed would complete the landscape at the Gravesend precinct.

  Samson still missed being out in the streets regularly, like the theatre director who on opening night wants nothing more than to be down on the stage. But at the moment, gazing at the load of paper on his desk, Samson wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of the precinct house. Get home to Douglaston to be with his wife and children.

  He cherished his family time. Sitting down to dinner with Alicia and the three kids. Putting Lucy and Kayla to sleep with a bedtime story. Picking up from his teenage son all the knowledge that had not been offered, or was not paid very much attention to, when Samson was at school in Bedford-Stuyvesant.

  As badly as he wanted to get out, Samson felt obliged to wait until he heard from Detective Rosen.

  After quick deliberation he decided, rather than waiting for a call, he would visit the crime scene at Lake Street on his way home.

  When Murphy reached the landing he found Rosen sitting on the floor, her back against the wall beside the opened door.

  “That bad?” he asked.

  “That bad.”

  Murphy took a quick glance into the front room.

  “What a fucking mess,” he said, sitting down next to Rosen.

  She was holding a small black velvet covered box in her hands.

  There was a pair of driver’s licenses on the carpet at her side.

  “Horrible,” she said.

  “What do you have there?”

  “Looks like an engagement ring to me. I found it in the boy’s pocket. I also found close to two hundred dollars cash in his wallet.”

  “I guess we can rule out robbery. Are those their ID’s?”

  “Yes.”

  Murphy picked up one of the licenses.

  “Please tell me that wasn’t John Cicero’s kid.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “Worried about how Cicero is going to react?”

  “I know exactly how he will react,” Murphy said. “He’s going to go to war. What I don’t know is how I am going to break this to Augie Sena.”

  “Augie?”

  “The kid was also Augie’s nephew. His sister Rosie’s son.”

  “Oh, Tommy, I’m so sorry.”

  “Sometimes I really hate this fucking job.”

  “It gets more tragic,” Rosen said, handing Murphy the other driver’s license.

  “Angela Salerno? I didn’t know her.”

  “Take another look.”

  “Am I missing something?”

  “It was the girl’s birthday,” Rosen said, placing the small black velvet box down on the carpet between them.

  THREE

  When Samson arrived on the scene all the wheels were in motion.

  Both ends of Lake Street, at Avenue U and Avenue T, were blocked off by patrol cars manned with uniformed officers. Samson parked his car on Avenue T and walked up to the house.

  The CSU van and an ambulance sat in the middle of the street out front. The area between the north and south walls of the house and out to the curb was taped off. A uniformed officer was posted there to control entry.

  Samson spotted Mendez and another officer canvassing door-to-door on the east side of the street. Two other uniforms were working the opposite side.

  “Officer Landis is in the ground floor apartment with the landlady,” the patrolman out front told Samson as he let the captain through the barrier.

  He found Landis standing near the kitchen table. The woman was at the stove lighting up a gas burner underneath an old-fashioned coffee percolator.

  Landis made the introductions.

  “Mrs. Valenti, we are very sorry you had to experience this tragedy,” Samson began. “We greatly appreciate your help and patience. We will do all we can to complete our business here as soon as possible. We realize you will have much to deal with in the following days and we have people who can assist you. For the moment, if you would please excuse us, I need a word with Officer Landis.”

  “There will be fresh coffee in ten minutes,” was all she said.

  “I may take you up on the offer.”

  Samson moved out of the kitchen toward the apartment exit with Landis on his heels.

  “She discovered the bodies when she returned home from church. The second floor tenant has been out-of-town since Sunday. We found a door in the basement, leading up to the back alley, wide opened. It is always locked from the outside, but can be opened from inside. One of the CSU techs took prints from the door. Detectives Rosen and Murphy, the M.E. and CSU are up on the top floor.”

  “Do you think she’ll be alright alone in there?” asked Samson. “I could use you out on the street.”

  “I’ll go back in and feel it out.”

  “Thanks, Stan,” Samson said, and he started up the stairs.

  At the second floor landing he ran into Detectives Murphy and Rosen coming down.

  “Did Batman kick you out?” Samson asked.

  “We didn’t give him the opportunity.”

  “So, where are you headed?”

  “I need to make the long walk back over to Avenue U to tell Augie Sena his nephew was shot to death before having the opportunity to propose marriage to his girl.”

  “Rosie’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry you have to break the news, Tommy. Will you go with Augie to see his sister?”

  “If he wants me to,” Murphy said.

  “How about you?” Samson said, turning to Rosen.

  “Off to see the girl’s family. Want to ride along?”

  “Do you need me
to?”

  “No.”

  “Then I guess I’ll stay awhile and get in the way up there,” Samson said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “What I need is a fucking desk job,” Murphy said, starting down.

  Samson and Rosen made brief eye contact and broke off in opposite directions.

  Samson looked into the apartment on the top floor.

  The CSU team, Derek Fielder and Joan Michaels, were moving through the front room armed with latex gloves and metal tweezers.

  The medical examiner, Dr. Bruce Wayne, a.k.a. Batman, was down on his knees at the girl’s body.

  Before going in, Samson made a quick phone call.

  Veteran detective Bernie Senderowitz exited the classroom following the final panel discussion of the three-day seminar at John Jay. A young woman in uniform came up to his side.

  “What did you think?” she asked.

  “About what?”

  “The presentations. All of the remarkable new tools for investigating a crime scene.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “But?”

  “But I think I will continue to rely on my most effective tool,” Bernie said.

  “Which is?”

  Senderowitz simply touched his nose. Then his cell phone rang. After a very short conversation he told the young officer he had to run.

  “A double homicide in Brooklyn,” he explained. “My captain wants me to get over there and sniff around.”

  “Good evening, doctor,” Samson said when he finally walked into the front room.

  “Nothing much good about it,” the medical examiner said looking up from the girl’s body. “Good to see you out in the field, though. It’s been a while. Do you still remember how to stay out from under my feet?”

  “I do. What can you tell me?”

  “The girl was kicked in the side. Twice. Brutally. She was shot two times in the chest. Large caliber by the look of the entrance wounds. The ballistics report will tell more. The shooter would have been standing very close to where you are standing now. Which, by the way, is too close.”

  Samson moved back a few steps.

  Wayne stood up off his knees before continuing.

  “I believe the girl was already down on the floor when she was killed,” he said. “The boy was shot once in the forehead. Close range. I’m fairly certain it was a smaller caliber gun. His jaw is broken. I’d say he took a nasty punch. He may have been unconscious when he was shot.”

  “Two shooters?”

  “Or one with two guns,” Wayne said. “But don’t quote me on any of this. Nothing is official until I get them down to the lab, which I am ready to do. As soon as you tell me they can go.”

  “Give me a little time, Bruce,” Samson said. “I promise I will watch my step.”

  “I could use a cup of coffee,” the M.E. said.

  “There is a fresh pot waiting for you down at the ground floor apartment. I’m sure Mrs. Valenti would appreciate the company.”

  “How long?”

  “Just until Bernie Senderowitz gets here and has time to take a quick look.”

  “Do you think Senderowitz is going to see something CSU won’t find?”

  “Maybe. He has a good nose.”

  “He has a large nose. I hope the coffee is strong.”

  “I have no doubts,” Samson said. “If you run into the ambulance guys, ask them to sit tight.”

  “Sure.”

  “And, Bruce.”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for being patient. I know it’s not easy for you.”

  “Nothing about this job is easy for me, Sam.”

  Murphy stood on the opposite side of Avenue U staring at the door of Joe’s Bar and Grill for nearly five minutes before working up the courage to cross over.

  “Back for seconds?” Augie said, gazing up from the bar when Murphy walked in. “Jesus, Murphy, you look like hell.”

  “It’s not good, Augie. It’s your nephew, Edward, he was shot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “At his girlfriend’s place, less than a block away on Lake Street. I’m very sorry. I really don’t know what else to say or how else to say it. They were both killed.”

  “My God, Tommy. Why?”

  “We don’t know what it was about, but I promise we’re going to find out.”

  Murphy neglected to tell his good friend the young couple had been executed.

  “Rosie?”

  “She hasn’t been told. I thought it best if she heard it from her big brother. But I can do it, or at least go with you to see her.”

  “No. I need to do this alone,” Augie said. Sena looked so much smaller than he had before Murphy walked in. Like a deflated balloon. “You can do something for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “Can you track down the boy’s father? He’s on duty tonight, out of the Sixty-eighth. I don’t want him to hear about it from somewhere else.”

  “I’m on it, Augie,” Murphy said, thinking it was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do. “What about this place? It’s almost a full house.”

  “I’ll get my day manager down here, he’s five minutes away. I’ll tell him to stop serving and to shut down when these people are done. We won’t open again until sometime after the funeral.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Murphy asked.

  “Find John Cicero, Tommy,” Augie said.

  After dropping the two delinquents off at the Crossroads Juvenile Center on Bristol Street, Richards and Ivanov took East New York Avenue out to Kings Highway and headed toward Gravesend. Richards behind the wheel.

  The detectives agreed they were both hungry.

  “How about L and B?” Richards suggested.

  “Pizza? If I wanted pizza I would have dined at the school yard,” Marina said.

  “They serve more than pizza.”

  “For instance?”

  “Outstanding hero sandwiches. Veal parmesan, meatball, sausage and peppers, peppers and eggs.”

  “Multi-grain bread?”

  “What?”

  “Think they know how to throw together a vegetable salad?”

  “I’m sure they can,” Richards said. “Pretty sure.”

  “Fine. Columbus took a chance.”

  “Were your parents from Russia?”

  “Interesting non-sequitur.”

  “You mentioned Columbus, it brought transcontinental travel to mind.”

  “My paternal grandparents. They both came to America when they were small children, in the late-twenties, after Lenin died and Stalin came to power. They met at a clothing factory on the Lower East Side in Manhattan. She was a seamstress and he was a presser,” Ivanov said. “My dad was the first of seven children.”

  “And your mother?”

  “All-American girl. Brooklyn born and raised. And her parents before her. My great-grandfather helped build the Manhattan Bridge. How about your people, did they come over on the Mayflower?”

  Before Richards could answer, Ivanov’s cell phone buzzed.

  “This is Kelly. Did you crack the laundromat case?”

  “Wide open.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Kings Highway. Crossing Ocean Parkway,” Detective Ivanov reported. “Did someone break the law or is this a social call?”

  “There’s a guy holed up in his house on West Twelfth. Between S and T. He’s threatening to kill himself. His wife called it in.”

  “Called it in from where?”

  “From inside the house. They had just finished dinner with their two kids. He rises from the table, takes a gun from a high cabinet in the kitchen, gives them all a warm farewell and locks himself in the bathroom.”

  “The wife and children are still inside?”

  “She said she wouldn’t leave him there alone.”

  “Very romantic. Do you think they are in danger?”

  “I don’t know. There are two uniforms ou
tside. They’re both as green as spinach. Everyone else is out. I’ve been trying to hunt down a negotiator.”

  “Give me the address,” Ivanov said.

  “Sounds like we’re not going to make it to L and B,” Richards said when the call was through.

  “No. But we will be landing very close.”

  When Senderowitz walked in, the first thing he noticed was the victims.

  Then he turned to Samson, who stood nearby.

  “Not a pleasant picture.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Samson said.

  “What can I do, Sam?”

  “Do what you do. Use your senses. First impressions. Gut feelings. I want to know what you think happened here, without intellectualizing. But make it quick, Wayne is in a yank to get out of here.”

  “Batman left,” Bernie said. “He told Landis he’d be down at the morgue waiting for the bodies, but wouldn’t wait all night. I don’t see clear indications of self-defense. That door will automatically lock when it is shut. There are no signs of forced entry. Whoever killed these kids came into the room. Someone opened the door for them from the inside.”

  “Someone they knew?”

  “Not necessarily, it could have been carelessness.”

  “Go on.”

  “I am going to assume there were two shooters,” Senderowitz said. “Don’t ask me why. I’m not sure what it is, but I am going to proceed using that assumption.”

  The medical examiner had already suggested that possibility, based on the appearance of the gunshot wounds.

  Senderowitz had looked down at the bodies for only a moment when he first walked in.

  “Go on,” Samson repeated.

  Now, Senderowitz took a closer look at the two victims. He circled the bodies, closed his eyes, opened them, looked over to the front door and back and finally walked around the bodies once more.

  After a minute or so he was back beside Samson.

  “I don’t believe this was a crime of passion. It was an execution, cold and business-like. By the look of the nasty bruise on the boy’s face, he may have done something that made someone angry enough to pound him. Or, the boy may have been withholding information. The more I look at it, the more it feels as if they came for information, not for bounty or to settle a score. Look at the young man’s body, both arms at his side, like someone who was asleep when he was shot, maybe unconscious. Not like someone who was staring up at a weapon pointed at his head.”