I find the side door slightly ajar. I push the door open and walk into a very poorly lit waiting room with wood paneling on the walls. An oversized bookcase on the far wall is stuffed with large hardcover books, and a long couch that has seen better days sits on the opposite side of the room. I take a seat and can hear some papers being shuffled in the room next to me.
“Matt, is that you?”
“Yes, Dr. Berger.”
“Come on in.”
I stand and open the door to find the doctor sitting in a brown leather chair directly in front of me. I shake his hand and walk to a couch against the wall. I wonder if I am supposed to lie down or just sit. I decide on the latter. Dr. Berger is a rather tall man but very skinny and older than I expected, maybe seventy. He has a heavy beard full of gray hair that makes him look almost presidential.
“I like your lion a lot, Dr. Berger; it is my favorite animal.”
“King of the jungle. Hey, that’s interesting.”
Here we go, I think; he’s judging me already. This is why cops don’t do shrinks. Calm down, let’s see how this goes.
“So, Matt, tell me what’s going on in your life.”
“Well, it’s complicated,” I begin. “As you might have read, I was shot almost a month ago on my way to pick up a pizza. Physically, I’m healing pretty well. But I’ve been having nightmares and odd dreams—not just of the shooting, but of calls I handled on patrol many years ago. Incidents that I’ve not given a second thought to since they happened—but now they are haunting me.”
Dr. Berger leans back in his chair and thinks for a moment. “Continue, please.”
“I have been through a lot in the last few years. I have worked on numerous investigations that would make the normal person scared shitless, but these events are not troubling to me. It is the simple scenes of death that I have been so accustomed to that are playing tricks on me. I am starting to have these dreams that I never had before about situations that are disturbing but expected as part of my job. These calls happened years ago. I am really confused and nervous that I may be losing my sense of reality.”
Dr. Berger finally interrupts me. “This sounds like a normal case of post-traumatic stress disorder, which many soldiers deal with when they come home from battle. Unfortunately for you, your combat exists on a different battlefield. You are not at war per se, but you are experiencing situations that are not normal. They are brutal in nature, and I am sure they cause you great distress.”
He leans forward on his desk and strokes his chin. “The reason you never thought about these incidents before is because your mind was occupied. Simply, you were at work and thinking about your job. When you return to duty, these matters will resolve on their own. I am sure of this. As for your shooting, it is my experience that you will have these dreams forever—and that is most unfortunate. But they may get less stressful and surreal as time goes on.”
I don’t know if I should be grateful or skeptical. Our conversation has lasted all of five minutes and already he is giving me a prognosis. “So, Doc, you don’t think I have anything to worry about?”
“Not in the least, Detective. Are you considering leaving the police force?”
“I’ll be honest. Part of me wanted to after this happened, but now I find myself wanting to go back.”
“Well, Matt, you would easily be rewarded a disability pension if you chose to retire. But you’re a young man with tremendous experience. As a resident, I would hate to lose you.”
“Thanks, Dr. Berger. I don’t think you will—not just yet.”
“I think we should see each other over the next few weeks. Let’s see if the dreams stop or become less intrusive. How does that sound?”
“Great, Doc, whatever it takes.”
I make another appointment with Dr. Berger for next week. I shake the doctor’s hand and leave. There is a lot to digest. I am hungry, so I head over to Hutchville’s Diner on Main Street.
The diner is jam-packed. I am praying to sneak in and out without seeing anyone I know. But in this town, that’s impossible.
“Hey, Longo. What’s up, pal?”
I know the voice. I look up and see Chris Finley. I can’t help but smile as he bumps his way down the aisle towards me.
“Hey, Chris, what’s up, man?”
“Yo, where the fuck have you been? Work is getting crazy and your brother is secret squirreling all over the place.”
“I am hanging in there. I should be back next week some time. Who are you here with?”
“Benny is in the crapper dropping a deuce.”
I can’t help but laugh at Chris’ descriptive pleasantries as Benny emerges from the bathroom and heads our way.
“Hey, Matt, how do you feel, brother? I keep calling your cell but it goes right to voicemail. How are you doing?”
“Good. Much better than a few weeks ago. I have a few things to sort out, but I should be back real soon. I miss my boys. We are overdue for an Atlantic City night out.”
Both Chris and Benny laugh, recalling the last time we were there together. It was crazy. We spent most of our time in the clubs and not at the tables. Benny is always lucky at blackjack. I am too, for the most part, but if Chris approaches while you’re gambling, throw it away because he is a mush. We agree to get together soon and as they leave, I look at Benny. “He didn’t make it,” I say, referring to that call we like to joke about from a while back. We both erupt in laughter, knowing the details. I order a grilled cheese and chocolate shake to go.
I am home alone in less than ten minutes. I wolf the sandwich down immediately; I am starving. The french fries are a nice surprise—well done, just the way I like them. As I think about seeing my buddies, all our funny stories come back to me. These are the stories I should be dreaming about: strippers in Atlantic City, falling drunk down a flight of stairs, picking up hot women. Not dead people and their half-open eyes staring at me. Maybe Dr. Berger was right—I should get my ass back to work as soon as possible. I don’t want these dreams anymore. I want to remember what life was like before I got shot—and damn the person who shot me straight to hell. I am getting angrier by the second as I look at my scar. I feel no fear—only revenge. I know if I have the opportunity, I will kill the fucker. No judge, jury, or arrest. I swallow a pill to take away some of the pain in my shoulder. I am asleep in minutes, driving my jeep on some strange island with women everywhere.
Then I am sucked back into the realm of darkness, overshadowed by blackness so thick I can barely make out any light. My island with the beautiful women is gone and replaced with a true story of death.
Chapter Ten: Nothing is as it seems
October 15, 2001
“Headquarters to Car One!”
“Car One, proceed!”
“Car One, respond to 51 West Road on the report of an elderly female having trouble breathing.”
“Ten-Four!”
I couldn’t have dreamt the conclusion of this call. Nothing happens in a small town. No news is good news. Yeah, right.
Upon my arrival to 51 West Road, I envisioned a typical aided case of placing the patient on oxygen and awaiting the arrival of EMS. It should have been this easy as I had done this a hundred times or more.
At the front door, I was met by a man in his forties who introduced himself as Steven Paulson, the son of Lucy Paulson. Mr. Paulson was tall, approximately six foot three, with long, wild gray hair. Mr. Paulson couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred fifty pounds, which is light for his height. He smelled funny and was disheveled. His clothes were wrinkled and torn. He was clearly nervous.
I advised Mr. Paulson to sit down while I examined his mother, who was lying on a sleeper sofa under a blanket. The room was poorly lit; the window shades were pulled down on all the windows. I asked Mr. Paulson for more light, but he said the lamp on the oak end table was all they had.
Something was definitely not normal about his behavior.
But at that moment, my job was to foc
us on Mrs. Paulson; I’d deal with the nutty son later. Mrs. Paulson smiled when she saw my face. She desperately tried to speak but couldn’t get any words out. Only faint air escaped her lungs. I placed a clear plastic nasal mask over her mouth and started the oxygen.
I couldn’t believe how dark this living room was after walking in from a bright sunny day. My gut told me something was amiss in this house, but there was nothing visible. The house was tidy and appeared clean—except for Mr. Paulson. He said he lived there so he could take care of her. I wanted to tell him that his personal hygiene was suspect and there was no way he could take care of his mother if he couldn’t handle washing himself with soap and water.
As the ambulance crew entered, Mrs. Paulson’s breathing became labored. Her short shallow breaths were too far apart. The ambulance crew placed her on a stretcher and took her to their bus. Mr. Paulson stayed back and watched from a distance. A small smile crept over his face. Only a dirtbag smiles while his mother is loaded into an ambulance.
As I approached him he jumped, seeming to forget I was there. I asked if he would be riding with the ambulance. He mumbled a no and hurried to his bedroom, closing the door quickly behind him.
It took all the muscles in my body not to pound open his door and beat the shit out of this guy. Instead, I left the house, walking towards the ambulance. Paramedic Jim Waters immediately motioned me to the bus.
Mrs. Paulson was already dead. As I climbed into the ambulance, Jim pointed at her face. Part of me was pissed. I thought I could have avoided the inevitability of looking into her eyes but no such luck for me again.
Lucy’s hazel eyes were half open—and bruised. Jim showed me a damp towel he had used to remove the makeup that had been caked on her pale face. She had been beaten senseless. Her jaw was bruised down to her neck. Jim lifted up her shirt to reveal contusions all over her body. I was looking at my first homicide.
I notified headquarters. Captain Grassio sent Donny Mello immediately. In what felt like seconds, I looked up and saw Donny’s face staring into the window of the ambulance. Donny was the senior officer and detective on the scene and since this was a possible homicide, it was now his show.
He opened the ambulance door and immediately began photographing Mrs. Paulson’s small, bruised corpse. He took dozens of pictures of her body, the bruises on her face in particular. As the camera snapped, Donny’s mouth squirmed, showing his anger. All I could think about was slapping my cuffs on Steven. I wished for one moment that I wasn’t a cop so I could handle this situation differently—I wanted to do more than just arrest him.
We exited the ambulance, which soon left for the medical examiner’s office for an autopsy. Dr. Scavone was going to get a sad present today.
As the ambulance left, Donny looked straight into my eyes. “Let’s kill this fucker.”
I was shocked and just stared at him, unsure how to respond. Sure, I would have loved to have given that scumbag a taste of what he’d given his mother. But killing him?
“It’s you and me.” He seethed. “No witnesses. If he resists, let’s put him in the fucking morgue.”
An uncomfortable, yet familiar, feeling began to form in my gut: This wasn’t the first time Donny had gotten out of control in my presence. My heart started pounding and I knew I didn’t want any part of this. I thought for a minute that Donny was testing me. He wasn’t. He leaned down and slipped a small silver handgun from a black holster on his left ankle. His duty weapon, which had more firepower, still hung on his belt. I would never have suspected Donny to have an untraceable, throwaway gun stashed in his left boot.
At this point, Donny was as serious as cancer. He was going to play the role of the grim reaper with me as his reluctant accomplice. I tried desperately to talk Donny out of this, but he didn’t even make eye contact with me.
The sun on this cool autumn afternoon hid behind clouds as we walked what felt like an eternity to the front door. A window shade moved so I knew this bastard was still inside. Donny motioned to stay back as he prepared to make entry into the center hall colonial. The front porch was small and narrow. There was a small window to the right of the red front door. I peeked inside. A shadow was running around the living room. Loud horrified male screams came from inside.
Donny kicked in the front door. It crashed back against the wall. We moved in with guns drawn as we had been trained to do, paying close attention to blind spots and avoiding tunnel vision. The screams stopped. It was eerily quiet.
We moved through the dining room, which was off to the left, looking, searching for this rat. As we entered the living room, we saw what appeared to be blood all over the place. Blood splattered on the old beige carpet. So much blood I gagged. Donny smiled at first sight of all the blood. I could tell he was excited.
Steven was lying on the floor bleeding from both arms of self-inflicted slashes. The large black-handled steak knife was still firmly grasped in his left hand. He’d struck an artery in both arms and was bleeding out in front of us.
Donny got down on his knees, avoiding the dark red pools forming under Steven’s arms. “Die, you motherfucker,” he said over and over, ignoring Steven’s expression of panic and fear. He was dead in seconds. I was relieved and happy Donny’s plan hadn’t played out. Donny was not completely satisfied; he really wanted to kill this fucking guy.
As we stood over the body, a knock came on the front door. I walked around the bloody scene and found Captain Grassio standing there in plainclothes.
“What do you got, kid?”
I looked at Captain Grassio with relief. “Suicide.”
Captain Grassio walked in, took one look at Donny and said, “Donny, did you kill this fucking guy?”
Donny looked up and replied, “No, but I wanted to real bad.”
I couldn’t believe Donny made this statement in front of the Captain, of all people. And I was shocked by the Captain’s lack of concern for Donny’s statement. Maybe he thought Donny was joking around.
I didn’t find it funny, and I am a great judge of what is funny. There was no way for the Captain to fully understand the totality of this circumstance, other than to have seen the beaten body of Mrs. Lucy Paulson. Captain Grassio informed us that there had been several calls at this residence over the last couple of years involving elder abuse. I looked at Donny and said that information would have really helped when I arrived. Captain Grassio said headquarters had all the reports but felt their lunch was more important.
“It will be dealt with first thing tomorrow. I am happy you guys are safe.” Captain Grassio left as quickly as he arrived.
This was a major problem within a small police department. There was always a lack of manpower and officer safety was always at risk. After this call, my feelings on Donny being the most specialized of any officer at Hutchville Police Department drastically reversed. He was a psycho. I should have remembered this from the last time; but I had to work with him. I knew Donny was dangerous, but in this instance, he was right; Steven deserved death. As is always the case, I was stuck with the corpse while Donny got sent on a criminal mischief call. I was relieved to see him leave. I called for an ambulance but was told the medical examiner’s office was already en route to my location. I didn’t even acknowledge headquarters; I was so pissed about their lack of concern and information on prior calls to this residence. It was this sort of miscommunication that caused officer injuries and death. What if Steven pulled that knife on me while I was trying to save his mother? Luckily for me, my guard was up because of Steven’s strange behavior, but a little extra information would have been beneficial.
After my tour was over, I was walking past Capt. Grassio’s office. Every time I passed this office I got sucked in like there was a magnetic force pulling me towards my boss. He always knew who was walking by his door. There must have been a hidden camera somewhere. Either that or he had ESP. “Longo, get in here.”
I walked in and saluted the Captain, who appeared upset about something. “Did
you learn anything about Donny?”
“Donny is a no-nonsense cop with amazing tactical skills.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Matt. What did you learn today?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Cap. I observed my first homicide, which was very upsetting.”
“How did Donny handle Mr. Paulson?”
“We didn’t have to handle him; he exited this world on his own.”
“Matt, the reason I am asking is you guys are all I have here. This department is full of useless loads of shit. Donny’s reputation has caused him to be alienated, but he is the best I got. Donny has been asking for a partner. I think you would be a good fit. I know you don’t have much time on the job, but patrol seems to be beneath your intuitions. Starting tomorrow you will be assigned to Detective Mello in the detective division.”
My jaw dropped. I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you, Captain. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t, Matt. Hey listen, Donny likes to do things a little differently than most. He has my full support. This town is changing.
Donny sees that and is trying to make a real difference. These scumbags who do bad things need to be punished. They need to know that Hutchville Police will do everything within our power to protect our residents. Now some might say Donny crosses the line, but it is a necessary evil. How do you think we keep crime down to its minimal level? It’s not just luck, Matt. Do what Donny says, okay?”
“Sure, Captain,” I said as I walked out of his office, confused as to what I was just told. Does the Captain allow Donny to take care of things in his own way? And I am supposed to just go along with it? What if we get caught? I never wanted to see the inside of a jail cell.
Out front of headquarters, I spotted Donny’s black BMW. He motioned to me to get in. I reluctantly jumped in, afraid to have the conversation I so desperately wanted. Before I could speak, Donny took off, spinning his tires and making heads turn in front of headquarters. I could see Chief Ramsey through the dark tinted windows, screaming and offering the middle finger. Donny just laughed and asked if I thought the Chief had just shit his pants. The car continued speeding towards downtown Hutchville.
In A Small Town (A Small Town Series Book 1) Page 7
