Finally we both plopped into the two lonely chairs and just stared at each other. Was this our new normal?
Brian’s eyes were bloodshot, and he had a light stubble on his face—like a tiny sparse forest. Christ—he only started shaving a year ago.
I focused and said, “Look, Brian, we’re doing all we can. You’ve talked to the attorney. She’s the best. A former ADA.”
He just nodded.
I didn’t want to get into the why of what he did. Status? Money? Who cares? I never made that much as a cop, but we had everything we needed. More than once I wondered if Brian’s crime had something to do with the loss of his mother years ago. Maeve’s memory still affected me every day, no matter what I was doing. Even after falling in love again. Who knows what it did to the kids, no matter how open we were with each other?
I just couldn’t believe it. What had happened to Brian? My son, arrested for selling drugs. Both meth and a new form of ecstasy. It was almost too much to process.
I hadn’t lectured or yelled. He knew what a terrible mistake he’d made. He realized what could happen. Now I needed answers. I had to get to the bottom of this and save him. It didn’t matter to me if he wanted to be saved or not.
I said, “You’ve got to help us. Help yourself. I need to know who gave you that shit to sell.”
He just stared at me. There was no answer. Barely an acknowledgment.
“And right there near Holy Name. The kids…” I caught myself. I channeled my inner Joe Friday. Just the facts, ma’am. I gave it thirty seconds. Half a minute of dead silence in this tiny room. The chilling sounds of the lockup drifting inside. Cell doors slamming. Men yelling insults back and forth. For the first time in my career, it was depressing to me.
Finally, I calmly said, “Who gave you the drugs?”
Brian’s voice cracked as he said, “I’m sorry, Dad. I can’t tell you.” He was resolute.
My world crashed down around me.
Chapter 5
Brian and I were done for the day. There was nothing left to say. He wasn’t going to tell me what I needed to know. It could’ve been stupid stubborn teenage pride. Acting like a tough guy, or, more likely, fear of what would happen if he talked. That was relatively new in the culture cops operated in. The whole “snitches get stitches” attitude had popped up in inner-city neighborhoods and spread through music and TV shows. Now it seemed to be the mantra of anyone under thirty.
When the door opened, I had to snatch one more hug from my son. He wrapped his arms around me as well. Then I watched silently as a corrections officer led him away. He moved like a robot. His feet shuffling and the flip-flops making a sad slapping sound on the concrete floor.
I headed toward the exit, where my friend Vinny was waiting to lead me out. I said, “Is there anything you can do to protect him?”
He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “We have Brian in what we call the nerd ward. Hackers and financial guys who decided they weren’t going to follow the rules. Those sorts of perps. He only comes into contact with the general population if he goes out to exercise once a week or if we have to move people around because of trouble. But I promise, Mike, we’re keeping a close eye on him.”
This was special treatment because I was a cop. I wasn’t going to refuse it.
When he told me Brian was safe for now, I thought I’d break down and cry right in front of him.
What did people without friends working in the jail do? What about people with no access to a decent lawyer? It made me think about cases I had worked and how I would persuade people to cooperate. Now I saw that they often had no other choice.
Then Vinny took my arm, and as we started to walk, he leaned in closer and said, “The rumor is that the DA’s office wants to make an example of Brian. Wants to show that they’ll go after a white kid as hard as a black kid. And they want to look fair by not showing preference to a cop’s son.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the truth like that all at once. It felt like a punch in the gut. I slapped the cinder-block wall in frustration. The jolt of pain through my body reminded me that I had stitches in that hand. Blood stained the white bandage.
Vinny draped his arm over my shoulder and subtly headed us toward the exit.
I found myself shuffling, just like Brian. I wondered if it had something to do with this place.
This place I would never look at the same way again.
Chapter 6
When I left the jail, I knew exactly what I had to do. By the time I got back to my van in Queens, clouds had drifted in and given the streets a particularly gloomy look. I couldn’t go in to the office. I was on leave. Officially for my injury, but unofficially for beating the murder suspect Laszlo Montez. Thank God no one asked too many questions about a guy who put a knife to a teenage girl’s throat and murdered two people.
My sergeant told me to just go with it. There might be an investigation later, but for now I was a hero who’d been stabbed by a murder suspect. The city sure didn’t care much about heroes’ kids.
But I was still a cop. And, much more important, a father.
Like any cop worth his salt, I had informants. The word snitch had fallen out of favor in police work over the last few years. But it’s hard to find words that rhyme with informant. “Snitches get stitches” is catchier than something like “Informants get dormant.”
Informants are a fact of police work. People like to point out all the problems with using informants, but few understand the benefits. They can go places cops can’t. Cops can’t be everywhere at once. Informants help in that effort. They also give insight into how a criminal thinks.
Jodie Foster didn’t need Anthony Hopkins’s help in The Silence of the Lambs because his character was a Boy Scout. He was a psychopath, and he found the break in the case. Informants are vital and horrible at the same time. And cops need them no matter how they feel about them.
I knew people. Some through favors and some through fear. Both seemed to work well. My biggest issue was that whoever gave Brian that shit was somewhere near Holy Name. At least that’s where he was operating. I had to be discreet.
My first stop was at a deli—or, more precisely, behind a deli—off La Salle Street. I ditched the van and walked to the alley behind the North Side Deli. After just a few minutes, a skinny white guy with a shaved head and tats up and down both arms stepped out for a smoke.
He didn’t notice me until I said, “Hello, Walter.” It was satisfying to see him jump. “You could pass for either a skinhead or a chemo patient. You need to eat a little more while you’re at work.”
The young man turned and said, “No labels, man. I just like short hair now. Besides, some of my beliefs don’t go over so well inside.”
I didn’t have time to waste. I said, “I need information.”
“I’m clean. You got nothing on me.”
“I don’t need anything on you. The statute hasn’t run out on the guy you stabbed over near Riverside Park.”
“That was self-defense. You even said he was just a dope dealer. I already paid that debt. I told you about the West Side gang’s gun stash.”
“You paid part of your debt. Now I need more. Unless you want the judge to decide what, exactly, is self-defense and what’s just a senseless attack.”
“But the guy wasn’t even hurt bad. A few stitches, a little blood. Who cares?”
I looked down at my bandaged hand and said, “I bet he cares. And I still have his contact info.”
Walter looked resigned as his head dipped. He mumbled, “What do you need to know?”
“Who’s giving meth and X to local kids to sell?”
“Man, this ain’t my neighborhood. It’s none of my business.”
“Make it your business.”
Walter caught my tone and looked up at me. “This means something to you, doesn’t it?”
I gave him a silent stare.
He said, “You’ll owe me.”
I just nodded.
<
br /> “Big-time.”
I said, “Don’t push it, Walter, or some of your white supremacist asshole buddies might find out that your real last name is Nussbaum.”
I knew he’d do as I said.
Chapter 7
I spread the love for ten blocks in every direction. By midnight I’d be a curse on the tongue of every dealer and informant on the Upper West Side.
I spoke with Lenny Whitehead, a black crack dealer whose daughter I once rescued from a gang he owed money to. Back then he’d offered to kill anyone I wanted him to. I thought it was a joke, but I didn’t want to push it.
Manny Garcia, a slick former Latin King, talked to me because I’d helped him when he was fingered for a homicide he didn’t commit. I found the real killer, and Manny had been my best friend ever since.
Billy Haskins, a former set designer I put away for selling coke to Broadway actors, talked because he didn’t want any trouble. The little Bostonian had no use for New Yorkers other than as drug customers or producers willing to pay union scale.
Everyone was part of the program. I’d have answers soon.
All the social interaction with lowlifes had made me late to pick up the kids. When I pulled the van into the pickup lane, I saw my brood lined up along the fence talking with Sister Sheilah. That was never a good sign.
I rolled to a stop and hopped out, knowing the best defense is a good offense. Whatever Sister Sheilah was asking, I was prepared to answer.
I was shocked when she smiled at me. I wasn’t sure exactly what she was doing at first, because I’d seen her smile so rarely. I stammered, “S-sorry I’m a little late.”
She said, “Ten minutes is a little late. Forty-five makes me worried you’d forgotten you had kids.”
Was that a joke? I was too terrified to ask.
The sister said, “It’s no problem, Mr. Bennett. Bridget and I were discussing the fine points of bedazzling and other crafts.” She stepped toward me and led me by the arm away from the children as they started to file into the van. In a low voice she said, “We’ve been so worried about Brian. Anything new?”
“No, Sister. Not yet. There’s a long way to go.”
“We’ll pray for him and for you.”
“Thank you, Sister. I need prayers right about now.”
Once we were back home, I opened the door to a smell that made me smile. It was one of Mary Catherine’s standards. It took me a minute to pinpoint the aroma. Irish pot roast with brown gravy. I caught the look on each kid’s face as he or she crossed the threshold. Sometimes it’s the little things that can perk you up.
Mary Catherine came out of the kitchen looking like a young housewife from the fifties. A white apron, a smile, and a twinkle in her eyes.
She said, “Dinner in two hours. Two hours of hard labor. Homework first. The chores next. Cleanup last, and in that order.” She looked across the room, and for the first time I noticed my grandfather Seamus standing in the corner, looking out at the street below. She said to him, “You’re in charge of homework. Make yourself useful if you want to be fed.”
I doubted she had ever spoken that way to a priest when she lived in Tipperary or Dublin. But it was hard to think of my grandfather as a priest unless he was wearing his clerical collar. And sometimes even then it was hard to believe. But despite his impish and mischievous nature, he had been a blessing to me since my childhood. And now he was here for my children.
Chapter 8
I watched the miracle of dinner at the Bennett house unfold. Mary Catherine was the author of this blessed event, and I couldn’t express how much I appreciated her efforts to keep the kids’ lives normal. She awed me. By dinnertime, the kids had their homework done, their chores completed, and the table set.
Once again the crowd was quiet. The empty chair where Brian normally sat didn’t help matters.
Seamus, sitting at the far end of the table from me, bowed his head, as he did before each meal. The kids followed his lead. He said in a low, comforting voice, “Lord, thank you for our many blessings. Thank you for our time together. Thank you for allowing us to realize how fleeting it can be. Please bless this family and protect our precious Brian. Amen.”
A quiet chorus of “Amen” followed.
Dinner proceeded with the clank of silverware and the occasional comment just to break the silence. Mary Catherine engaged Chrissy. She was our best chance if we wanted to hear a quirky, funny story from the day.
Mary Catherine said, “What did you learn in history today, Chrissy?”
Usually the little girl would light up at a chance to tell a story in front of the whole family. Instead she mumbled, “We talked about the men in Boston who decided we shouldn’t be part of England anymore.”
Mary Catherine took a moment and managed to gather everyone’s attention without saying a word. Then she said, “Listen, everyone. I know we’re worried about Brian. You can believe your father is doing everything he can to help him. But sometimes things don’t work out the way we expect them to. Not better, not worse—just not like we expect.”
Now she was playing to the crowd’s full attention.
“My brother Ken wanted to come to America. He’s a big, burly lad and a great fan of the Kennedys. All he talked about was coming to Boston. But he got in trouble.”
Shawna said, “What kind of trouble?” We were all hooked.
“It was a bar fight, and Ken punched a man who hit his head when he fell on the floor. My brother was charged with assault and later convicted. He didn’t have to go to jail, but he had a conviction on his record, and that kept him from doing what he expected to do. That conviction kept him from coming to America. But you know what?”
Chrissy and Bridget both said, “What?”
“Things turned out differently for him. He met a lovely girl. And now he lives right there in Dublin with two beautiful kids. He has a good job and is happier than he could ever think of being. It’s different from what he expected, but certainly not worse. Sometimes things happen in life, and we just have to accept them.”
I could almost see the kids understanding what she was saying and feeling better. It felt like the pace of eating even picked up. But Seamus was still quiet. None of his usual silly quips or semi-risqué jokes. When I looked at him, I could see why. He was silently crying, trying to hide it from the kids.
Chapter 9
The Manhattan North Homicide Squad sat in a clean six-story office building off Broadway near 133rd Street. It was lush by NYPD standards but pretty average by business standards. The building housed borough-wide units such as gang enforcement, intelligence, and even the occasional terrorism task force. The main difference between officers in those units and the homicide detectives was that we usually dressed better than everyone else.
Across the street from the building, the elevated train tracks provided shade for people who got in early and found a parking spot. The regular 1 train rattled the front of the building. I still appreciated walking in the doors that early Tuesday morning.
The sergeant let me come back the day after my stitches came out. Although he was usually terse, he met me in the hallway near the front door that day and spent a long time talking with me to make sure my head was screwed on straight. Once he was satisfied, he told me about a recent homicide. A high school kid. Just fifteen years old. The details were horrendous and included torture and decapitation. The crime-scene photos made it worse. Seeing the headless torso wearing a lacrosse jersey put a personal touch on the grisly scene. Two fingers on his left hand were missing, and blood smeared the palm. This was the kind of stuff I never mentioned to Mary Catherine.
I stared at the sergeant and finally said, “How’s this not all over the news?”
“We reported it as a random attack with few details to keep the media quiet and allow us to talk to as many people as possible before something leaked out. That’s one of the things I need you to help us on. I want you to head out to the high school he attended and see what you
can find out. Kids are much more likely to talk about it if they think it was a random attack rather than some kind of targeted brutal slaying. I want us to get a handle on this as quickly as possible.”
“I didn’t know we could fudge the facts to the media.”
“I didn’t know you cared.”
“The truth is usually the best course. Even if it terrifies people.”
“This comes from the mayor’s office. He thinks it could cause an all-out panic. They’re afraid it might even hurt tourism.”
“God forbid.” I shook my head. “It might produce leads, too.”
“Stories like this usually are just a distraction to the investigation.”
He was right. I took the file and got to work. Every detective on the squad seemed to have a piece of it. I wasted no time heading down to the high school, which was north of Holy Name.
The cover story we were using was that the student, Gary Mule, had been the victim of a random knifing. I had to find out what a fifteen-year-old could do to deserve something like this in a psychotic’s mind.
P.S. 419 didn’t resemble Holy Name. It had no playgrounds or anything that felt kidlike. It could’ve been a jail. It could be considered in the same neighborhood as Holy Name, although it was a good walk from my kids’ school. It had the standard New York City public school facade: five-story brick exterior and a lone entrance where parents could drop the kids off and pick them up. My guess was that a lot of the kids at the school were on their own when it came to transportation.
The school bucked the trend—it didn’t have a name like School for Future Leaders. I’d prefer to see honesty in naming schools. Maybe something like School for Disaffected Youth.
Security had certainly changed since I was a kid. I had to show my police ID to a camera before someone in the office buzzed me through a steel gate. There was even a full-time police officer assigned to the school. But that’s not who met me in the hallway before I reached the office.
Haunted Page 2
