by John Cutter
“Go ahead.”
“So, according to Helen, it doesn’t seem like he completed a tour of duty.”
“What?”
“Yeah. It looks like, when he was being hired, his investigator didn’t follow up with the military about his service record. Helen was able to hook me up with the investigator, who—thankfully—is still on the job, down on Jay Street in Brooklyn. We avoided the whole I won’t talk to you ’cause I don’t know you runaround thanks to Helen, who did a three-way call and introduced me. Turns out we had a few guys from the job in common—remember Michael Belmont from the three two? They’re neighbors up in Yonkers.”
“So what’d the guy have to say?”
“Well, he didn’t remember the case until I told him Galipoli had won a Silver Star in the war, then it all came back to him. He was hesitant to talk to me once he knew which case it was, but when I told him why we were looking into it, he opened right up. Basically, he knows he dropped the ball. He had several military contacts he says he should’ve called during the investigation, but once he saw the Silver Star in his folder he figured there was no need to. Thankfully Helen was still on the phone, and he told her that his notes should be in the folder. Sure enough, she digs through the file and in the back are a couple of names and numbers of the guys he didn’t call. I promised him I wouldn’t make him look bad, but I’m not sure if that’s going to be possible.”
“Okay, but so far we just have an applicant screwup; tell me you called some of those numbers back.”
“One was all I needed. Sergeant Gonzalez—local guy, lives up in Mount Vernon. He’s still involved with the military, as a reservist. I told him who I was, and that I was interested in talking to him about Lou Galipoli, and he laughed and said it had been a long time since he’d heard that name. It didn’t seem like he had a lot of respect for him. We talked a little about our military experiences, and I told him about my time in the 9th Infantry and in Vietnam. He told me about being severely wounded in Anbar Province, and his road to recovery. Seems like that’s one of the reasons he doesn’t like Galipoli—he didn’t want to say too much on the phone, but he was shocked to hear he was a cop, much less a detective. He actually thought Galipoli had been court-marshalled and dishonorably discharged. When I told him about the Silver Star, he said—and I quote—No way; it must be a different guy we’re talking about.”
“Now we’re talking,” Morrison said. “What else?”
“I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got for right now—Gonzalez was at home with his kids and couldn’t talk. He’s willing to meet me tomorrow, though, to tell me everything he knows about the Galipoli he knew.”
“Tomorrow?”
“If you can spare me for the day.”
“Yeah, I think so—I have everyone else working hard on the murder.”
“That’s what I figured. Glad I was right! I told him I’d meet him in the morning in Mamaroneck, at this little Irish pub. I’m going to bring a photo of Lou with me, just to make sure we’re talking about the same guy—he says he can’t believe it is.”
“Terrific. Nice work, Jeffrey. Actually,” he added, suddenly feeling one of his hunches pressing at the back of his mind, “I think I’d like Sergeant Rivera to go with you too. I know we’re all busy with this case, but I have a feeling this’ll be worth it. Besides, it’s just for an afternoon.” He’d long since learned to listen to these feelings, however unaccountable; they were the silent voice of professional instinct. “You think this guy will be all right with that?”
“I don’t see why not; Frankie gets along with everyone. Besides, he’s ex-military too, which might help.”
“All right. I’ll tell him. Let me know what you come up with, all right?”
“Yessir. We’ll see what he says.”
Back at the precinct house, Morrison parked in his usual spot out front. He felt extremely tired—his whole body was exhausted. I can’t believe this nightmare is continuing, he thought. He’d felt so good just a few days ago; now he could feel himself falling back into the usual malaise of depression, accompanied by an acute pain in his chest. He’d felt the chest pain before. But this time, even he had to admit it was worse.
He walked into the squad room, and Sergeant Simmons looked up with concern. Right away he could see something was wrong.
“Cap, are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Morrison said, shaking his head. “Nothing a shot of Jameson won’t cure.”
Simmons stood up and headed Morrison off, not giving him the chance to go into his office.
“Come on, Cap,” he said firmly. “We’re taking a ride.”
Too tired to argue, Morrison complied.
Without delay, and almost without further conversation, Simmons herded him into his car and drove him down to Beth Israel Hospital, on Sixteenth Street. When they were there, he marched his Captain straight into the Emergency Room. Typically for New York, the lobby was packed, and Morrison grimaced in dismay. Most cops believe that if you want to get sick, just visit any busy emergency room—and Morrison was no exception to this prejudice. But Simmons wasn’t hearing it. He walked right into the back with Morrison, sat him down on an empty gurney, and asked for the head nurse.
There is much in common between nurses and cops; they often seem to share a kindred spirit. Both groups deal with people at their lowest points in life, and are often misunderstood by the people they’re trying to help. Everyone in an emergency believes their case is the most important, and to such a person, someone for whom emergency is routine—for whom it is part of their job to prioritize emergencies objectively—can easily come off as aloof, or even cold. Only the professionals who deal with such emergencies daily can fully understand the heart that lies behind the professional manner. That said, though, a heart attack in progress was a high-priority emergency, no matter whom it was happening to; and Simmons was afraid that was exactly what Morrison was experiencing.
In a few minutes, a tall, pretty Hispanic woman, who by her actions was clearly in charge, came out from behind the central desk. She scrutinized Morrison closely.
“How can I help you?” she asked Simmons.
“I think my Captain here is having a heart attack,” Simmons said. “He’s having chest pains now.”
The head nurse grabbed another nurse, and together they moved Morrison into a small area surrounded by a privacy curtain. As he was changing into a hospital gown, Morrison winced.
“The pain is pretty acute, huh?” the head nurse asked him.
“Nothing I haven’t felt before,” he lied. “I’m sure I’ll be fine—I don’t need any of this fuss.”
The head nurse raised an eyebrow. “Let me be the judge of that,” she said. “You just lie back here. My name’s Nancy Dominguez.”
Morrison lay back on the bed. “Bill Morrison,” he said, wincing again as he raised an arm to gesture toward Simmons. “The worrywart over there is Sergeant Simmons.”
“Well, if you are having a heart attack, you’re lucky he’s got some sense in his head,” she said. “Now lie back! You cops always think you can tough it out. Trust me, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way.” Smiling, she held up several tie-downs for him to see.
“Phew, okay, okay,” he said, lying back. “Lady, you’d make a good interrogator.”
“I know it,” she said. “If I didn’t enjoy what I did so much—!” Simmons smiled at the pretty nurse. “You could interrogate me anytime.”
She looked him up and down with a smirk. “Honey, you’d give me everything I wanted to know in five minutes,” she laughed.
“That’d be a long night for Andre,” Morrison joked. All three laughed, and Morrison winced again, worse this time. The nurse quieted them down and began a preliminary examination.
Three hours and two doctors later, the diagnosis came back. Morrison, as it turned out, was suffering from a severe anxiety attack, brought on by stress at work and exacerbated by drinking. The ER doctor prescribed him some
time off and a course of Xanax. Morrison accepted the diagnosis quietly, having absolutely no intention of taking either.
Having dressed, he walked out of the ER unit to find Sergeant Simmons in deep conversation with the head nurse. Simmons looked up at him.
“You ready to get going, Cap?” he asked.
“Yeah, let’s go,” Morrison said. Nancy handed Simmons a slip of paper.
“Call me anytime,” she said as Morrison pulled Simmons toward the door.
Outside, Morrison gave Simmons a questioning smile. “I have a heart-attack scare, and you go after the head nurse?” he asked.
“What can I say?” Simmons laughed. “She likes the same kind of music I do.”
31
Morrison rolled himself out of his bunk, headed to the shower, and hoped this day would be better than the last.
Sergeant McNamara was emerging from the shower as he went in.
Before he could duck inside, McNamara hollered out to him.
“Hey, Cap! You see the paper this morning?”
Morrison dropped his head, already aware of what he was going to see. He went back out to the squad room, picked up the paper, and sure enough, there it was.
COPYCAT KILLER LOOSE IN NEW YORK!
Thank God for journalistic integrity, he thought, flipping to the story inside. It was even worse than the headline—nothing better than fear-mongering for the general public. He dropped the paper on the desk in disgust and retreated to the shower for five minutes of peace.
Meanwhile, in Mamaroneck, Detective O’Dell and Sergeant Rivera were waiting outside the pub where they’d arranged to meet Sergeant Gonzalez. The seasons were finally starting to turn to early spring—one of the best parts of living in the tri-state area—so they opted to wait outside in the cool, fresh air rather than inside the musty pub. They watched as several cars and SUVs came and went, with no sign of the Sergeant.
Finally, an older-model Ford pulled up, and they could both tell from the look of the driver, when he got out, that their rendezvous had arrived. Though he was dressed in civvies, his clean-cut appearance and almost at-attention walk gave him up for a military man. Rivera extended a hand.
“Sergeant Gonzalez,” he said. “I’m Frankie Rivera. Thank you for your service.”
The other man smiled. “Ernesto Gonzalez,” he said, shaking Rivera’s hand. “You know, I’m not too used to being thanked for that.”
“I know how you feel,” Rivera said. “Jeffrey here and I—Sergeant Gonzalez, Jeffrey O’Dell—we were both Vietnam guys, so we get it. Hey, at least they don’t spit on you anymore, right?”
“That’s true,” Gonzalez said. “I guess times have improved that way.”
Laughing, the three of them made their way into the pub. It wasn’t much on atmosphere, but at this hour it was quieter than most diners. They chatted a while about their respective military experiences and their reception on coming home, encouraging the bond of shared experience they had already between them; then, once the coffee had been refilled, they got down to the matter at hand.
Jeffrey O’Dell opened the manila folder he’d had sitting on the table in front of them since they arrived, and turned a photo of Lou Galipoli towards Gonzalez.
“Yep, that’s him,” Gonzalez said immediately, anticipating O’Dell’s question. “I still can’t believe the guy’s a cop, though.”
Rivera glanced over at O’Dell. “Well, Jeffrey and I were hoping you’d elaborate on that a bit,” he said. “What exactly do you know about Louis Galipoli?”
“Where do you want me to start?”
“I mean, we’d appreciate you telling us everything you know about him, so wherever you want to start would be fine.”
“All right,” Gonzalez said, with absolutely no hesitation. “I’ll start by saying that he’s the biggest piece of garbage I’ve ever met.”
Rivera and O’Dell laughed. Gonzalez looked at them, his smile stony.
“I mean that,” he said quietly.
Rivera nodded. “I know, it’s nothing we haven’t heard, believe me. It’s just—well, they’re pretty strong words for a guy who was awarded a Silver Star.”
Ernesto Gonzalez looked as though he’d been slapped.
“There is no way this guy”—he stabbed a finger roughly at the photograph—“won a Silver Star.”
“I know it’s hard to believe,” O’Dell said, “but it’s in his military records—we looked up his applicant folder from when he was coming into the department.”
Gonzalez shook his head, adamant. “I don’t care what paperwork it’s on—I cannot believe he did anything that would be even remotely close to deserving a Silver Star. Absolutely not. This guy was on his way to a court martial during our time at Camp Falcon!”
“Court martial?” Rivera asked, his eyes wide.
Gonzalez sighed. “You guys really don’t know much about Louis Galipoli, do you? Okay, I’ll start at the beginning, then. When I was a Staff Sergeant, he was assigned to my platoon; and from the first day, I could see there was something off with this guy. I mean, the first day. And it didn’t take long for my instincts to be proven right by his actions, either.
“Being the platoon commander, I didn’t hang out with the rank and file all the time; but pretty soon after he came on, several soldiers of African-American descent came to me to complain that Galipoli was a racist. You know how it is—as soldiers in a combat zone, you tend to rib each other in ways that back home might not be considered appropriate. So at first, I thought that might be what was going on here. I talked to the guys about it, then sat down with Galipoli to talk about what the boundaries were when it came to the platoon, and what I would tolerate. I should have seen it during that first interview, but I didn’t.”
“Should have seen what?” O’Dell asked.
“His attitude. He could have cared less about the brotherhood of being a soldier, or that his life might depend on his platoon mates, or any of that. He was completely callous toward what anyone else thought. Anyway, like I said, I should have started a file on him then, but I gave him a bit of play, since he was new. It was a big mistake.
“The next incident involved a female soldier named Eleanora—pretty woman, could have been a model. Women in the military have changed since back in the Vietnam days, you know—back then, most if not all of your enlisted females were nurses. Nowadays they work in a lot of positions, and they end up working closer to combat than in the past. Anyway, Eleanora came to me to complain about Galipoli. She’s African-American too, so at first I thought it was the race issue again; but no. Once again, he’d gone way beyond anyone else with the comments, this time of a sexual nature. She told me he wouldn’t leave her alone—and not in the usual stupid I want to be your boyfriend kind of way. This was more in a degrading, chauvinistic way. The things he’d said were really vile, really disgusting.
“He never physically did anything to Eleanora—probably because she was a tough cookie who would have shot him if he tried anything—but he was unrelenting, and was moving toward stalker status before she brought it to me. This time I didn’t hesitate. He was written up and ended up in the stockade after Lieutenant Lyons was done with him.”
“Sounds like a real piece of work,” Rivera said. “But so far, it doesn’t sound like he was much more than mouth.”
“Well, that’s what I thought, Sarge,” Gonzalez said. “But wrong again. That was only the beginning. He wasn’t out of the stockade for more than a week when another female soldier named Cynthia came to me. She was another good-looking woman—but when she walked into my tent, she was a mess. Took me half an hour to calm her down before she could talk. When I finally got her to tell me what was wrong, she told me Galipoli had just tried to rape her in the showers.”
Rivera turned his head in disgust. “Are you shitting me? He tried to rape another soldier, and he ends up getting a Silver Star?”
“Now you know why I don’t buy it. Anyway, this time we had some physical eviden
ce: Cynthia had bruises on her face from where Galipoli had slapped her around. He really beat her up. The only thing that stopped him raping her, apparently, was that another soldier walked into the shower, and he ran off.”
“Did the other soldier see who it was?” O’Dell asked.
“You bet he did, and he spoke up about it too. So I had the MPs bring Galipoli before Lieutenant Lyons again. Obviously this one was going up the chain, so I sat down and did a file on the incident, and delivered it to the Lieutenant myself.”
“Can you remember when this all happened?” Rivera asked.
“Absolutely—October 6, 2006.”
Rivera’s eyes widened. “How do you remember that specific date?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s a day I’ll never forget,” Gonzalez sighed. “Later that night we got hit with enemy mortar fire. Blew the base to hell. I took some shrapnel to my left side—I’m lucky to be alive. They airlifted me out, along with a few other soldiers who got hit that night.”
“Do you know what happened to Galipoli after the attack?” O’Dell asked.
“Well, I’d thought he was court martialed, but now it sounds like he wasn’t. I didn’t follow it after that. I was hurt pretty bad—I spent the next two years coming back from my injury.”
“What about Lieutenant Lyons? Have you seen him since you were injured?”
Gonzalez nodded gravely. “He got it worse than me that night. His tent was right next to a munitions truck that took a direct hit. He was killed in the explosion.”
Rivera and O’Dell were silent for a long moment before Rivera spoke.
“What would you say,” he said slowly, “if I told you it was Lieutenant Lyons who signed off on Galipoli’s Silver Star?”
Sergeant Gonzalez stared at both of them, dumbfounded. “What did you say?”
“That Lieutenant Lyons signed off on—”
“I heard you—it’s just—it’s impossible,” Gonzalez stammered, furious. “Lieutenant Lyons was going to recommend a court martial for this piece of crap, not a Silver Star. It has to be a mistake. Listen,” he added intensely, “I don’t know how it happened, but it’s bullshit. Complete bullshit. If he’s anything like the Galipoli I knew, that guy ought to be in jail.”
