“Well if you decide to get one and somehow you lose it, whatever you do don’t tell Sergeant Riccio—he’ll go friggin’ nuts!”
****
The test scores came out two days before Nick and Joann’s big day. Nick had scored highly and could expect to be promoted. He was number eight on the list of eligible candidates and the police department expected to make about twenty-five or more sergeants. He knew he would be a boss in only a few weeks. Things were progressing nicely.
The wedding was a beautiful event; Joann looked lovely in a pure white gown and headpiece. The elegant beauty of the ceremony was set against the dark background, in the old, small, Catholic parish church with wooden pews covered in a deep walnut stain. There were red and white flowers on the altar and a bright and sunny, if somewhat warm, late summer day outside the big, wide-open stained glass windows. The deep haunting music from the church organ gave the ceremony special meaning as the couple exchanged their vows before the pastor and a hundred and fifty witnesses. It was emotional for all in attendance, some crying but most smiling, and it was to be the beginning of a long, loving and interesting marriage.
Chapter 4
Nick thought the job of a sergeant was exciting and challenging. He liked that he provided cops with a conduit to a goal and counseled them through their business problems. Like Sergeant Tom Carrillo, Sergeant Nick Brennan wanted to show an interest in his squad and lead, not just manage.
After a couple of months in his new command, Jodie, approaching her own graduation and a big change, with deep concern asked, “Nicky are you uncomfortable? Do you feel out of your element? You know, can you do the supervisory thing with confidence?”
“Okay, yeah, but it is good, I’m getting to try out all the principles I learned in sergeants’ training but I can’t get John Planner out of my head—he was my boss but he was my friend too, I don’t know if there is any room for that in this business.”
“Nicky, your relationship with John Planner was special and unique—it still is. I don’t think anything can be compared to it, and it can’t be replicated or replaced.”
****
Jodie continued her studies and graduated with an undergraduate degree from Saint Agnes before Nick. After the commencement she began a job search. Success came quickly, and within a few weeks she found herself working part time at a commercial high school teaching business skills to kids interested in jobs as secretaries, clerks and general workers.
As she continued her education, Joann’s studies at Saint Agnes for her Master’s program were grueling—the reading and analysis were demanding. Nick continued his design on a business administration degree at a more leisurely pace and took only a few classes each semester.
One night after a long day at her job and an evening at Saint Agnes, Jodie asked, “We had a big thing in class today. Nick, what is the most analytical job you can think of?”
“I’m not sure, but I guess it would be journalism with some history, economics or law,” he said, “why do you ask?”
“Today at Saint Agnes, we discussed deep and thoughtful analysis, and most people mentioned the government: military intelligence, maybe the CIA or the FBI. I don’t know.”
“That could be right, the NSA and ASA had some great analysts, but I think fundamentally you have to dig deeper—it’s the background for the job that makes the difference. A journalist who has studied business, law or economics is probably more analytical, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess but I’m not sure…maybe a research scientist, an actuary or maybe even an educator.”
****
Nick and Jodie both kept moving forward; Joann finally got her doctorate and began teaching history at the State University, while Nicky got his bachelor’s degree and made lieutenant. They had just bought a house in a beautiful suburban and leafy community, in the center of an old middleclass village they loved, when Jodie suddenly discovered she was pregnant. The house was in the colonial style and featured a lot of dark wood paneling inside and stone on the exterior. The rooms were large and a bit subdued and difficult to fill with appropriately styled furnishings, and now the Brennans needed a nursery too.
While some of Joann’s plans were certainly put on hold, she and Nick were ecstatic, and Nick began to plan on more: more kids, more promotions and more life. The relative danger of police work had mostly evaded their existence. That week, Nicky was called to HQ in connection with an open position for a hostage negotiator team leader. If offered, he planned on accepting the job.
****
“Lieutenant, you have been chosen for a supervisory position on the hostage team. Are you interested?” the deputy chief asked.
“Yes sir!”
“Okay, we will see you at our next training session,” the chief added.
Later, Nick found the hostage training to be interesting and intricate, and he absorbed the principles quickly. The preliminary training took one week, but the team met regularly for in-service training and updates.
****
Time passed rapidly, as he often spent the days and nights at work supervising precinct patrol. One uneventful night in late November it was cold and cloudy with the damp feeling of approaching snow enveloping the whole landscape. When Nick spoke to his colleagues on the street, the gray, smoky, moist breath from his mouth was thick. As the sole patrol lieutenant that night, Brennan was mostly bored and simply searching about for a good conversation with one of his subordinates as he drove his marked police car around the precinct.
Suddenly, the radio screeched out a long message, “All units, we have multiple reports of shots fired at the Bayside Bar and Restaurant on Sentinel Road, Montwood with the possibility of numerous people injured. Any supervisors in the area are directed to respond, we have ambulances responding, detectives are responding, the precision firearms team has been notified; any supervisory unit responding advise headquarters—all units responding please advise.”
Nick was less than a mile away and reported via radio, “Headquarters, be advised Unit forty-two, a senior patrol supervisor, is approaching the scene and directs any units responding, if there is no active shooter or gunfire, to take up positions around the establishment and create a flexible perimeter back and front.”
Brennan was familiar with the tavern—it was a kid hangout with a reputation for drug use. The front of the place had a huge front door with an alley running down its outside long wall and a wide sidewalk situated in front of the establishment in the small shopping center in which the bar was lodged.
Nicky knew that if his squad had to go inside the bar looking for the suspect they were at a disadvantage: like high ground in a battle, the inside of a building gave an armed assassin a big advantage over his opponents. It was infinitely easier to protect a structure from the inside than it was to assault from the outside.
Like they taught Nick in supervisors’ school, he had often played a big event in his head beforehand as a planning device; maybe a plane crash, a hostage situation or a building collapse—no matter, Brennan had been here before.
The dispatcher responded to Nicky’s transmission, “Okay forty-two. All units, we have a patrol lieutenant approaching the scene of the reported shooting and he directs units responding to take positions surrounding the establishment to provide a flexible perimeter if there is no active gunfire or a known active shooter.” A flexible perimeter was elastic in nature and could be moved in or out depending on the circumstances presented and the gunman’s actual location. Generally, responding police cars would create the perimeter from the point of arrival, so that the first arriving cars from the north would establish the north perimeter line, the cars from the south would establish the south boundary and so forth.
“We have units eleven, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, and eighteen en route at this time, forty-two.”
“Headquarters, mark me at scene. We have multiple injured, shots fired and a suspect with a rifle or shotgun running up the alley away from the parking
area on the west side of the Bayside Bar.” Nick stopped to catch his breath and quickly assess the situation. “Have unit eleven and another unit take up a position on the north side of the building and stand ready for the armed suspect if he exits the alley.” Looking over at the injured, Brennan ordered, “Have the responding ambulances report to the front of the bar inside the perimeter. So far I have seen only one suspected shooter. And there is no active gunfire at this time.”
The gunman was a big, burly man about six feet three inches, and 200 pounds with long, oily hair, wearing a heavy woolen shirt open in the front and blowing back from his waist as he slowly lumbered from the scene. His large head and face were covered by the shadows fluttering in and out of the darkness.
Brennan jumped from his car, drew his weapon and cautiously ran toward the alley. As he peered into the blackness he saw no movement. With his unlit flashlight held out away from his body to protect his profile from gunfire, he had his left index finger on the button ready to illuminate the area the moment he discovered or sensed a target. The pungent smell of gunpowder was hanging heavy in the cold, moist air. Nick felt his eyes burning from the gray, acrid smoke wafting over the area.
Stepping slowly inside the alley, his heart pounded as his eyes strained to see something, anything. Confident that at least one of his well-trained subordinates was at the other end of the narrow passageway, he believed the gunman was hiding along the deeply shadowed wall to his right side, probably nearby. Slowly, he moved forward, trying to stay calm and planning his next move. He continued to move forward but began to be filled with a sense of doubt. If he discerned movement, he thought, I can’t just shoot. What to do? I have cops on the other end of this alley, perhaps in the line of fire. Nick realized he hadn’t planned for this kind of situation. It is dangerously unique.
If indeed, the gunman was contained, Nick had the upper hand with plenty of backup. Where the hell can the guy go? He’s trapped, Brennan reasoned, and the lieutenant wasn’t going to risk his life or anyone else’s to capture a cornered rat. We’ll wait the bastard out, he thought. Staying against the wall, Nick slowly began backing out with the flashlight still held out away from his body in his weak hand. As he receded, he heard and saw nothing. Just a few more steps back, he thought. He stopped moving momentarily and began to reduce his profile by crouching down along the right wall as he continued his tactical retreat out toward the lighted parking lot.
Suddenly, there was movement and the sound of shuffling to his front. The lieutenant nervously flipped on the light just as he saw two large round barrels from a shotgun being raised and aimed at his chest. The gun was only 10 feet away. Nicky raised his pistol with nimble speed and fixed it on the madman’s chest. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion even while he was experiencing images of his own mortality. Now Brennan saw a uniformed officer running toward the gunman from the other end of the alleyway. Instinctively, Brennan pulled down the weapon to avoid hitting the cop. Nicky began to fire while at the same fractional moment, with the gunman either hit or startled, the shotgun discharged with a bright flash as the large powerful rounds seemed to go over Nick’s left shoulder next to his head. Nicky fired at the target’s legs with rounds skipping along the concrete pathway until his revolver was empty. He hadn’t counted his trigger pulls as he had been trained to do. A hollow “click, click, click” was all that was now heard in the deep silence inside that small space between the two buildings. Brennan, panting, slid down along the alley wall, sitting with his empty pistol between his legs and his hands covering his face in a state of emotional exhaustion.
The armed criminal was facedown, bleeding profusely from both legs. The officer behind the wounded suspect placed his pistol to the man’s head and kicked the shotgun away from his grasp.
“Lieutenant, are you okay?”
“I think so, but I’m certainly going to have to check my boxer shorts when I get back to the station house, if you know what I mean.”
Sirens could still be heard in the distance as Lieutenant Brennan tried to collect his thoughts. He thought of Joann and what she would have gone through if his aim hadn’t been steady; he thought of the baby in Jodie’s womb, who would’ve been born without a daddy—a baby he would have never gotten to know.
“I’ll send back a medic to check on this guy. We have to figure out what the hell happened or is happening.”
In charge of the scene, Nick had a lot of work to do before he could become involved in all the voluminous reports that followed an event like this one.
The crime scene was overwhelming. There, lying on the sidewalk next to a wide pile of shattered glass, were four people suffering varying degrees of injury. The tavern inside was filled with overturned tables, and there was another wounded patron there. Ambulance technicians, using triage techniques that might be used after a low order explosive, were in place. Witnesses were running about as the detectives arrived.
“Sergeant Willis, let’s tape out this crime scene, get a cop to start a time record, and if one of those paramedics gets a chance, have him check on the suspect in the alley.”
“Yes sir!”
“Also have the detectives make sure there was only one crazy guy. If so, give the precision firearms team a disregard and let’s get a list of all the witnesses, okay?” Nick directed point by point in a staccato speech pattern, as was his custom.
“Okay, I’ll take care of all of that, Boss. What happened, Lieutenant? What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know, Bob, but we have a lot of work to do.”
****
Later at the police station, Lieutenant Brennan began to collect all the reports attached to the horrific event. As he paged through the medical records, the detectives’ paperwork, the crime scene search units’ photographs, evidence and witnesses’ statements, he felt completely confused and overwhelmed.
Nick’s boss, Captain Charles Milburn, a thirty-five year veteran of policing, arrived at the stationhouse at about two in the morning.
“Nick what in the name of God went on out there?”
“Captain, it was like a war zone—some nut by the name of Steven A. Clinton, a big son of a bitch, went bat shit and started to shoot up the Bayside Bar with a sawed-off shotgun. We have no idea why. I shot him. I hit him in the legs.”
“Anyone dead?”
“Not so far, but we have five wounded—two critical, but I’m told doctors figure everyone will survive.”
“Is this guy, Clinton, local?”
“Yes sir.”
“Any priors?”
“Not really, sir. Well, yes, I guess—a couple of sealed YOs. I don’t know, maybe he just came out of nowhere, but whatever it was, he was looking to kill tonight.”
“Where’d he get the gun?”
“He probably bought it legally and sawed it down. He’s not a convicted felon, Captain.”
The boss thought for a moment and said, “What the hell is the difference? Drugs are illegal everywhere and nobody has any trouble getting them in the subway market. The streets are awash them. Guns are the same thing. It’s harder for a private detective in this state to get a pistol license than it is for a felon to get a nine millimeter.”
It would be a couple of months before the case got to court.
****
There was to be no trial if Robert Epstein had his way. As usual, he was having a successful negotiation with the District Attorney’s Office. The ADA assigned, Tonya Thomas, was new in the felony part, and since everyone survived, she was inclined to take a bunch of criminal first-degree assault pleas with the sentences to run concurrently. Tonya believed Clinton would do at least fifteen years, and that was plenty, she thought. The reality that the civilian victims didn’t recall all the details and that most weren’t prepared to testify against an attempted mass murderer, anyway, also affected the process.
“Mister Epstein, we got your client really good. We’ll get multiple convictions, no sweat,” Tonya bluffed.
“Ms. Thomas, if you had Steven good, I mean really good, you wouldn’t even be talking to me, and even if we went to trial and you won five or six convictions for attempted murder—something I sincerely doubt—Clinton would serve his sentences concurrently, no more than fifteen years on the outside.”
“You think we can’t get a jury to convict the defendant of attempting to murder the victims?”
“The best you would do is five convictions for assault. There is no intent to kill. There is no goddamn motive, and if you can prove he fired at the police lieutenant intentionally with the conscious objective of killing him, God bless you. I’ll bet the ranch on something less.”
“What are you looking for, Mister Epstein?”
“Steven is a young man, a kid who needs therapy, not prison. I want a jail promise of not more than fifteen years. He took six rounds in both his legs and he barely walks—he is indelibly scarred and disabled. I think that lieutenant was just trying to cripple the poor youngster.”
“Let me talk to the cop,” Tonya concluded.
****
ADA Thomas called Nick at home the next day. “Lieutenant, I have discussed the case with my boss and Clinton’s defense lawyer, a guy by the name of Bob Epstein.”
“I’ve heard of Epstein, he’s in the papers all the time. He’s very good,” Nick added after a pause.
“Well, he’s looking for a plea to five counts of assault, and if I include you it would be attempted assault as the sixth count.”
“Well, what do you think, Ms. Thomas?”
“Here’s the deal: I have five victims who barely remember anything, they don’t want to testify, and most of the witnesses feel the same way. The defendant is going to be in a wheelchair for some time, and I think I can guarantee the shithead does at least fifteen years, not a bad deal. We have murderers who don’t do fifteen.”
Once a Noble Endeavor Page 6
