by John Cutter
“I know,” Simmons said. “I just—look, I know Arndt’s been putting pressure on you, but everyone here knows you’re the only person for this job. We’d walk through fire for you, man. We’re all doing everything we can to solve this thing, and he should know that.”
Morrison sighed. “Andre, he’ll never know. He’ll never understand what goes on in a situation like this. He doesn’t have the genetic makeup. But look, you’re not a man to waste words. What’s really going on?”
Simmons closed his eyes and shook his head, a look of pure comic justice on his face. “Well, this is tough for me, Cap—you know I don’t like telling stories. But in this case, it’s just got to be told.” His voice lowered almost to a whisper. “Chief Arndt is a shopping-bag guy.”
Morrison almost dropped his glass. “Andre, you”—he laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No, Cap. I’m not.”
It was unbelievable—too good to be true. Morrison prayed it was true. “Okay, how could you possibly have heard this?”
Simmons leaned forward. “I’ve got this friend who’s an MTA cop, works at Grand Central. I’m sorry, Cap, but it’s just—he’s been breaking your balls so much lately, I had to tell you.”
“Never mind that—go ahead.”
“All right. So about two months ago my friend gets a call, assault in progress in one of the public bathrooms. He responds, and finds two guys in one stall: one business-type nobody standing in a brown shopping bag, and another sitting on the bowl, blowing him.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“As God is my witness, it’s Arndt. He starts crying right in the stall, like he does, and my friend tells him he needs to talk to him on the side, so the guy in the bag doesn’t hear.”
“Holy shit.” Morrison set his glass down and laughed. “Holy shit! How could you not have told me this earlier, Andre?”
“I wanted to, Cap, I really did—there was just never a good time. Always too many eyes and ears in the office! I hope you don’t think less of me for—”
“No, Andre,” Morrison said, shaking his head in laughing disbelief. “No, I don’t. I’m very, very fucking glad you told me. I don’t care what anyone does in their private life, and you know that; there’s plenty of terrific cops on our force that are gay. But this—Andre, this is big. It might just help get the asshole off my back, so we can solve this case.”
“I hope so! Well, anyway, that’s it. Just thought you should know.”
“That’s it, he says!” Morrison laughed again. “Sergeant Simmons, if you never speak another word of sense, you’ll have earned your pension today, as far as I’m concerned.”
0900, and a fresh pot of coffee had just been made in the squad room—probably the third since the Captain left the dorm. Most of the squad was already busy working on Sergeant Rivera’s Things to Do list. Suddenly the door opened, and everyone stopped and looked over at the man who’d just entered.
Rivera was the first to speak. “Galipoli,” he said, “what are you doing here?”
“Chief of Ds told me to report here,” said Detective Galipoli. “I’m part of your task force now.”
“You are?” Rivera said, dumbfounded.
“Seems Arndt doesn’t have much confidence in you guys,” smirked Galipoli.
“Guess if he wants some innocent bystanders beaten up, he’s got the right idea,” said Medveded mildly, without looking up from what he was reading.
“The fuck you just say?” Galipoli snarled at him.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Lou.” It was Morrison, who’d heard the whole exchange from his doorway. “You won’t be here long.”
As Galipoli tried to come up with a smart comeback, Morrison slammed his door, furious. Arndt must be out of his mind sending him this loose cannon—even aside from his short temper and shitty treatment of women, the guy had just made detective. He picked up his phone and dialed Arndt’s cell phone. By the time voicemail picked up, he was fuming, and left a message using all of George Carlin’s “Seven Words You Can’t Say On Television.”
When he’d hung up, he heard a light knocking at the door. Morrison waved Sergeant Rivera in.
“I know, I know—the piece of shit doesn’t belong here,” Morrison said angrily. “Believe me, I’m working on it.”
Rivera shook his head. “Look, boss, that’s not what I was going to say. Hear me out.”
“All right, go ahead.”
“We all know the guy doesn’t belong here, and that Arndt put him here to keep tabs on what we’re doing. I was just going to say, don’t go crazy trying to get rid of him.”
“What? You’re surprising me there, Frankie.”
“Well, think about it! We got plenty of busywork to give him, to keep him away from the heart of the investigation. Besides, if you push too hard, Arndt might use it as a reason to take you off the case for real, and we can’t have that.”
Morrison gritted his teeth.
“You’re right,” he said. “I know you are. But I need him kept away from the details—this case is too sensitive to have Arndt fuck it up. Anything that gets back to him, he’ll tell the press. You know how he is; he’ll do anything to get his name out there—”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Rivera admitted.
“—and a press leak would be a disaster right now,” Morrison went on. “So far the public doesn’t know there might be a serial killer in their midst—for most of them, it’s just two high-society women dead in a week. If we’re going to nail these psychos, we need to keep it that way for a while.”
“Fair enough.”
“Anyway, I don’t trust Galipoli any more than I do Arndt. You say you have busywork for him? Can we keep him somewhere he won’t do any damage?”
“Sure,” Rivera said. “I can have him going over phone records, or something like that.”
“Great,” Morrison said. “Let’s put the asshole to work.”
Later that morning, Chief Arndt walked into the squad room just as the other mid-level bosses were emptying out of Morrison’s office. He’d been expecting pushback from Morrison based on the Captain’s voice-mail, and was braced for a scene. On entering the squad room, however, he was surprised to see one of the sergeants sitting with Galipoli at his new desk, discussing an open file with him. He walked into Morrison’s office and shut the door.
“Good morning, Chief,” said Morrison with a friendly nod.
“Good morning,” answered Arndt, a little uncomfortably. This wasn’t how his new addition was supposed to be going over. He slid into the chair waiting for him. “I see the newest member of the task force is settling in?”
“Yes—thanks for sending him along,” Morrison said, his voice dripping with complacency. “I know he’s new to the position, but I think he’ll be a great addition to the team.”
“Very good,” Arndt said. “I want him in on everything, understand?” Morrison bit back a laugh. “Absolutely, Chief. Anything we have, he’s open to look at—all he’s got to do is ask.” This was safe enough; they all knew Galipoli wouldn’t know what to ask for anyway, and Arndt sure as hell wouldn’t be able to tell him.
“Great. So—update me on where we are with the case.”
“Well, the second victim’s husband is back, and like the first husband, he’s in total shock. You’ll remember he was on a business trip, too.”
“Of course.”
“Neither one of these guys has really given us anything to hang our hat on, as far as suspects are concerned. We’re still trying to make any connection we can between the two victims, but so far the only thing we have is that they both come from upper-class households, and they both like shopping at stores on Fifth Avenue—not a particularly telling fact. Home life for both seems normal: no extra boyfriends we can’t take account of, or girlfriends, for that matter.” Catching Arndt’s quizzical expression, Morrison added significantly, “Well, you know what I mean, Chief. Different strokes for different folks, as they say. Yo
u know, we had some guys go over to Grand Central and Penn Station to talk with the MTA cops—”
“Why would you do that?” Arndt asked sharply. “Do we have any reason to think the victims had been through there?”
“Oh, just, you know—if you think there might be a hidden back-story, it never hurts to check in those places. Even if it’s rich people we’re talking about. Everybody’s got secrets. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the things people do around there?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Arndt said, a tremor starting at the corner of his eye.
“Oh, bizarre shit,” Morrison said, enjoying himself. “The public restrooms are a playground for freaky stuff. You know, my guys actually talked to several MTA cops who said there are guys who walk around the stations with big shopping bags, looking for someone who might be interested in hooking up. They go to a stall, and one guy stands in the bag while the other guy sits on the bowl. That way, no one can see there’s two guys in there. Can you imagine that?”
“That’s—I can’t see how it’s relevant,” Arndt said weakly.
“No, you’re right,” Morrison said. “Still, it’s interesting stuff, for us cops. We have to seek these things out, to keep the job fresh. You understand.”
“Yes, of course.” Arndt stood up abruptly. “If that’ll be all, Captain, I’ll be on my way.”
“Sure,” Morrison said, smiling. “I’ll see you again soon, eh, Chief?” Something in the way Arndt walked out made him think otherwise.
Rivera broke the news to Detective Francisco Garriga. He’d drawn the short straw, and would be the first partner assigned to work with Galipoli.
In many respects, Garriga would’ve been everyone’s first choice for the assignment anyway. He was an all-American tough guy of Cuban descent, 5’8” but hard as nails. He’d served in the Marines for ten years before joining the force, and still very much bore the “once a Marine, always a Marine” mentality of loyalty and team spirit. He’d also been a Golden Gloves champ back in the day, and had fought for years on the NYPD boxing team. As a veteran both of the military and of the NYPD’s gang squad, he had zero tolerance for bullshit, and could sniff out a poser from a mile away. Morrison and Rivera were interested to see how Galipoli’s war-hero status would hold up with Garriga as his partner.
Having introduced the two, Sergeant Rivera handed them a list of things to do.
“Here you go, gentlemen,” he said. “Don’t come back until it’s finished.”
“Yessir,” said Garriga smartly. As they started for the door, he turned to Galipoli. “You got a pad and pen in your pocket there, rook?”
Galipoli shook his head peevishly. Garriga pulled them up short. “Seriously?” he said. “Would you go into combat without your weapon? Don’t you know a detective’s most valuable tool, besides his mind and intuition, are his pen and pad? Jeez, man, get with the program.” He opened a supply closet and handed Galipoli a pad and pen, looking at Rivera as though to say Where’d you dig this guy up?
As Rivera chuckled, Garriga tossed the new detective a set of car keys. “Here ya go, rook,” he said. “Let’s see if you know your way around this city.”
Towards the end of the day, Morrison closed his door and dialed Claudia’s number. Even the sound of her phone ringing made his heart a little lighter.
She picked up, a laugh in her voice. They talked for twenty minutes or so, and planned her next visit to New York. She understood the demands of his job meant he wouldn’t be able to get away for a while. Unlike many other women in Morrison’s life, however, she was okay with it. Morrison could hardly believe it, but she seemed to have the same attraction to him that he had to her: it made her willing to accept whatever of himself he was able to give her.
After he hung up, Morrison looked around with a sigh. The night was winding down, with no new developments on either case and no new Arndt sightings for hours. Happy hour, as far as he was concerned.
He gave Pat McNamara a call to see if the sergeant wanted to get a drink with him at Kelly’s. McNamara was still by Penn Station, so Morrison drove over to pick him up.
“Hey, Cap,” said the sergeant, jumping in.
“Hey, Pat,” Morrison said. “Shall we head over to Kelly’s? Nothing like whiskey to get that Penn Station smell off of you.”
“Funny you should say that,” McNamara smiled. “I was just thinking, I don’t even smell things anymore on this job. You remember when you were a rookie, and you’d practically gag at some of those calls? I haven’t done that in years—practically don’t feel anything in this job anymore.”
“I know what you mean,” Morrison agreed, shaking his head. “Why do we do it, do you think?”
“Honestly, for me, it’s the only thing I’m good at.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true of me too.”
McNamara looked hard at him. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said. “You doing okay, Cap?”
Morrison said nothing.
McNamara went on. “You know the guys love you, right? They really do. They know you care, and they know you’ve always got their back, and they love you for it.”
“I know that,” Morrison said wearily. “You know I know that.” He sighed heavily, a look of intense frustration suddenly crossing his face before he went on. “The question is, are any of us okay? We’re all burnt. Look at O’Dell: guy survived Vietnam, then he gets sent out to search for bodies in the Rockaways after that American Airlines flight crashed, right after 9/11. He doesn’t talk about it—hell, none of us that were there really talk about either of those days. But he isn’t right. None of us are. Tina, Medveded, me—none of us are right.”
McNamara nodded silently.
“We’re all the same,” Morrison went on. “That’s why no one likes cops. How could you do this, and have people like you?” He gestured strangely out the car window. “That’s why we only get along with each other. How many friends do you and Gina have that aren’t on the job?”
McNamara thought about it a minute. “None,” he said.
“Yeah, well, me neither,” Morrison said. All at once, his face brightened. “Though I met a pretty nice woman the other night, when we were out.”
McNamara smiled too. “I wondered about that. Is that where you disappeared off to?”
“Yeah. I don’t know, I feel kind of different about her. I feel different because of her. She was out there, but it felt good. It felt spontaneous. I felt alive with her.”
“You going to see her again?”
“Yeah, I am. I think I’m going to try to work on it. Maybe try to keep that happiness going.”
“That’s great, Cap.” McNamara looked out the window. “How’s—how are things with your wife, anyhow?”
Morrison made a noise, something between a cough and a laugh. “Oh, the same old,” he said. “We don’t ever talk about our son, and she blames me for what happened.”
“Do you need to talk about him?” McNamara asked.
“Sometimes,” Morrison said. “But when I do, I talk to myself.” He gripped the steering wheel, his jaw tensing. “You know, I blame myself for his death, too,” he added abruptly. “I know I always will.”
The silence hung between them. Outside, passersby surged through the lurid light of shopfronts, an anonymous mass.
“I mean, how many cases did we do last year? I don’t even know.” Morrison’s voice sounded faraway, preoccupied; it was as though he were talking to no one. “And it isn’t like it used to be, nothing like that, but we still get the most gruesome shit. Look at these homicides we’ve been dealing with. Who does this shit? And how do you leave your family at home and go to work, when your work is dealing with that?”
“I don’t know,” said McNamara thoughtfully, “but I also don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s over.”
The radio chatter suddenly picked up with the shouts of an officer on the other end. 10-13, shots fired, officer down, 44th and Broadway—Morrison and McN
amara could hear the gunfire in the background.
The car turned smoothly and quickly, as though imbued with a life of its own. Not a word passed between the two men, but a certain tense clarity had entered between them, as between two surgeons in a trauma unit. They knew it was unlikely that any ambulance had been called; police transport each other, and prefer not to let anyone else touch their wounded until absolutely necessary.
When they arrived, the scene was all too familiar. A uniformed cop was being hustled into the backseat of a radio car, ready to leave for Roosevelt Hospital. A young black man lay on the ground, in handcuffs though evidently dead. The sight, smell and sound were the same as they always were: dumped cars, flashing lights, blood, burnt rubber. Morrison grabbed one of the cops who’d been helping to load the injured officer into the car.
“How is he?” he asked.
“Gunshot wound to the head, boss,” said the other cop. He was covered in the wounded officer’s blood, and seemed close to shock himself. “It looks pretty bad.”
“Okay, let’s get him to Roosevelt,” Morrison said, gesturing to two other officers on the scene. “What happened?”
“Not sure yet; we know the perp shot him with his own gun.”
Morrison gestured toward the cuffed body on the ground. “And him?”
“Shot down by the responding officers. He’s dead.”
“God, does he have to go to Roosevelt?” McNamara asked idly as the others drove off. “I hate it there.”
Morrison shrugged helplessly. It was the closest hospital to the scene, and besides, for a cop, no hospital was good enough when another cop was down.
“What’s the cop’s name?” he asked.
“Tong—Nguyen Tong. First-generation Vietnamese. His dad was a cop too. One of those cops directing traffic in Vietnam, with the white helmets—they called them White Mice.”
Morrison looked around grimly, foreseeing the same miserable routine playing itself out. The uniformed bosses would be all over the scene soon. All the cops who worked with Officer Tong—and many who didn’t—would be in the hospital overnight, crowding into the hallways outside the emergency room, praying, anxiously awaiting any word. Though Tong wouldn’t need it, they’d all offer to give their blood for him; it was a symbolic gesture, and one that helped to relieve the feeling of helplessness they all felt when one of them was in trouble.
