I knocked on the door and was surprised after a few seconds when a very tan and muscular man answered the door wearing only his boxers. I confirmed the address with him and asked to speak with Laura Morris. Laura was upstairs and was startled to see two uniformed police officers standing in her hallway. She had on a purple robe and her hair clung wildly to her shoulders. The distinct smell of morning sex in the air was indisputable. The guy who answered the door was not John Morris, the deceased; it was Laura’s new boyfriend, Marco.
Laura was nervous and immediately wanted to know what we were doing there. Directly behind her was a bedroom door with the name Nicole painted on it in pink. Laura was getting annoyed at me because I was asking her questions about her husband. Laura grew angrier by the second, shouting, “Why the fuck are you guys here at my house so early in the morning?”
“Mrs. Morris, is it all right if we come upstairs to talk with you?” I couldn’t have been nicer, but my patience was wearing thin and I was exhausted. Mrs. Morris refused to let us up the stairs so I was forced to take the matter up with her in her hallway. “Mrs. Morris was your husband on vacation in Las Vegas?”
“Yes, that deadbeat piece of shit is in Las Vegas on vacation, banging hookers, I am sure. He hasn’t signed the divorce papers yet, and his stalling is costing me money,” Mrs. Morris said as she lit up a cigarette, shaking the match out furiously.
“Well, Mrs. Morris, since you won’t let us upstairs to talk, I am here to inform you that your husband, John Morris, was in a traffic accident in Las Vegas yesterday.”
Mrs. Morris laughed. “What, is he in a coma or something?”
“No, he didn’t make it. He’s dead.”
The words barely exited my mouth as Mrs. Morris stood up screaming. “Oh my God! He’s dead! Your father’s dead!” she said to a toddler who had come out of her room just at that precise moment.
Based on her earlier attitude towards her husband, I didn’t expect she would have reacted in this way. You never know how anyone is going to take bad news, and even though this woman appeared on the surface to hate the poor guy, she was obviously in pain.
I looked at Marco and wished him well as Benny and I exited the hallway with the painful screams of Laura piercing our ears. I mean, to this day when I see Benny, we laugh over the situation. All I was trying to do was to have Laura sit down at her kitchen table and prepare her for the devastating news, but she wouldn’t let me. I had no choice but to let her have it cold as ice. “He didn’t make it.”
Maybe I should give Benny a call. I need a good laugh right now and his humor is on par with mine.
I am sure many civilians must be offended by how we deal with extreme circumstances. Unfortunately for us police officers, these are the types of situations that arise. The frequency of the negative depends on how busy your particular area is. Most of the time our fun happens after work, retelling the stories of the tour over a cold beer. It makes it easier to accept if you make it funny.
I have to admit that a police officer has to be a little “off” to work in this type of atmosphere. Police officers carry the guns toward the problem while most ordinary people run away without repercussions. We are the first line of defense for the public against whatever might be trying to harm them. Truth is, you can be killed or injured at any time, and unfortunately, we know that too well. There is something to be said for this type of bravery, and it doesn’t mean we aren’t scared of what we are about to confront. My life means a lot more to the people around me than to myself. I don’t know why I feel that way, but it’s the truth.
But my shooting was something different altogether. Being haunted by something that happened to you is much harder to make fun of, especially a traumatic event like a police shooting. There’s no turning that into a comical masterpiece.
The more time passes, the less likely we are to catch this bastard who did this to me. Knowing we have no evidence whatsoever is also not too comforting. And will I ever be able to sleep without the nightmares? I am not asking for anything too extravagant, just a couple hours of blank sleep—a sleep with no recollection of what happened in my dreams or if I even dreamed at all. Please, God, can you help me out?
Chapter Seven: You’re Hired
August 25, 2007
I wake at 6 a.m. to a rainy morning. The drops are hitting my bedroom window. Surprisingly, I don’t remember anything after the suicide nightmare of Mr. Rossi. Maybe my prayer worked this time. Quite a few have gone unanswered. The good feeling doesn’t last long. I can’t go back to sleep. I keep seeing the gun pointing at me out of thin air. I hear the gunshot in my head. As time passes, it grows louder and louder. Sometimes I clap my hands to my ears, which is silly because the sound is all internal. What the hell is wrong with me? Have I completely lost my mind? Why is this happening to me? I am so alone and scared. I don’t have anyone. Donny would be sitting outside my door if he were here. Hell, he would be loaded for bear waiting for whoever to show up at my doorstep. I try his cell phone again and still no answer. Where is he?
I have to clean this place up; my mother and father will be coming over sooner or later. There is only so much I can get away with before they kick in the door on me. In the hospital, they hovered over me. My mother sobbed in my face. It was a little embarrassing with all the cops and town dignitaries standing around. It’s amazing that I am in my late twenties and actively avoiding my parents. It’s like high school all over again. I don’t want to be interrogated as to what, when, why, and how. I don’t have any answers for them. I don’t know who shot me or why. Is it too much to ask to be left alone? If I don’t want to talk, I shouldn’t have to.
I am freezing in this room. It is so cold my teeth are chattering. Maybe I have a fever. Yes, that’s it. I am sick. How fast was that diagnosis? I should call my mother and let her know. My mom is old school and this might actually backfire on me. You can’t keep an Italian mother away from her son even if you have the bubonic plague. But I’ll take my chances. I pick up the phone next to my bed and dial the same seven digits I have been dialing for as long as I can remember. The voice that answers seems tired too.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Matthew Longo, what the hell is going on? Franny told us not to stop by.”
It is obvious my mother is crying, and I instantly feel like garbage. “Mom, I am fine. Everything is healing perfectly, but I have a fever and need to rest.”
A deep voice in the background, probably right over her shoulder, says, “I’ll beat his ass when I see him. This isn’t right what he’s doing.”
My father is so direct and brutally honest. He has such a way with subtlety. I have to make this right with my mother as I can hear her disappointment. There is no worse feeling for me than to know I am hurting my parents. It’s absolutely gut-wrenching to live with that guilt.
“Mom, I am fine. I don’t want you to worry. I just needed a little time to get over a few things. You will see very soon; everything will be back to normal.”
“Matt, you need to know that we all love you and are worried about you. And now you have a fever on top of everything else? Do you want me to come over?”
“No, Mom, please. I have to go. There is someone beeping in and I have to take this call. Bye.”
There is no one on the other line. I just need to get off the phone. I pull my phone cord from the wall jack, knowing one of them will call back. I don’t want to hear it. This forehead of mine feels extremely hot to the touch. So does my whole body, for that matter. I definitely have a fever and need some medicine. Instead I pop a couple more pain killers. The thought of leaving my bed is impossible. I reach towards my nightstand for the remote. Before I can even put the television on, I fall back to sleep.
November 27, 1997
This Thanksgiving morning was the best ever. At ten o’clock in the morning, the phone rang at my mother’s house. She picked up the phone while preparing her thirty-pound turkey with all the fixings. Franny and I were about to emba
rk on our annual football game with some of our high school buddies. Mom seemed excited as she looked at me and gestured to the phone. “It’s for you, Matt.”
I walked up to the receiver. Almost being tackled by my insane brother, I utter a “Hello.” Mom whacked Franny on his ass with a wooden spoon and I had to hold in the laughter.
“Matt Longo?” a strange but familiar voice said into the phone.
“Yes,” I replied, not understanding why my mother would give my name out to anyone, especially on the phone.
“It’s Capt. Grassio from HPD. I just want to inform you that you are being offered the police officer position in our department. I expect to see you Monday morning at 8 a.m. sharp for debriefing and paperwork.”
“Yes, sir. Captain, I look forward to seeing you then,” I muttered, surprised to say the least. The phone went dead and I turned to see my mother holding her chest in anticipation. “I got the job.”
My mother screamed louder than I had heard since we were kids. Franny looked at me, dumbfounded. “What job?”
Dad flew up the basement stairs. “Hun, what’s the matter?”
“Your son got the job,” she shrieked as I held my ears.
My father looked at me with puppy dog eyes. “What about the phone company?”
“Dad, you know I have always wanted to do this. The phone company is your career. I never wanted it to be mine.”
Dad smiled. “I am proud of you, boy!”
Franny tackled me into the couch—his way of saying congratulations.
Monday morning came fast. My first day walking into headquarters was a complete culture shock. I was not prepared for such a paramilitary type organization. I didn’t know whom to salute or even if I should stand up when a high ranking officer walked my way. I was totally clueless. I approached the front desk and introduced myself to the officer behind what I assumed to be bulletproof glass. I was hurriedly told to have a seat. I never realized my local police department was this engrossed in all facets of law enforcement. It was very impressive to see in person. I saw my first prisoner; he walked by handcuffed and wearing leg shackles, escorted by Donny Mello. I instantly remembered him from those football games I watched as a kid. I had no idea he was a police officer. He looked at me and smiled before turning and heading the opposite direction with his catch of the day. Donny was wearing blue jeans and a heather gray sweater with his silver badge dangling loosely around his neck. Why would his prisoner be wearing leg shackles? Was he a murderer? Why hadn’t this been on the news? It quickly became apparent to me that I was venturing on the right path of employment.
While seated in the lobby, I heard what sounded like combat boots heading toward the lobby area. The desk officer picked up the phone as if making himself busy. The door behind me swung open, and Captain Grassio appeared in full uniform. He was not happy. I prayed I wasn’t responsible for his current demeanor. “Mr. Longo, please follow me.”
I jumped up and followed the Captain like a canine through the hallway filled with police officers and civilian staff personnel, busy at work. As we entered his office, he motioned for me to have a seat. Then he picked up his phone. Sweat formed on my brow as I envisioned something bad happening.
Captain Grassio slammed down the phone, disappointed that the phone number he was trying to call was busy. “Matt, the Chief will like to speak to you regarding your appointment.” The Captain dialed the number again with the same result. He slammed down the phone again, looked at me and asked, “Are you married?”
“No.”
“I have been trying to call my wife for twenty minutes and she is still yapping away without a care in the world. Matt, if I can give you any advice in that department, don’t do it till you’re a lot older. And then marry someone a lot younger.”
The Captain was smiling at me, but I wouldn’t let my guard down. “Yes, Captain. I had a girlfriend, but we’re taking a break.”
He looked at me and smiled. “Girlfriends are good. Breaks from girlfriends are even better.”
I instantly picked up on the guy’s humor. In fact, even though he was older than me, I saw us being friends even outside of work.
The Chief walked into the office. The Captain jumped up from his old red leather chair to introduce us.
I stood up and saluted the Chief, to which he replied, “Congratulations, Officer Longo, I just left a town board meeting with Mayor Benson where we confirmed your employment.”
The Chief shook my hand then pulled me close to whisper in my ear, “Don’t shit your pants on patrol. A good cop never gets wet, dirty, or goes hungry!”
“Yes, sir.”
“The police academy starts in two weeks, so consider yourself on vacation until it begins.” The Chief informed me of a swearing-in ceremony at town hall on Thursday and to bring my family. Captain Grassio advised me to contact Officer Donny Mello in a few days regarding all police academy related requirements.
Upon my departure from headquarters, the excitement was unimaginable. All I could think about was calling someone, but who? I decided to just go home.
Donny Mello was four years older than me. When I first met him, I wanted to be him. Everything about him exuded police work at its finest. He was obviously well liked in the department, and his experience was second to none. At first glance he looked like a young Sylvester Stallone without the bulging biceps.
Donny loved the beach and was tan year round without fail. He looked like he belonged in Hollywood and had movie star written all over him.
I spoke with Donny at my swearing in ceremony. His advice was to keep my head down and learn as much as possible from the veterans without learning their complacencies. Our department had older police officers who were only there for a paycheck and benefits. They were burnt out working for this small town. I am sure deep within them there must have been some reason they took this job other than the obvious.
Franny and my parents were there. Naturally, they took pictures of the ceremony. My brother looked good in my suit he borrowed for the event. If I received a dollar for every time my mother called me handsome, I would have done well that day. She couldn’t take her eyes off me in my brand new blue uniform with the shiny silver badge on my chest. I felt important and a little nervous that I had a real gun in a holster on my belt. I hadn’t even shot it yet, but it was loaded. I was shocked by how many people from town came to witness the event.
Mayor Benson presided over the ceremony in a large classroom at Hutchville Town Hall. He was a plump man in his sixties who looked like a converted hippie. He wore an orange Tommy Bahama shirt with black slacks and matching black shoes. Everyone wanted to take a picture with me. It made me feel pretty important. Captain Grassio came over to break my balls about the police academy, which was an intensive twenty-week program. It was the first year that all the physical standards had been changed. He was surprised when I told him how much I was looking forward to the challenges ahead.
Chief Ramsey inquired discreetly if I had shit my pants because he smelt it in the air. I think he even asked my father, and surprisingly my father found him funny. These guys were really nuts, I thought. I couldn’t believe they carried guns.
It was such a casual event. I was happy to see my pal Scotty Franks there. He gave me a bear hug, which was standard with Scotty since high school. My back cracked and we both laughed. Scotty had just received his EMT certification, so it was nice to know we would see each other at work. At the time, I didn’t realize how many aided cases I would respond to in my career. The thought of seeing dead bodies didn’t even enter my mind.
Chapter Eight: Animal
August 25, 2007
I awake freezing. I can’t stop shaking. It feels like my room is thirty-five degrees. To my left, three Ibuprofen sit on my nightstand beside a plastic cup filled with water. How is that even possible, I wonder as I quickly swallow all three pills with one gulp of water? Is my mother here? She is the only one who takes my health more seriously than her own. I am pe
rplexed by this situation. I look at the clock and see it’s 1 p.m. Someone must’ve broken into the apartment and left me medication for the headache I would have upon discovering I’d been victimized. It must have been a burglar with a conscience. Before I can mull it over any further, I am asleep again, dreaming about another wicked encounter.
July 8, 2000
I was working in patrol on this Saturday afternoon. My mother told me dinner would be ready at six o’clock sharp. I was looking forward to a big helping of her baked ziti.
“Headquarters to Car Three.”
“Car Three. Proceed, headquarters.”
“Car Three, respond to 2442 Elmwood Ave., on a welfare check of an elderly male who has failed to show up to a scheduled monthly doctor’s appointment.”
“Way to go, P.O. Longo,” my Nextel beeped, and I jumped. It was Scotty calling to wish me condescending luck. “Hey Matt, Sarah and I are just sitting down to your favorite chicken dish. We just placed a wager on this one.”
“You better choke down your food,” I fired back to Scotty. “Because if the body’s warm, you’re getting it.”
As I pulled up to 2442 Elmwood, I noticed the outside lights were on at this blue, raised ranch style home. I notified headquarters of my arrival via radio as I exited my cruiser, keeping an eye peeled for anything out of the ordinary. I heard kids playing in the neighborhood and an ice cream truck driving up the street playing Mr. Jingle. Damn, I would have loved an ice cream sandwich right about then.
After getting no answer when I rang the doorbell a few times, I decided to investigate further. The front door was locked and secured with no sign of foul play. There was a window in it, but the glass was opaque and I couldn’t see inside. I started a perimeter check around the house, paying close attention to windows on the first level. The only ones I could see into were on the ground level of this raised ranch. I tried to look into the living room bay window but almost fell off the front stoop as it was too high. Everything appeared normal, and I anticipated pulling over that ice cream truck for a frozen fruit bar as my taste had changed.
In A Small Town (A Small Town Series Book 1) Page 5
