Sunday, February 20, 2005
It was a miserable, rotten day. Gray overcast skies, sleeting rain, just plain miserable. I visited my mom before Mike’s funeral. I didn’t tell her about Mike. I don’t think she would’ve understood me, but I didn’t want to take the chance of taking away the little she might have left.
The funeral service was held graveside. It was well attended by people from the neighborhood, policemen I knew and firemen from throughout the city. A third of Mike’s company had died on 9-11, but the surviving members made sure to be up front and center. Most of the crowd shielded themselves with umbrellas, but I didn’t and the firefighters didn’t. I thought of Mike the way he was before 9-11 and how he was afterward. He never really survived that day, not entirely. It fucked up his lungs and sucked so much of his life out of him. Whatever chance he had to recover and lead a normal life was now gone.
Marcy and my nephews stood next to me during the service. I hadn’t seen her in months, and she had aged so much since then. My nephews were only twelve and fourteen, but they stood stoically, both biting hard on their lips to keep from crying.
After the rabbi finished his service, one fireman after the next got up front to say a few words and give his remembrances of Mike; then friends of Mike’s from the neighborhood followed. When one of Mike’s buddies tried to get me to say something, I shook him off. I couldn’t do it. Eventually the crowd dispersed, and it was just me, Marcy, and my nephews left standing by the grave. After a while Marcy touched my arm, then left with my nephews. I couldn’t move. Not then.
I don’t know how much longer it was, maybe five minutes, maybe ten, but someone approached me and held an umbrella over my head, then touched me lightly on the shoulder. It was Jill Chandler, smiling sadly.
“You’re going to get sick if you keep standing out in the rain like this,” she said.
I nodded and accepted the umbrella from her. I wanted to thank her, but I couldn’t talk. She gave me another sad smile and left me.
It was a long time before I left the grave, and I was surprised to see Zachary Lynch off in the distance waiting for me. He wasn’t alone; as I got closer to him I was able to make out that the woman with him was Lisa Williams from Strom-bolli’s. I knew how hard it must’ve been for him to show up like he did. When I got up to him, I held my hand out. He took it, shivering and blanching badly as he did so.
“Detective Green,” he said, his voice cracking on him and becoming something guttural, “you can’t let your rage consume you like this. Please.”
Before he turned away, Lisa Williams offered her condolences, and even though I didn’t know her, I could tell they were heartfelt.
As Zachary walked away, I was able to find my voice, and I thanked him for showing up. He turned briefly and offered me what must’ve been meant as a reassuring smile.
Chapter 26
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
I ended up on disability and off the job for five weeks because of that bullet wound. Zachary’s comment to me had its effect; I sought out an anger management workshop instead of spending every minute of those five weeks obsessing over Joel Cohen and Yuri Gorkin. It wasn’t just what Zachary said to me; it was also thinking of Stevie and Emma standing at my grave the way Mike’s kids had. Still, I have my bad days, days when I am so overwhelmed with thoughts of Mike that I find myself driving to Brighton Beach and parking for hours outside of Gorkin’s restaurant, keeping tabs of who’s coming and going. I’ve been making more of an effort lately to attend the anger management workshops, and the techniques I’ve been learning are starting to help. At least so far they’ve kept me from walking into Gorkin’s restaurant and putting a bullet between his eyes.
Two weeks into my disability leave, Jill Chandler visited me at my apartment to discuss the case and also give me a copy of the manuscript Allen Cowler had sent the bookstore. She looked beautiful that day, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket over a yellow cotton sweater, her blond hair left down and falling just enough over her face so she kept having to brush it away from her eyes. I almost asked her out for dinner. I wanted to, but at the last moment I lost my nerve.
Jill had been right about almost every aspect of her profile on the killer: Cowler worked in a coffee shop, held an MFA in creative writing, and lived in a two-bedroom apartment with his mother in Queens. The book was obviously the work of an extreme narcissistic personality. It turns out Cowler got the sleeping pills he used on the dogs from a prescription his mother had. While Jill was right about why he didn’t kill Zachary that day outside the bookstore, I was right about why the murders stopped for four months. Cowler was terrified we had a description of him, and he kept himself holed up until his rage over James Longo got the better of him. That was the same reason he dumped his .40 caliber and military knife into the Hudson. I was lucky that when he rearmed he did it with a .32 caliber, and the only reason that happened was because he was afraid we’d have informants out looking for anyone trying to buy a .40 caliber, or anything else of that type of firepower. When he was still talking before shutting himself down, he kept going on about how much he hated having to carry a pussy gun like a .32 instead of the real deal like he’d originally had.
Whoever on Longo’s staff wrote that letter to Cowler about the book’s packaging wasn’t kidding. The guy had spent a good deal of money professionally binding it and having a graphic artist draw him a cover for it. On the back were all these unattributable quotes claiming the author was the next James Ellroy, which I assumed must’ve come from Cowler himself. The shooting of the dogs and murders identical to Gail Laurent’s, Paul Burke’s and James Solinski’s all occurred in the book, which also detailed six additional murders, each more grisly than the last. The next one would’ve involved a hatchet, and sure enough, we found one hidden in his bedroom closet. At least we stopped him before he was able to act out the whole book.
I’ve always read a lot of novels, but usually they’re science fiction, Westerns, or fantasy. I tend not to read crime fiction—it hits a little too close to home. I have read a couple of James Ellroy’s books, though: The Big Nowhere and White Jazz. Cowler is no James Ellroy. The tone of his book was unbelievably condescending and smug, and the events that unfolded made no sense. It just seemed like one poorly written, violent, and gory scene after the next. I’m sure in Cowler’s mind it’s all brilliant, but to me whoever wrote him that letter on Longo’s staff was being kind.
It’s been in the papers recently that one of the large New York publishing houses wants to publish Cowler’s book and that the families of the victims are fighting to keep that from happening. Personally I’m hoping the book gets published. Cowler is going to spend the rest of his days locked up and he’ll never see a dime of the money, so let them publish it. Understanding that psycho the way I do, the crap reviews the book will generate will eat away at him until his last breath, and while it’s not enough, at least it would be some justice.
I ran into Jill Chandler a month ago, and this time I didn’t chicken out. I asked her out for dinner and we’ve been seeing each other ever since. We’re trying to take it slow and haven’t slept together yet, but I think that will be changing soon. She’s been suggesting as much. I find myself thinking about her a lot during the day, and am genuinely happy when we’re able to get together. Every time I see her, she seems more beautiful.
The trial for those Russians I arrested was two weeks ago. They were both given eighteen months for the gun charges, and I doubt they’ll end up serving more than six months of it. There’s still nothing as far as Mike’s murder. I’m still spending some of my off hours looking into Gorkin and also into Joel Cohen’s activities, but I’m trying to limit how much of my life I dedicate to it, and also trying hard not to go off the deep end over it. I know I must be doing something right. I’ve been seeing Zachary every Thursday, ostensibly to see if he’s taken pictures of any more monsters out there. Last week he told me he could now see my eyes—that they were no longer being
obscured by rage. The guy is also amazingly intuitive. Out of the blue he showed me his offkilter smile and volunteered about how attractive he found that FBI profiler who had talked to him months ago about hypnosis—how if he wasn’t already in love with Lisa he’d be thrilled to be able to date her. I never mentioned to him that I was seeing Jill; somehow he just knew it. Last week he also gave me a photograph of a man he saw in the street. The man was in his fifties, mostly nondescript. According to Zachary, this person’s soul is even more broken and corrupt than Cowler’s or that of the child killer I took him to see on Staten Island. I’ve been keeping an eye out, but so far haven’t had any luck identifying him.
Last week I went to see Cheryl’s opening night performance in Cabaret. She was amazing as Sally Bowles. On Jill’s suggestion, I brought a dozen red roses for Cheryl. I was glad did. When I handed them to her, it brought tears to her eyes.
Yesterday was opening day at Fenway Park, and as luck would have it, they had the Red Sox playing the Yankees. I was able to score four tickets for the game, and took Jill and my kids to it. It was the first time Stevie and Emma met Jill, and while they were standoffish at first, by the end of the day all of them were fast friends. Stevie had an absolute blast at the game, especially with the Yankees having to stand and watch the Red Sox players get their World Series rings, and the World Series championship banner being unveiled. The fact that Boston beat New York eight to one didn’t hurt either.
I had a good day yesterday, and have been having more than my share of those lately. Not every day has been perfect. I still have those days where I find myself anxious about Mike. I know one way or another I’ll get justice for him, that I just have to be patient. For the time being I have to give the detective working the case a chance to do his job. I keep telling myself I have to focus on the good days and not let myself be overwhelmed by the bad. Easier said than done. But the thought of having Zachary blanching at the sight of me during our weekly meetings has been enough to keep me on track, so far.
A Killer's Essence Page 22
