twenty-first century whose balls had barely dropped.
And either directly or subversively, Paulina swore to be
the wrecking ball that tore it all down. And if she happened
to take down the Gazette with it, hell, that wouldn’t be such
a bad morning.
“James, you just made my coffee taste better.”
“Oh, that’s swell, Miss Cole, and again I hope you know
how much I appreciate your trusting me with this assignment. I’m…wait, Parker’s moving. I’ll call you back when I
get anything new.”
The Guilty
83
“You do that, Jamesy, you do that.”
“Hey, Miss Cole?” James said apprehensively. “Do you
think I can file expense reports for my breakfast? The bagels
at this place are like three bucks each.”
“Not a chance, Jamesy. Talk to you later.” She hung up.
15
I rounded the corner and saw him standing at a street vendor,
paying for coffee and a muffin and waiting for change.
“Make that two coffees,” I said.
“My friend here will take his with twelve sugars,” Curt
Sheffield said.
The vendor looked at me like I’d asked for a side of pork
loin. “That’s a lot of sugar, man.”
“Three Splendas,” I said. “I thought cops weren’t
allowed to lie.”
“That’s to suspects and witnesses. Not reporters. In fact,
that’s encouraged.”
Curt took his change. I watched in awe as he inhaled the
muffin in three bites.
“I think I’ve seen the same thing happen with boa constrictors. I bet if I look closely I can see a muffin-shaped protrusion in your uniform.”
“Lay off, I haven’t eaten since breakfast. You know at first
I liked the idea of being the NYPD’s poster boy, but you
can’t catch a break on the streets. Parents introducing their
kids to me like I’m walking around in a Mickey Mouse
costume or something.”
The Guilty
85
“If Mickey carried a loaded Glock.” He licked the crumbs
from his fingers. “And aren’t you guys supposed to eat donuts?”
Curtis sipped his coffee, wiped some crumbs from his
mouth. He nodded, said, “Let’s go,” through a mouthful, and
led me down the block. It was a cool afternoon, the streets
lined with people preparing for the commute home.
“So tell me about the note,” I said.
“What, no foreplay?”
“Not when two people have been killed.”
“That’s our job to deal with,” Sheffield said. “You write about
it, remember? That shit last year don’t make you Dick Tracy.”
“You’re right, but you also know I’m one of the few guys
in this town who’ll give you a fair shake.”
Curt sipped his coffee. “Word is Harvey Hillerman is hard
up on Wallace to raise circulation. Says the Dispatch is
growing and you’re shrinking worse than my old man after
joining the polar bear club.”
Harvey Hillerman was the owner of the Gazette, and perpetually at war with the tabloid tactics of the other papers in
town. But it was hard to keep the public’s interest with payroll
scandals when the Dispatch could just take a shot of Athena
Paradis in a bikini, slap it on the front page and match your
circulation rate.
“It’s not my job to worry about Hillerman.”
“It’s your job to make sure you have a job, paisan. ”
“You know you’re black, right?”
“What, paisan is reserved for Italians? Screw that.”
We walked toward Sixth Avenue.
“So what have you got?” I asked.
“Well, the ballistics report came back. I’ll tell you, the
pressure on Perez is unreal. Costas Paradis is watching every
move he makes with a magnifying glass, and he’s holding that
86
Jason Pinter
glass up to the sun. Man’s got eyes and ears from every
lawmaker to every sewer grate in the city.”
“His daughter was killed, what do you expect?”
“Carruthers has instituted mandatory overtime every day
this week,” Sheffield continued. “They have undercovers
staking out every major nightclub, patrolmen inspecting every
rooftop within line of sight. They have us watching any celebrity that goes anywhere after midnight. Problem is we
don’t know what we’re looking for. Not to mention we’re all
watching our backs after Joe got killed.”
I looked at the ground.
“Don’t let it get to you. Guys in the department don’t hold
a grudge for the most part. And the guys that do hold grudges
are all old school, the kind the department keeps on a tight
leash because they might have had ties to Mike DiForio’s
crew. Carruthers knows Fredrickson was dirty, that he was
taking money from that Tony Soprano wannabe. Until
DiForio got barbecued, that is.”
“When you say guys don’t hold a grudge ‘for the most
part,’ what’s that, like fifty percent? Ninety?”
Sheffield toed the cement. Then he looked at me. “Not
gonna lie, bro, there’s definitely some bad blood. Fredrickson might have been dirty, but he went back a long way. The
bad ones always have friends and there are always other
people who covered their asses. Joe Mauser, though, he was
a good cop. It’s just a cumulative effect of what’s happened
to that family.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Me? Shit. I wouldn’t be here right now if I held a grudge.
Fact is, city needs you on this story a whole lot more than it
needs you digging up celebrity tampons to pad Hillerman’s
bottom line. Plus I like your stuff. Tired of reading news
The Guilty
87
reports that read like they were written by fuckers who are
stuck on typewriters and Geritol.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Appreciate it in private. I’m happy to give you dirt so it
doesn’t end up in Cole’s witch cauldron. But after this, I gotta
be a ghost, man.”
I waited for him to continue.
“So ballistics confirmed the same caliber shot was used to
kill Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser.”
“No big shock there,” I said.
“No, we figured it was the same sick son of a bitch. But they
were surprised to find out the caliber bullet our man used.”
“Unusual?”
“I’d say .44-40 magnum rounds.” Curt waited a moment.
He expected my jaw to drop, but I must have slept through
my NRA 101 course.
“Why’s that surprise you?”
“Nobody uses .44-40 ammunition these days. Just an impractical caliber to use, on both sides of the good guy/bad guy coin.”
“Why’s that?”
“Magnum rounds are large, man. Heavy velocity, heavy
impact. The recoil on those things will knock you on your ass.
Forget everything Dirty Harry said, any cop who wants to be
able to get off a second round in the same zip code would be
an idiot to carry around a magnum. Only people who use it are
idiot cons who think it looks pretty, but any perp who knows
anyth
ing about weapons would prefer something lighter.”
“Idiots don’t kill women with a single shot from a hundred
yards out,” I said.
“No. That takes a different kind of mental defect.”
“So what are magnum rounds used for?” I asked.
“Hunting, mostly,” Sheffield said. “Got an uncle, lives out
88
Jason Pinter
in Montana, goes big game hunting using magnum rounds.
Got a black bear head on his mantel used to scare the shit out
of me and my sister growing up. It’s a good caliber for up to
a hundred and fifty yards, after that the bullet is too heavy to
maintain its accuracy.”
“The killer shot both Athena and Joe Mauser from within
two hundred yards.”
“Right.”
“Further reduces his idiocy quotient. Obviously the killer
is smart enough to know his range.”
“Question is,” Sheffield said, “why would anyone use
magnum rounds for that kind of sniper shooting? Only an idiot
would try to kill a person from far away using a magnum round.
.22s are lighter, faster and more accurate. Not to mention easier
to get. I’m up there on the roof? I’m using .22s.”
“Unless there’s a reason for using magnum rounds,” I said.
“Whoever killed Mauser and Athena planned the murders out.
They knew Athena was going to be at the Kitten Club, and
they knew the setup outside city hall well enough to position
themselves for a shot. You don’t go through that kind of
trouble and then randomly pick a gun and bullet that might
separate your shoulder with the recoil.”
“It is sexy ammo,” Curt said, rather offhandedly. “Magnum.”
We continued walking, both processing the information.
Powerful, short range, heavy, high velocity. Sexy.
“Wait,” I said. “What do you mean it’s sexy?”
“Look, I’m not saying you’ll find it at Victoria’s Secret…”
“Come on. The killer chose this ammo for a reason. Why
does someone choose magnum ammunition over something
more practical? Especially when they have everything else
planned to a T?”
“Well,” Curtis said. “Dirty Harry made magnum ammo
The Guilty
89
cool. Forget which one of the movies it was, but he used .44
caliber special loads, which are lighter and don’t have the
same recoil. Funny thing is they didn’t actually use a magnum
while shooting the movie, they used—”
“Come on,” I said, impatiently. “What else?”
“Well, magnum ammo is probably the one ammunition
that’s actually known in pop culture. Ever see that movie,
Winchester 73? ” I shook my head. “Great flick. James
Stewart and Shelley Winters. Anyway, the Winchester is
commonly referred to as ‘The Gun that Won the West.’ Most
popular rifle, probably ever, kind of a folk legend. The Winchester uses .44-40 magnum rounds.”
“No shit,” I said. “Winchester, huh?”
“Winchester.”
“Think there’s a chance our killer might have used a Winchester on Athena and Joe?”
“It’s a possibility, man, but the Winchester plant shut down
a few years ago. It’s not even called Winchester these days,
some conglomerate took it over. Probably called GunTex or
something stupid. And trust me, nobody uses Winchester
rifles anymore. They went out with the dodo and bellbottoms.”
“Some people think bell-bottoms are hip,” I said.
“Hey, what you and your girl do is between the two of y’all.”
“Yeah, but maybe there’s someone out there who thinks
Winchesters are the new black. Or at least has a reason for
using one.”
“Well, I can’t imagine there are a whole lot of working
ones left, so you got yourself a lead there, Maureen Dowd.”
“And the note,” I said. “You told me another note was left
at the scene again.”
“No, I didn’t,” Curt said.
90
Jason Pinter
“You did, asshole, give it.”
Curt looked around, his eyes narrowing. “This is some creepy
stuff, man. Hard to get something like that out of your head.”
“Do you have a copy of it I could take?” I asked.
“Nah. I didn’t need one. You don’t forget something like
that.”
“What did the note say?”
Curt stopped, seemed to think for a moment, then carefully spoke.
“It said, ‘People thought me bad before, but if ever I should
get free, I’ll let them know what bad means.’”
“I’ll let them know what bad means,” I repeated. “I didn’t
write that.”
“He used a line from one of your articles after shooting
Athena, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Not exactly flattering. I was worried for a bit
this guy had it out for me, but…guess he just liked my work.”
“That make you feel better or worse?”
“Not sure,” I said.
“Warm and fuzzy this guy is not.”
I clapped Curt on the shoulder. “Listen, Curt, I really appreciate it.”
“Just do me a favor, wait until Carruthers makes his statement before you use that quote. Do all the research you want,
just don’t jump the gun,” Curt warned.
“You scratch my back, I scratch yours. So now it’s back
to protecting and serving and all that good stuff,” I said.
“You mean posing with tourists and keeping the kids away
from my Glock. And you go back to being all fair and balanced and stuff,” Curt replied.
“All the news that’s fit to print,” I said.
Suddenly I heard a crackling sound. Curtis looked at me.
The Guilty
91
Both of our heads shot to his waistband where his walkietalkie was attached. A voice came over the speaker. I only
made out two words, and my blood froze.
“Shots fired…”
Curtis grabbed the walkie-talkie off his belt. The voice
crackled again.
“10-10, shots fired, repeat, 10-10, shots fired at the
Franklin-Rees building. All officers respond.”
I looked at Curtis, saw a mixture of fear and determination in his eyes. “That’s—”
“Four blocks from here.”
Curtis turned and sprinted down the street, pedestrians
parting, holding their children and backing against the wall.
I had no choice. I sprinted after him.
16
I followed Curt Sheffield like a running back wisely trailing
a bruising fullback. Oxygen burned in my lungs, and I felt my
side tickle right below the scar where one year ago my perforated lung had to be inflated. Fear gripped me, my heart
hammering. Shots fired. Why the hell was I running toward
the shots? I heard sirens in the distance. Screams loud enough
to be heard over them. Men and women were running past
me. We were swimming against a terrified tide. And I saw one
man run by, blood staining his shirt.
The Franklin-Rees company published many of the country’s most popular magazines. A multibillion-dollar corporation, its headquarters was a brilliant steel monstrosity with
enough security measures inside to stop a tank. But as I g
ot
closer, I could tell that all the security inside the building was
useless to prevent the horror of what happened just outside.
I saw a dozen officers, guns drawn, massing around the
entrance to the Franklin-Rees building. Curt Sheffield was
barking into a walkie-talkie. I heard sirens. Cop cars. An ambulance seemed to be drawing near. I stepped closer. And
wondered why the ambulance was in such a rush.
A man lay on the sidewalk. A pool of blood was spread- The Guilty
93
ing around his head. Or at least what was left of it. When I
saw the piece of brain sliding down the polished glass door,
my stomach lurched and I felt dizzy.
Aside from the crowd of New York’s finest, a small crowd
of onlookers watched from across the street. Several officers
were shooing away ghouls with cameras. I could see a tuft of
gray hair amidst the mass of blood and gore. Then the wind
caught it, and took it away.
The dead man was wearing a tailored suit. From the liver
spots on his hands, I guessed him to be in his late fifties or
early sixties. A white handkerchief, once tucked neatly into
the jacket pocket, now fluttered like a trapped dove.
When he put the walkie-talkie down, I approached Curt.
“What the hell happened?”
“Not now, Henry.”
“Please, just one minute…”
“I said not now, ” Curt said, pushing me away.
Not now didn’t compute. I had to know. And if Curt wasn’t
talking, none of the cops would. And enough people were
milling about that somebody had to know something.
Pushing the nausea aside, I walked across the street, right
into the mass of onlookers.
I took out my press pass and held it above my head.
“Did anybody see anything?” I shouted. “Please, we need
witnesses.”
Nobody said a word. They were either too frightened or
too busy relaying the news to their entire address book. I
scanned the crowd. Looked each person in the face, tried to
understand their emotional state, if there was anything more
to them being there.
One woman stood out. She had stringy brown hair, a cheap
pantsuit and a brooch that looked way out of her price range.
94
Jason Pinter
There was a speck of red on her white blouse that I knew had
to be blood. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. She stared
at me for a moment, then looked away.
Slowly I walked up to her. I extended my press pass, along
The Guilty (2008) Page 8
