by Brad Parks
She paused for a quick moment of solemnity, then pushed onward:
“As many of you are aware, the department announced a preliminary determination that Detective Sergeant Darius Kipps died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. That will not be our final determination in this matter. And on behalf of the Newark Police Department, I would like to publicly apologize to the family of Darius Kipps for this error.”
My internal Surprise-o-meter was registering one of its highest possible readings. As a rule, police departments didn’t admit to botching anything, much less an investigation into the death of one of their own officers. Then Boswell pushed the Surpriseometer clear off the charts.
“Early this morning,” she said slowly, deliberately, “I received a call from Detective Fusco’s cell phone. During this call, he confessed to killing Detective Sergeant Kipps over a personal dispute and then to altering certain aspects of the crime scene to make it appear to be a suicide.”
She paused again, and some of the reporters actually squirmed in their seats. Professional decorum demanded that they not react in a demonstrable manner. But I knew that if this had been a movie they were watching at home, half of them would have been yelling at their television screens, “Whoa!”
Boswell continued her statement: “Detective Fusco informed me he could not live with himself as a result of this act but that he wanted to set the record straight. He then terminated the phone call. As we now know, it appears that placing that phone call was his last act before he turned his service weapon on himself and ended his own life.”
As soon as I heard the term “service weapon,” I felt a prickle from the base of my spine all the way up to my neck. In my head, I could hear the voice of tough guy Mike Fusco telling me about how he had been placed on administrative leave and lamenting, I even had to turn in my service weapon.
When had he told me that? Yesterday, when I came by with those photos of Kipps. Had he somehow gotten the gun back during the eighteen hours or so between when I last saw him and when he supposedly pulled its trigger? Did he have another department-issued gun that had simply been confused for his service weapon?
I didn’t know. But it was another inconsistency. That and the two shots that had been fired. I still didn’t know of any cop—or anyone who knew which end of a gun fired—who could miss his own head from six inches away.
Meanwhile, Captain Boswell was finishing up, “I’m sure many of you will have questions about how such a tragedy could have occurred and about whether it could have been prevented. We in the Newark Police Department are asking ourselves the same questions today. Unfortunately, we may not have many answers, as so much of this seemed to involve issues known only to these two officers.”
Boswell lifted her head for the first time, refolded her note, then stepped aside so Hakeem Rogers could take her place in front of the microphones.
“We will now take a limited number of questions,” he said. “Please wait for me to call on you.”
I immediately raised my hand in the air, but Rogers motioned to one of the television guys, who asked, “Captain Boswell, can you describe the nature of this personal dispute between these two officers?”
Boswell didn’t make a move toward the microphone. Instead, Rogers handled it: “That’s not something we’re going to be able to discuss. It was a personal dispute of a personal nature.”
A personal dispute of a personal nature. Well, that sure cleared things up. A reporter from one of the New York tabloids—who would probably be getting on the front page if he was able to discover this was the result of a sordid love triangle—got the next question. “Can you say how the crime scene was altered? Does this have something to do with the rope burns that were found on Officer Kipps?”
Good question from the Murdoch minion. I was expecting another dirty look from Rogers, but he was too busy conferring with Boswell. Eventually, he came back with “We don’t want to get into specifics. We’ll just say that as an officer who was well trained in our investigative techniques, he was able to use his insider knowledge to mislead us.”
There were several more queries from the press, none of which elicited anything in the way of new information. I had continued trying to get in my question about Fusco’s service weapon—as in, why did a suspended officer have one?—but Rogers had been ignoring me. I usually didn’t ask questions during these sorts of events. I tried to get the cops on the side, after the cameras stopped rolling, when they might be more likely to loosen up. But in this case I knew I wouldn’t get another chance. You only got that on-the-side time when the cops had something to brag about.
But even when there were no more hands being raised except mine, even when some of the other reporters were looking at me in the expectation I’d be called on, Rogers didn’t so much as glance in my direction. It was my punishment, obviously.
In some ways it was just as well. I doubted I was going to get a straight answer.
* * *
From the way everyone was packing up after the press conference—hastily, without much lingering or second thought—I could tell the assemblage of notebook holders and microphone monkeys were satisfied by what they had heard. Cop A personally kills Cop B over personal dispute of personal nature, becomes personally overwhelmed with guilt, turns gun on own person, end of personhood.
It was obvious the police director wanted this embarrassing story to become yesterday’s news as quickly as possible, so he offered up Captain Boswell, the most sympathetic emissary he could find, and had her tie up the whole sloppy mess with one neat little bow.
But I just wasn’t accepting the package. There were too many inconsistencies, too many things that didn’t fit into the narrative.
Did Fusco really call her moments before committing a two-bullet suicide? Maybe. Had Fusco somehow repossessed his own gun? Maybe. Had Fusco acted alone in killing Kipps and then been able to fool the entire Newark Police Department? Maybe.
There were just too many maybes. And, all the while, the roles of Mimi Kipps and Alvin LeRioux—who was up to his sanctimonious jowls in this somehow—were left undefined.
It was all still out there for me to discover, but in the meantime, I had a story to write. Regardless of whether I fully believed what the Newark Police were saying, I still had a duty to report it. And, at the very least, I could lend some understanding to the dispute between the officers. How I would word it might be a bit thorny. The truth—“A reporter spied Detective Fusco and Mrs. Kipps in the smoldering beginnings of what was undoubtedly going to become scorching, unbridled, hot-hearted passion”—would probably make it past the editors on the All-Slop, who didn’t bother to read stuff before posting it online, judging from the typos they let through. It might even get me a contract to write romance novels. But I would still probably need to find a better way to word it.
After making the short drive back to the office, I had barely settled into my desk when I was accosted by Ruthie Ginsburg, the twenty-two-going-on-thirteen intern. He was looking typically chipper and fresh-faced, and for a moment I wanted to turn him over to some of the more curmudgeonly members of the copy desk for a wedgie and a chocolate swirly, just to put him in his place a little. I’m not exactly sure when, during the decade or so I had been hanging around this place, I had switched over to the side of the grizzled veterans. But with my unshaven jaw and bloodshot eyes, I certainly fit the part.
“Hey, I’ve been looking for you! I got some great stuff, it’s really going to blow your mind,” he chirped.
“Sounds swell, Jimmy. We’ll be sure to get it in tomorrow’s Daily Planet.”
“Huh?” he said, adding a head tilt. The Superman reference was lost on him. I was beginning to realize why these interns made me feel so old.
“Never mind. Why don’t you step into my office?”
He looked around, confused.
“It’s an expression,” I said and pointed to an empty chair across from my desk. “Take a seat.”
Jimmy—uh,
sorry, Ruthie … uh, I mean, Geoff—gleefully took his place and opened up his notebook.
“Okay, first, let’s just get something out of the way,” he said. “Pregnancy tests don’t come back positive in toilet water. I spent two hours last night on Google researching it. I even tested my own toilet. It came back negative.”
He looked at me earnestly and I thought about trying to convince him it was just Newark toilet water—you know, something in the aquifer that supplied the city’s drinking water. But it was time to let him off the hook.
“Yeah, you got me,” I said.
“Why would you do that to me?”
“Look, Ruthie … first of all, you know everyone is calling you Ruthie, right?” I asked.
He gave me a dejected look and said, “Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about it. Around here, nicknaming is a form of flattery. Anyhow, I know I might have misled you a little bit, and I’m sorry. But I’m also not sorry. You were obviously spying for Tina, and I didn’t want her to know what I was up to.”
“It was kind of a douche move.”
“You’re right. And, okay, really I am sorry. But … look, I don’t want to sound like I’m lecturing, especially when I’m the one in the wrong, but you’ve got to understand that editors are … well, they have their usefulness at times. Then there are times when it’s best they not know everything. So I might have just needed you to spin your wheels for a little while.”
“And the Good Neighbors piece? Was that more wheel-spinning?”
“No, that was actually a big favor. And I appreciate it.”
“Okay, so maybe now you owe me a favor?” he asked.
He said it tentatively, like a good little intern should. But he had played me rather nicely. I was beginning to appreciate that Ruthie Ginsburg just might have the chops to make it in this business.
“Maybe I do,” I said. “What did you have in mind?”
“It’s what I was trying to tell you about before. It came from an interview I did with these kids who were hanging out on the corner by the town houses. Have you ever heard of red dot guns?”
“Uh, no.”
“Well, from what these corner boys were telling me, they’re all the rage in the hood. All the skels are using them.”
I laughed—albeit internally—at Ruthie using the word “skels.” He had been watching too many cop shows.
“So, what, Red Dot Guns is the hot new gun manufacturer? Like Magnum or Colt or something?” I asked.
“No, it’s an actual red dot that’s been branded into the butt of the gun handle. One of the kids showed it to me and that’s all it is, just a red dot. But they say everyone wants their gun to have one.”
“I still don’t get it. What’s so special about this red dot?”
“I don’t know,” Ruthie admitted. “Maybe it’s just one of those weird ghetto fashion things? I’ll ask the next time I see them. We’ll obviously have to do some more reporting…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” making a “T” with my hands, the internationally accepted gesture to call for a timeout. “What do you mean ‘we’?”
“That’s the favor. I want you to work with me. I think this could be a really cool story and a great clip for me to have. But you know how things go around here. I’m the intern. They want me to do Good Neighbors, write about car accidents, and leave the heavy lifting to guys like you. But if you and I were to do it together…”
I grinned.
“Well played, young Ginsburg, well played,” I said. “I got a few other things on my plate right now. But as soon as I come up for air, we can work on it. It sounds like a fascinating glimpse into thug culture.”
“Okay. Great.”
Thinking our conversation was over, I began moving my mouse to knock the screen saver off my computer. But Ruthie was still sitting there, looking at me expectantly.
“One more thing,” he said.
“Yeeeessss?”
“I still have, like, half a dozen pregnancy tests in my car. I got them on sale and they can’t be returned. Do you know what I should do with them?”
I couldn’t help myself. “Yeah,” I said. “Give them to Tina.”
* * *
It took an hour to transcribe the tripe I got from the press conference and then mold it into something that would clear the very low hurdle of the All-Slop’s quality standards.
By the time I was done, I had concluded that my first order of business needed to be a visit to Dr. Raul Ibanez, the one man who might be able to enlighten me about my unanswered press conference question. I hoped he would be more talkative than he was the last time I had seen him. Alas, I was out of clever ideas as to how to make that happen.
So, lacking a better plan, I decided to go with a direct assault. I fortified myself with a stop at a local convenience store on my way—and, really, what’s wrong with having two MoonPies for lunch?—and was soon parked on the street outside the Essex County Medical Examiner’s Office. I was going in the front door this time.
I’m often astounded by what you can get away with when you’re a well-dressed white man who moves fast and acts like he knows what he’s doing. As I got out of my car, I reminded myself I had faked my way into tougher places than this. So my plan, quite simply, was to keep walking toward Ibanez’s office until someone stopped me.
Hence, I didn’t pay attention to the security guard at the front desk, and he returned the favor. Then I passed a pair of people in lab coats who didn’t give me a second glance, either. I took a guess that Ibanez’s office would be on the top floor, but I eschewed the elevator—the passengers would have too long to study me—and instead took the emergency stairs, charging up them without hesitation.
And that, conveniently enough, is where I bumped into Dr. Ibanez, standing on the third-floor landing, talking on his cell phone. He wasn’t looking at me any more carefully than anyone else, and I practically had to plow into him to get him to stop.
“Hi, Doctor, nice to see you again,” I said.
The reaction I received assured me Raul Ibanez’s startle reflex was in perfect working order. He even jumped back a little.
“I have to go,” he said into the phone, then stammered, “Did you … how did you get in here?”
“With my legs. No one stopped me.”
“I told you last night I can’t comment.”
“Things have changed since last night.”
“I still can’t … it’s … it’s improper for you to even be here.”
“Doc, just give me a second,” I said. “I’m sorry to ambush you like this, but I really don’t have a choice. If I try to go through proper channels, I’ll get blown off.”
“Well, that’s not my problem. You’re still going to have to—”
I cut him off: “Captain Boswell said at a press conference just now that Fusco killed himself with his service weapon. He didn’t have his service weapon, okay?”
“What are—”
“The day before he was killed, Mike Fusco told me he had been placed on administrative leave. His captain made it out like it was some kind of mental health thing. Maybe she just wanted him out of the way so she could investigate him for Kipps’s murder. I don’t know.
“Point is, when he was placed on leave, he was forced to hand in his gun. He told me that, explicitly. So I guess I just want to know: Are you absolutely sure that was his service weapon?”
Ibanez studied me for a moment, and I watched as his posture made the subtle shift from defensive to accepting. Finally he said, “The better question is: Are you absolutely sure he was the one who fired it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, it’s probably good you found me here. This just happens to be where the cell phone reception is best. If you had made it all the way up to my office, I would have had to throw you out. There’s a damn leak in this place somewhere, and I sure as hell don’t want anyone thinking it’s me. So I can’t—”
“No one will ever know we
spoke,” I assured him. “Just like no one has figured out—or will figure out—who my last leak was.”
“Okay.” He stopped for another few seconds, then again said, “Okay. I’m only telling you this because the NPD is trying to jam stuff down my throat, just like they did with the Kipps case. They want me to shut the hell up and rule the manner of death suicide—even after I told them what I’m about to tell you. And I just can’t go for that this time. So I need you to take this and made a big stink with it.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promised.
“Okay, to answer your question, it is his gun. We matched the serial numbers and everything. We haven’t test-fired it yet, but I’m sure it’ll match the slugs recovered at the scene, just like I’m sure there won’t be any other prints on it besides his. Whoever did this was being pretty careful. Really careful, in a lot of ways. But not careful enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s start with the obvious. The decedent had powder burns around the entrance wound, so we know the gun was fired from close proximity. The gun was discovered on the floor next to him, but that’s not unusual—the gun is actually only found in the victim’s hand in about one out of every four suicides. So this was set up to look like a suicide.”
“But you’re saying it’s not?”
“That’s right. A lot of things happen when a gun goes off. There’s gunshot residue. There are what we call cylinder gap effects from where exploding gas escapes the gun. The recoil of the gun can leave marks on the hand that, in a suicide, don’t go away like they do in a living person. The recoil can also cause injury to the hand, particularly in the webbing. You follow me?”
“So far, yeah.”
“Okay, in this case, did the decedent fire a gun? Yes, it would appear he did. The grip of the gun was clearly imprinted on his palm, as we would expect. There was also gunshot residue on the hand—I’ll get back to that in a second. But I’d bet my house that gun didn’t go off in his hand until he was already dead. The blood was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you bring a gun up under your chin and fire the trigger at close range,” he said, miming the act with his own hand, “there is going to be blood—kind of like a fine mist—that spatters back onto your hand. How much blood will change based on the caliber of the gun and the tip of bullet used. But my spatter analyst is telling me there’s no blood on Fusco’s hand. None.”
