The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel

by Torbert, R. J. ;

  “What’s going on?” Cronin bellowed.

  “Nothing , boss. Our man here is a little clumsy with a wounded groin and is having trouble standing up,” Bud remarked.

  “Then help him,” Cronin yelled back as he directed the uniform cops to take the suspect to the hospital.

  “Don’t let him out of your sight,” Cronin added. The detective lieutenant knew what was going on with Bud. He chose to ignore it and play dumb. Kyle Winters was in so much pain they had to take the handcuffs off so he could hold his groin. Whenever a fellow officer is shot down, the rules of the game are interpreted differently. He knew if they didn’t get information from this man soon, another life would be lost. He also knew that if this crime was not solved, careers would be over, including his. Cronin scanned the surrounding streets and buildings: the main library across the street, the homes on the adjacent streets. He couldn’t help but think about what had happened to this quiet little village. Other than the Belle Terre murder 20 years prior, there had been no problems. His office had set up meetings with William Lance and the Cross Island Ferry Company that owned the ferry service. Changes were going to happen, and they had to start immediately if people were going to feel like they were safe on the ferry and also in the village.

  As Detective Lieutenant Cronin walked down East Main Street toward Arden Street, the officers were loading Kyle into the back of a squad car to bring him to Mather Hospital. He turned for a second and looked back down on the deserted street that only minutes earlier had hundreds of people bustling about. As his thoughts accumulated, Bud walked up behind him.

  “Boss, I need to get to the hospital. Paul, Rachelle, and this asshole will all be there, as will Victoria’s body.” Cronin just stood there staring at the street, still thinking. “Boss,” Bud said in a somber tone, interrupting Cronin’s thoughts.

  “Go,” he replied. “I will notify Victoria’s next of kin. See what you can come up with there and get back to the precinct in a couple of hours. I want you and Paul there for the meetings we have set up.” As Bud took off, Cronin pulled aside Officers Lynagh and Franks and told them to get down to the Ocean City Bistro and the Dessert Factory to interview the manager and employees for information.

  He walked back to the parking lot behind the Red Onion Café, where he met a couple FBI agents who were antsy to take control of everything. Cronin reminded them that this was a joint case with two murders that included a police officer. He wasn’t sure if Rachelle was dead, so he did not include her in the count.

  The ferry was shut down so the position of the cars was kept in place once the shooting took place. Cronin could see people from the lab already there going over the vehicles with a fine-tooth comb. He started climbing the metal stairway to the back of the Dessert Factory, proceeded to walk on the roof of the Ocean City Bistro, and climbed the metal ladder to the top of the ice-cream parlor. Laying there was the rifle that Kyle left. He instructed the lab people that were already there to be certain pictures at all angles were taken, including toward the ferry. He didn’t expect to get fingerprints off the weapon, but he was hoping to get glove prints. Kyle still had the gloves in his pocket when they apprehended him. The detective lieutenant started thinking to himself again and believed Kyle had someone there waiting for him in the parking lot who must have taken off. There was no other explanation as to why the shooter ended up trying to become invisible inside the café.

  Cronin worked his way down to the ground and went inside the parlor, where he spoke to the manager, Jay Rutherford, who had been there for more than 17 years. He did not offer any really helpful information about anything except that the two workers who spoke little English had seen the shooter go onto the Ocean City Bistro’s roof and thought nothing of it. It was something that happened two to three times a week for various reasons.

  It turned out that the same people owned both the Ocean City Bistro and the Dessert Factory, but Cronin did not think it meant much. He did, however, make a note of the names and contact numbers he received from Rutherford. Cronin went outside the parlor and walked across the street to the vehicles involved in the shooting. The windshields were cracked with bullet holes. The fact was that the glass had created a movement in the bullets’ paths and may have saved Rachelle’s life, and yet it may have cost Victoria her life.

  The pieces of the puzzle were getting more difficult to put together the more he tried to make them fit: a kidnapping for money, and then an article in a small-town paper set off a killing spree. It was a jigsaw puzzle that somehow needed to be completed. Cronin called his office to be sure William Lance and the Port Jefferson people were on the way to his precinct. He walked over to Officer Lynagh and asked him to pick up Robert Simpson and take him to the precinct as well. He called back Gina, his assistant, to contact the Connecticut State Police to monitor the McDonald’s stops along I-95. “I have a feeling we are going to hear from our friends who kidnapped Debbie Lance.” he said.

  He pushed the button to disconnect on his BlackBerry and pointed over to one of his uniformed officers. Cronin was showing his age by still using his first BlackBerry. “Give me a ride. It’s time to do the worst part of this job,” he said.

  He looked back at the dead officer’s vehicle, put his hand to his forehead, and said out loud, “I’m sorry, Victoria. We will have our justice.” With that, he sat in the passenger side as the officer drove off to take Detective Lieutenant Cronin to Victoria’s parents’ house in Miller Place.

  Officer George Lynagh drove up to the guesthouse and knocked on the door until Robert Simpson answered.

  “You need to come down to the precinct with me now,” Lynagh said.

  “What for?” Simpson said, with a puzzled look on his face.

  The officer replied, “There’s been a shooting, and we need you.”

  “But...” Simpson replied.

  Lynagh interrupted him. “Get in the car now, or I will bodily put you in there.”

  Officer Lynagh was a very direct, no-nonsense type of cop and rarely smiled. Whether you knew your rights or not, he was very rarely challenged when he made a request. A fellow cop was killed, and he was not in the mood to be polite. Simpson chose not to argue with him.

  The ride in the ambulance took slightly more than five minutes to get to Mather Hospital, and Paul would not let go of Rachelle’s hand. She had a pulse, but he thought she wouldn’t last long, and he wanted to be the last one she felt. The medic in the ambulance looked carefully at her head where she was hit and realized she had been grazed by the bullet, which had caused a concussion. He believed she was going to make it unless something internally had been damaged by the bullet nicking the side of her forehead. He couldn’t tell if the bullet had entered anywhere else until she was examined.

  They unloaded her and brought her into the triage first and left Paul outside to wait. It was only a matter of minutes before Allan and Madison came rushing in. Madison hugged Paul and started crying.

  “I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her. She is all I have left,” she said.

  Paul held on to her tight and said, “Listen, Madison, the bullet did not enter her head. We have a very good chance here.”

  Madison stared back at Paul and began to hug him again. Madison was still in her aerobic outfit but didn’t care. The way that Allan barged into the dance studio, everyone thought they were under attack. As soon as he saw Madison, he knew she was Rachelle’s sister. “Come with me,” he said, as he grabbed her hand. “Your sister has been shot and is with Paul at the hospital.”

  Madison had never met Allan before but had heard of him through conversation with Rachelle. Besides, she could read his eyes, which were full of fear and truth. Without hesitation, she left her students and got in the car with him.

  Bud came into the hospital about 10 minutes later and pulled Paul aside. He said, “Listen, we have to get back to the precinct. We have officers with O’Connor and Kyle Winters.”
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br />   “Where’s his room?” Paul said.

  “No fucking way,” Bud said, “he has officers at his door. He’s our ticket to finding out who else is involved. Besides, they are in triage now. The officers are guarding empty rooms at the moment.”

  Madison stood up and said, “I don’t want the man who did this in a room near my sister.”

  Paul realized that their conversation had been overheard by both Allan and Madison. “We need him alive to see where this will lead us. We have to do that, Madison. Understand?” he asked. He looked over at Allan and said, “I have to get back to the precinct and work this while it’s fresh. Can you stay here with Madison and Rachelle ’til I get back?” Allan nodded as he put his hand on Paul.

  “Paul, I will be here and send you updates by text.” Paul left with a hug, and he kissed Madison before he left.

  As he approached the door, Madison asked, “Paul, why is this happening, and why Rachelle?” Paul paused and turned around to face Madison.

  “I blame myself Madison. I wanted Rachelle to be involved with what I thought was a kidnapping case, and I thought we could flush a bunch of amateurs out by Rachelle writing an article. I wanted her to be with me because I care about her, plus I thought she could help at the same time. I’m sorry; this is my fault, and if we lose her, I will not forgive myself, and I wouldn’t expect you to forgive me either. I’m so sorry.”

  Madison was surprised by Paul’s confession but replied, “Rachelle is a big girl. She would never do what she didn’t want to do. If she wrote and got involved with this for you, it’s because the feeling was mutual. Find these people, Paul, and keep me informed.” He nodded as he left the hospital, but he couldn’t hide his feeling of depression. His world was crashing down all around him. The case, and now this.

  As he reached outside the hospital entrance, he realized he didn’t have a car, and he wondered if it was symbolic of what was happening with his life. Things were falling apart all around him, and the simple thing of not having a vehicle to get to the precinct was about to be the final straw.

  As the hair on the back of his neck was starting to get wet from stress, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Allan, who gave him the keys to his car. “Don’t worry about us. I’m sure you will be back here later, and if Madison or I need to leave, it’s a short cab ride to the village,” he said.

  Paul nodded in appreciation and, without saying a word, took the keys and got into Allan’s 2006 Cadillac and drove to the precinct.

  When he walked in, Bud was already there with Detective Lieutenant Cronin, Agent Sherman from the FBI, assistant district attorney, John Ashley, as well as Commander Jason Williams from the Coast Guard. John Ashley was quick point out the political fallout from this mess and that it needed to be cleaned up. As the banter continued between Ashley and Agent Sherman, Detective Lieutenant Cronin motioned to Bud and Paul to get closer, so they could have a private conversation about everything that had just taken place.

  Cronin looked at Bud and asked, “Was it necessary to shoot him?”

  “He came forward, boss,” Bud replied. “I told him to stay still with his hands out. I had no choice. I had no way of knowing if that was a gun or knife in his pants or if he was just happy to see me.” He said it with such a serious face that it even caught Cronin off guard.

  “You’re a real comedian, aren’t you? Listen, get yourself to the hospital; you are under stress. PBA will assign a lawyer to you. And leave your gun here.”

  Bud looked puzzled and said, “Boss, I know they need my gun to check ballistics, but a hospital? Is that necessary?”

  Cronin looked at him with those steely Irish eyes. “Yes, the good guys need representation, just like the bad guys. He was a cop killer, so I think this will be cleared up fast, but you need to protect yourself. Now go to the hospital, and I will call you later. Keep your backup piece.”

  A sudden loud voice from ADA Ashley was heard. “Are we interrupting anything, gentlemen? There should be no secrets; we are all on the same side on this one.” Cronin motioned for Paul and Bud to stay silent.

  “I’m just making sure, John,” Cronin replied. “We all fired weapons, except for Paul, at a cop killer, and Bud shot him in the groin. I don’t want my men going through this thing to where the investigation is hampered or delayed because Internal Affairs is looking to nail someone.”

  Ashley responded quickly, “We are talking about a cop killer; they will do the routine investigation. However, this guy was unarmed when Detective Johnson shot him.”

  “He had just killed one of us!” Cronin bellowed. “He wouldn’t show his hands! He wouldn’t stand down and moved toward Johnson after what happened. Any cop would have fired, maybe killed him. Bud intended to shoot him in the leg and hit him in the groin.”

  Cronin motioned for Bud to leave, and he did. Commander Williams and Agent Sherman were enjoying the show and stood there silently watching. Then Cronin got a call from the chief of police, wanting to know what Cronin was going to say at the press conference. “I haven’t rehearsed it yet, Chief, but I will give one within the hour,” Cronin answered.

  He put the phone down and looked at Paul. “Where the hell are William Lance and Simpson? Get their asses in here, or we will show up at their house,” he said. As fate would have it, Officer Dugan knocked and opened the door to Cronin’s office and told the group both men were at the precinct. They came in, and by William Lance’s face, Paul knew something else was wrong.

  “What now?” he asked.

  Lance looked at Detective Lieutenant Cronin and said, “They called. The ransom drop is canceled for tomorrow. The new demand is $5 million and the release of Kyle Winters without questioning, or they will send parts of her body to me in the mail.”

  Agent Sherman finally spoke up, saying, “They won’t harm her. They want the money too much.”

  Cronin turned around and looked out his window in the parking lot. “Yes, they will,” he replied. The room grew silent, waiting for his follow-up. “They shot up the Cross Island Ferry, killed an officer, and put hundreds of people in harm’s way. They value their freedom more than the money. They want Winters freed so he won’t talk, or they will try and kill him, and if Deborah Lance has seen her kidnappers, they will kill her also.”

  As he turned around, he looked at Lance and Simpson. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lance, but these are the cold, hard facts. If there is anything that has happened today that shakes your memory, anything that seems like a coincidence or reminds you of anything, now is the time.”

  Lance sat down in one of the chairs as another officer came in with the list of license-plate numbers that Cronin asked for that were on the streets and metered parking lots of Port Jefferson Village. He gave a list of names to Paul, Lance, and Simpson. “Any names familiar on the list? Take a good look.”

  There were more than 350 names on the list. While they were studying the list, Cronin looked at Ashley. “John, I have a press conference in 20 minutes, and I don’t even know what I’m going to say yet. This is such a fucking mess because we are not coming up with why this happened in the first place.”

  Paul interrupted, “Well, well, well, looky here. Roger Thompson from Fun World was parked on East Main.”

  William Lance interjected, “Patty’s car was in the village lot behind Pasta Pasta restaurant.”

  Cronin looked at Paul and said, “Bring them both in here.” He then looked at Lance and Simpson and said, “Patty Saunders, your daughter’s best friend, correct?” William Lance nodded. “Anything else we need to know about her?” Cronin asked.

  “They went to high school together and have stayed close,” Lance answered.

  “That means you know her?” Cronin said, as he looked at Simpson.

  “Yes, I know her,” he replied.

  “Where has she been all this time since her best friend was kidnapped?” Cronin shot back.

  “She’s been i
n touch with the family. She’s upset; she was supposed to be with her the night of the concert, as you know,” replied Simpson.

  Paul interjected, “Why wasn’t she with Debbie on the boat? Why was she already in Connecticut?”

  “Ask her yourself,” Cronin said to him. “Get her ass in here quick.”

  Agent Sherman, who had been very patient during this conversation, finally spoke up. “Detective Lieutenant, I’m sorry about your police officer, but we have an agent shot and injured as well as the kidnapping. This will continue to be a joint investigation, especially now that Internal Affairs is involved with all the shots fired from your gun today. We were also aware of Patty Saunders from O’Connor’s input of the investigation. The FBI will be with you at the press conference.”

  Usually Cronin would have fought this, but he decided that misery loves company.

  “Yes, Agent Sherman, I agree we need to work together on this. I would suggest we listen to the taped call before the press conference.” He looked at Commander Williams, who was taking notes and using his tape recorder during this meeting, and said, “And you, sir? What are you going to be working on?”

  Commander Williams was quick to respond, “The Coast Guard is going to find out why executives of the Cross Island Company didn’t show up today at the meeting and we are going to draw up a suggested outline of what they should be doing from a security standpoint from now on. If they don’t comply, we will work hard to shut the operation down until our waters are safe between New York and Connecticut.”

  Cronin nodded and looked back at Lance. “Did the agents at your house say where the call came from?” he asked.

  “It was Connecticut,” Lance said, with no surprise in his voice. The Detective Lieutenant looked back at Paul and said, “Well, that’s a bunch of horseshit. Detective Powers here was right all along.

  There are too many things happening here in Port Jefferson Village. The comfort feeling is just too—well—comfortable. The calls may come from there, the car may have been abandoned there, but they are here, hiding in plain sight, and now we have one of them.” He called for Officer Lynagh to come into the office.