Untold Damage

by Robert K. Lewis

  DeJesus came over and stood next to him. Looked down at the corpse. “That sure looks like a .38 entry wound to me.”

  He sighed. Nodded. “Yes, it does. Give me the ballistics report as fast as you can, okay, Ronnie? I’d really appreciate it.”

  “You got it, Oberon.” She then began her initial inspection of the corpse. It would later be moved to the crime lab and gone over with infinite patience. Ronnie was the best at what she did, and he’d often wished there had been an army of Ronnies in the ME unit.

  Oberon took a walk around the apartment, seeing what he could see. Looked like the assailant entered in through the kitchen back door, busting the lock. That would’ve brought Jenks into the room, possibly. He wouldn’t know until he talked with the man. There was blood in the hall. A large patch, then a trail leading to the bedroom. There it just stopped. No, he was wrong. He found a single droplet near the left bedside table. Books on the other side table, mostly on addiction and recovery. The room hadn’t been dusted yet, so he took out a pair of rubber gloves and put them on. Opened the near side table drawers. Inside were a pack of cigarettes and lighter, along with a couple novels of the romance bent. A notepad was there, too, the top pages ripped off. He picked it up and held it oblique to the light. To see if he could read what had been written, but it was a no go. Maybe a phone number. Maybe part of a street address. Couldn’t be sure. Nothing else had been touched in this room.

  Went back down the hall to where Ronnie was working the scene. Stood there a moment, studying the room again, lost in thought. This was all very different from the Kaslowski, Scarsdale, and Dockery killings. Those had all happened out of doors, in open spaces. Kaslowski’s death could be considered to have happened indoors, but even then, it was an open parking garage. Maybe this attack on Jenks had nothing to do at all with the other three murders. Maybe he was totally screwed and would have the worst clearing rate of his long career. Maybe he just needed to pull the pin on it all and go garden some acreage somewhere far away from bullets, blood, and people.

  Thirty-Two

  He needed, as his mother had reportedly been so fond of calling them, a time-out.

  Mallen called for a cab and when it showed, finally, he gave the driver the address and climbed in back. It seemed the best place to go and just relax. No one would ever think he’d go there, of all places.

  As the cab drove along Fulton Street, his thoughts turned back to his mother. He tried not to do that too much. Barely had any memory of her anymore. Most of what he had left were the stories that his father had told him, usually when the old man was more drunk than usual. Ol’ Monster Mallen never liked to talk about the shit that mattered or hurt. The topic of his late wife hurt, and that was a fact.

  The cab pulled onto a small side road that ran into John F. Kennedy Drive and parked. And there it was: the windmill. Where he and Eric had spent many a drunken night. The rain had stopped, what looked like only for now. The air was filled with the dull, concussive beats from the waves on the nearby beach. He got out, paid the cabbie, and went to the windmill. It hadn’t changed, of course. He hadn’t thought it would. The nearby tulip gardens were bare. Tulips were almost here, and he actually found himself looking forward to seeing them. He went and sat on a nearby bench, huddled up in his coat, thinking about the past, and about the pasts he could’ve had. What had happened, Eric? Who killed you, man? Shook his head then. He was too rusty, too out of practice, to maybe ever find the answer to that. He’d been good, once. Pretty damn good. Could he be good again? Well, at least he was clean. There was that, and he had to admit, that was a pretty damn good start.

  His cell rang and he answered it. It was Bill. “I’ve got Wood!” Bill said loudly in his ear, obviously enjoying running the gag out way past its due date.

  “You goin’ on the road with this comedy routine?” he replied.

  “Only if I get free hookers at every stop, Mallen. Only then.”

  “I’ll work on that with your agent, when you get one. So? About Julian Wood?”

  “I heard he likes to box over at Jimmy Nielson’s old ring. It’s a full-fledged boxing gym now. Over on Leavenworth, couple up from Market.”

  “Okay. Thanks, B. Like I said: I owe ya.”

  “And like I said: oh so fucking much, Mallen.”

  The gym was right out of Rocky. Guys were busy hitting the hard and speed bags. There were a couple of guys in one of the two rings that dominated the room, sparring and working on their foot movement. Looked like feather-weights; two hornets buzzing at each other. His old man had always wanted him to get into boxing, but it just wasn’t his thing. Too demanding. One that could really tear your body apart. Funny how a guy could think that, then turn to H, but there it was.

  He found one of the trainers, a tall black guy in dirty sweats. Asked him if he knew if Julian Wood was in. The guy looked him up and down before answering.

  “What you want with Woody, man?”

  “We had a mutual friend. That friend’s dead now. Shot dead. I just wanted to talk to him about it is all.”

  The indicated a doorway with a thrust of his jaw. “He’s probably in there, working out. Got a bout day after tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” he replied. Wove his way through the bodies. The noise of gloves hitting bags or flesh was loud. The doorway led to the weight room. There were no fancy Nautilus machines in here though. This was old school, and then some. Only plates and bars, dumbbells and sweat. Three guys in the room. Two were over at a bench, one spotting the other as he pressed what looked to be a good two hundred eighty pounds. The third was a white dude over by himself in the corner, doing push-ups. Pale skin, chrome dome, lots of tats. Shadow boxed in the mirror after every set, working through combinations and punches, sometimes with five-pound weights in his hands. Looked like a boxer who had a match coming up.

  The man watched him in the mirror as he walked over. Certainly had a boxer’s eyes. Lasers.

  “You Julian Wood?” Mallen asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Mallen. Mark Mallen. I knew Eric Russ.”

  Julian turned to face him then. Julian might have been shorter, but he was all muscle. “How’d you know Eric?”

  “Old friend, sorta. From his dark blue days.”

  Julian turned and grabbed a twenty-pound metal plate from the rack. Carried it over to a padded mat. Laid down and did fifty crunches, the weight held behind his head. Mallen had to admit that he was just a little bit jealous right then. Julian finished. Got up and put the plate back. He was sweating now. Wiped at his forehead with a towel he carried in his waistband. “He might’ve mentioned the name,” he said. “What do you want from me? He’s dead, right?”

  “Yeah. Shot. That’s why I’m here. Eric was getting his life back together, by all accounts. He was found with dope on him. Just doesn’t figure. Had my address in his pocket, too, though we hadn’t talked in some years. Again, just doesn’t figure.”

  Julian went and shadow boxed the mirror for a moment. Shoulders sagged then. Stopped. Looked over at him. “You know his mom?”

  “Phoebe. Yeah. Great lady. Was always there with a meal for me when we got off duty.”

  “You guys were rookies at the same time, right? Him doing the 1-Adam-12, you on the street doing the Starsky & Hutch?”

  “Yeah. Well, Serpico would’ve be my choice,” he said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

  Had no affect on Julian though. “Makes guys tight, I would guess. Going through being rookies together.”

  “That’s right. Kind of like a trial by fire.”

  Julian shook his head sadly. Went and sat on a nearby bench. Knocked his fists together hard. “Fuck, man! Eric was good people. Why’s shit always gotta happen to good people?”

  “I wish I knew, trust me.”

  “So, what did you want to talk to me about exactly?” T
he man seemed genuinely shook up by thinking about Eric’s death. Like it was hard to focus.

  “About Eric. Did you talk much with Eric when you got out?”

  “A couple times. On the phone once. Met for coffee once.”

  “Yeah? I was under the impression he didn’t want to talk with you.”

  “He didn’t. Wanted to put the joint way behind him. Can’t blame him for that.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Like I said, can’t blame him. He had it really fucking hard in there, man. Real hard.” Julian’s gaze turned to the far wall. Like it was a screen, playing back memories.

  “How so?” he asked, suddenly feeling like he was on the verge of hearing something important, something that might make things finally start to fall together.

  “You ever been inside?”

  “As a customer? No. Only the drunk tank.”

  “Yeah, as a customer,” Julian echoed. “It’s a hard world. One you can’t fall asleep on. Not at all like all that movie shit.”

  “And Eric fell asleep?”

  “No, man. He didn’t. I saw to it that he didn’t.” Julian looked away. As if looking at something he’d thought long buried and wasn’t happy to see. “But I couldn’t be there all the time for him,” he said, sorrow evident in his voice.

  Mallen sat next to him. Checked to make sure no one was around. “What are you saying?” he asked quietly.

  “Well,” Julian started to say, but stopped. There was a shake of his head. “I don’t know, man. Won’t solve anything. He’s dead. What good is it, you knowing?”

  “What good? What you tell me might help find the piece of shit who would shoot him the back. Might bring a little fucking justice to a world sorely fucking lacking in it. That’s what good, man.”

  Julian leaned forward, rested his forearms on his knees. Like he was suddenly tired. “You know what happens in there, man. The shit that goes down when too many guys are inside for too long. You know about the things they do, right? What happens to the new guys that arrive. And arriving a cop? When you get there, it’s like every nightmare you ever had. No remorse. I remember the other guys yelling at me, whistling. I knew that they were going to have to fuckin’ kill me, man, because it was either that, or they were going

  to die. You know how fucked up that is, man? Knowing that you got to spend a couple years there, but if you defend yourself, you could end up spending a lot longer? And you can’t give in, either. If you do, then it’ll never stop. You’ll be a marked man. They’ll never stop comin’ after you, especially if you’re a first-timer, or a cop.”

  The sudden clanging of weights dropping on the floor shattered the air. Someone laughed out. Called someone a pussy. As Mallen sat there, it hit home what Julian was talking about. Being a man, it was the last thing he would’ve thought of, or probably ever admitted to. The worst violation, hands down. Regardless of gender. The ultimate in the power act, ultimate in the powerlessness for the victim.

  “Eric was raped while he was there,” he said quietly.

  Julian nodded. “Man, Eric was a good guy. He was sorta small, but he could handle himself if the odds didn’t get too out of hand. But, he’d been a cop.” Julian went and grabbed up a set of twenty-pound weights. Carried them back and slammed them to the floor. The two guys over at the bench glanced over, then went back to their work. “When he got there,” Julian said, “I could see how bad it would be for him. I tried to help.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Julian looked caught all of a sudden. After a moment relaxed. Fiddled with his weight gloves. “Because it’d been that way for me, my first time inside. You have no fucking idea what it feels like, man. No idea of the pain. The anger. The fuckin’ shame and humiliation. And there ain’t nothing you can do, either. What the fuck can you do when like four guys, all of ’em big motherfuckers, too, hold you down so they can take turns on you? And you think the guards fuckin’ care? No way, man. They don’t give a shit. No one does.”

  Mallen looked around the weight room. Then back at Julian. “This is how you made it through?”

  “Make it through, man.” Julian indicated the room around them. “I dove into something to forget. Boxing works. I can beat the fuck outta someone other than myself for a change. Sometimes I imagine the guy I’m boxing is one of the guys who … I win those bouts by TKO.” He smiled.

  “But Eric? You tried to protect him? Keep him safe?”

  “Yeah, and it took a lot. I paid a lot of guys off so they’d leave him alone. But then one day I couldn’t be there for him. They’d been waiting. Prowling. I tried to get them to leave him alone, but got my ass kicked. Only made the shit worse, for both of us.”

  “Why’d they focus on him?”

  “Hell, man, why does a predator go after its prey? Cause it’s easy prey. Maybe because he was a fucking cop. How do I know? What difference does it make? I was never so fucking relieved in my life when Eric got sprung. Life was uneventful the rest of my time there, once he left.”

  “How’d they get to him?”

  Julian sighed. “They got me out of the way by getting a bunch of dudes to accuse me of stealing their dope. Those guys beat the crap out of me. Almost killed me. Sent me to the infirmary. I was on the sidelines for a couple weeks. And that was that.”

  He pictured Eric, attacked and helpless. His heart constricted. “Did it happen more than once?”

  A nod. “It must’ve been a nightmare for him. I tried to set something up for him, some other bodyguards. But this one guy? He had a hard-on for him. That fucker was a tough cat. Everyone backed off him. I couldn’t do a fucking thing. Hell, maybe that’s the other reason I turned to boxing: to try and beat the guilt out of me.”

  “What happened to the guys that did it? Anything?”

  “You kiddin’? Those guys got out when their time was up. Just like I did. But they ruined Eric’s life. He barely made it out of there.”

  “What were their names?” To his surprise, Julian hesitated.

  “I can’t … can’t tell you, man,” came the faint reply.

  That stopped him in his tracks. Took a moment to realize he’d heard what he’d just heard. “Wait a minute. Why the fuck not?”

  The boxer was obviously struggling with something. Hit his fists together a couple times. Growled under his breath as he shook his head. “I just can’t,” he finally said. “I promised Eric I’d never say a word about it, or about who they were. I’ve already done a lot more than I’d ever thought I’d do, but hearin’ about him dyin’, I just …”

  “But, it would help,” Mallen said. “You don’t want to help?”

  “Fuck yeah, I do! Of course I fuckin’ do. But, I promised him never to say shit, right? He just wanted it to be buried, Mallen. And I take that now as a man’s dying wish. You read me on this?” Looked Mallen up and down. Nodded. “Anyway, I think you’ll find them on your own, without me sayin’ anything about it.”

  He sat there, not knowing what else to say. If Julian felt this sort of obligation, then he knew he could never get the man to open up. He had no leverage. And, well … he figured he could sort of understand; a promise was a promise. He had to honor Julian’s sense of loyalty, and that was a fact. “I hope you’re right, about me finding them,” Mallen replied. “Look, is there anybody else he might’ve told?”

  Julian shook his head in response. Adjusted one of his weight gloves. “Doubt it. The couple times Eric and I talked, he talked about it, almost like he had to. Like he couldn’t stop himself. There were problems, after. Body problems. He told me he told Jenna, but only as much as he could get away with, I guess. Told her that his body had started rotting out from the drugs, and that was why he had so many … things goin’ on.”

  “I’m really surprised he didn’t talk to at least one of his parents. They were a tight family.”

  “Me t
oo, man. I figured he would’ve at least told his pops. They sounded like they were real close. Eric idolized him.” Julian thought for a moment then. “But maybe that’s why he didn’t say shit to his old man, you know? Maybe it would’ve been like … I don’t know, admitting you weren’t good enough or something.”

  Mallen nodded. Got to his feet. Extended his hand. “Thanks for the talk, Julian. I appreciate what you told me, and that’s putting it mildly.”

  Julian shook the offered hand. “Hell, man, maybe it was good for me, too. Therapeutic, right?”

  “Hope so,” he answered with a smile.

  Julian sat there, thoughtful for a moment, looking at nothing except maybe memories. “Who knows.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’re back inside, having it done to them. That’s the thing about life, man … and maybe prison, too: no one preys forever. Even the predator ends up prey.”

  “Yeah,” Mallen said, “that’s the truth, isn’t it?” Started to walk away, but stopped. Turned back. “Good luck with the fight.”

  Julian smiled as he picked up the weights. “Wish the other guy luck. He’s the one that’ll need it.”

  After he’d left Julian, Mallen called Jenna’s number. She picked up. Sounded relieved to hear from him. “Thank God it’s you, Mallen,” she said.

  “Yeah? What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know what to do. Neither does Phoebe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hal was out most of last night. Came home about an hour ago, all beat up. Phoebe wanted to take him to the emergency room, but he wouldn’t go.”

  “He say anything at all?”