by Tom Connolly
Chapter 61
And this story from the prior week was what Officer Larry Bell was recounting for Detective Lieutenant Vito Boriello.
“Lieutenant, I hate to say it, but I think Detective John Walsh is involved in a cover-up of a murder or more,” Officer Larry Bell began. He had called Boriello the day before and asked to see him about a departmental matter that was quite serious. He needed complete confidentiality in their discussion, as he could be wrong on what he was about to tell Boriello. The Lieutenant reassured Bell.
“Let’s take a walk,” Boriello said to Bell. Boriello was never big on sitting across from anyone expecting to hear the whole truth. He found that difficult conversations always seemed easier while walking and talking. This was difficult, to be sure; a fellow officer, coming to him with some evidence of malfeasance by another officer.
They left Stamford Police Headquarters, walked up Hoyt Street to the corner of North Street and made a left, proceeding west into the afternoon sun.
“So you, Walsh and three other officers were at the Colony having a few? When was this,” Boriello asked.
“A week ago, last Friday night.”
“And here we are, a week gone by. What took you so long to come see me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Cops talk trash all the time, bullshit about their cases. But this had a ring of truth to it; it sounds real. And I remember the meanness that came over Walsh’s face when he said what he said.”
“Which was?”
Bell pulled out a small three-by-five note pad. “Here, I wrote it down afterwards, it bothered me so much. He said: “I told the fucker as he died that it was the only decent thing he’d ever done. Too bad his stupid little secret had to die with him.”
“Wait,” Boriello said, “You’re ahead of me. Who’s doing the dying and what’s the secret.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant. The murder/robbery that took place at the mall, where Walsh shot the killer. The killer’s name was Billy Stevens.”
“I remember the case very well. So what’s the secret he tells Walsh?”
“He says a friend of his, CJ Strong, is innocent of a murder charge that he’s doing twenty-five to life for it. I also went back and checked this out. CJ Strong was convicted of murdering a drug dealer on the West side about seven years ago. According to Walsh that night, Stevens confesses to Walsh that Strong didn’t commit the murder, that it was he, Stevens, who did it.” Bell paused to look at his notes. Boriello rolled what he was hearing over in his mind; what an interesting turn providence was taking. Jim Ford up at Auburn would be pleased to hear this, he thought.
Bell continued, “The part about Stevens confessing that he killed the guy Strong is serving time for is not part of the official record of Walsh’s shooting of Stevens. I checked.”
“Let’s begin from the beginning. You and the other officers are shooting the shit.” Boriello stops to give Bell room to fill in the blanks.
“Each one of us are talking about crazy collars, and Walsh comes out with this story. Says after he shot Stevens he ran up, kicked the gun out of his hand and the kid says, “You gotta help me. C.J Strong is innocent. He’s in jail. He didn’t kill anyone.” Walsh says the kid knows he’s dying and is trying to use him to relieve his sins.”
“So Stevens tells Walsh, Strong did not kill anyone?” Boriello asks.
“Yes.”
“Does he say who did?”
“Yes, like I wrote down. Stevens tells Walsh he did it.”
“Who was the other guy killed?”
“Augusto Santos. That’s who Strong is doing time for killing.”
“OK, I’m aware of that.”
“You’ve got some memory, Lieutenant, more than six years ago,” Bell said.
“Something came up recently on the same crime,” Boriello confided. Actually, Boriello found it a strange coincidence; what strange fate could possibly be bringing these two separate streams of information about Augusto Santos’ death and Curtis Strong’s innocence to the confluence of Boriello’s mind.
“Tell me, what else happened?” Boriello asked.
“At the bar or with Stevens’ confession?”
“Either one,” Boriello decided to leave it open-ended to see where this officer took it.
“Well, Walsh went on with the story, tells the kid, ‘too bad your lousy little secret’s going to die with you.’ We actually laughed; no, as I recall, I didn’t. That was when I saw the reality in it. I saw the way Walsh was telling the story. But at that point we figured that was the punch line so the laughter just came. But that wasn’t the punch line.”
Boriello grabbed his arm as they came to the corner of Summer Street. Bell started to walk out just as a car came speeding by.
“Didn’t they teach you anything at the police academy? You only cross on green. Come on, let’s cross this way, and we can get a DQ,” Boriello said and they crossed North Street to the Dairy Queen on the corner.
“What’ll you have?” the lieutenant asked the younger officer.
“Whatever you’re having,” Bell said, wondering if Boriello was believing what he was hearing. After all he was being quite casual about the whole thing, going for a walk and an ice cream. He wondered now if he had made a mistake coming forward.
“Two medium vanilla cones, dipped,” Boriello requested.
“You got it, Bud,” the enthusiastic teenaged boy behind the steel counter said. Then he added, “Whoops, sorry, Lieutenant Boriello.”
“That’s OK, Richie; just make them right,” Boriello said to Richie Pisano, who lived two blocks from Boriello and whom he was able to help out in traffic court several months earlier at the request of his mother, a high school classmate of the lieutenant.
Boriello paid, took the two cones and walked to a nearby table. “Can you grab a couple of napkins,” he said, over his shoulder, to Officer Bell.
As traffic whizzed down Summer Street, the two police officers ate their ice cream. Boriello picked up where they left off. “So what was the punch line?”
Bell looked at Boriello and was reassured by the disarming manner of the short fat cop. “Walsh said, ‘Strong did it. That’s how I got my detective shield.’”
“That’s what he said?”
“Those exact words, and he added, ‘The little shit thinks he’s gonna save his buddy’s ass now that he’s history.’ Then one of the other cops, Pete Ozowelski, asks Walsh, ‘But what if it’s true?’ Walsh starts laughing hysterically, says to Ozo, ‘After he takes the blame himself, he changes his mind. Says it was Parker Barnes.’ Ozo says, ‘Who’s that?’ Walsh laughs at Ozo and says, ‘The son of the guy who built Stamford. The son of the next senator.’ Ozo then says and he starts laughing, ‘Did he blame me?’ The guys cracked up. Walsh says, ‘Exactly. Lying through his teeth, looking to do a good deed for his friend.’ We all laughed then as Walsh makes like a judge with a gavel, slams his fist down on the table and says, ‘Case closed,’ and after a minute he adds, ‘still.’”
Boriello rose, took one last lick of his cone. He tossed his cone in the trash can; Bell who was now beside him did the same. Boriello led as they began walking back up North Street opposite of the side they walked down.
“What do you think about what you heard?” Boriello knew he was redundant, but he wanted Bell to sum it up.
“Walsh had had a few, but what he was telling us, the way he told it, I’d say it was true. There is one other thing I almost forgot. I was with Walsh the day he shot Stevens. He did save us. The kid had us pinned down, and Walsh came up from his blind side. When I went up to Walsh right after he shot him, I hear him talking to Stevens who’s dying. I asked him if he knew the kid. He said he’d ‘seen him around, he had a record, name’s Strong or something like that.’ Holy shit,” Bell said realizing for the first time why he believed what Walsh said at the Colony was true.
“That last part again. Where did that come from?”
“It was in the back of my mind. I completely forgot about
it. Maybe it was why I came forward.”
“It sounds that way to me; that’s a pretty important piece of information, a Freudian slip on the part of Walsh,” the seasoned officer said. “Let’s just keep this between you and me right now. But I’d like you to write down the whole conversation just like you told it to me.”
“Sure, Lieutenant. What’s next?”
“I’m not sure, but at some point we’ll have to go before a judge. You’ll have to testify against Walsh. Are you willing?”
“I don’t have anything against Walsh, but if it’s true then, there’s an innocent man in prison for someone else’s crime. Yes, I will testify to what I heard.”
That Friday evening Boriello phoned James Ford at his home in Auburn, New York. He relayed the whole story as Bell had told it.
“That’s it,” Ford exclaimed. “That’s the missing evidence that will free him.”
“I know. Point is, now I need to prove it.”
“You’re going to confront Walsh?” Ford asked.
“Have to. Got to get his side of it. We need to think through how we get him to confirm what he said to Bell, how we get him to confirm what the Stevens kid said to him.”
“You want some help in putting the line of questioning together.”
“No, I’ll kick it around over the weekend, and when I have it finished, I’ll go over it with you. Say Monday morning.”
“Good enough. Thanks, Vito, great work.”
“Thanks nothing. It just walked in the door. A bluebird.”
“Funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“That’s what I used to call a key piece of evidence that just appeared, just like a bluebird.”
“Maybe that’s where I got it. Your buddy Chief Brennan used to say the same thing.”
Chapter 62
“Walsh!” Boriello said to the detective as he approached his cubicle.
“What’s up, Lieutenant,” John Walsh said as he lifted his head and spied Vito Boriello.
“I need a little time to talk. What’s good for you?”
“I’m OK now. Where?”
“My office.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Walsh said somewhat puzzled since, while he knew Boriello, they were not working together on any case. Maybe, Walsh thought, since the Lieutenant was retiring, it was about his position. Something that Walsh saw himself ready for.
Walsh walked into Boriello’s office, and Boriello motioned with his head in a way that said, “Shut the door.”
“I’m working on an aspect of an old case of yours, and I have a few questions.”
“Sure, which case?”
“Curtis Strong.”
“OK, which one?”
“Which one?” Boriello repeated back to Walsh.
“Yeah, I had two. The father or the son.”
“The son,” Boriello said, getting it. But then he added, “Maybe you could tell me about both. Kind of strange to have had major cases with both a father and a son.”
“Strange as hell, Lieutenant,” Walsh said, now a little suspicious that Boriello knew they were both major cases. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“No, not right now,” Boriello decided he would not put Walsh at ease, not yet. “Just tell me about the cases, beginning with the oldest one.”
“The father, Curtis Strong Sr.,” Walsh began, and finding himself ill at ease, proceeded cautiously. “There was an argument in a pool hall on the West Side. A bunch of guys had been drinking. We were on drug patrol. Came into a situation that escalated quickly. Strong had a friend who got belligerent, made a move on me and my partner. I pulled my gun, Strong stepped in closer. I fired. He went down. Dead at the scene,” he paused. Then began, “The son, he...”
“Hold up. Before we get to the son, “Boriello said
“Yes”
“Well, I know this is a long time ago, but why’d you pull your gun in that situation?”
“Self-defense.”
“Had Strong or his friend touched you?”
“No, Lieutenant,” Walsh said through teeth clenched in a tightened jaw. “Hey, what’s this about? I was cleared of that.”
“I’m curious. Why’d you fire?”
“I saw Strong’s friend as a threat. Strong came even closer. It was dark; there were a lot of guys in the shadows. It got out of hand pretty fast. It was an accident,” Walsh said, now sweating profusely from his forehead.
“OK, thanks. Now tell me about the son’s case.”
“Completely different. No link at all. Just weird fate to have caught both cases.”
“Tell me about it,” Boriello said, pushing away from the desk, hands behind his head.
“Two of my guys picked it up when a drug dealer got knifed.”
“Your guys?”
“We didn’t have a sergeant in homicide then; I was acting.”
“Didn’t you make it right around that time, detective sergeant?”
“Yes,” Walsh felt fear. There was a man leaning back in his chair with a fat belly sticking out who knew something and wasn’t saying what it was. He had to be careful. Something wasn’t right. He was being asked all these questions, and he didn’t like the course of discussion. He would play along but only for a little while longer.
“OK, so your two guys,” and Boriello emphasized “your,” “they draw the case and what about it.”
“Well, as you said, I made detective sergeant shortly after this case and Strong’s conviction. I knew I was up for it. So I watched cases like this very closely, evidence chain of custody, forensics, crime scene thoroughness, witnesses interviews, meetings with DA, witness preparation, you name it, I was bird dogging this case. It was one of the first murder cases I was acting sergeant on.”
“So you would have worked on witness preparation with the DA before going to the stand?”
“I already said that. Yes, I wanted to make sure we crossed every t and dotted every i.”
“And you had to make sure they got the facts right, I mean, what they witnessed?”
“Yes. In this case, there was just one witness who saw Strong clearly, saw him stab the guy.”
“Now, as part of my research, I talked with the witness and she said she recognized Strong from the neighborhood, but she never really did see him stab anyone. She said he was in the alleyway, and she could see the two men, one lying on the ground, which was why she called out.”
“That’s not what she said to me, and that’s not what she said on the stand to the jury.”
“Well, that’s another problem. You see, it seems like the jury got worked over too.”
“Stop right there, Lieutenant. No one got worked over, and if anyone is telling you this, they’re full of shit. We went by the book. This was a simple case of robbery/murder. Cut and dry.”
“Tell me, detective,” Boriello said, “did you or your guys think that Strong could be innocent? That he was telling the truth? “
“Why? Why would I think that? He did it. All the evidence pointed to him. His thumb print, the bloody sneaker in his room, an eye witness who testified under oath it was Strong she saw stab Santos. Why would I think Strong was telling the truth? That’s his attorney’s job.”
“And how about his attorney, do you think he gave him good representation?”
“He didn’t say much. Hell, what could he say, we had his client dead to right,” Walsh said, gaining confidence, enough now to go on the offensive. “All right, Lieutenant, now it’s time for you to answer a few questions.”
“I’m not through.”
“I’m through talking until you tell me what the hell this is about,” Walsh said, sitting forward and about to rise from the chair.
“Tell me about the Stevens shooting.”
“No, you tell me what the hell this is about.”
“It’s about too many coincidences. I need you to help me sort these out. First the two Strongs and then Stevens. All three major cases, all three involvin
g deaths, all three related to the Strongs.”
“Billy Stevens was a murderer, and I took him down—another department commendation for that and for protecting my fellow officers who were in danger from Stevens.”
“And what, if anything, did Stevens say to you after he was shot.”
“Nothing. Two shots and dead.”
“What did he say to you about Curtis Strong?”
Walsh grew red in his big Irish face. Inside the red was fire. He could pick this fat little man up and crush him. Who was he to question me about getting the scum of the earth off the streets of Stamford?
“Whose side are you on? What’s going on here? Do I need representation?” Walsh said, breaking a bit.
“If you feel you do, by all means, that is up to you. But I’ve been told that there is an innocent man in Auburn Federal Prison. Can you help me out here?” Boriello said, trying to give Walsh an opportunity to tell the truth.
“Sorry, Lieutenant, but I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“What if I told you that Curtis Strong is innocent? That the person who killed Augusto Santos is not Curtis Strong, but Billy Stevens. And what if I also told you that you are aware of this.”
“You’ve got some rich imagination, Lieutenant.”
“I’ve also got two witnesses that say you know this.”
“And who might they be, members of the Strong family.”
“No, members of our family.”
“Cops. No way.”
“You can do this the easy way or we can take it the next step.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m telling you what is going to happen next. Nothing is set in concrete yet. But when this conversation is over, I’ll be thanking you for your assistance or reading you your rights.”
Walsh was done in. The anger subsided, the rage calmed and strangely the fear was gone. “Yes, Lieutenant, Stevens did tell me that he killed Santos. I didn’t believe him. I thought it was just a ploy to get his buddy out of jail.”