In A Small Town (A Small Town Series Book 1)

by Marc A. DiGiacomo

  “Matt, I don’t have any real particulars on Donny. We will both find out the scoop tomorrow. We need his experience on your shooting.”

  Thinking back to that day, I should have remembered what Donny always said: “Never go anywhere alone.” But where the fuck has he been all this time? Hasn’t he done just that; left me alone? He wasn’t here for me. I haven’t heard from him in almost a month. Franny tried his cell phone a hundred times but the calls went directly to voicemail. Obviously, my partner would have called if he knew about the shooting. Could the shooter have mistaken me for Donny? I was shot the day after Donny’s grandfather passed away. Is there a connection between the death of Don Carlo and my shooting? It started to feel like “a hit,” especially with the FBI snooping around.

  But we’re talking about Hutchville, here. A hit? This town is not on that level. The anticipation of seeing Donny is getting the best of me. I don’t sleep all night, which is good because no sleep equals no bad dreams.

  Nine o’clock comes fast and furious. It is a beautiful day. The Wrangler is waiting right out front of my apartment. It is an old military green CJ-7 so I wasn’t too concerned that it would get banged up parked on such a busy road. The soft top is easy to slide down; I need to feel alive with the wind blowing in my face. The warm sun is shining bright in the sky, and I feel great going back to work. I forget about my problems till I pull into the parking lot of headquarters. The place looks deserted as it normally is in the summertime. Most guys are vacationing down the Jersey Shore with their families. No vacation for me; it is time to find my shooter. Donny is supposed to return today, but I won’t believe it until I see him in the flesh. The Chief and Captain are infuriated at his lack of communication. He is in for an ass-reaming when, and if, he returns.

  I walk into my headquarters and feel odd to be back. I run into Chris Finley in the locker room. He has just finished his midnight tour. We shoot the shit for a few minutes as we share the only two urinals there. Chris is a good friend. It has been a while since we went out last. He briefly tells me about some of his sex conquests, and I can’t help laughing at his misfortunes. He tells me about a recent drunken night out with Benny. They were rapping to this honey at O’Neil’s. Chris asked her if she wanted to play “just the tip” and was slapped silly. I almost piss in my pants I laugh so hard. There is always a story with Chris, but you never know where truth ends and the lies begin. He is such a funny guy; even his appearance is entertaining. He has a big sausage nose and is tall, with no chance of being attractive. If it weren’t for his badge, he would never get laid. We make plans to catch up soon and he quickly leaves.

  It is a quarter after nine and the Captain hasn’t arrived yet. I walk down the desolate hallway and come upon the front desk. It is nice to see P.O. Mike Francini playing solitaire on the computer. After some small talk, I head toward the detective division and a mountain of paperwork I am sure awaits me. Since Donny and I have both been out, our caseload must have tripled. I am not looking forward to dealing with any bullshit calls of harassment and criminal mischief. I want something I can sink my teeth into. I want another Frank Cipriano without the nasty conclusion. It has been a long time since I thought about Frank and how Donny tore him wide open. It makes me wonder if Special Agent Cynthia Shyler is also wondering about who killed Cipriano. I have no choice but to keep that story under wraps and deal with the end result when I meet my maker. Sometimes you have to ride a grey wave through the mundane black and white of law enforcement. Donny is my partner and Frank deserved what he received. He should consider himself lucky; a jail cell would have involved the worst sodomy he could endure. No correction officer would render aid to him screaming upon being tortured by multiple felons. There are two types of people that do not fare well in prison, pedophiles and police officers. Those two stand out loud and clear to me, so unless they have me on video surveillance inside Frank Cipriano’s place, as far as I am concerned it never happened.

  Chapter Fourteen: Daughter

  August 27, 2007

  Captain Grassio walks into the detective division at 10 a.m. with Donny Mello following in his shadow. Donny is extremely tan, looks sickly thin, and is smoking a cigarette. The Captain and Donny don’t talk to each other as they make their way toward my desk. I can only imagine the tirade that welcomed my partner this morning. I stand up stunned and in shock as Donny puts his arms around me. I can tell he is upset that he wasn’t able to be there for me.

  After an uncomfortably long embrace, he looks me in the eye then kisses my right cheek and cracks a joke about my stomach looking like a keg of beer. It has been sometime since I could work out, and I have missed lifting weights together. Captain Grassio, in typical style, calls us a couple of pansies. He advises us a special meeting would take place at eleven in our classroom regarding my shooting and abruptly walks out.

  “Where have you been, and what’s going on?” I ask Donny.

  “Let’s just say it’s classified for now,” he says ambiguously.

  I look at Donny and retort, “That’s not good enough, pal. When did you find out I was shot?”

  Donny half smiles and reassures me that he was working the entire time he was in Italy. The next statement practically brings me to my knees. “I know who shot you, so be ready for some payback very soon.”

  The room spins around me. My partner’s words hang in the air like a thick cloud of smoke. He knows? How? And what does this have to do with him being in Italy? Given this information, I realize that I must have been shot by a professional who had deep connections within the mob. Why would Donny know and not call to tell me? The confusion that sets in after his statement exhausts me to the point I need to sit down. Questions begin to swirl in my brain. Was Donny the intended victim, or was I retribution for something he may have done in his past? And what the hell did Donny mean by ‘payback’? I want to ask Donny a million questions, but something tells me to hold back, to wait and let him do the talking. Trying to get a hold of myself and keep my mouth from blurting out all the questions in my head, I get up and grab a cigarette from him and began to smoke right at my desk, ashes falling onto the carpet.

  Chief Ramsey walks in, sees the both of us smoking, turns around and walks out. He doesn’t dare confront Donny about smoking inside the station.

  The eleven o’clock meeting is attended by Captain Grassio, Detective Donny Mello, State Investigator Sean Jackson, State Investigator Mitch Sanders, and me. Chief Ramsey pokes his head in a couple of times to see if he is needed, but Captain Grassio reassures him back to his office.

  Investigator Sanders, who has thirty years in detective work for New York State, begins the meeting by interviewing me again. I barely remember seeing these guys at the hospital but their faces are familiar. Before I begin to speak, Benny walks in with a Box of Joe from Dunkin’ Donuts along with a couple of boxes of donuts.

  Investigator Sanders cannot help himself and sucks down a Boston Crème in seconds. Sanders is a man of gigantic proportions. He is easily six foot five, weighing in at a conservative three hundred pounds. His age shows on his face, and I am surprised to see a second donut disappear quicker than the first.

  Investigator Jackson is a small guy who is obviously of Irish heritage. His face has freckles and he even speaks with an accent. He is only five foot six tops, weighing in at a buck thirty, if he is lucky. Jackson works an old-fashioned donut down as fast as his partner. Captain Grassio appears disgusted watching these animals devour the donuts he has purchased for everyone. It becomes apparent this gathering is a breakfast meeting for these state investigators. I repeat the story I have told numerous times. The only clue I have is the new white sneakers I saw on the shooter as he fled the area. They were Reeboks, of that I am sure.

  Donny is quiet during the meeting, either from jet lag or the digestive noises emanating from Sanders’ stomach. After an hour, the Captain thanks the two investigators for their time and offers the boxes of donuts, for which they thank him numerous time
s as they depart. We are no closer to finding the shooter than when we started. Captain Grassio apologizes to me because he was under the impression the state had new information, but this was a complete waste of everyone’s time and resources.

  Donny and I leave the classroom and head back to our office. I am biting at the bit to engage Donny in a little Q and A. I have been patient for this long, though. A few more hours won’t kill me. I hope.

  Before we settle at our desks, P.O. Mike Francini runs into our office screaming about a rape in progress at the train station. Donny is up and out the door before I can holster my Glock that I grabbed from inside my top drawer. Donny is waiting outside the back door in our Chevrolet Impala with the engine racing.

  As soon as my door closes we are off and blazing down Hutchville Avenue. I can’t believe a rape can be occurring at 12 p.m. in broad daylight. I think of how short a train ride it is to New York City. I fear some type of animal has found its way north from the slums. No further information is given by headquarters, which is typical.

  As we arrive, we can see several patrol officers checking both sides of the platform. There is no one around and all the pay phones are empty. I call Mike Francini on my cell phone and am told the call came in from a female on her cell. Donny and I contact MTA police to suspend all trains coming into our stations as we are heading onto the tracks for an investigation.

  Donny and I stay together and head northbound looking for anything suspicious. Captain Grassio walks southbound with a MTA K-9 officer and his dog Slammer. This is such a strange call to receive during the day. Suddenly, Donny sprints from behind me as we round a corner of the track. Off in the distance, two people are rolling around on the ground. Donny is gone in seconds, running straight down the middle of the train tracks. With his speed, I have no chance of catching him.

  He screams something towards the couple as a male jumps to his feet, pulling up a pair of blue shorts. I am in a full sprint as I hear something behind me, and I instantly freeze in place as a dark brown German shepherd runs past me with its handler screaming in German far behind. I am certain the dog will bite me as I am not in uniform, but he passes without even looking my way. The incongruous nature of the animal strikes me. He is so beautiful to look at, yet he is about to take a piece out of somebody. We can only hope he doesn’t get Donny and focuses on the perpetrator.

  Donny stops at the victim and kneels to render first aid the best he can without any equipment. I can hear Donny on our department radio; the crackle of the aided alarm gets my juices flowing like old times. First day back and on a rape call. Unbelievable. Our small town is changing for the worse.

  Slammer gallops past Donny until we can’t see him anymore. We hear barking as I catch up to Slammer with K-9 Officer Pete Spatz of the Metropolitan Transit Authority. An eight-foot fence leads into an adjacent parking lot for northbound commuters. Our trail ends here. Slammer is pissed. His bark continues until Spatz gives him his toy and rewards him for the chase.

  Patrol cars race around the parking lot canvassing for the suspect, so I am not jumping this fence unless I see something they cannot.

  The fence is old and rusty with the extreme likelihood of me needing a tetanus shot if I even look at it too long.

  I start the long trek back to the victim, happy to see Scotty working his tail off in the warm sun. EMT Sarah Myers is comforting the victim while Donny asks the difficult questions.

  I retrieve our evidence kit as it is clear this area will be searched with a fine-tooth comb by HPD. Captain Grassio stands next to my car enjoying the beautiful sun beating on his tan head. He is visibly bothered by the circumstances as he has a daughter around the same age as our victim. “I can’t believe this town is falling apart like this, Matt. Do you remember when we were young? Nothing like this happened here. This used to be an amazing family neighborhood but our streets are changing. I am going to see Mayor Benson this afternoon to ask for some patrol overtime and special assignments. We need to maintain a constant visible presence. I want a cop walking the beat down here during business hours. For God’s sake, I have a detective shot and a young girl raped in the same month. Totally unacceptable. We need to drop the hammer.”

  I agree with the Captain and excuse myself to assist Donny.

  “Stay close to Donny on this one, Matt; I don’t want him to do anything alone.” It is that comment that reminds me of my federal stalker. Special Agent Cynthia Shyler is looking for my partner, and I think I know why.

  I can’t remember my last rape call. It takes a couple of minutes to walk back to the crime scene. I instantly feel horrible for this girl. The young woman is torn up really bad and sobbing uncontrollably. She is maybe eighteen and having trouble keeping her eyes open. She is complaining about a severe headache. I wonder if she is the victim of some type of new date rape drug. Rohypnol, ketamine and GHB, or gamma hydroxybutyric acid are the three favorites most commonly used by these animals. But these kids can get anything they want on the street. They raid their parents’ medicine cabinets on a monthly basis, taking anything they can get their dirty hands on. We will have to wait on blood tests from the hospital and the rape kit, which hopefully will deliver us some useable evidence. Without even making eye contact with him, I can tell Donny is clearly upset and heartbroken for this young girl. He wants to find this pig really bad.

  The victim’s name is Jessica Burton, a Hutchville resident. Her driver’s license has her living on the more affluent side of town. I check with headquarters to see if anyone made a missing person report concerning Jessica’s whereabouts. I am standing around waiting for headquarters to get back to me when Donny walks over with steam pouring out his ears.

  “Hey, Matt. She didn’t know him. That’s all I could make out.”

  “It looks like we have a real psycho in our little town,” I say, looking at Ms. Burton.

  I am waiting for Scotty to finish his first aid applications. There is a lot for him to do before we can really question Jessica.

  Scotty looks up at me with tears streaming down his face. I feel his pain knowing this poor girl has been ravaged. Her face has been beaten, she is missing several teeth and there is blood all over her. It is unfortunate but it appears to be all her blood. She is battered and bruised and covered in dirt all over her body. She has on a yellow flower skirt with purple and white daisies and tulips. Her white shirt is stained with dry and fresh blood, which indicates she may have been attacked twice by the same guy. Or two separate people. She is dealing with the worst pain imaginable and is totally aware of what has occurred.

  Donny and I decide to give her some time to recuperate before we question her again. I pull Scotty aside and ask him to call me immediately if anyone shows up to the hospital, whether family or media. Scotty and I often joke about the variety of experiences we encounter while working. However this is no joking matter. We laugh at our dead bodies if we can, to keep us sane. But we expect justice when a victim is brutalized or killed. I smile, thinking about the differences between Scotty’s and Donny’s views of justice for these circumstances. I know if Donny catches this guy he will kill him without hesitation. The problem for me is, I don’t know how close Agent Shyler is to getting her man. There is a large paper trail on this one already, so Donny will have to be very creative to pull this off unscathed.

  After photographs are taken, I glance at the disturbed area of rock and soil. There appear to be two depressions in the sand where the attacker may have been positioned during the assault. I collect samples, and peer around for anything that jumps out at me. If this guy is a professional, then we will turn up empty. If he was stupid enough to ejaculate in her, then we will have good DNA. I don’t see any condoms or wrappers at the crime scene.

  While I keep busy, Donny walks both sides of the tracks searching for anything to help our ongoing investigation. We both know the information we get from Jessica will be the most critical. Unless this is totally random, she may have a small crumb of knowledge about our rap
ist.

  Donny and I are alone on the tracks now. It’s approaching late afternoon. Our search doesn’t turn up a single pertinent piece of physical evidence. Donny appears tired. He looks at me with shame and again apologizes for not being here for me.

  “Donny, there is something you should know. You’re being watched.”

  Donny laughs and turns towards me saying, “By who—Chief Ramsey?”

  I have to catch myself from laughing, but Donny needs to know how serious this is. “No, the feds. Somebody named Special Agent Cynthia Shyler. Do you know her?”

  Donny’s face turns red. I think this is the first time I have ever witnessed that. If Donny is nervous, maybe I should be too.

  “What did she say?” Donny asks.

  “She wants you to call her. I have her card at home.”

  I want to know what this was about, but Donny won’t budge. He just says not to worry. I hate when people take serious shit too lightly. This is heavy. I am nervous for him and for myself. I have Cipriano on the brain and am scared I will crack if pushed too far. I know it’s a felony to lie to a federal agent. It’s no crime to lie to a police officer. Go figure.

  ****

  He is running for his life. How could I be so stupid, he thinks, dodging into Taku. His thoughts continue to run wild. The police don’t eat Chinese. If he was in Dunkin Donuts, he might be in trouble, judging by the girth of the average Hutchville officer. He walks up to the friendly waitress to place his order.

  “Hello, Leonard, your usual order?”

  “Yes, please.” He moves quickly to the bathroom. Leonard is smart. He uses the restroom at Taku and reverses his basketball shorts from blue to red. He wears a long sleeve, white Rolling Stones T-shirt with the big red tongue on it. Underneath the Stones tee, he has a black one and quickly throws the Stones shirt into a small garbage can loaded with toilet paper. Leonard’s OCD is raging right now, but the thought of being apprehended for rape overshadows his condition. He quickly lifts the soiled, moist paper and places the long sleeve rock shirt on the bottom, covering it up while gagging. Leonard stumbles to the sink and begins to vigorously wash his hands, up to his elbows, as he keeps pushing the soap dispenser until it is empty. As he moves over to the paper towels, his hands drip dozens of large water drops onto the floor causing a slippery mess.