by Adam Gittlin
“No!” I yelled once again.
This couldn’t be the end. We had unfinished business.
I grabbed at random forearms, and remember trying to literally pry them from my body.
“No fucking way!” I went on, saliva spraying from my mouth with each disbelieving, angry word. “No fucking way!”
“Tell me your full name.”
Fifteen minutes later I was leaning against a black-and-white parked by the curb. I was standing with a detective. Two officers dressed in blue stood talking a few feet away between me and the crime scene. They had been placed there in case I made another break toward my father, who was still technically part of the physical evidence.
Pop had been shot twice in the head as he came out of the townhouse. He was leaving early for his golf game in Connecticut. Mattheau was waiting out front in the limo when it happened. When he heard gunshots, for the second morning in a row, he ducked down for safety. There were three shots. Two found my father’s skull while the third was found embedded in the front door, also head high. According to Mattheau, he looked up when he heard a car tear away. His eyes searched for my father who was lying lifeless on the ground. By the time he thought to look at the vehicle it was already too far down the street. All he remembered was the fading rear end of a dark car.
I spotted the limo on the street. The rear window was properly intact.
“Jonah Gray.”
“Middle name?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“How about Mom?”
“Died when I was young.”
“How young?”
“Five years, three months, two days.”
“So it was just the two of you.”
“That’s right.”
“You two close?”
“Yeah,” I answered, unsure now if this were even true. “We were.”
Detective Tim Morante was in his late thirties. He was wearing jeans, black Kenneth Cole shoes, and a solid, royal blue button-down shirt, sleeves neatly rolled up. His eyes, hair, and skin were all dark. His shield dangled low around his neck secured by a thin,
silver chain. He didn’t come across like the detectives I was use
to from the movies. He was well kept, properly groomed. And he didn’t take notes as I spoke. He just listened.
“Jonah, what did your father do for a living?”
“He was a commercial real estate owner. Office buildings.”
“It seems from the looks of things that he lived a very nice lifestyle. Had he been in this field for a long time?”
“My whole life. His whole life.”
My eyes drifted again to the front of the house. Pop’s body was still lying there, covered like some dog that had just been hit in the street, as crime-scene investigators evaluated, assessed the crime scene. There was a gurney waiting nearby for when the green light was given for his removal.
“Jonah, I’ll be frank with you. This crime screams premeditation. There were three shots fired in the direction of your father’s head. There is no evidence that anyone tried to break into the house and nothing was taken off of him once he went down. His watch, his wallet, nothing. According to the limo driver, as soon as those shots were fired a car was out of here in a hurry.”
I returned my attention to him. I knew where he was going.
“You’re thinking it was a hit,” I said, saving him the trouble of having to find the right words.
“Did he have any enemies?”
“No,” I shot back, careful not to hesitate.
“Had any deals recently—”
Keep the cop at bay, I reminded myself. Get where you need to go.
“My father was a good man, detective. An honorable man.”
The word, honorable, passed through my windpipe no easier than a poorly chewed hunk of meat.
“Ask anyone in the real estate community and they’ll tell you the same thing.”
“Anything happen lately in his business dealings that seemed out of the ordinary?
“No,” I shook my head. “Absolutely not. We talked real estate almost every day. He told me everything.”
“So you don’t even see the slightest possibility—”
“No!” I snapped, before gathering myself. “No. I’m telling you, my father was by the book when it came to business.”
“So who then would have wanted to do this to him? Can you think of anyone? Maybe if not in his professional life, his personal life?”
I gently shook my head “no.”
“How about you?” the detective went on.
“Me?”
“You said the two of you always talked business. Are you in real estate also?”
“I am.”
“With your father?”
“No.”
“Then in what capacity?”
“I’m a broker with PCBL.”
“I see,” said the detective before pausing for a few seconds. “Tell me a little about that.”
“About what?”
“Your job.”
I sighed.
“Detective, is this really necessary right now?” I asked extending my arm and gesturing toward my father’s destroyed body.
“I promise to make it quick. Tell me about your job.”
“Simple. I make deals. I represent owners as well as tenants, depending on who needs my services.”
“Deals ever get hairy?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Sure.”
Stay calm, I told myself. Let him go down that road. It’s going to happen eventually, so just let him go down that road. Stay cool and get it over with.
“How about you? Any enemies on your end?”
React.
“None that I know of.”
“None at all?”
“Nope. I mean—”
“You mean what?” he prodded.
“I mean sometimes deals can get pretty edgy, but nothing that has ever gone past a conference room. My dealings are all with top-level executives, principals and CEOs. Why?”
“Formality. I just need to gather as much information as I possibly can.”
“Look, are we almost through here?” I asked.
“Almost. I appreciate you cooperating. This must be very difficult. Now, I just need to know where you were last night. Again, formality.”
Fuck.
“I was at home by myself,” I said confidently, as if I hoped that would suffice.
“Do you often spend Friday nights at home alone?”
“No. Yesterday I wasn’t feeling well so I left my office early in the afternoon.”
“Where’s your office?”
“Chrysler Center. I spent the rest of the day and most of last night on the toilet battling some stomach thing.”
“Is that why you’re wearing a suit this early on Saturday? You haven’t changed from yesterday?”
Christ, I thought. The fucking suit.
The gun.
“That’s right,” I answered. “Never quite had a chance.”
I was pissed by the fact that I was being questioned as a possible suspect. Pissed, that is, until it dawned on me that if I was wrong about Pop, I was possibly responsible for his death.
“And where is your apartment?”
I gave him my Park Avenue address that in the long run I knew would help me out. It was obvious right away I had cash on my own. A little research on the detective’s part would uncover the fact I was self-made, to some degree, thus lessening my potential motive.
“My building lobby has cameras, detective—” I said.
I looked to bolster my alibi and lead him away from the night’s devilish hours. Those hours that if you get caught lying about where you are, the reason’s never good.
“You can see when I came home yesterday as well as the exact time I left just a few minutes ago.”<
br />
I looked again to the front of the house. Two men lifted Pop’s limp body onto the silver rolling table. Another detective, along with Mattheau, was coming toward us. I turned back to the detective.
“Look,” I continued, trying to close out our little question and answer session.
I moved myself away from the car and stood up straight. Then I deliberately stared Detective Morante in the eyes as I spoke, as if I was in my office trying to put the finishing touches on a deal.
“You just tell me what I need to do in order to help you figure this out,” I said.
I looked again at the two approaching men, but still spoke so only Morante could hear me.
“I need to know who did this.”
“Anyone have a key to get in the house?” asked the second detective once they arrived.
“Jonah?” Morante asked as he turned to me.
“I don’t understand? I thought you said this was a hit?”
“It most likely is. But we wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t make sure. The reason for the hit may lie within your father’s walls.”
An image of the cash filled duffel bags blanketed my mind like one of those tarps they pull over center court at the U.S. Open when it starts to rain. Then I saw Pangaea-Man. I felt myself becoming very nervous.
“Do you have the keys on you?”
I wanted to say no, even though I did, but had enough sense to know how fucked I would have been to get caught in that lie.
“I do.”
Going into the house with these guys sounded as good as dragging my tongue across a plate of live bees. I located the front door key and handed the key chain over to the second detective.
React.
“I want to see my father,” I blurted out, not knowing if this was even true, if I could possibly handle such a thing.
The detectives looked at each other.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” said detective Morante. “He hasn’t been properly—”
“I don’t care,” I interrupted. “I want to see him.”
Still, no movement.
“I need to identify him, don’t I?”
“You may want to see him after he’s been cleaned up a bit.”
I wasn’t ready for them to enter the house.
“I want to see him now. No buts.”
The two detectives took the lead toward the body. Mattheau and I followed. The gurney was next to the vehicle it was about to be lifted into. Desperate, I discreetly flipped open my cell phone. With one hand, low at my side, I put it in text mode and typed in two words: bags, body. With the simple press of three more
buttons I sent the message to one of the numbers in my phone’s memory then switched my ring to vibrate.
A few seconds later, as we reached Pop, I heard Mattheau’s phone ring. My father was now in a black body bag, and as one of the paramedics went for the zipper to give me a look I sucked in a deep, loud breath. My goal was to draw the detectives’ attention toward myself instead of the low-pitched chime coming from Mattheau’s phone.
“Are you okay?” asked Detective Morante.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mattheau stepping away from the crowd. I knew how often he “texted” with Yves, so I figured this was my best hope of communicating with him free of suspicion.
“You know, Jonah, you really don’t need to do this right now,” he continued.
Mattheau was clear.
“I understand that,” I responded. “But I want to.”
The detectives stepped away and Morante gave the paramedic the go-ahead with a nod. Just like that, the zipper was tugged at and the little metal teeth separated. To say I was unprepared for what I was about to see is a gross understatement.
Pop was a fucking mess. It was as if he had put his head down on a table and let someone take a few good whacks at it with a sledgehammer. His features were still discernible, barely, but the area from his eyes, including his right socket, and up was completely unrecognizable. Not just of him, but of a human being. The top of what use to be his head was a stew of skin, bone, hair, blood, and brain matter. Because of the devastation, and the fact that his facial lines no longer intersected as they once did, he was expressionless. It was simply the most horrific sight I have ever seen.
I started to tremble. I could feel my face, my lips stiffening as they tried to fight the oncoming tears.
“Oh my God, Pop,” I whispered. “Oh my God—”
I gently placed my right hand on his chest, my palm and his body separated by the temporary coffin between us. My eyes sprinted back and forth over his face frantically.
I whispered again.
“What the fuck is happening?”
About thirty seconds later my cell vibrated. I discreetly managed a look at it. Mattheau had successfully text-messaged me back. One word: clear.
After seeing my dad, I escorted the two detectives through the different floors of the townhouse for about an hour. They told me I didn’t need to stay but I decided to anyway. I could still feel Pop’s spirit all around me, and I was reluctant to let that go. Knowing
the bags of money were gone put me at relative ease. As for the evidence of the murder, according to Mattheau there were no worries there either.
What I saw on the desk was what actually caused my heart to speed up.
It was a letter that had recently been started. It was to me, and it was among the mess of Pop’s business papers. I peeked at the cops. They were looking at the pictures on the wall. So I scanned it in an instant before discreetly covering it with a set of financial statements Pop must have been reviewing for a possible new tenant. The letter read,
Jonah. When it comes to how much you and the memory of your mother mean to me, just open your heart. That aside, reading this will hurt you as much as writing it hurts me. There was a time...”
That was it.
Pop must have just started it when Mattheau had shown up to take him to Connecticut.
I also took special notice of the stationery. It was cloud white, not cream, and it was both longer and wider than that of the mysterious note.
Chapter 36
We had just pulled away from the townhouse. Mattheau was giving me a lift home. As we were leaving the first news team was pulling up, which was inevitable. A rich, well-respected real estate man, gunned down mafia-style on his own front stoop, wasn’t exactly the norm for the quiet and affluent Upper East Side of Manhattan. It would only be a matter of hours before everyone I knew, personally as well as professionally, was aware of what had happened.
I let out a long sigh as I leaned my head back on the seat. My eyes were still opened, looking straight into the gray of the roof’s interior. I couldn’t believe I had just stood in the bedroom of my youth carrying a gun used in a recent homicide. I was distraught on a level I never even knew existed. I wanted to cry more, but why? I wanted to smile at some memories I had of Pop, but why? I wanted to scowl at the thought of standing in front of my father’s murderer, but why? Was I better than whoever had done this?
“What’d you do with the cash?”
“I consolidated it into two of the duffel bags. Then I took them to my home figuring they would be out of the way there, at least for now. Since the bags weren’t filled to their limit and I only needed one to—”
“Don’t! Mattheau, please. Don’t. I don’t want to know.”
We both paused.
“Jonah, what would you like me to do with the money?”
“That’s up to you. I can’t have it anywhere near me. You want to burn it, burn it. You want to spend it, spend it.”
“I couldn’t, Jonah. I mean—”
I sat up and looked forward into the rearview mirror. Our eyes met.
“You’ve earned it, Mattheau. Really. And I don’t just mean with this mess. Besides, I think it belonged to some drug dealers. My guess is that you’d find a far more worthy use for i
t than they would. A better life. You’ve paid your dues.”
Mattheau thought hard then slowly started to shake his head.
“I don’t know—”
“I think you should keep it. You want to drop it in some bum’s coffee cup, that’s up to you. Like I said it’s yours now.”
Mattheau nodded.
“Jonah, is all of this related to what happened yesterday?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, honestly. “I truly don’t know.”
I looked to my right out the window.
“Tell me about Haiti. Why did you leave?”
Mattheau began to clam up. Just as I was about to remind him he promised, he spoke.
“Do you know much about Haiti, Jonah?”
“Besides that it shares an island with a country that breeds baseball players, no.”
He sighed.
“Government in Haiti has always been a tricky situation. A dangerous situation. I, unfortunately, added to that instability and betrayal.”
“How so?”
“I was born in 1957. Coincidentally, that was the same year a doctor named François Duvalier, or ‘Papa Doc,’ was elected president at a time our country was coming out of a very dark period. He was a prominent public health expert. He was a perceived believer in black power, one that both the U.S. and Haitian armies backed. Once he started his reign, his true intentions came to light. He changed the constitution to solidify his power and set out to build a family dictatorship. He rid the military of U.S.-trained forces and replaced them with younger, loyal soldiers. Naïve soldiers—”
He stopped.
“You were one of those soldiers?” I pressed him.
“No. I was part of a rural militia, known in Creole as ‘Tonton Makouts,’ created to maintain power outside the capital at any cost. By whatever means. I served under Duvalier’s son. A man less angry than his father, yet dedicated to the same vision.”
Mattheau locked eyes with me again in the mirror.
“I saw some terrible things, Jonah. I did some terrible things, things I swore I’d never do again unless it was absolutely necessary.”
