August 5, 2000
I hated day tours more than I hated working weekends. It was a Saturday morning and I was hung over from partying the night before. Officer Chris Finley and I went out after our day tour and the night didn’t end until 3 a.m. I fumbled through my pockets and found three numbers for girls I met the previous night. One of them had potential, but I would never call her. I would give their numbers to Chris; he banged anything. I hated talking on the phone. The thought of starting a new relationship right then was not on my to-do list. I didn’t plan on doing anything at work that day. Hopefully, I would be able to hide behind a school and get some sleep. Being twenty-two years old was way too young for this job. I couldn’t imagine making a life or death decision in the blink of an eye not completely having lived myself. I drove my patrol vehicle up to the town park to eat breakfast. I was starving and couldn’t wait to bite into my bacon and egg sandwich.
“Headquarters to Car Two.”
My radio instantly gave my headache a jolt. “Fuck!” I grabbed the car microphone. “Car Two, proceed.”
“Car Two, respond to the area of 194 Horton Road on the report of a gunshot.”
“Ten-Four.”
It was ten minutes after eight. I was hung over and hungry. Why was I going on a freaking gun call in that neighborhood? Why was I going on a gun call at all? I grew up in this town. Nothing ever happened. If I caught a kid with fireworks I was going to flip my lid.
I pulled up to 194 Horton Road. A man stood in the road holding the leash of a small brown dog. It looked like a beagle but probably was a mutt.
As I exited my patrol car, I could see the man was nervous and on edge. I walked to him and asked if he had called about a gunshot. The man stated his name was Bill Levine and he lived at 192 Horton Road. Mr. Levine was certain that what he heard was a gunshot as he was an avid big game hunter.
I asked Mr. Levine the direction of the sound and he pointed to his neighbor’s house at 194. Mr. Levine stated that Jack Rossi lived in the residence with his wife. The house was a small one-family cape with a red brick facade and a black front door. The garage door in front of the house was open and led into the basement. Mr. Levine said he called to Jack a few times but didn’t get a response. It was only twelve minutes after eight, and the August heat was making my chest sweat under my bulletproof vest. I could feel my white T-shirt becoming damp. I hated working in the summer during the day. I would much rather be at the beach. My head was pounding and the sound of the birds chirping in the trees was making it worse.
I alerted headquarters that I was checking on a suspicious noise and would be entering an open garage door at 194 Horton Road. I gestured to Mr. Levine to stay back while I checked on Mr. Rossi. As I entered the garage, I immediately smelled an odor of gunpowder. I had spent many days at the shooting range. That smell was something you never forgot after blasting hundreds of rounds.
I lowered the volume on my police radio and called for backup. The nearest unit was at least three minutes away and was more hung over than me. As I opened the basement door, I called for Mr. Rossi. “Jack,” I said, as I unholstered my Glock.
No answer. It was apparent that something was wrong. My stomach felt queasy and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing at full attention. As I peered around the corner to an open workshop area, I saw brown boots on the floor. My instincts and training told me that the someone attached to those boots was no longer alive.
As I got closer to the old dirty brown boots, I saw a body contorted on the ground. I immediately notified headquarters of a shooting and to alert the detective division for processing. This person was obviously a male, Caucasian, approximately seventy-five years old. And he was dead.
The gun in his right hand appeared to be a small caliber thirty-eight. His face wore an expression of shock and horror. The pool of blood under his head grew larger as I stood there. A yellow fluid was mixed with the red blood exiting from the wound. Since the gun was in his hand, I would call this what it appeared to be at face value, a suicide, although it would be under investigation and treated as a homicide scene.
Within three minutes, help arrived in the form of P.O. Chris Finley. Chris was a funny guy and our resident rookie. I was amused as he instantly gagged as he notified headquarters of his arrival. Our drinking last night had caused him more pain than me. I moved closer to the body to show Chris the handgun and the yellow fluid, which I have never seen before. I was not a medical examiner in the least, but it looked to be some sort of brain fluid since it appeared the bullet went right through the skull and exited somewhere in the basement. Since it appeared to be a suicide, I had no intention of digging it out. There was brain matter on the ground next to the head.
I handed Chris the three phone numbers I got last night. He looked at the digits and laughed, probably recalling the body shots we did off these girls.
Chris turned to me, confused. “Aren’t they going to know they gave their numbers to you, not me?”
I laughed and reminded Chris that all three of them had trouble standing and walking. I didn’t think they would remember either of us. Chris thanked me and shoved the matchbooks in his left shirt pocket. Then we checked the house to ensure no one was home. The house was tidy. No sign of a struggle or forced entry. There was a very sad dog locked in a crate on the second floor. The dog, which looked like a Shih Tzu, didn’t bark or even stand up in the crate. It was amazing but I think the dog was sad and aware of her owner’s present predicament. Chris and I headed back downstairs for the arrival of our detective division.
Capt. Grassio’s car pulled up first. To my surprise our local priest, Father Murphy, exited with him. Father Murphy immediately walked into the basement and delivered Mr. Rossi’s last rights and blessings. I would have never thought Capt. Grassio was religious. Father Murphy looked at me with a heavy smile as he walked by and offered his services to both Chris and me regarding our present discovery. I thanked Father Murphy for what he did and he left as quickly as he came. Capt. Grassio took one look at me and smiled. I smiled back with a nod letting him know I was impressed.
It was at this point that a woman screamed from outside, and I instantly guessed that Mrs. Rossi had arrived home. I peeked out the basement door to see Capt. Grassio and Father Murphy helping a woman up from the ground. The captain called for the Mental Health Crisis Team to respond to this location for Mrs. Rossi, as a preventative measure. For a suicide to be confirmed, the medical examiner’s office needed to respond. Only a forensic doctor could confirm a suicide. It would be a while before they got there, and Chris was already being sent on a call, so it would just be me and the stiff.
As I looked at Mr. Rossi, I thought about why he would do something like this. He had a wife and a dog who obviously adored him, not to mention a great house. His face had grown stone white now. The horror of what he did was forever engraved on it. I looked at him a second time just before leaving the basement. He looked somewhat familiar. I must have seen him in town at the local deli because I never forgot a face. Even with all the blood, I could see him happy and alive last winter talking to Big Mike at the corner deli. It was during the NFL playoffs and Mr. Rossi was looking to get into the Super Bowl pool. I remembered clearly then because I was annoyed that Big Mike was talking about illegal gambling right in front of me. After Mr. Rossi left, I remarked to Big Mike that he better not be doing anything shady with the pool or I would lock his ass up.
But now Mr. Rossi was dead. The man I never knew other than by a chance encounter had eyes that were blood shot and looked black and blue. His brown eyes stared right at me and again I felt uncomfortable. I hated being around dead bodies, especially by myself. There was no comfort in death, as I never saw a peaceful death while I was at work. My grandparents that had all passed each suffered through cancers and heart attacks. I didn’t think there was any easy way to die, but maybe just falling asleep and never waking up was the best way. But you must wake up at some point and gasp for air at the
last second or feel something horrible. Well, I hoped not to find out anytime soon. I wondered if Mr. Rossi regretted what he did, or if he would be living it up in the afterlife.
Detective Jim Wallace showed up to process the scene and photograph the body. This man was the most miserable person I had ever met, and his three ex-wives would agree with me. Jim was overweight, approaching three hundred pounds of pure blubber. He had an overgrown red and brown beard. He was dressed in a portly black suit, which made him look like a well-dressed grizzly bear.
He was sweating profusely and obviously bothered to be here. I asked Jim how he was doing and immediately got what sounded like a grunt. Or worse. I had dealt with him a few times and the only reason I didn’t tell him where to go was because he was approaching his retirement in a few days. You had to respect these assholes even though they didn’t deserve shit. I had seen Jim process a scene before, but this was comical. He took three pictures of the body, dropped the gun in an evidence bag, and mumbled what sounded like suicide out of the corner of his mouth as he walked out the basement door. Here I was hung over but I thought this guy was still drunk, or currently drinking. Totally bizarre, but to be expected in the Hutchville Police Department. Our cast of characters was exactly that, characters.
The medical examiner’s van pulled up at noon. I was exhausted and completely grossed out by the amount of blood that exited the head of Mr. Rossi. I was still trying to figure out why he took his own life. Were there money problems? Or maybe his wife wanted a divorce? Maybe he’d just had enough.
This was my first suicide by handgun and I hoped it would be my last. My cell phone went off as Doctor Frank Scavone walked through the basement door. It was my mother. I let the call go to voicemail. How could I explain this to her? She would be in shock that her son had to be around this type of horror.
I had never met Dr. Scavone and introduced myself to him. Dr. Scavone looked like Spock from Star Trek. His ears were large and pointy, his handshake cold and hard. He had on a black turtleneck and black pants. He was very quiet and even his assistant Michael seemed weird.
Dr. Scavone moved around the body slowly and meticulously, speaking quietly into a voice recorder. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Michael opened a black body bag after taking numerous photographs. Their processing of this scene made Det. Wallace’s look like child’s play. Dr. Scavone looked up at me and asked me to help him lift the body. I was the unlucky recipient of the shoulder and head area. Why couldn’t I get the feet? As I laid Mr. Rossi in the bag it appeared his body was twitching subtly. I asked Dr. Scavone why.
“His nerves are dying. This is normal,” Dr. Scavone said as he zipped up the bag.
Normal? Bullshit! This is anything but normal, I said to myself.
Finally, I was cleared to interview Mrs. Rossi, as the crisis team was just finishing their evaluation of her. Dr. Scavone and Michael were placing Mr. Rossi into their white van.
A small crowd of neighbors stood gossiping in the middle of Horton Road. I wanted to yell at them to go back in their houses. Nothing to see here, you busybodies. Next came the local news van down the street. They were the ultimate parasites, rushing to the scene for a fresh story. There was nothing left in the basement but a foul odor, blood, yellow spinal fluid, and some brain matter. I walked out through the garage and spotted Mrs. Rossi crying on the front steps. She looked at me with a helpless expression of sorrow. I went up to her and told her how sorry I was for her loss.
She could barely get out the words. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Unfortunately, since this was my investigation, there were some pertinent questions I needed Mrs. Rossi to answer, which might be difficult for her to entertain right then. Mrs. Rossi agreed to talk to me at the scene, which made me relieved I didn’t have to come back there. As we entered the front door of the home, I found myself keeping her from falling as the weight of this was taking its toll on her small frame. Mrs. Rossi was in good shape for her age. I recalled that she was a realtor in the town of Hutchville. I didn’t know her personally, but we started talking about how she knew relatives of mine. Hutchville is a small town and if you were of Italian descent, there was a strong likelihood of being distantly related.
Mrs. Rossi composed herself as best as she could while telling me happy memories of her husband. They were high school sweethearts; it was obvious she was still very much in love with him. Mr. Rossi had a valid permit for the handgun and according to the paperwork provided by Mrs. Rossi, it was the only one he owned. I informed her that the gun would be at headquarters for safekeeping, and she quickly said she didn’t want it back. It was a small silver thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson snub nose.
“He had no reason to do this,” Mrs. Rossi said over and over, sobbing more uncontrollably now. “We were happy and planning a trip to Rome in the fall,” she continued, unable to stop the steady flow of tears racing down her flushed cheeks.
My heart broke for this woman. She reminded me of my mother. They were about the same age.
“Will this be in the local paper?” Mrs. Rossi’s voice cracked.
“No.” My answer was simple and to the point. “Hutchville Police will not disclose this to any news organization.”
The relief showed on Mrs. Rossi’s face. She took a long deep breath. The front door flung open and a family member raced into the kitchen. Mrs. Rossi’s daughter and only child, Rosa, burst into her mother’s arms.
I left the home with loud shrieks and sobs penetrating my ears as I closed the front door behind me. A female reporter from the Hutchville Tribune pounced on me from behind some bushes along the front walkway. She started asking questions, but I stopped her dead in her tracks. I informed her that there was nothing to report here, and to contact our headquarters to speak with Captain Grassio.
It was still a beautiful day, even though I had witnessed something horrible. Being so new to the job, I really was naïve to think nothing happened in this small town of mine. I thought of my father and whether he would ever contemplate suicide. My dad and Mr. Rossi were close in age. My dad had a pistol, which he kept after he completed his service with the United States Air Force. I hadn’t seen it in a long time and, just to be cautious, would find out if he still owned it. Lunch was the only thought I had then as I sat in my patrol car finishing up my report. The cold air conditioning felt good as I drove away, purposely forgetting what I had just witnessed, not knowing it would resurface later in life.
Chapter Six: He Didn’t Make It
August 25, 2007
Paolo Fretti feels alone. He is lying on the king bed with no shirt on, smoking a Marlboro. He could care less that his hotel suite is a nonsmoking room. Paolo is confused by his current situation. The cop shooting was planned to succeed. How could this have happened? Paolo is the boss now and if someone else had messed this up, they would have to be killed. Orders he would assign someone to carry out. It looks bad for him that he couldn’t pull off a simple job. Nobody expects the mob to be involved in a shooting, especially in such a small town like Hutchville. It could have easily looked like some payback for an arrest the cop had made. As a matter of fact, this was how it should have played out. The planning was too perfect. Paolo was just unlucky which makes him incensed.
For the last few hours Paolo has been staying at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in White Plains. The hotel is close enough for him to plan a hit without being seen in Hutchville. Paolo knows getting at the cop again will be difficult. He begins to think of a contingency plan if all else fails. He realizes that someone close to him will have to die in order for this new plan to work. This will hurt more than anything he has ever done because it involves his childhood friend.
Paolo opens the nightstand and removes the yellow pages. He flips through the thin pages until he gets to the escort section. He exhales a cloud of smoke as he makes his first phone call.
****
I roll over again in bed and look at the clock—4 a.m. I can’t sleep for thinking abo
ut what the Captain said to me earlier about remembering “simpler times.” I should have asked exactly what he meant. Sometimes I misinterpret what people say and do the complete opposite. In retrospect, I should have just asked him for some help. I know I could have, and I am pissed at myself that I didn’t. Everything we do at Hutchville PD deals with negative situations. In all my recollections over the past nine years, I can’t remember one positive incident. Is that possible? Well, I did change a tire for an elderly woman a few years back. That was nice of me. She was really sweet. I am drawing blanks about other positive instances. My only happy recollections are of hanging out with some of the guys after work. Or laughing about something so serious it is your only alternative.
I become exhausted in an instant. My eyelids feel like they weigh more than I do. I can’t keep them open any longer. The fear of what I will dream about next is upon me. It is this moment of the night I despise the most. I know I am falling asleep. I am able to say a little prayer—“Our father who art in heaven”—and then I drift into the blackness once again.
April 10, 1999
I was working a midnight tour with Officer Benny Triano. Benny was new to the force at the time and was always hysterically funny. I had known Benny from childhood; we’d hung out on several occasions. We were close in age but hadn’t spent time together in a long while. We got sent on a death notification at an apartment in downtown Hutchville just before our midnight tour was to end. I was annoyed because I was to take the lead as the senior officer on scene, even though it was Benny’s post. With Benny by my side at 7 a.m., we arrived at an apartment on Third Street. It was a rear apartment to a two-family style house. A duplex with an illegal apartment is what it really was. According to our information, this guy rented a Lamborghini for the day and flipped it out in the desert somewhere in Las Vegas. The driver was killed at the scene and we were to notify his wife, who lived in the apartment.
In A Small Town (A Small Town Series Book 1) Page 4