Absolution

by Henry Hack

  “And who is your new employer?” John asked.

  “The same one who could be yours John, or yours Richie, or yours my loyal sergeants, if you join me walking out the door. Would you care to hear the details?”

  When I finished giving them the lowdown of the opportunity that lay ahead of them, and answered all their questions, all four did not dismiss it out of hand saying they would certainly think about it. John asked, “When do you need a decision?”

  “I’d say within two weeks, but the sooner the better.”

  They nodded, and as they left the office, I said, “Oh, if Inspector Elliott, or Chief Hendriks, or Chief O’Connor calls, looking to come to my party tell them to go fuck themselves. Tell them I said it.”

  “I’d be happy to say it myself,” Harry said, “but they’ll never call. They think they stuck it to you royally, and they’d be afraid to come anywhere near you – or us.”

  THIRTY- FOUR

  The Triangle Hofbrau provided a spacious room for us, I estimated fifty people in all, and two bartenders worked an open bar set up at one end. The affair was for cops only, no spouses, and we had three female detectives in the squad, but I counted four gals, and I couldn’t figure out who the extra female was. And whoever she was, she was one fine-looking young lady. In another twenty minutes, as the booze began to warm the insides and the inhibitions began to slide away, she would no doubt be the target of some unwanted advances. As I drew nearer, she did look familiar, and before I could place her, she stuck out her hand and said, “Cindy Jamison, Lieutenant. Remember me?”

  “Cindy! As we sometimes say, you certainly look different out of uniform. Thanks for coming. Is your partner here? Artie, right?”

  “Yes, he’s down at the bar getting us drinks.”

  “I’m pleased you and Artie came, but how did you hear about it?”

  “Detective Nitzky tracked us down. He figured we might want to be here since we worked so close with you and the squad on Mr. Stern’s murder case.”

  “He was right, Cindy. We put together a great team to solve that one. I’m going to miss running those investigations.”

  “It was an exciting arrest experience for us. Oh, here’s Artie.”

  We shook hands after he passed a cocktail to Cindy. What fine young officers with a great career ahead of them. Thinking back to my rookie days and looking at their young faces, I wished I could do it all over again myself. Well, almost.

  Artie said, “I’m happy to be here for you, Lieutenant, but could I ask what happened?”

  “Some boss had it in for me, and some other boss wanted a better position for one of his pets,” I said, not the whole truth, but close enough for the occasion.

  “That inspector from Internal Affairs?” Cindy asked. “You know, that was the part of the case I could have done without. It left a bitter taste in my mouth.”

  “Mine, too,” Artie said.

  “It could have been IAB, and it could have been a boro commander, but it doesn’t matter because I have decided I’m not going to the Bronx.”

  “How could you not accept that transfer?” Cindy asked.

  “By leaving the job. I’m retiring immediately.”

  “Wow,” Artie said. “That had to be a big decision.”

  “It was, but I’ll explain it when I make my remarks. Meanwhile, mum’s the word. Just a handful of people here know about it.”

  “You got it, Loot,” Cindy said. “Good luck with your future.”

  “Yes, sir,” Artie said. “I wish you all the best.”

  After thanking them I mingled through the room happy to be with friends who I could trust implicitly, many of whom I would ask to work with me at Schroeder, Harwood. It was 6:30 and the restaurant’s owner, the red-faced German-American, Herman Wedel, clapped his hands and shouted, “Okay, everyone, the buffet is open. Enjoy the fine food prepared for you in honor of Lieutenant Michael Simon.”

  Everyone applauded and cheered and lined up with their plates.

  We ate the usual fare plus two trays of Herman’s specialties – Wiener schnitzel and pot roast done sauerbraten style. Those serving bowls had to be refilled more than once. When it appeared everyone had a full belly, Sergeant Charlie Seich stepped up to the microphone and got everyone’s attention. He said, “We all know why we’re here. To honor a great guy, a great detective, and a great boss – Lieutenant Mike Simon.”

  I stood up and waved to everyone as they cheered. When they calmed down, Charlie continued, “The brass screwed my boss, and all of us in Queens Homicide, by transferring him without cause to a lesser command.”

  After the boos and hisses died down, he said, “But I assure you, Mike Simon will have the last word for those rats, and he will tell you about it himself shortly. But before I bring Mike up here, is there anyone who wants to say a few words? And I don’t want anyone to come up, because I know you all can come up and share a Mike story, but we don’t want that. That would cut into our drinking time too much. So save your words for Mike on a one-to-one basis later on. Now, without further ado –”

  A voice from the room, loud and deep, said, “I want to say a few words.”

  We all looked to see Detective Charlie Evans standing up. Sergeant Seich rolled his eyes wondering what the foul-mouthed, racially insensitive, black narcotics cop was going to say. “Okay Charlie, come on up, but make it brief, okay?”

  “From one Charlie to another Charlie, I will be brief.”

  He strode to the front of the room and got behind the small podium. He said, “One learns the true nature of a fellow cop when he walks a post and rides a car with him for three years in the East New York section of Brooklyn, the murder capital of the NYPD, the good old 75 Precinct. I would trust him with my life, and I hope he felt the same way about me. The NYPD is doing a great disservice to this fine man. I came up here vowing not to indulge in my usual profanity-laced rant, but I have to break that vow. Mike, ladies and gentlemen, the motherfuckers responsible for this travesty should be beaten and burned and have their balls – if those balls could be found – cut off with a rusty knife and stuffed down their motherfucking throats. That’s all I gotta say.”

  The room erupted with cheers of “Right on!” “Fucking brass!” “Gutless bastards,” and many other similar phrases. When the shouts died down, Charlie Seich said, “Well said, Charlie, well said. Now, come on up here Mike.”

  I rose and walked up to the podium. Everyone was cheering and applauding and, somewhat embarrassed, I sucked it all in. As the actress who won an Academy Award once said, “You like me! You really like me!” And that was exactly what I felt as I reached the front of the room. And goddamn it, it felt great. “Thank you all for coming and as Charlie Seich admonished, I will also be brief. No one in his right mind wants to keep an NYPD cop from the bar for any longer than necessary.” After the laughter died down I said, “First, I thank you, Charlie Evans, for your kind words and the trust you have in me. I trusted you with my life back in Brooklyn and do so now. Second, I would like to thank the other Charlie in the room for putting this gig together on such short notice. Third, this is not merely a transfer party. It’s a retirement party. My retirement party. I put my papers in today. I am not going to the Bronx. And to paraphrase Detective Charlie Evans, those motherfuckers who tried to stick it up my ass have failed to do so.”

  There was a few moments of silence as the audience absorbed what I had said. Then they erupted once more – a combination of cheers for me and jeers for the brass. “Now, let me wrap this up with my fourth, and last, comment to all you wonderful cops, detectives, and supervisors. I have accepted a position as the chief investigator for a prominent Manhattan law firm who will initiate a monumental series
of lawsuits. I will need investigators – lots of them. Investigators like those in this room. If you have your time in, and want a good paying job that will last at least five years, let me know as we pass the rest of the evening here. But there is one drawback. You’ll have to work for me.”

  Again, more laughter, and I said, “Oh, one more thing. My new employer likes me – and you guys – so much he has given me a blank check to pay for this party. So eat some more and drink as much as you want, provided you are not driving when you leave here, and see me if you’re interested in a new career.”

  The evening wound down and I was approached by a lot of people interested in my job offer. Being savvy investigators they asked, “What’s it all about, Mike? Who are they going after?”

  I said, “Here’s my card with my cell phone number on the back. We are going after an established, prominent, recognizable, venerable institution – The Roman Catholic Church. The church I was raised in, baptized in, and confirmed in, which has now abandoned its principles and turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to the rampant pedophilia now going on. If you’re comfortable investigating them, call me.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  On Monday morning I was ushered into my new office by my secretary, Claire Rogers, another impeccably dressed woman, somewhere in her mid-thirties. She handed me a thick package of new employee forms and said, “Sorry, but the necessary paperwork must be done. If you have any questions or problems completing it, buzz me.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Rogers,” I said. “Coming from the NYPD, believe me, I’m used to paperwork.

  “Oh,” she said, “I’m the secretary for three of the attorneys in our criminal division, and Marcy Goldner serves the other three. Either one of us will be available to you until you ramp up your staff. Then we’ll hire one, or more, for your group.”

  “Sounds good, now let me get to work on these forms.”

  “Mr. Stein wants to see you in his office at 11:00 a.m. You should be finished with this pile by then. Maybe.”

  She closed my door on the way out. I took a moment to gaze out my window onto the buildings to the east, none of which blocked my view of the East River, the Queensboro Bridge to the north, and the Williamsburg Bridge to the south. Not bad. I was on the thirtieth floor, two down from where the partners resided, and my office was not a corner one. But I was now in the corporate world, one weekend away from the NYPD. Lieutenant Simon was now Mr. Simon, and Mr. Simon was a man with a mission. Rest easy, Frank, your untimely death – your murder – is about to be avenged. In spades.

  A half hour later there was a light knock on my door and Claire opened it and entered bearing a silver tray with a carafe of coffee, cream pitcher, and a sugar bowl. “I figured you might need this about now,” she said.

  “You must be a mind reader, Ms. Rogers. Thank you, I do need a caffeine boost to finish this mound of paperwork.”

  As she left she said, “I hope you don’t mind me coming into your office without buzzing you for permission. I won’t do that if I see you are on the phone or have someone with you. Would that procedure meet with your approval?”

  “That’s fine, Ms. Rogers,” I said, smiling at this new – to me – corporate protocol.

  I completed the paperwork with ten minutes to spare and headed for the elevator to the top floor. When the doors opened I was greeted by the same secretary who I first met last week. She looked at me for a few seconds and then lit up with a big smile, “Mr. Simon! I didn’t recognize you. Sharp suit, and I love that tie. I’ll buzz Mr. Stein’s secretary.”

  I smiled and said, “I even took a shower this morning rather than waiting till my usual once-a-week one on Saturdays.”

  She was startled and flustered and then, regaining her composure, she lit up and said, “I get it, Mr. Simon. You’re putting me on, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am. No offense, I hope?”

  “No, no, I’m not used to –”

  “Cop humor. I’ll try hard to suppress it. It may take some time.”

  She buzzed Howie’s secretary and said, “Go right in, Mr. Simon.”

  I held out my hand and said, “I’m going to be in and out of here a lot. I’m Mike Simon.”

  She took my hand and said, “No, you’re not. You are Mister Simon. And I am Ms. Darienzo. But you can call me Anne.”

  With another protocol lesson learned, I went through the open door into Howie’s office. His huge desk was covered with files and his jacket was off. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and he was chewing on an unlit cigar. Without a glance up he said, “Sit down, Mike. Let’s get to work.”

  “Uh, Mr. Stein,” I said, causing him to look up. I raised my arms and did an about face. “Do I meet with your approval?”

  “Not bad, for starters,” he said. “Now as I said, let’s get to fucking work.”

  . . .

  As we began to go over the individual cases I said, “Howie, these cases have sufficient information, I believe, to pursue a criminal and/or civil prosecution. However, there are certain details lacking, which do exist, but might be difficult to obtain.”

  “Enlighten me, please.”

  “Bishop Manzo, through the Episcopal Bishop of Brooklyn, had a high-ranking contact in the NYPD who researched each incident for all the information available concerning it. For example, take this case.” I passed over the piece of paper and pointed out the bare bones data that was on it. “Basically we have the offender in this case, a Father Abruzzi, the victim, John Macy, and the allegation of forced touching on May 3, 1992. What’s missing? The responding police officer. The police official who made the decision not to arrest Abruzzi. The parent’s names and their responses. The disposition of the case, meaning how much did the church pay for silence in the matter? The church official who approved the payment. The check number. Abruzzi’s other victims. The church’s discipline, or lack thereof, of Abruzzi –”

  “Wait, Mike, you’re telling me all this information is available right now?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think the high police official, his name is Inspector Raymond Elliott, will provide it. No doubt he will probably deny its existence.”

  “And you’re going to tell me why?”

  I did, and when I finished, Howie sighed and said, “Call the prick right now on this phone. It’s a recorded line. Let’s see what he has to say.”

  I dialed headquarters and asked for Personnel. When the secretary picked up I asked to speak to Inspector Elliott.

  “Who shall I say is calling, sir?”

  “Mister Michael Simon. Until recently I was Lieutenant Michael Simon of Queens Homicide.”

  “Please hold, Mr. Simon,” she said.

  A long three minutes later she came back on the line and said, “I’m afraid the Inspector will not speak with you, sir. He does not recognize your name and requests that you do not attempt to contact him again by telephone, or any other means.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I got the message.”

  “Your buddy has pulled a Pontius Pilate on you, Mike. He has thoroughly washed his hands of this matter.”

  “I’m not so sure, Howie. The way he crafted his response had me reading between the lines. Let’s give it a few days before I attempt to contact him again.”

  “Okay, let’s get back to work. We’ll sort this out and try to determine the investigative and legal staff required to do the job. Oh, by the way, although I’ll be working on this case, I’m not heading the whole thing up.”

  “How come?”

  “Primarily because I’m a Jew. The firm doesn’t want my name out there, and we want to keep yours under wraps as well. I’m sure you understand the reasons.”


  “Who will be in charge?”

  “It was a toss up between our two Catholic partners, Nick Marino and Ed Curran, and the nod went to Marino because of the Irish connection with the church and the NYPD.”

  “I understand, but ironically the first name we looked at was Father Abruzzi.”

  “Yeah, depravity knows no religious, racial, or ethnic bounds, does it?”

  . . .

  My hunch about Ray Elliott proved correct. As I was leaving my office on that Thursday afternoon a man in a business suit appeared at my side and said, “Hello, Mike. Let me walk with you to your car. I have a package for you.” I glanced over and immediately recognized newly-promoted Deputy Inspector Bill Presti. I said nothing as he fell in behind me and followed me to the parking garage. When I reached my car on the third level I opened the doors and he slid into the front passenger’s seat. “Sorry for the cloak and dagger crap, Mike, but we have to be careful on this.”

  “I understand, Inspector. Congratulations on your promotion, but I didn’t see your name on the transfer order.”

  “I wish it was, but I gotta spend more time on The Rock. At least Ray got out.”

  “Inspector –”

  “Call me Bill. Drive to the garage on 26 Street. My car is on the upper level. Not too many others near it. I got three large cardboard boxes for you from you know who.”

  I smiled and said, “I’m not wired, Bill.”

  “Sorry, Internal Affairs paranoia. Ray Elliott said to tell you, ‘good hunting and good luck in your new career.’ Let me say the same, too, Mike.”

  “Thanks, Bill, and pass on my thanks to Ray. I’m glad he came through on this. Gives me some much-needed faith in some of the NYPD ranking officers.”

  After we transferred the three heavy cardboard boxes into the trunk of my vehicle we shook hands and parted ways with Presti saying, “This is gonna be a big fucking deal, isn’t it, Mike?”