Inside the O'Briens

by Lisa Genova

  Charlestown is a relatively safe neighborhood. They don’t typically see a lot of violent crime, and almost never any homicides. But there’s that word again. Typical. There’s no such thing.

  Charlestown’s crime cocktail consists mostly of drugs, thefts, domestics, and bar fights. In recent years, Joe’s seen a lot of muggings in Charlestown. That kind of shit didn’t happen here when he was growing up. Not that people then were above stealing. Almost every kid Joe knew was related to someone who’d committed a real crime, and burglary was probably the most popular. But there was a code of ethics with respect to stealing, if that’s possible. Robbing a bank or an office building was fine because it was considered a “victimless” crime. Robbing a person or someone’s house was never okay.

  Joe remembers Billy Ryan, the scariest thug he knew, berating Mark Sullivan for lifting fifty bucks from an apartment on Belmont Street. That’s Kevin Gallagher’s house. You robbed Kevin’s mother? You piece of shit, what’s wrong with you? If memory serves Joe right, Billy actually shamed Mark into breaking back into Kevin’s house to return the money. Billy robbed a bank the next day.

  Joe drives by Dougherty Park. The courts are empty, but the pool is packed. It’s ninety-seven degrees today. Hazy, hot, and humid. The hospital ERs will be clogged with heatstrokes and heart attacks. Even with the AC on full blast, Joe’s sweating. His T-shirt and underwear are soaked through, the wet cotton clinging to his skin. The relentless rays of the sun assaulting him through the windows and windshield coupled with his Kevlar vest and navy blue police uniform make Joe feel as if he’s a hothouse tomato dying on the vine. It could be worse. He could be on his feet, outside on the black pavement, directing traffic.

  He winds his way down to Main Street and pauses in front of Town Yoga. There are no windows to peek through, so he can’t actually see Katie. He has no idea what goes on in there, but if he had to guess, it has something to do with women dressed in tight black pants contorting themselves into pretzels. Katie’s been hounding him for well over a year now to take one of her classes, but he always gives her some excuse wrapped in a joke. I would come, hun, but I pulled my third chakra yesterday, and the doctor said “No yoga for a month.” I’m wicked bummed.

  He unwraps his tuna sub and scarfs it down, barely tasting it. He’s got the last bite stuffed in his mouth when a call comes in. A robbery in progress at 344 Bunker Hill Street. Unit 31. Joe wipes the mayonnaise from his lips with the back of his hand, hits the buttons by his hip for lights and sirens, and takes off.

  He knows the address. He was just over there. It’s the old school building, now a swanky condo property filled with Toonies, across the street from the park and pool. Unit 31. Third floor.

  Does it face the street or the back of the building? If it’s a back unit, does it have a balcony? A fire escape? Will the suspect exit there or through the interior of the building? Stairs or elevator? If the suspect’s a Townie, he could easily be brazen or stupid enough to walk right out the front door. The back of the building has a parking lot. Perfect spot for a getaway car. Depending on what’s being stolen, the suspect could be in a car or on foot. The building has a basement garage. A great place to hide. Is there more than one suspect? Is this a random, opportunistic hit or a targeted break-in? Is anyone home? Probably, but hopefully not. It’s the middle of the day, and this building is primarily populated by young professionals. It’s summer, so maybe the resident is away on vacation. But the caller, a neighbor, is home, so it’s possible the resident is also. An elderly parent. A retiree. A mother and baby. Someone who called in sick. Will the suspect be armed?

  Joe kills the siren and then pulls over a couple of houses before the building. He’s the only car on the scene. Fuck. He doesn’t know what he’s about to face in there. Ideally, officers go into this kind of situation with the odds in their favor, a show of force so they don’t have to actually use any. But Joe can’t just wait in his car until the other officers get there. He has to get out and deal with what’s happening, whatever it is. His adrenaline spikes.

  Joe pulls out his gun and holds it pointed down by his side as he enters the building and ascends the stairs to the third floor. He turns right: 35, 37. Wrong way. He pivots and hastens left. He stands in front of the door to unit 31, and Joe’s heightened senses go to work. The unit faces the back of the building. The doorframe next to the deadbolt is splintered, forcibly broken. The call is real. Joe’s heart rate escalates. He stays quiet and listens. His own heavy breathing. Air blowing from the air-conditioning vents. Talking. Male voices. A conversation.

  He backs up and, in the most muted yet clear voice he can manage, radios this information in.

  “We have at least two in there. Unit faces the rear. We need someone to cover the back.”

  A few seconds later, Officer Tommy Vitale, Joe’s oldest, closest friend on the force, is standing beside him. The other officer from Tommy’s rapid unit must be outside, covering the rear of the building. Joe and Tommy connect eye-to-eye, and then Tommy nods. Joe turns the doorknob, and they enter the unit.

  They immediately slice the room. Joe rushes diagonally left, and Tommy moves right, both heading for the walls on opposite sides of the room. Joe stands with his back to the dining room wall, and Tommy positions himself against the wall in the kitchen. They see no one so far.

  They’re in one of those modern, open-floor-plan condos, and they can see into the living room. It’s a mess. Drawers dumped and emptied, papers and junk all over the floor. Beyond the living room is an open glass sliding door leading to an outdoor balcony. And bingo, there are the two suspects. Teenage boys.

  Both Joe and Tommy advance, guns pointed at the boys’ chests.

  “Boston PD! Drop the bags and show me your hands!” yells Joe.

  The boys are in T-shirts, long, baggy shorts, sneakers, baseball caps, and dark sunglasses. Both are carrying black backpacks. Joe is trying to figure out whether the boy on the left is armed while still aiming his gun at the center of the boy’s chest when this moron decides to make a break for it and vaults the railing.

  A third-floor unit is thirty feet up. Joe’s not sure what this genius was thinking would happen when he landed, but he’s probably broken both legs and possibly his back. He’s lying on the pavement, and his screaming turns to a pitiful squeal when Officer Sean Wallace flips and cuffs him.

  “So is it your turn?” asks Tommy, cocking his head toward the railing.

  The kid drops the bag and holds his bare hands in the air.

  “At least this one has a brain in his head,” says Tommy as he cuffs him. “Size of a pea, but he’s got one.”

  Joe searches the rest of the condo to be sure there aren’t any other pals in on the heist. The two bedrooms, the two bathrooms, and the home office are all empty. The bedrooms don’t look too bad, but the home office is gutted.

  Joe returns to the balcony.

  “The rest is clear.”

  Tommy is patting down the prisoner; he’s searching for a weapon but doesn’t find one. They see this a lot, especially in the summer, when school is out and the kids have too much time on their hands. These teens break into someone’s house, steal whatever they can get their hands on, and pawn it for cash. The cash is always for drugs. If Joe doesn’t catch them stealing, he catches them buying. If he doesn’t catch them buying, he catches them using or doing something stupid while using. And after they’re out on bail or parole, he catches them again. Round and round they go.

  Joe eyes the young man cuffed and slouched before him. He’s hanging his head, so Joe can’t get a good look at his face under the rim of his baseball cap, but Joe recognizes the heavy ink on both arms—the Irish and American flags, a navy ship, a heart, and a four-leaf clover. It’s Scotty O’Donnell, the younger brother of Robby O’Donnell, who grew up with Patrick. Robby was a star basketball player in high school and stayed out of trouble. Scotty’s older sisters w
ere all honor-roll students. His mother goes to church with Rosie, and his father works at the post office. He comes from a good family.

  “Scotty, what the hellaya doin’?” says Joe.

  Scotty looks down at his sneakers and shrugs.

  “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”

  Scotty lifts his head. Tommy removes Scotty’s sunglasses, and Scotty’s eyes are defiant, admitting nothing, not nearly scared enough.

  “Y-gonna bring shame to your poor mother. She’s gonna have to come down to the station and bail your dumb ass out. She doesn’t deserve that.”

  The ambulance is now here, and the EMTs are lifting the Olympic hurdler onto a stretcher. Officer Wallace will have to accompany this kid to the hospital and guard him through any X-rays and procedures he might need.

  “You want this one?” asks Tommy.

  “Yeah, I’ll take him in,” says Joe.

  “I’ll wait for the detective.”

  Joe looks down at the black backpack, and an unexpected, additional surge of adrenaline pulses through him, sending every muscle and nerve in his body back into high alert, twitching, ready to pop. It’s probably going to be a long time before any Boston cop can look at a young man with a backpack and simply see a kid with a schoolbag and not a potential terrorist with a weapon of mass destruction.

  Loud, sudden noises aren’t any better. Every officer was called out for duty on July fourth. Less than three months after the marathon bombing, security for a public event attracting three hundred thousand civilians to the Esplanade lawn in celebration of the nation’s freedom was through the roof. Joe hadn’t seen anything like it in all his years on the force. The night went off without incident, but every firework boom made Joe’s heart seize and his right hand recoil to his hip. Over and over and over. He tried all night to override this automatic startle response, to anticipate and stifle the reflex, but he was frustratingly powerless over it. Boom. Seize. Recoil. The grand finale was friggin’ torture. He can still taste the cold beers he drank with Tommy and the guys at the end of that shift. Best fuckin’ beers of his life.

  “You wanna take a look in there?” asks Joe, nodding to the bag.

  “Be my guest,” says Tommy.

  “Ladies first.”

  “Pussy.”

  “I’m busy with Scotty here.”

  Tommy squats by the backpack and unzips it in one fast motion, as if ripping off a bandage. The bag contains what they of course knew it would—an iPad, jewelry, a camera, some painted figurines, and not a pressure cooker filled with nails and ball bearings. Joe exhales and only then realizes that he’d been holding his breath.

  Tommy zips the bag and hands the evidence over to Joe. They share a quick, knowing look of relief.

  “Those pearls a present for your girlfriend, Scotty?” asks Joe.

  Scotty says nothing.

  “I didn’t think so. Let’s go.”

  Joe slings the backpack over his left shoulder and directs Scotty out of the condo with his left hand. As Joe walks Scotty to his cruiser, he’s feeling satisfied that he, Tommy, and Sean did everything right and made two lawful arrests. He’s relieved that the boys weren’t armed, that he, Tommy, and Sean are all walking away in the same condition they were in when they got the call. He’s happy for the owner of the condo, who has a real mess to clean but will get all of her things back. He’s worried for Scotty’s poor mother, imagining the phone call she’s about to receive. But more than anything, he’s pissed at Scotty for unnecessarily scaring the shit out of him with that backpack. Protecting the top of Scotty’s head with his hand, Joe grabs hold of Scotty’s skinny shoulder, squeezes it hard, then shoves him into the cruiser a little more roughly than necessary.

  “Ow,” says Scotty.

  Joe slams the door shut and smiles. That felt good.

  JOE HAD ENTERED the sally port at the station with his prisoner at around one o’clock. He searched Scotty two more times; took off his sneakers, socks, hat, and earring; logged his basic information, including name and height and weight; took his prints; gave him his phone call; and tossed him into the juvi holding cell. It’s now four o’clock, the end of Joe’s shift, and he’s still sitting at a computer, writing up the report.

  Reports are a royal pain in the ass, but they’re a necessary and critical part of the job. Joe knows he’ll never write the great American novel, but he takes pride in the accuracy of his reports. His narratives tend to be long and thorough. He takes this shit seriously. A seemingly minor, inconsequential detail might turn out to be the crucial piece of evidence in court, the linchpin needed for nailing the guy, even years later. Look at the Whitey Bulger case. Those prosecutors are using specific language from police reports filed decades ago to convict this scumbag.

  So getting all the facts down is imperative. Leave something out and there might just be enough crawl space for someone like Whitey to wiggle through, free on a technicality. And then all that work and time and money go down the drain, polluting the harbor with the rest of the sewage. When training young recruits, Joe can’t stress this point enough. The reports need to be meticulous.

  Even so, a straightforward B&E like this one should take no longer than an hour. But Joe’s still not done. He was interrupted numerous times by guys wanting to hear all about the B&E bust, which Joe eagerly recounted. True to his Irish heritage, Joe loves to tell a good story, especially if it has a happy ending like this one. And he only received Sean Wallace’s hospital notes on the other prisoner thirty minutes ago. But all distractions and delays aside, he’s having a hard time concentrating and isn’t at all confident that he’s properly pieced together the precise sequence of events and every detail.

  He has to incorporate the information from the detective, the photographs of the room, and the interview with the neighbor who made the 911 call. He has to decipher Sean Wallace’s friggin’ chicken scratches about the kid in the hospital—the name of the attending doctor, the tests, the diagnosis, and the treatment. He has to capture every element in methodical order so that the suspects can be properly identified, so the arrest can be proven lawful.

  He stares at the computer screen, at the sea of words in all caps with no paragraphs, and his brain swims. Think. What happened, and then what happened next? He can’t think. He’s tired. Why is he so tired? He looks at his watch. His shift ended five minutes ago, and there’s no way he’s getting the fuck out of here anytime soon.

  A small voice inside his head urges him to give up. It’s good enough. Wrap it up and go home. But Joe knows better. He’s been trained to ignore that voice, to beat it into bloody submission if he needs to. He never gives up. Not on anything. Plus, he knows if the report isn’t done properly, his supervisor won’t approve it.

  He rubs his eyes and focuses on the screen, pushing on. There’s the list of property stolen, exceeding $250, making this a B&E daytime and a larceny. There are the digital photos showing the state of the kitchen and living room, the bedrooms, the bathrooms, and the home office. The hospital report. There’s the cracked wood in the doorframe by the deadbolt lock, making this robbery a B&E. They found two boys on the balcony. He needs to describe exactly what they were wearing, what they were carrying. The tattoos on Scotty’s arms. One jumped, one stayed. There’s who responded to the scene and the neighbor who called it in. There’s the owner of the unit who wasn’t home.

  This is a simple B&E. Joe stares at the screen, drumming his fingers on the desk as he reads and rereads his report. His report is a mess.

  This is a simple B&E. Then why the hell isn’t it simple?

  IT’S SIX O’CLOCK, and Joe should be home with Rosie. He should be sitting in his living room chair with his ugly feet up on the coffee table in front of the window air conditioner with a cold beer in his hand, getting ready to watch the Sox. But instead he’s standing in the middle of the street, at the intersection of Beacon and Charle
s, between the Common and the Public Garden, directing rush-hour traffic. He finally finished that damn B&E report at five o’clock, a whole hour after his shift ended. Then, probably because he was still hanging around and the duty supervisor needed bodies, Joe was ordered to work traffic detail at the Concert on the Common from five thirty until midnight.

  The temperature is still hugging a muggy ninety degrees, and he’s standing on black pavement—wearing a navy-blue uniform topped with a fetching lime-green vest, surrounded by bumper-to-bumper traffic emitting foul-smelling exhaust and even more heat—exactly where he was grateful not to be earlier. Murphy’s Fuckin’ Law. He should’ve knocked on wood.

  It’s a gnarly intersection at this time of day even without the attraction of the free outdoor concert. There are too many cars trying to leave the city all at once, too many walking commuters, twelve separate locations where pedestrians can step off a curb. The men are in suits and ties and the women are in heels, and they’re all pissed off because it’s too hot, and there are too many sweaty people standing too close to each other all waiting to cross the street, and the wait is taking too long, and they’ve just worked eight hours and want to get home already. Lucky them. At least they’re on their way. Although Joe is here to help them in their cause, no one appreciates it, and in fact, by the time he waves them across the street, most of the pedestrians, if they bother to look at him at all, shoot him a poisonous glare as if he’s personally to blame for all this misery. It’s a friggin’ thankless task.

  And because of this, poor Rosie is home alone tonight. Again. She knows this drill all too well. Such is the life of a cop’s wife. If he thinks about how many nights he’s missed with Rosie, if he actually does the math, a task that would require a calculator because the number is so large, he might weep right here in the middle of Boston. So he doesn’t think about it. He only thinks about getting through tonight and getting home to her when it’s over.