The Last Crusade: A Harry Cassidy Novel

by Henry Hack

  “When is this supposed to happen?”

  “Sometime in June or July, and all openings in the other ranks will be filled at that time, too. There will also be a lieutenant’s exam in the fall. When do you want to begin studying?”

  “Whoa, my head is spinning. A couple of weeks ago I was a silver-shield beat cop, and now I’m a gold-shield detective. But now you’re telling me I’ve been a sergeant for a year and a half, and you’re promoting me to lieutenant next year.”

  “Screwed up, isn’t it? But this time it’s a good screw-up. For both of us. Now, how about those dreams?”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow. You just gave me a lot to think about, and I’m tired.”

  “Sure, I understand. I’ll say good night now.”

  Harry had been observing Rita more closely, remembering Nick’s, Teddy’s and Doc Johannsen’s references to her as beautiful and nice-looking. He had never thought of her in that vein because he always mentally compared her to his former girlfriend, Susan Goldman, who was truly beautiful, with movie-star looks similar to Catherine Zeta Jones. Not everyone agreed with that assessment, but he was deeply in love with her and might have been a bit prejudiced. Rita’s thick, curly dark brown hair was cut the same shoulder length as Susan’s auburn wavy hair. And Rita’s eyes were a deep, warm brown compared to Susan’s flashing emerald ones. Both had full, soft lips and dazzling smiles. Yes, maybe they were all correct. Maybe Rita Becker, in addition to being a friend, was a beautiful friend. And maybe he had been too enthralled by the treacherous Susan Goldman to have ever noticed it.

  “Harry? I said good night.”

  Startled by her voice, he took her hand, smiled and said, “Good night, Rita.”

  Was he starting to fall in love again so soon after his heart was broken by Susan? Was he ready for this? And the more he thought about it, the better he felt.

  3

  The witches were shuffling after him again, and their ugly faces transformed rapidly as they accused him of betrayal over and over. First the trio was Susan, Rita, and Peggy, then all the faces became the same and three Richie Winstons grinned at him. Then he was at Caesar’s funeral once more, straining to get a look at him as he lay on his bier, but terrified of who he would actually see lying there, knowing it would be Richie Winston. He finally elbowed his way through the robed crowd—brown robes this time, not white—and the men in the robes appeared to be Catholic priests, not Roman Senators. One of the priests turned to look at him and it was father Tom Ryan, his confessor and friend. He rushed over to Tom, and the priest’s face transformed itself into a red Satan’s mask and a yellow-clawed hand reached out for his hand, and then tried to grab his shield. Terrified, Harry broke away and staggered to the edge of the crowd, but they still pushed him toward the bier. He was forced to look upon the corpse and it was not Caesar, nor was it Richie Winston—sweet Jesus, it was himself! He was in full uniform, and his face was rotting and one eyeball was missing exposing a reddish-black oozing socket. His scaly left hand was pointing to his shield on his left breast. The shield was no longer gleaming brightly, but was discolored with a brownish-green fungus which appeared to be moving and eating away portions of the shield as might a strong acid. Suddenly the corpse’s right hand shot up and grabbed Harry’s left arm in a vice-like grip. He was pulled down struggling until his face was within a few inches of his grinning likeness. A horrible stench arose from its mouth as it spoke, “See what you’ve done to me? You have corrupted my soul and condemned me to everlasting damnation.”

  “No, no,” he shouted at the replica of himself. “I am absolved. I am forgiven. I have repented.”

  With that the corpse’s hand dropped back to its side and the devil’s claw belonging to Father Tom grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

  Satan/Tom hissed at Harry, “I withdraw my absolution. You are not worthy to see God. Go straight to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.”

  The claw was on top of his shoulder and was pushing him straight through the concrete into the dirt below and his feet were getting hotter and hotter….

  The next morning Rita called at 11:30. Harry had slept until past ten, having finally drifted off at five, when the dreams blessedly left him. Even after coffee and a long shower he felt drained and shaky from the awful visions he had experienced a few hours before.

  “I’m coming over in a half hour,” she said. “I’ll pick up some lunch and then we’ll discuss your dreams. I don’t have to be back to the office until four for a scheduled interview.”

  “None too soon, Rita. I had a doozy last night. Do you think your training can help me stop dreaming?”

  “That’s not the objective. The task is to analyze the dreams, so you know what they mean. Then they should gradually subside, but they may never go away completely.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Some traumas or experiences are imbedded so deeply because they were so terrible when they happened. Like the guys from the Vietnam War. Some of them still wake up screaming. And that’s after a lot of psychotherapy.”

  “I never experienced anything like those poor soldiers did.”

  “Weren’t you just in a shootout in a small room?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think that’s the problem.”

  “What is it then?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  She arrived with a huge Italian hero of salami, provolone, lettuce, and onions, dripping with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. They split it in half and ate hungrily, washing it down with diet soda.

  “That hit the spot,” Harry said. “What do I owe you?”

  “My treat, but don’t you worry; I’ll make up for it when you take me out to dinner. That will be your treat, Detective Cassidy. Tell me about your dreams.”

  “Shall we go into the parlor? Must I lie on the couch?”

  “Whatever makes you comfortable, sweetie.”

  Harry relaxed on the sofa and Rita sat on the chair facing him. “I’m listening,” she said.

  “The first one happened when I was in the hospital, two or three days after I was shot. I had a couple more there, and I thought they were over with. But last night I had another one, long and scary, and that was the first one I had since I’ve been home. I guess I didn’t leave them in the hospital as I’d hoped.”

  Harry related the dreams to the best of his recollection, and when he finished Rita said, “They seem fairly easy to explain and interpret.”

  “How about the three witches and the Roman scene?”

  “Did you read Shakespeare in school, particularly Macbeth and Julius Caesar?”

  “Sure, and I saw them performed by the drama club.”

  “And did you see the movie, The Wizard of Oz?”

  “About fifteen times—it was one of my favorites as a kid.”

  “Your mind mixed up Macbeth’s three witches with the green-faced witch from Oz and the soothsayer in Julius Caesar. The soothsayer was warning Julius Caesar to beware the Ides of March.”

  “And the Ides of March was March 15.”

  “And you were shot on…?”

  “March 15.”

  “Duh! Parts of your dreams are related to the shootout, but the rest are mainly concerned with your betrayal of Richie Winston. First you see Caesar on the bier, then Winston, and finally yourself. You’re punished for your betrayal and then you assume the role of the betrayer, Brutus, and the victim, Caesar/Winston.”

  “What about when I was the corpse?”

  “You were both the betrayer and the betrayed. Make sense?”

  “That’s why the witches were Peggy and Susan. I felt betrayed by both. But the third face was yours, Rita. I don’t like that—you didn’t betray me. What could that mean?”

  “I was part of the investigation of you, remember? And I hammered you pretty hard during some of those interrogations.”

  “Yes, you did, you ruthless bitch.”

  “Tell me what the significance of The Pile is. I woul
d assume it represents Hell, but so can a lot of other places. Why did you dream of The Pile?”

  “I was there. The Pile. Ground Zero. I was there for three weeks looking for survivors, then for bodies.”

  “I didn’t know you were on the Job back then.”

  “I was a rookie in the Nassau County Police Department and we assisted the NYPD at their most crucial time. This was seven years before the two departments merged. The whole recruit class, plus two hundred veteran cops, was bussed into lower Manhattan from Mineola every morning. We worked with the city cops and firemen who were devastated from their losses. It was a numbing, emotional experience, and it has forever changed my conception of Hell from what I was told in church as a boy. I am now convinced Hell is The Pile.”

  “That explains just about all of it, but the real root cause of these dreams is your fixation, your irrational belief your actions were so terrible they were beyond absolution and forgiveness.”

  ”Maybe they were.”

  “How so? I don’t remember what you did was so awful.”

  “Maybe you don’t know all of it.”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “The last time I told this to a female sergeant she had a tape recorder merrily whirling away under the bed.”

  “Yes, I remember. And I heard that tape.”

  “So you know everything then. You know what I did. What don’t you understand?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think it will help if you tell me the whole story from the beginning. And there will be no tape recording this time.”

  “Let’s make some coffee first. I need a break.”

  “I’m walking my beat last Christmas Eve and I hear glass breaking. I check it out and what happened was this young guy, who we now know as Ziad Sugami, had just been thrown through the glass door of the Bird’s Nest bar. I confront the bartender, Richie Winston, and he gives me the ‘I don’t know nuttin’ routine.’ I have my hands around his neck choking the bastard, but I release him before he goes unconscious. Meanwhile the kid beats feet, leaving me with no complainant which makes Richie very happy. I leave the bar and go home.”

  “Were you drinking at all up to that time?”

  “No, not a drop. But I knocked off four, five, maybe six beers when I got home thinking all the time about how Richie just got over on me again.”

  “Didn’t you tell Susan and me you had only two beers at home?”

  “If I did, I lied. I go back to the bar in civvies. I’m real angry, but have no idea what I’m going to do other than break Richie’s balls, which I do. I have three or four more beers, argue some more with him, then I finally leave wondering why the hell I went back there in the first place. I go out and sit in my car and have a smoke and observe Winston leave and go down the alley to the back parking lot.”

  “Is this when Ziad came back?”

  “Yeah, I see him and his two pals who turn out to be Satam, now deceased, and Ahmed, the cell leader. The three go down the alley and I figure they came back for revenge to throw Richie a well-deserved beating.”

  “Is that all you thought they were doing back there?”

  “Yes, at first, or I would have moved sooner. Then I realized they were back there a long time, and the thought then crossed my mind they might be doing more than just using their fists, so I reach for the door handle to get out and go back there to check it out, when the three guys run out of the alley and across the street.”

  “Harry, how drunk were you? I mean, if you had gotten out of your car and back there sooner, could you have prevented the attack on Winston?”

  “I wasn’t staggering drunk, but my reflexes were shot and my mind was not moving real fast. I think if I confronted those three young guys, they would have wasted me, too.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I ran back to Winston’s car and I see what they did to him, and I’m debating what to do. I mean I hate the son-of-a-bitch, but he’s sliced up and hurt bad, so I tell him to hang on, I’m going for help. I ran to the callbox a couple of blocks away.”

  “Ah, that’s what his final words meant. He thought you called for help.”

  “Yeah, when the radio car showed up he probably figured I notified them.”

  “But you hadn’t.”

  “No. As I got nearer the callbox the cold air had sobered me up a bit, so I could think a little clearer. I realized if I spoke to the desk sergeant and informed him what had happened, I would be in deep trouble trying to answer the inevitable questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as—why are you on your beat at four a.m.? Why do you sound drunk? What three guys? Did you stab Richie? And so on…”

  “You had the phone in your hand, and you replaced it on the hook without requesting an ambulance for Winston and you went home?”

  “Yes.”

  “You made a conscious decision to protect your ass rather than to get help for Richie, essentially choosing to allow him to die there to prevent yourself from getting in trouble?”

  “Yes, I betrayed the shield and oath of office; in my mind there is no greater sin.”

  “And that’s why you’re having dreams, Harry. You still believe, subconsciously, you have not atoned for that awful decision. But everyone else has forgiven you, or believes your subsequent actions have allowed you to fully atone for your behavior.”

  “Sounds logical, but not everyone has forgiven me. Remember my former lover, the beautiful and treacherous Sergeant Susan Goldman?”

  “Ah, Susan, the one person you wanted forgiveness from the most. More than from Father Tom Ryan, more than from the Department, maybe even more than from yourself.”

  “And she turned away from me and betrayed me just as I betrayed my shield.”

  “Yes, Susan betrayed you, but not as your lover. Remember she only did what she believed was right. She was wearing her sergeant’s hat and stayed loyal to her oath of office.”

  “I still have a hard time making that distinction and dealing with the whole thing.”

  “You must deal with it and accept it. Acceptance is the first step to forgiveness and forgetting. Only when you truly forgive her, will your nightmares disappear.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Yes, but I’d like to help you with that.”

  “Thanks, Rita.”

  “Good, now I have to get back to the office. Start thinking about Susan in the context of four steps—acceptance, letting go, forgiving, and forgetting. That’s your path to inner peace.”

  “You’re an amazing woman. I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done for me so far.”

  “I’m sure I’ll think of something,” she said as she kissed him goodbye. “I have errands to do tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow. When do you see the doctor?”

  “On Thursday.”

  “Two weeks exactly since the shooting already. Want me to drive you?”

  “Sure.”

  He forced himself to think of Susan after Rita left. The memories were difficult. He thought of their first meeting when he mistook her for the receptionist in Internal Affairs. Their subsequent relationship was certainly more than just a casual affair, but in the end she betrayed him. Harry did not dream that night and awoke refreshed on Wednesday morning. He called into the JTTF for an update and spoke with Pop and Nick who were already there on the job. He said, “I go see Doc Johannsen tomorrow. I’m hoping he’ll give me the go ahead to come back to work on Monday, at least on light-duty.”

  “Can’t wait to see your bullet-riddled body get into the swing again,” Nick said.

  “Me, too. I’ll give you guys a call after the appointment and let you know what’s up.”

  Rita called about five minutes after he hung up with Pop and Nick. He filled her in on the status of the case and told her he hadn’t dreamed the dream, or any dreams, the night before.

  “That’s great, but that doesn’t mean they are over, you know. Even before our session you did n
ot dream them every night.”

  “I know, but it’s a good start isn’t it? I mean if I had one right after our talk, I would have been disappointed.”

  “All right, I’ll agree with you. It’s a good start. But have you consciously begun to think about Susan?”

  “Yes, but it was difficult.”

  “Keep doing it, a little longer each day. Remember—acceptance, letting go, forgiveness, forgetting.”

  “Yes, Madame Freud, I remember. Are you coming over today?”

  “No, I have a full plate at the office and I have to shop tonight and clean up my apartment. I’ll be over in the morning to take you to the doctor.”

  “See you then.”

  “What are you going to do today?”

  “I want to get out and walk some more.”

  “Harry, after your walk, dig out your promotional study books. I’ll locate mine tonight and bring them over. Let’s see what we have and we can plan a study timetable for the lieutenant’s test.”

  “That’s the last thing on my mind right now.”

  “It shouldn’t be, and you know it. Move it up on your priority list. This upcoming test is a golden opportunity that does not come along too often. What with budget cutbacks, injunctions and lawsuits, we may not have this window open for long.”

  “I know you’re right and I’ll find those books, but you’ll have to motivate me real hard.”

  “Oh, I think I can do that. I’m a good motivator, as you will see. Bye.”

  He said good-bye and smiled. Rita Becker was a helluva woman. Too bad he hadn’t zeroed in on her first instead of Susan. Ah, twenty-twenty hindsight…

  He dreamed the dream again that night, a slightly different version, but with the same cast of characters. It was not as terrifying this time, except for the ending. Perhaps he was getting used to the witches and Julius Caesar, but the witches did something different this time as they chased him. He was in uniform and they came at him, grinning their toothless smiles, each with an outstretched arm that terminated in a green, twisted hand. He moved away from them easily, but they persisted and picked up their ungainly, limping pace. He drew his gun, but it felt different. It was not the standard issue .40 caliber Glock semi-automatic, but an old S&W six-shot revolver like Uncle Mike carried in the old days.