Brooklyn Bounce

by Andrew G. Nelson

  “More importantly, they are teaching our kids.”

  “Another reason why I’m not having any,” Nichols replied.

  “Smart man,” Blackshear replied, “and one of the reasons I send mine to private school.”

  “So where does this leave us?”

  “Not much different than where we were, but at least we have a new lead to go on.”

  “Do you believe her, Tom?”

  “I do, Scott.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the only thing that fits,” he said. “Alex is right; this little shit wasn’t buying a carton of milk for his mom. He isn’t even a local. He’s a career criminal who made it to the first round of the playoffs and lost.”

  “It’s still a hard sell for the grand jury.”

  “That’s your bailiwick, Scott. You asked me if I believed her, you didn’t ask me if I thought it was going to be easy to prove, but we’re still investigating.”

  “I wish I was as convinced as you.”

  “What reservations do you have?”

  “I can’t get over this missing gun,” Nichols said.

  “It’s a tough one, but I don’t think she made that up.”

  “But what if it wasn’t a gun? What is it was something else, something she thought looked like a gun?”

  “What do you mean?” Blackshear asked.

  “The interior in the store was strewn with debris,” Nichols said. “What if the little fucker had pointed a candy bar at her? In the flash of an eye could she have mistaken it for a gun? It wouldn’t be the first time some idiot was shot for pointing something as innocuous as a wallet.”

  “If you’re that stupid….”

  “That’s what I mean, Tom. What if it was something as dumb as a candy bar with a silver wrapper and we can’t find it because it was lying with the rest of the merchandise. We may have seen it, but we just passed over it because it belonged there.”

  “It’s an interesting theory,” Blackshear replied, “but it’s just a theory.”

  “And until we find a gun, or a witness who says they saw a gun, then Alex’s story is just a story,” Nichols replied. “Look, Tom, don’t get me wrong. I like Alex, I really do, but that won’t play out well in court.”

  “Then we better keep digging and hope something pops.”

  “Good luck,” Nichols said. “You might want to do a follow-up with that witness, just in case.”

  “I planned on that,” Blackshear replied. “I tried calling earlier, but it went to voice mail. I figured I’d give it a little bit and try again.”

  “Ok, keep me posted, Tom.”

  “I will.”

  Blackshear hung up the phone and stared down at the witness statement. He picked the phone up again and dialed the number listed for the witness. The phone rang several times and again went to voicemail.

  “Ms. Booker, this is Captain Blackshear again. Please call me back as soon as possible. I need to follow-up on the statement you gave regarding the robbery. Thank you.”

  He hung the phone up.

  Something has to give, he thought, as he stared at the stack of reports on his desk.

  As much as he wanted to believe Alex, he also knew that Nichols was right about the possibility of mistaken id on the gun. There were numerous accounts of cops shooting people who’d pointed guns at them, only to find later that it was something as innocuous as a wallet or a cell phone.

  Why anyone in their right mind would point anything at the police seemed incongruous to him, but in the heat of the moment people did dumb shit. Maybe that was the real problem, maybe they weren’t in their right mind. It reminded him of criminals who pointed toy guns at the police. That took stupid to a whole different level.

  The worst part was the aftermath of these shootings, when the cops were vilified for the actions of the people they had encountered. Like in Alex’s case, most of these incidents were over in a matter of seconds. Cops had the unenviable position of having to decide in the blink of an eye whether that gun was, in reality, just a wallet, phone, candy bar or other innocent item. If they made the wrong call someone was likely to end up dead, either themselves or the person pointing the item.

  As many stories there were of cops shooting these unarmed individuals, there were many more where cops didn’t, hesitating for that one split second longer, that ultimately led to their deaths.

  Damned if you do, dead if you don’t, he thought.

  His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  Blackshear looked up to see a uniformed trooper standing in the threshold.

  “Sorry to bother you, Captain, but there is a call on line four,” the trooper said. “It’s the NYPD.”

  “NYPD?” Blackshear asked.

  “Yeah, it seems their police commissioner wants to speak to you.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  “No, sir,” the trooper replied.

  “Thank you,” Blackshear said, as he reached over, picking up the phone and hit the button for line four.

  “Captain Blackshear,” he said cautiously.

  “Sir, this is Sergeant Mulligan, please hold for the police commissioner.”

  Blackshear waited for the call to be transferred.

  “Captain Blackshear, I hope I’m not bothering you,” Maguire said when he got on the line.

  “No, sir, what can I do for you?”

  “Actually, I was calling to see if there was anything I could do for you,” Maguire replied. “I know you’re handling Alex Taylor’s investigation.”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Blackshear replied. “Do you know the chief?”

  “Alex and I were partners years ago.”

  “Are you aware of the details?”

  “I found out this morning,” Maguire replied, “and just for the record Alex did not ask me to call you. In fact, she said that she has the utmost confidence in you and your agency, but I also know how tough things can be in terms of manpower and resources, so if there is anything we can assist you with, please let me know.”

  “Thank you, sir, that is very much appreciated,” Blackshear replied. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, shoot.”

  “You said you were partners with Alex. How would you describe her as a cop?”

  “She can be moody and cantankerous at times, that’s especially true when she is right, but she is a solid cop.”

  “It’s a little bit different down in New York City than the way it is up here,” Blackshear replied. “We don’t have nearly the workload, so it is hard to figure out how someone handles things when the shit hits the fan.”

  “I’ll save you the traditional dance routine, Tom,” Maguire said with a laugh. “I don’t believe in beating around the bush so I guess it is safe to assume you are trying to find a gentle way of asking if she could have screwed up, the short answer is yes. I’d be lying if I said otherwise, because the reality is that none of us are immune from making mistakes. However, that being said, I wouldn’t bet on it. Alex, for all her faults, does know her shit. In all the time I worked with her I never saw her screw something up based solely on a reflexive response. Alex has good intuition. She is also extremely effective at reading situations and people.”

  “That’s what I was looking for, sir. Thank you. It’s kind of refreshing to get a straightforward answer in this line of work.”

  “My old boss in the Navy wasn’t a big fan of beating around the bush.”

  “You were in the Navy?”

  “Yep, a lifetime ago,” Maguire replied.

  “No shit,” Blackshear said. “I’m a plank owner of the Big Stick.”

  Maguire knew the Big Stick well. It was the nickname of the U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt, CVN-71; a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier. A plank owner was an old Navy term that meant that Blackshear had been aboard the ship when it was commissioned back in 1984.

  “Really, I used that taxi service a few times,” Maguire said. “The mess deck was pretty
damn good. When did you get out?”

  “Ninety-One, after we shipped back to No-Fuck, Vagina following the first Gulf War. I was a grape and got tired of humping go-juice for the fighter jocks, so when I came back home I took the test for the state police. I’ve been here ever since.”

  “I was just coming in when you were getting out.”

  “What adventure story did your recruiter tell you?”

  “Oh, the usual, join the Navy, see the world, meet interesting people, etc.”

  “How’d that work out for you?”

  “It was working out pretty good till I got blowed up,” Maguire said with a laugh.

  “No shit,” Blackshear said. “What happened?”

  “Humvee I was riding hit a Hajji IED.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “I guess it worked out okay. I’m still here, they’re not. Like you, I decided that I might try my hand at civilian work.”

  “Just another fine Navy day.”

  “Amen to that,” Maguire replied. “Anyway, I thought I would make the offer. If you guys find yourself in need of anything, don’t hesitate to pick-up the phone.”

  “Much appreciated,” Blackshear said. “You have any wizards down there that can conjure up missing guns?”

  “No, but I have known a few of them to take a mysterious bounce. Are all the witnesses accounted for?”

  “Not even close. Alex put’s the count at a half dozen, possibly more. So far we have located and identified three. We were trying not to sound desperate, but at this point it looks as if we are going to have to go to the media and ask for people to come forward.”

  “Then there is still hope,” Maguire replied.

  “I’m going to channel your optimism.”

  “Sometimes it’s the only card you have to play.”

  Just then the trooper reappeared in the doorway. “Captain, line three, a Ms. Booker for you.”

  “Hey, Commissioner, I hate to cut you short, but you might have brought me luck, that’s one of my witnesses calling.”

  “Go,” Maguire said. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Will do and thank you.”

  Blackshear ended the call and hit the blinking button.

  Ms. Booker, this is Captain Blackshear, thank you for calling me back.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t available to take your call earlier,” the woman replied. “I had to substitute for one of our teachers who called in sick.”

  “No problem,” he replied. “I just wanted to go over the statement that you gave regarding the robbery.”

  “Oh, it was so dreadful,” the woman said. “I’m still having nightmares about it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Blackshear replied. “I know these events can be very traumatic, which is why I wanted to speak with you. I know sometimes little details come back that might have been missed earlier.”

  “It all happened so fast,” she replied. “One minute I was on the floor and the next there was shooting. A moment later I was running for my life.”

  “Actually, I’m interested in that period of time before the shooting. I was wondering if you might be able to walk me through the events that happened just before it.”

  “Well, like I explained to the nice officer, I had stopped at the store to pick-up some food for our luncheon at the school.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual before you walked in?”

  “No,” she said. “Everything appeared to be quite normal.”

  “What about when you went into the store?”

  “I really wasn’t paying much attention,” Booker replied. “I guess you’d say I wasn’t very observant.”

  “Was there anyone in the store you recognized?”

  “Oh yes, Eleanor Woods, she’s a neighbor of mine. We were talking when it happened.”

  “Where were you in the store?” Blackshear asked.

  “Oh, on the left side; over by the bread aisle.”

  “Do you know how long you talked for?”

  “Oh it was probably not more than a minute, maybe two at the most.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the store?”

  “Yes, there were a few others, some in different aisles, but I really wasn’t paying much attention.”

  “So when did you first know what was going on?”

  “Well, we heard this commotion up near the front. I was about to go and take a look when some man came around the corner. He told me it was a robbery and told us to get down. So we hid behind one of the displays.”

  “Did he say why he thought it as a robbery?”

  “No and there really was no time to ask. A moment after that is when I think Chief Taylor walked in. How is she doing? The poor thing must be going through a very tough time.”

  “She’s doing as well as can be expected.”

  “I imagine that has to be hard on a person, even when you think you are doing the right thing.”

  “Police work is never easy,” Blackshear replied. “And you had never seen this man before?”

  “No, like I told the officer he was younger than me, but he wasn’t a kid. He had that look of real fear, so I just did what he told me.”

  “So you never actually saw the suspect, correct?”

  “No,” she replied. “It seems us old people live in our own little bubble most of the time.”

  “So besides Ms. Woods, you didn’t actually recognize anyone else in the store.”

  “I’m afraid no. I wish I could be more help.”

  “No, you have been very helpful.”

  “Wait a minute. There was one other person I do recall seeing.”

  “Really? Do you remember who it was?”

  “No, I actually don’t, but she was a young girl, with blonde hair, and I remember thinking that she looked vaguely familiar. I guess that’s the teacher in me.”

  “Could it have been a student of yours?” Blackshear asked, as he made notes on a pad.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Booker replied. “Like I said, she looked familiar in that brief moment I saw her, but I couldn’t recall where I had seen her.”

  “If you had to guess how old the girl looked, could you give me an idea?”

  “Oh, young, maybe late teens, early twenties at the most,” she replied. “Like I said though, I only saw her for the briefest of moments.

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Probably not enough to help you,” she said. “She wasn’t that close. Blonde hair, cut short, with a tee shirt and jeans. What you would call your typical young girl fashion.”

  “How long have you been teaching at the school?” Blackshear asked.

  “September will be my twentieth anniversary.”

  “Okay, well if you can think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me. Even the most inconsequential thing could prove very useful to us.”

  “I will,” she replied.

  “Have a good day, Ms. Booker.”

  “You too, Captain.”

  Blackshear hung up the phone, looking down at the notepad. It might be a wild goose chase, but Penobscot wasn’t that big of a town. He reached over and picked up the phone.

  “Penobscot Police Department, Officer Simpson speaking.”

  “Abby, it’s Captain Blackshear, how are you?”

  “Doing well, sir,” she replied. “Any progress?”

  “Not much, but I have something I was hoping you guys might be able to follow up on.”

  “Sure, what do you need?”

  “One of the witnesses is a teacher over at the high school, a Ms. Booker, do you know her?”

  “She was my history teacher years ago, why?”

  “I just got off the phone with her and she recalled seeing another person in the store at the time of the robbery,” Blackshear explained. “A young girl who she thought looked familiar.”

  “You think it might have been a former student?”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” he replied. “I was wondering
if one of you guys could go over and talk to her, maybe look through some old yearbooks. She said she was in her late teens or early twenties, so it’s a small window. Besides, she might be more inclined to be chatty with a familiar face as opposed to a just-the-facts trooper.”

  “Sure thing,” Abby replied. “I’ll get someone over there right away.”

  “It might be nothing,” he said, “but at this point I’m willing to roll the dice and hope something comes up.”

  “When you have nothing, you have nothing to lose by trying,” Abby said. “I’ll call you back and let you know how we did.”

  “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alex pulled her 2006 silver Jeep Rubicon into the parking lot and turned off the engine. She lit up a cigarette, as she stared out the window; wrestling with the emotions that had haunted her since the shooting.

  How many times had she been here? she wondered. How many times had she been left to wrestle with her inner demons all alone?

  It never seemed fair.

  Most folks had someone they could reach out to; someone they could depend on to be there for them, when things in their life got out of control. Ironically, as a cop, she had spent most of her adult life being there for someone else. She was the one that the despondent turned to; when everyone else had abandoned them. She was the one that answered the last phone call they made, their last cry for help, before their fatal plunge into the abyss. She’d comforted them, wiped the tears from their cheeks, brought them back to life and sadly, in some cases, held them as their lives came to an end; so that in their final moments they were not alone. And she carried all of those memories tucked neatly away inside her.

  The worst part was that, for so many cops like her, there was no 911 for them to call. Cops were supposed to be tough, they were expected to have all the answers, but they were also not immune to the problems that everyone else faced. Sadly, too many felt that admitting they had problems was a sign of weakness; it was their kryptonite. The thought of having their guns removed and being placed on a medical leave for psychological issues was repugnant to them. It was also a stigma that never went away. No one wanted to be labeled as the one who couldn’t hack it, so many of them fought their demons in quiet solitude until they could simply no longer fight. Then, like the disconsolate civilian who feared dying alone, many of them would make their way to the one place they found safe, the police station. Whether it was in the locker room or their patrol car, they knew they would be found by a brother or a sister who would understand. If you asked, most cops could recall someone they knew who had killed themselves.