City of Woe

by Christopher Ryan

  Danvers raised his eyebrows. “Possible, but it presents problems for the 4-5 guys who are staking out DeLillo’s. With this guy’s track record so far for staying at scenes and causing more harm, he could still be there, waiting to pick them off. Better call and let them know what this guy is capable of.” He turned to Gunner. “What else can we work on?”

  “Local high schools. I’ll call them; see who had a rugby team in the 70s. If I get a hit, I start talking to veteran teachers about a former student nicknamed Dante.”

  “Let’s keep this moving, gentlemen,” Danvers nodded, then sighed deeply at the thick file. “At least we have interesting reading for the PC.”

  Gunner called all the detectives in the squad room together, made a show of proving they hadn’t been shot by Danvers, then Mallory divied up the remaining assignments. Tizzie and his partner would supervise the last of the hotel interviews. Jacobi and her partner would hand deliver, and press the lab guys to prioritize running the prints on the Farrington index cards and Maria Tallarico’s print on Mallory’s card. A couple of other detectives would round-up the morgue and Crime Scene reports. Once they were all gone, Mallory and Gunner worked the phones.

  Mallory handled the stake out detail, contacting Sergeant Gabriel Conroy, the ornery C.O. of the 45th Precinct’s Detective Squad.

  “Sergeant, this is Detective Frank Mallory of the—”

  “I know who you are,” Sergeant Conroy cut him off. “You and your partner are the Manhattan screw ups who left all that bullshit for my guys to mop up. Hold on.”

  Across the pushed-together desks, Gunner applied his best retired altar boy voice on Hanna, the principal’s secretary at St. Raymond’s High School. “Great to hear you’re so dedicated to helping the NYPD there Hanna. Too bad you’re unsure about the rugby. Now, what I need is to speak with anyone who was teaching English back in the mid-to-late 70s. … Brother Beckett would be our best bet? Great. … But he’s dead 12 years now? Okay. Anyone else you might be able to think of?”

  After long minutes of waiting, the sergeant came back on the line. “You still there?”

  Mallory remained pleasant. He could not afford to piss this guy off, or, more correctly, to piss him off any further. “I understand your frustration, Sarge, and I agree with you. But please understand that the perp attacked us.”

  “Sucks to be you. Hold on.”

  Gunner moved on to Cardinal Spellman, and Hanna’s counterpart there, Alice Beechers. “That’s right, Alice, an English teacher … no, he doesn’t have to coach rugby. He needs to have taught there in the ‘70s. … Yes, it is a tall order. … No, a more recent teacher won’t help us, but thanks for offering.”

  After an even longer wait, Sergeant Conroy was back and less patient than ever. “Sorry, we’re busy over here. Overburdened, you might say. Huge mess earlier today jammed us up something awful. What else did you want?”

  Mallory tried to spin the conversation to a more positive tone. “Actually, I’m just calling to update our suspect’s behavior patterns for those on the stakeout. Your squad is really helping us out with this; the least we can do is tell you that the perp has been known to linger in the area of his crimes, or double back seeking to do more damage.”

  Mallory heard the sergeant release a snide chuckle before answering. “You hit us with a DOA, numerous injuries, and a traumatized businessman, plus a related ton of paper work, and you have the nerve to put my guys in danger?”

  The click made it clear Mallory wasn’t on hold this time.

  Gunner dialed Mount St. Michael High School, getting the principal himself, a Brother John Geller. Gruff and forceful, the holy man didn’t even let Gunner finish his initial pitch. “—Detective, put your request in writing and we’ll have our archivist, retired Brother Gilliam, look into it.”

  Mallory had to swallow his pride and call back. Conroy wasted no time. “You’re a persistent little bastard aren’t ya?”

  “Sarge, I know we left your men holding the bag up there. I’m just doing what I can to help, that’s all.”

  “Wait.”

  Mallory couldn’t believe it. At least this time he was just on hold.

  Fordham Prep’s assistant principal, a Father Jonathan Carry, actually shocked Gunner. “You’ve got your man, detective. I taught religion and English throughout the 70s.”

  “You’re shitting — kidding me, Father.”

  The priest chuckled. “I’m not doing either. What can I help you with?”

  “Uh, um, well, shot in the dark here, Father, but did your school have a rugby team back then?”

  “Yes, and we still do.”

  “Would you possibly remember a student from that era, probably a bit of a character, loved music and literature, could quote lots of it, the other students nicknamed him Dante?”

  “That would be Bryan Josephs, one of my all-time favorite students.”

  Mallory thought about hanging up this time. Just as he was getting ready to do so, he heard a telltale click. “Manhattan, you still there?”

  “Yeah, like I was saying—” Mallory started, but pulled up short, swearing he heard a chuckle.

  “Hold on.”

  On his line, Father Carry broke another long silence, “Still there, detective?”

  “Yeah, Father. Are you saying you actually remember him? That far back?”

  Father Carry chuckled. “I spoke to him on the phone last week. We have maintained a relationship over the years.”

  “Yeah? Why a relationship with him, Father?”

  The priest’s voice grew softer. “That’s part of my job, detective. We saw Bryan was having, ah, difficulties in his sophomore year, and I was assigned to help him through them. But it became steadily worse, so I stayed involved. I can tell you he hasn’t worked in years. Still lives with his mother, whose health is failing.”

  “Can you take us to him, Father? We need to ask him some questions about, well, frankly, about a series of murders. You’d ease the way for us considerably.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Sergeant Conroy coughed into the phone. It sounded suspiciously like he was trying to cover a nasty laugh. “Hold on,” he coughed again, then kept Mallory waiting for another two minutes before hearing him come back with yet another snide chuckle. “You still on the case there, Detective?”

  Mallory dropped the patient act. “Why am I getting dicked around here, Sarge?”

  “Hey. We’re just busy up here. Working. Doing your job for you.” Cough, cough, snicker, snicker.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Took us about an hour on stakeout to spot him. A couple of our guys brought him in, easy as passing wind. He fits the description you gave perfectly. The right height, weight, complexion. Allman Brothers baseball cap. Aviator shades. Had index cards in his possession like the one found under the wiper blade of the stolen vehicle. Only problem is,” — cough, snicker, snicker, cough — “he’s still got his longish dirty blond hair. Didn’t you find that in the street?”

  “Is he — did he — was there any—”

  “What we don’t understand is why you and your partner got jammed up so badly with this guy. Your suspect was taken into custody without fight, without gunfire, manslaughter, or carnage of any kind. We got him.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mallory lowered the phone so slowly, he attracted Gunner’s attention. “What’sa matter?” Gunner asked.

  “They got him.”

  Gunner asked Father Carry to wait one second, covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Who got who?”

  “The 4-5 guys. They picked up Dante.”

  Gunner was back on the phone. “Father? What are the chances of modifying that favor, say, to right now?”

  An hour later, the detectives and Father Carry, a small, bookish man with oily white hair combed over flat, wearing boxy gold-framed glasses, and the traditional black suit of a Jesuit priest, were met with jeers as they entered the wide lobby of the 45th Precinct in the Throgs Neck
section of The Bronx, 22 blocks up from Westchester Square.

  A plain clothes cop, maybe a detective, spotted them first. “Here comes Manhattan,” he said, grinning. “Good thing you brought a priest; might need Last Rites after dealing with this wild man of yours.”

  “No wonder you mutts had so much trouble wit’em,” a uniform laughed.

  The desk sergeant, not Conroy, put an end to the cracks, loudly. “Secure that before you find yourself on straight midnights.” To Mallory, Gunner, and Father Carry, he spoke in a neutral voice. “Sorry, fellas, some of our men are still sore about the Westchester Square mess. He’s in the squad room, through there, make a right, go upstairs and to your right again.”

  They followed his instructions, then the sound of loud voices to the detective’s squad room.

  “Keep yourself quiet there, or we’ll do it for you!”

  “INEEDtowriteIneedtowriteRIGHTnowIneedtowrite.”

  “I said—”

  Mallory and Gunner’s entrance stopped a large detective in mid-swing. The fist was aimed at a tall, thin, scared man in his 40s who was handcuffed to an iron bar that ran along one wall beside old gray metal seats, also chained to the wall. Atop a nearby desk were the disheveled man’s Allman Brothers baseball hat, aviator shades, a small stack of index cards, and four pens, all Bic, all black.

  Mallory took one look at this guy and his stomach tightened as if he was going to retch. The man was taller, thinner, blonder, weaker than he should have been.

  The handcuffed man saw Father Carry behind them, and leapt out of his chair as best he could. “Father!ThisisthetimeIwrite! Ishouldbewritingnow! RightnowIshouldbe writing! TellthempleaseFather. TellthemIwritenow!”

  “We know you write, you lunatic, but you aren’t getting anything until you give up a statement,” a tall, meaty guy threatened. The four others in the room seemed to defer to him. Sergeant Conroy.

  Gunner spoke directly to him. “Sergeant, I’m Detective Gennaro. You Mirandarize this guy already?”

  “Of course.”

  “IwritenowIwritenow.”

  “On what charges?”

  “RightnowIwriteIneedtowriterightnow.”

  “We charged him on everything that happened today, with acknowledgement that he would probably be facing additional charges once you got here. But he went all Rain Man on us.”

  “IwritenowIwritenowIwritenowIwritenowNOW.”

  Father Carry approached the desk bearing the man’s possessions. “May I?”

  Sergeant Conroy shook his head. “With all due respect, Father, do you really know what you are dealing with here?”

  “NowIwriteNowIwriteNowIwrite.”

  Dark tones peaked out from under Father Carry’s response. “Emphatically.”

  Conroy raised his hands in surrender, sat back to watch the show. His detectives did the same. Father Carry took two pens and the index cards over to the man. He stepped to him, placed the cards in his right, handcuffed, hand, and the pens in his left.

  Instantly, the man’s left hand, holding the pens, shot up to Father Carry’s neck.

  Sergeant Conroy, the other 4-5 detectives, Mallory, and Gunner all tensed, some moving hands to their guns, others to grab the suspect.

  Father Carry just closed his eyes and smiled, accepting his former student’s soft, one-handed embrace. The man simply cradled the priest’s neck, pressing his forehead against Father’s. “ThankyouFatherthankyouthankyou. NowIcanwrite. I will write now.”

  And he did. First he scribbled furiously, squeezing too many cramped words onto each line. The cops relaxed, watched as the priest murmured encouragement. Within a few minutes, the writing slowed, the words became legible, and the man began to hum to himself a tune that sounded vaguely familiar to Mallory.

  Father Carry pulled up a chair opposite the man, their knees almost touching. He patted his shoulder, chuckled softly. “Crazy day, huh?”

  The man spoke from a distant place, breathy, almost dreamlike. “Yeahhhh, crazy day. The police swooped in like on television. It was cool … until they swooped on me. That was scary.” His writing sped up for a few seconds then slowed again. He never took his eyes off his work, filling in card after card. Always the front, only the front, Mallory noted.

  The priest’s voice was soothing and supportive, but carried an undertone of authority. “Bryan, do you know why the police swooped?”

  Bryan’s hands were lined, age starting to make its presence known. “Yeahhhh, the index card store guy got upset with me again. But I was good this time. Promise. I just walked in and said, ‘Hello, may I go get my cards?’ and he yelled some words I didn’t understand and dove under the counter. I looked around and said, ‘Hey, what happened to your candy shelves?’ And that’s when I saw all the cops running toward the store. I told the index card store guy, ‘Hey, don’t worry. Help is coming.’ And then the cops threw me down. I told them, I said, ‘Hey, I’m okay! I’m okay! Help my friend back there!’ Then they brought me here and didn’t let me buy any cards. Father, what if I run out? I have to write now. ThisisthetimeIwrite!”

  “I know, I know,” Father Carry soothed. He took a wrapped deck of index cards from his jacket pocket. “Look.”

  “Cooool.” Bryan Josephs smiled now, not quite looking at the deck, but definitely seeing it. He kept writing, the pace even slower now, the words more relaxed.

  Mallory recognized the handwriting.

  “You went to the store for me?” Bryan asked Father Carry.

  “Is that the only place you can get these cards?”

  Bryan smiled, crow’s feet crinkled up the corners of his eyes. His hair line was faltering, reminding Mallory that despite his almost child-like, sing-song voice, this man and he were about the same age. “Only place to buy them. Not only place to get them.”

  “Where else can you get them, Bryan?”

  “Your office. Second drawer, right hand side, front left corner.” Bryan looked directly at Father Carry. “Thank you, Father. It’s been such a huge hassle today. I’m not sure what’s going on. Must’ve freaked out a little.”

  “I know, I know. Completely understandable.”

  “These guys, these cops, they think I’m some sort of bad guy.” He started writing on a fresh index card.

  Mallory read it, again upside down: the chorus to Dylan’s “It Ain’t Me, Babe.”

  Bryan wrote without looking at the cards. Instead he kept his eyes on the priest. “Can you help me figure this out, Father? I’m not a bad guy. I’m not all I was gonna be, but I’m not being dragged before Minos either.”

  Mallory couldn’t help himself. “Minos?”

  The priest answered without looking. “The demon charged with assigning which level of Hell each damned soul is sent to for all of eternity.”

  Now Gunner couldn’t help himself. “Demon?”

  The priest chuckled. “Of the literary variety, detective. You did say Bryan’s nickname was Dante, yes?”

  Bryan laughed at this. “Dante! That was such a long time ago. Why do people keep bringing that up today?”

  Father Carry saw his student was running out of cards. He opened the new pack, slipped a stack under the last few Bryan had on his lap. “Who else brought that name up to you recently, Bryan?”

  “My friend.”

  “I like that you have friends. Where did you see this friend?”

  “At the show. The Who, baby! We talked and talked before Robert Plant came on. And before The Who came to tear the roof off the mother! They were soooooooooo cool!”

  “What friend? I thought you went to shows alone?”

  “Only time I leave the neighborhood. Doctor says it’s good for me to be independent, but I don’t like to leave Ma like that. And plus, the trains never come on time. Theyshouldalwayscomeontime.” Bryan’s writing sped up again. This time, Mallory noted, it was the lyrics to Dylan’s “Slow Train Coming”. The writing remained fast for a while before he relaxed.

  The priest waited until Bryan’s pa
ce slowed before he asked again. “If you went alone, who was your friend?”

  “He’s a new friend. Met him at the show. Sat next to him. He liked that I wrote, and asked me when I started using the cards. I told him way back in school, to remember cool lit passages, and songs, of course. Told me his name was Luke. Said it was a nickname. Asked if I had nicknames. That’s how ‘Dante’ came up. He didn’t remember, so I reminded him about The Inferno. He remembered lots of cool details after awhile. We even labeled those annoying guys in front of us, called them pre-level opportunists. You see? Dante wrote not just about Hell, but about the world he saw, commented on it like I do in the cards. My new friend asked if he could be like Dante too, so I told him the only place to buy them, which made him laugh. Then I gave him some cards to write on, I brought extra that night, loads and loads, because I wanted to remember every moment of Plant, and The Who, baby!”

  A change came over Bryan all at once, a panic, and a sorrow. “But I didn’t get to keep them. Not that show. Notthatshow. Theboyruinedeverything. Peopleknockedmedownandthecardsmycardsmywritinggone. Wholeshowmemoriesgone. Ineedtowritenow. Ineedtowritenow. RightnowWritenow.”

  Bryan began writing quickly again. Mallory reeled as he read what was written:

  They gather in the dark, beckoning the gods of noise

  and love and power to help us ascend once more.

  They gather in the dark, beckoning the gods of noise

  and love and power to help us ascend once more.

  Mallory held a hand up. “Bryan, do you remember what happened to the cards you wrote at the concert?”

  “Disappeared,” Bryan said.

  “How?”

  “Roger Daltrey was saying he’d kick the boy’s ass. ‘Arse’, he said. The boy left. There was a tug, and they were gone.”

  “I thought you said you were pushed, or fell.”

  “All three, actually. It went: tug, push, fall. Then my cards were gone. And my pants got wet from beer on the floor. Not cool at all.”