Murder in the North Tower

by Greg Smith

  “Well, I’m gonna do it. With you or without you.”

  In the end, Aleks did it without Step. Who, the older twin soon realized, would never have survived in the dog-eat-dog environment of the Stock Exchange.

  Aleks secured a summer internship as a floor clerk with a small brokerage firm. He was to spend twelve weeks on the floor running orders to TGS Securities brokers.

  At first, he relished it. From the opening bell, to the closing bell, it was six-and-a-half hours of near bedlam. Everything he’d dreamed it would be. Frantic. Energetic. Raucous. He was rubbing shoulders with seasoned agents. Thrown in amid frenzied floor traders. Type A’s who twitched with anticipation over the next transaction. Buy or sell, it didn’t matter. They were addicted to the action.

  Step thought Aleks had lost sight of their dream. In addition, he felt his brother’s obsession with the NYSE bordered on addiction. Aleks ignored the criticism. He loved The Pit. For weeks, he lived, ate and breathed the NYSE.

  About a month-and-a-half into his internship, Aleks felt he was ready to be more than a messenger. He was confident about his perception of how the market worked. How to buy and sell, how to trade. He believed he was ready to be a trader, was anxious to test himself. However, he didn’t have his broker’s license. He couldn’t legally buy. Couldn’t sell. Couldn’t handle transactions.

  TGS Securities provided a solution to his dilemma the day the firm hired Tony “Oak” Kowalski.

  Tony was a strapping ex-college football player from Iowa with an unusual combination of intimidating size, boyish demeanor and a cannon of a voice. He was also highly intelligent. A Rhodes scholar. People couldn’t help but notice him. All liked him instantly.

  Aleks met the large man when the TGS staff took Tony out for a traditional drink after his rookie day on the job. The first thing anyone noticed about Tony Kowalski was his size. The man was enormous. Six-foot-seven, maybe eight. Closer to three hundred than two hundred pounds.

  The small group of employees convened at a downtown bar. The company’s big shots excused themselves after the second round, headed off to dinner with an elite client. The remaining staff members hung around for another round. Less than two hours after arriving, Aleks returned from the men’s room to find TGS’s newest employee guarding a pitcher of beer. The large man handed Aleks a tall glass of the same.

  “Enough of that corporate bullshit. I’m ready to pound some fucking beer! Na zdrowie (Nah • droh • vee • ay)!” Tony roared, tapping his pitcher against Aleks’s glass, drinking directly from the large container.

  He wiped a sleeve across his mouth.

  “Papa Osky taught me to drink like that. He always drank his beer straight from the pitcher. Said it saves time refilling little glasses.”

  He yelled for a bartender, ordered another round.

  “Papa Osky was a great man. A very large man. I take after him. Hell, I’m named after him.”

  Aleks was confused.

  “I thought your name’s ‘Tony.’”

  The large man stopped drinking long enough to explain.

  “My full name is Oskar Antoni Kowalski. Oskar with a ‘k’. No disrespect to Papa, but ‘Osky’ is not the moniker I want to be known as in business circles. I’ve gone by ‘Tony’ ever since I graduated high school. From my middle name, which is after my Grampa Novak. On my mother’s side.”

  He raised a new pitcher, gazed skyward, toasted his grandfathers.

  “Na zdrowie!” he roared a second time, drained a third of the pitcher.

  “But you can call me ‘Oak.’ That’s what everyone’s called me since grade school.”

  Aleks’s first thought was that the name “Oak” made sense. The large man was as big and strong as an oak tree. He then cleverly realized Oskar Antoni Kowalski’s initials were O.A.K. Oak. Nice coincidence.

  “Because your initials are O.A.K.,” he smiled smugly at his new friend.

  “Because I’m big and strong as an oak tree,” Oak corrected, thumping his chest. “I was six-foot tall by sixth grade. No one in Story County wanted to line up on the other side of the line of scrimmage from this guy.”

  He guzzled more beer.

  “And because my initials are O.A.K.,” he added, with a wink and a laugh.

  The night ended several beers later.

  Aleks and Oak quickly became drinking pals. Meeting almost nightly for an alcoholic beverage or two. Or three. Aleks was amazed at the amount of beer the large man could consume.

  Though he genuinely did like Oak, Aleks had an ulterior motive for befriending the large man. As smart as Oak was, Aleks had noticed that TGS Securities’ newest employee wasn’t quick to react in the fast-paced atmosphere of the floor. The large man-boy was like a lost kitten playing in rush-hour traffic. Shortly after they became friends, Aleks began helping Oak negotiate bids. With Aleks setting the prices, Oak using his large presence and booming voice to command attention, finalize transactions, the two quickly became a lethal combination. Working in tandem, they were soon making small fortunes for clients. Larger fortunes for their employer. For which they netted significant commissions. The arrangement allowed Aleks to reap the big bucks the traders were hauling in. Without the requisite broker’s license.

  Aleks used his earnings to pay off a significant portion of his college debt. Oak, however, had been a scholarship athlete. He had no college loans. What he had was a penchant for alcohol. Entertainment. Women. He squandered his money frivolously on all three. Aleks often reminded his large friend that he could have eliminated his college debt altogether – and purchased a practical car – with the money Oak had frittered away. Mostly on immoral excess.

  Oak couldn’t understand his new friend’s commitment to convention. His desire for a marriage. A mortgage. A mainstream lifestyle. The large man maintained a joie-de-vivre philosophy. A carpe diem mindset.

  If Aleks’s summer on the floor helped him realize anything, however, it was that floor trading was not the career for him. Despite the financial enticement. Being a floor trader meant giving everything over to the life-force, the essence that was the New York Stock Exchange. While he enjoyed the action, he knew he could never commit to the wholesale obligation. Drinking after hours with the same people he’d just spent an entire workday with. Spending whole weekends barbequing, socializing – even vacationing – with those same people. Talking nonstop about the market. Analyzing. Reanalyzing. Overanalyzing. Every deal. Every trade. Every transaction. Aside from Oak, there wasn’t a single person Aleks had met at TGS, or the Exchange, he wished to spend that much time with.

  He was glad when summer was over, classes resumed.

  With his internship in The Pit completed, fall classes in session, Aleks abandoned thoughts of becoming a floor trader. He buckled down, once again, to the task of completing his college education.

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 26

 

  Sunday, September 30: Day 19 post-9/11

  By the end of September, New York City was deeply immersed in cleaning up the spoilage of 9/11. Three weeks in and The Pile had been reduced by 100,000 tons. A mere five percent of the estimated 1.8 million that would eventually be removed.

  100,000 tons. Of drywall. Of wood. Of metal. Steel. Aluminum. Of wire and cable.

  Of human flesh and bone.

  Pieces parts of what had been human beings anyway.

  The jogger remembered how comforting it had been to unbury an item recognizable as something whole. Something tangibly human. An eyeglass case. Dented. Dusty. Besmudged. But with eyeglasses miraculously intact. Nesting innocently inside on their silk-lining bed. Oblivious to the destruction they’d survived. Unaware that the hands of their owner would never again reach for them. Never again place them upon resting ledges of ears and nose. Unaware that the eyes of their owner would never again peer through their lenses. Ever dependent on them for the gift of clear vision.

  Said eyes having been squished like
grapes. Liquefied. Pureed, the jogger had thought gruesomely, giddily.

  Before telling himself to stop.

  The three weeks following September 11th had been a slow dance of monotonous repetition. With the exception of the day he’d spent stopping by the apartments, visiting Prospect Park and Kensington, the jogger had devoted nearly every waking hour of those weeks to The Pile. Functioning as one component of the human pipeline channeling remnants of what had been human, structure and machine from Ground Zero to awaiting vessels. While he’d been physically present, mentally he’d been far, far away.

  He’d been reliving his past. Reviewing his life span. Evaluating his time line. He’d been back in the Kensington neighborhood of his youth. The Midwood High School of his teens. He’d returned to NYU. Gone back to The Pit. He’d been enjoying friends and family. Re-experiencing life with Binyak. Nene. Baba.

  And Jills.

  He’d been anywhere that wasn’t that mountain of human death and destruction. That heap of human savagery. Of human misery. Anywhere but where one man’s religion-fueled hatred for another man had erupted in a display of bloodthirsty self-righteousness.

  After nearly three weeks, the jogger was on the verge of quitting.

  Then he met Sheila Cahill.

  Like thousands of other volunteers, policeman, firefighters, curious New Yorkers and visitors to Ground Zero, the jogger often found himself drawn to St. Paul’s Chapel. The 235-year old structure on Church Street opposite the east side of the World Trade Center. St. Paul’s had miraculously survived the collapse of the Twin Towers without suffering even a single broken pane of glass. Closed to the public so it could operate as a full-time relief site, the church had quickly become a sanctuary for rescue workers and volunteers. Its doors were open around the clock to provide food and respite for Ground Zero workers.

  The ancient iron gates and wrought-iron fence surrounding the church grounds had become a spontaneous memorial. A makeshift shrine where visitors placed flowers, photos, banners, posters, personalized t-shirts, flags, letters, religious items, other mementos.

  The jogger not only ate and slept at St. Paul’s on occasion, but prayed and grieved there as well. He drew comfort and strength from the historic sanctuary that had become a symbol of hope and faith for rescue workers. After a long day on The Pile, his visits to St. Paul’s restored his conviction that humans, while capable of inflicting the most heinous of cruelties upon each other, were mostly good.

  The jogger often found himself working on The Pile one instant, standing in the food line at St. Paul’s the next. As though he’d been miraculously teleported. He would simply blank out while working, return to reality while awaiting food or surveying the shrines. Retaining no memory of how he’d gotten from one site to the other.

  He spent hours perusing the thousands of pictures, cards, notes, banners, messages and personal items left on display at the church. Was drawn to the individual stories of victims as they were remembered by their families.

  The day he met Sheila Cahill was a day like any other. It’s only other significance that it was the last day of a month every citizen of New York City couldn’t wait to tear off their wall calendar.

  He’d grabbed something to drink, had found a place to sit, force a meal down his throat. He didn’t enjoy the food. Or the experience of eating. Hadn’t since his first day on The Pile. Food had no taste. Or, rather, tasted like ash. Everything smelled – and tasted – like ash. He ate only because he knew he had to in order to maintain his strength and energy.

  He’d finished his meal. Had meandered outside to view the shrine. He was quietly moving from one picture to the next. Secretly yearning to find Binyak’s face. Desperately knowing he wouldn’t. Who, besides himself, would have created a poster?

  As he stood before a random memorial to a young fireman, a female voice sounded from behind him.

  “That’s my–my–my-Mikey.”

  The jogger turned to see a brown-haired woman approaching. The woman walked up to the picture of the handsome young firefighter, touched it affectionately. She struggled to find words.

  “He’s…Mikey was my, uh…he was my little bruh–brother. And…and…and he was…he was my best friend,” she sobbed. “He…he’s in there.”

  Without turning to look, she pointed a hand over one shoulder toward Ground Zero.

  “And–and my husband. Juh–uh…John. He’s in there, too. They’re buh…uh…both dead.”

  Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes, spilled over the walls of her lower lids. The tall man gazed at the picture of the brother. Mikey. He was good-looking. Clean-shaven. Youthful. An FDNY poster boy. Next to Mikey’s was the picture of an older, red-headed fireman with a generous mustache. The jogger assumed he must be John. The woman’s husband. John was a hard-looking man. Serious.

  “They haven’t found either of them. I–I don’t think they will. They…they…they’ve been…pulverized,” the woman stammered.

  She suddenly collapsed against the jogger. Startled, the tall man hesitantly put an arm around her, steadied her as she wept. He held her lightly at first, then closer. Tighter. With both arms. Tears flowed down his face as the two shared the moment of grief.

  He didn’t know how long they’d held the embrace before the woman broke it. Pulling away, she mopped up her tears with the sleeve of one arm, sniffled, composed herself.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No need,” the jogger whispered softly. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

  The brown-haired woman returned her gaze to the picture of the FDNY poster boy.

  “Mikey always wanted to be a fireman. His whole damned life he wanted to be a fireman.”

  She sobbed, suddenly shouted at the picture.

  “Goddam you and your wanting to be a fireman, Mikey!”

  She slumped against the jogger once again. An average-sized woman, her head came only to his chest. She grasped his shirt with both hands, submerged her face in an ocean of flannel. As he had before, the jogger held her. Moments later, the brown-haired woman surfaced. She found herself face-to-face with the tall stranger’s ID tag. Saw, with a sliver of something she used to call surprise, that he was from Wisconsin.

  These days, nothing surprised her.

  “Oshkosh,” she whispered faintly, as she finished wiping away all evidence of her second wave of weeping.

  She pulled away, looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

  “Pulaski,” she mumbled.

  The tall man thought the woman may have mistaken him for someone else. Or, he considered, might be telling him her last name.

  “Iowa County. The fighting Red Raiders,” the woman said, holding up both fists in an old-fashioned boxing pose, aping the Red Raiders’ mascot.

  The tall stranger responded with a grunt. In his pre-9/11 days, he may have found the brown-haired woman attractive. Cute, at the very least. For a thirty-something mommy/wifey type. He might even have thought she was perky. Sparkly.

  Grief had taken the spark from her eyes. Which were brown. And sad.

  9/11 had changed everything.

  “It’s my hometown, Oshkosh,” the woman said, flicking his name tag with the back of one hand. “Pulaski, I mean. It’s a small farming community a coupla hours southwest of Madison. Ha. Aren’t they all, though? Small farming communities. Or medium farming communities. Or large farming communities,” she babbled.

  She bit her lower lip, stuck her right hand out rigidly.

  “Sheila Cahill.”

  The tall stranger considered the proffered hand. As though he was unaware of the custom of grasping it. Shaking it. Sheila Cahill waited a moment, gave up on him, lowered her hand. Just as the tall man slowly began extending his own. He’d had every intention of accepting the brown-haired woman’s hand. She just hadn’t waited long enough.

  “Well,” Sheila said, with some embarrassment. “Sorry for blubbering all over your nice flannel shirt, Oshkosh. I suppose I, uh, I should get back to my, uh…to-t
o the, uh…to volunteering.”

  She smiled sadly, turned to go. She turned back. When she heard him softly clear his throat.

  “Pulaski,” he uttered in a hoarse whisper. “When you first said it, I thought you’d mistaken me for someone else. Then, I thought you might be telling me your last name.”

  A smile attempted to break out of the prison of his grim face.

  “Sheila Pulaski,” the brown-haired woman considered. “Has a nice ring to it.”

  I could be Sheila Pulaski. Anyone but…

  She just didn’t want to be Sheila Cahill. Widow. Single mother. Grieving big sister. Grieving wife. Not any longer.

  The woman suddenly realized that Russell Kummerhall from Oshkosh, Wisconsin, had probably known someone who’d died in the Towers. She’d been so selfishly absorbed in her own grief she hadn’t considered why he would be at the shrine.

  “Did, uh…did you lose someone, Oshkosh? Your….uh…your wife?”

  The tall man peered up to the sky, took a deep breath.

  “My bruh-…uh. Luh…like you. My brother.”

  He lowered her gaze to hers.

  “My…my Binyak.”

  An avalanche of tears rolled down his face. He made no effort to swipe them away.

  “Was he a…a first responder?” Sheila asked.

  “No… He…uh, Binyak was working that morning. In the North Tower.”

  Tears continued to drop like boulders from his tired, red-rimmed eyes.

  “Oh, I’m so very sorry for you. Mikey and-and John. They were in the…uh...they were in the North Tower, too.”

  She practically leapt at him, hugged him tightly. They embraced another minute. And then, like two strangers who’d inadvertently glanced sideways at one another while idling at a red traffic light, had momentary made eye contact before the light changed, they pulled away. Went back to doing whatever it was they’d been doing. Before stopping at that random intersection of Happenstance and Chance.

  • • • • •