My friend and paramedic, Scotty Franks, yelled up from downstairs, “Yo, Matt!”
“Scotty, code ninety-nine! Bring the board.” My radio crackled as it hung from my belt. “Headquarters to Car One, status update.” I chuckled from the situation I found myself in right then. I wanted to say I had an old fart who shit herself to death on the crapper, but I reined in my demented mind. I grimaced from the smell and replied, “Headquarters, code ninety-nine, ambulance on scene. I will be clear in five.”
The best part, and the only good thing about this scene, was that I would not have to look at this old woman any longer. “Hey, Scotty, put some booties on, it’s a mess.”
Scotty stepped in the bathroom and chuckled. “Did you make her dinner last night? Go easy on those compressions. She’s dead, Matt.”
Scotty was a nut. We went way back, the two of us. Growing up in the small town of Hutchville had its advantages. Scotty and I met in kindergarten. He was always a foot taller than me. It was awesome to have such a tall pal. I got away with a smart mouth more than a few times with Scotty standing by my side.
I stood up, paying close attention to where I placed my feet, and replied, “No, Scotty, but I heard you took her out a few times.”
Scotty smiled at my lack of coordination. “Hey pal, you know she’s not my type so I am in the clear.” Scotty continued, “I hear you’re the black cloud this week.”
“Yah, this isn’t my first, but hopefully it will be the last.”
“What happened Monday?” Scotty inquired with a smile as he pulled a stethoscope out of his duffel bag.
“Didn’t anyone tell you?” I asked as I made my exit from the bathroom.
“I was waiting to hear it directly from the source.”
“Let’s just say it wasn’t as bad as this.”
Scotty smiled from ear to ear. He was a big guy, six foot four inches tall, and weighed in at two hundred eighty impressive pounds. He played college ball for Syracuse University. The early nineties were an awesome time to be in college. It was a fun and exciting experience that I missed right then. I was going to SUNY Albany at the time and often took a train to Syracuse to watch Scotty play football. It was freezing the weekend of Scotty’s last football game with snow everywhere. He blew out his knee against Miami, which ended his college career and any chance to make the NFL.
Scotty was gay. He didn’t come out until after college for fear of being ostracized by his team. His parents didn’t accept him for who he was. Well, it was more his father than mother—what an asshole his dad was. To me, he was the same pain in the ass I had known since kindergarten. Back in high school I suspected Scotty was gay even though he always had a girlfriend around him. She was so pretty; her name was Diane Lynch. Years later, at our twenty-year reunion, Diane showed up with her spouse who happened to be a woman. Her name was Cathy and she was a fox. I asked Scotty if he was going to sandwich them after the reunion, but he just laughed. Though, back in school, I never got around to asking about him being gay, his relationship with Diane now made perfect sense—maybe it was their master plan.
Scotty gagged. I handed him a clean towel. “Here, she won’t be needing this. Hey Scotty, how old do you think Ann is?”
Scotty thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Ancient.”
We both were laughing as Mary entered the bathroom. She had tears running down her pink face. And the same blue eyes as her mother. Her concern for her mother’s well-being was obvious. But her sadness was overwhelming to observe.
“I am sorry, Mary, but your mother is gone,” I said as nicely as possible.
“Can’t you do something?” The look on her face was so painful it actually choked me up.
“Mary, there is nothing we can do for your mom except to take care of her body. Would you like me to call the funeral home for you?”
She gasped, turned around and walked away. As Mary left, Sarah Myers was coming up the stairs. Sarah was Scotty’s EMT and if there was anyone who could ever make Scotty think about women, it was her. She was beautiful. I know some women have a thing for a guy in uniform. Well, we all had a thing for Sarah in hers. She walked Mary down the stairs into the parlor, comforting her along the way.
“Well, Scotty, I am out of here, pal.” I packed up my gear.
“Yah, yah, go do your cop shit and arrest someone for once.” Scotty was a great ball breaker.
“Yes, I will. You can stay and do your paramedic show for a little while longer. Later.” I whisked past Mary and winked at Sarah. She smiled and stuck out her tongue at me. I smiled and left the home.
****
August 25, 2007
“Was that the simpler time you were referring to, Cap?” I roll over in the darkness and realize I am alone. I look at the clock. It is after 2 a.m. I must have fallen asleep. I don’t remember saying goodbye to my brother or my boss.
It is cold in the room and so quiet. There is some noise out in the hallway. People are laughing. I don’t recognize their voices. I am fairly new to this building and haven’t made any friends yet. I don’t feel like making small talk. How do you explain to your neighbors you’re a cop who just got shot? I am so happy my door is locked. My gun is hidden under a bed pillow; not taking any chances. I feel hungry as I sit up in my bed. I stand and walk into the kitchen and plop into a chair at the small dining table. My mom’s dinner wrapped in tin foil is calling me. Meatloaf with potatoes; she really knows how to cheer me up. One corner of the aluminum foil is lifted on the plate. Franny must have helped himself. What a little prick.
Chapter Four: The Town of Hutchville
August 25, 2007
Surrounded by tourists, a handsome man sits patiently, awaiting his flight at the Leonardo da Vinci airport in Rome. He is alone and dressed in a tight fitted blue button down shirt with short sleeves and tan khaki pants. His shirt is not tucked into his slacks. A gold pair of sunglasses is folded and hangs from the second button of his shirt. They look to be Gucci. As the gate employee of Alitalia calls out the boarding instructions for first class travelers, he makes his way over.
“Buongiorno, il vostro biglietto.”
He hands his ticket and passport over to the female clerk with a smile. She smiles back and glances at the passport.
“Have a safe trip, Mr. Fretti.” Paolo nods as he walks down the jetway, boards, and takes his seat.
Don Paolo Fretti is now in charge of the Mello crime syndicate. Since his inception into the family, he has always produced money.
In fact, he was a made guy before his twenty-first birthday which is very unusual. Paolo Fretti was not well-liked by his Godfather, Don Carlo, but still plans on avenging his death as soon as Paolo finishes his business in New York. This is expected of the new boss. Anything less would be a sign of weakness, and Paolo would be quickly taken out by his own people.
Paolo hates coming back to America for any reason, especially when it involves blood. Upon his arrival at John F. Kennedy airport in Queens, N.Y., his stomach starts to bother him. He knows the eyes in the sky will be looking for him at the airport and tries to move through the crowds in stealth. The guilt of what he did was easy to forget in Italy, but being in New York causes him to relive the moment he pulled the trigger on the cop. Of course it was nothing personal, just a complication. If the authorities find out it was him, his new life will be over and in the most painful way possible.
As the yellow taxi makes its way farther north on the Hutchinson River Parkway, his stomach is churning something awful. They approach a Mobil gas station in the area of Hutchville, N.Y., and he asks the driver to pull into the parking lot. Paolo gets out and heads for the restroom, keeping his head down and moving quickly. He enters the bathroom, which has seen its cleaner days, heading right for the stall. It takes a few minutes to paper the toilet seat more than once since the disposable seat bin is empty. Paolo is lucky he sits down when he does and tries not to laugh as his sickness explodes outwards. The spray pattern is dark and covers hal
f the wall. There is nothing Paolo can do but depart in secret as if he is leaving a crime scene. As Paolo settles into the back of the taxi, he is thinking about the hot shower he so desperately needs in Hutchville.
****
The Town of Hutchville is approximately fifteen square miles of mostly two-family residential homes and plush single-family mansions on its borders. The population hovers at around ten thousand, who mostly commute to the Big Apple for work. There is lots of greenery on the outskirts of town with several well-maintained parks throughout, where the residents enjoy biking, hiking, and picnicking.
The downtown area has a train station in the middle of Main Street. Stores line both sides of the road—your typical stores that most suburban villages have, like a post office, pharmacy, pizzeria, nail salons, Italian delicatessens, restaurants, and a few banks. Several mom-and-pop stores offer different varieties of goods for the local community. It is a family- oriented town centrally located in the heart of Westchester County, home to the highest taxed residents in the nation. Westchester County is also home to celebrities, musicians, national dignitaries, and sports icons.
There is a lot of speculation in Hutchville regarding organized crime and whether or not it exists at any level in this community. Being a heavily populated Italian American society, it is easy for this negative gossip to exist. My family has lived in this town since before World War I. I am happy to say my great grandfather fought for the United States in the First World War. My great uncles and grandfathers all fought for the United States in the Second World War. Some family members have been employed by the Town in many different occupations over the years and are heavily involved in local politics. My mother is always working on someone’s campaign. She went to high school with Chief Ramsey. I am sure that had something to do with us getting hired to the force, although my mother refuses to comment. I am sure there may be some element of organized crime residing in our community, but they keep to themselves. Anyone who is truly “connected” is always quiet about their illegal activities. As for our local population, there are many who portray themselves in a manner consistent with the mobster mentality. They love to drive their Cadillac’s with little Italian flags on the back of their trunks. Those flags always bother me because they are not American flags. I never understood paying such respect to a country you have never been to. Why not actively support the country you were born in? If the United States was playing soccer in the World Cup against Italy, these people would root for Italy.
There were many who immigrated here in the 1940s and 1950s that I respect for keeping their traditions alive and at the forefront of their existence. But these wannabe mobsters were all born in the United States. I went to school with them right here in Hutchville. As for me, someone who doesn’t speak or understand the Italian language, I have a very hard time understanding my extended family and wonder why they never tried to learn English. I was always called “‘American’” in their presence as if it were a bad thing. They were correct; I am American and damn proud of it.
These thugs call everyone their “Cuz.” If I had a dollar for every time I heard that expression I would have retired three times over by now. “Cuz,” is short for cousin and since most in Hutchville are distantly related, this slang has stuck in the vocabulary of many as far back as I can remember. It is still used to this day and the word irks me in ways I cannot describe.
As a patrol officer, these losers made my job much more difficult with quality of life issues such as loitering or parking violations. There was always a problem. Some of them thought they were above the law and saw no issue with violating it in subtle ways. They thought they had me in their pocket and that I would look the other way because I was from the same neighborhood. They were sadly mistaken and got the hint after several parking tickets were issued at local establishments. “Hey Cuz. Come on, can’t you help me out?”
In Hutchville, there isn’t any serious crime on a daily basis, but it does occur more frequently than in the past. We get hit with burglaries in all areas due to our close proximity to major highways and the train station. Criminal mischief is rampant, but you could attribute most of it to rambunctious local teenagers. While working, I spend most of my time keeping the peace at neighbor disputes, aided cases, and community policing. Twenty-five police officers work three shifts around the clock. One police chief and one police captain supervise our department.
Police Chief Tim Ramsey is a great guy. He reminds me of the late comedian Rodney Dangerfield as his eyes seem to pop out just like the great comedian’s did. Chief Ramsey is approaching seventy and is a pretty big guy. He hovers around six foot four inches. He was a basketball standout at Hutchville High and was recruited by Boston College where he played on a full scholarship. He is what you call a cop’s cop. If you mess up on a call, or arrive late to work, he always cracks a joke. His biggest joke is asking some of the guys if they have ever “shit their pants.” He walks around asking everyone. It doesn’t matter what you are working on, he will walk up to you and ask that embarrassing question. I guess he must have crapped his pants a lot while he was a patrol officer back in the day.
Chief Ramsey lost his wife a few years back just when he was thinking of retiring. After her death, he really had nothing else but the police department, so he stayed. Some cops have a hard time leaving this lifestyle. It becomes who they are instead of just a job. The sad thing is, one of us will probably find the chief dead at his house or in his office.
The reason the chief has it so easy at HPD is because of his Captain, Philip Grassio. Captain Grassio was only in his mid-thirties when he was promoted to captain. He is very smart, good looking and intimidating to those who are not part of his team. Fortunately for me, being Italian American helped our friendship blossom. Captain Grassio is a real tough bastard to many of the officers here at Hutchville Police Department. He expects perfection in all aspects of police work. He has several pet peeves, which absolutely infuriate him. Report writing is the one thing he pushes officers to perfect. The last thing you want to end up with is a bad report, especially if you’re testifying in court and a defense attorney makes you look like an incompetent moron.
I remember the first time I met him. I was a twenty-year-old civilian when I got the phone call that Hutchville Police was interviewing candidates for the position of police officer. I had scored well on the police officer exam, passed the physical exam and psychological test, but hadn’t heard anything for several months, so I was molding perfectly into my career as a telephone repair technician. I always wanted to work in law enforcement and had thought about joining the FBI for a while. But the thought of working anywhere but New York made it problematic for me. Especially if I wasn’t going to have my mother’s cooking anymore.
I walked into Hutchville Headquarters and was greeted by an older, short chubby officer named Tom Mandel working behind the front desk. He directed me down a long, dark hallway to the second door on the right. I was getting nervous as he didn’t say anything—not even who I was about to see. The hallway was freezing cold; there were doors on both sides. The walls were covered in pictures of retired officers and news bulletins from years ago.
Near the doorway, a man sat at a small desk and looked right at the door. Right at me.
“Hello,” I said confused. “I am Matt Longo; I am here for an interview regarding the police officer position.”
The stranger didn’t say anything; he just kept staring at me, like he was sizing me up or something. I asked if I was in the right place and he replied, “Sit down. My name is Captain Grassio and I want to know everything about you.”
I could tell immediately Captain Grassio was not to be messed with. He was no joke. As the questions rolled off his tongue, I found myself answering honestly and directly. The interview took a turn for the better when he asked if, “I would be one hundred and ten percent loyal to him and the department.”
I responded without even thinking about the question, “Yes.”
He handed me an application that looked like a novella. “Here, recruit, fill this out and get it back to me in a week.” Then he shook my hand and wished me good luck.
I left the office puzzled as to what just happened. I passed Officer Mandel who was busy talking on the phone. I drove away from Hutchville Headquarters with a good feeling that I was about to embark on a career change for the better.
Chapter Five: Regret
August 25, 2007
Since the shooting I am sleeping more than I am awake. My pain medication may have something to do with that as my shoulder is still bothering me. It is frustrating to have something so traumatic happen to you and be unable to piece it all together. That is what a detective does; we follow the pieces until they reach a clear end. Regardless if that end is an arrest or left open as an investigation pending further information, every stone is uncovered to aid in the conclusion. The Captain’s “simpler times” pep talk was helpful, but I find myself thinking about some of the most horrific scenes I have ever worked in my career. It is hard to believe some of them are actually true, and it hurts me to know how much pain these people may have felt. The weird thing is, I never gave these events any thought while I was working. Only since I have been home injured has my mind allowed me to go back in time. I am left to wonder if I have post-traumatic stress disorder or if it is something less serious. After my late night meatloaf dinner, I go back to bed. I find myself dreaming about something I don’t want to think about. My nagging conscious questions me. Why on earth would you go back there, Matt? Wasn’t it bad enough seeing it once?
In A Small Town (A Small Town Series Book 1) Page 3