Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

  Ippolito stood up with a grunt. Palmer joined him. They stared down at the victim.

  Palmer asked, “You want to look around for a shell casing?”

  “Size of the hole, I’m betting a twenty-two.” Ippolito gave the area a cursory look. “Gonna take a lot of work to find it, all this mess around here. Let the CSU guys do it.”

  Palmer frowned and nodded. Another patrol car had arrived. One of the uniformed cops joined the others to keep passersby away from the crime scene. The other cop waited near Palmer and Ippolito for orders.

  Palmer pulled out his police radio and called the precinct dispatcher, telling her to send a sergeant and request a Crime Scene Unit.

  Ippolito looked down at the body. Frowned, shook his head, and said to himself, “All I fucking need, end of my goddam shift.”

  Ippolito watched Palmer check the pockets of the dead man. He pulled out a single key on a beaded chain, a thin wallet, a wad of folded papers in the back pocket.

  “What’s in the wallet?” asked Ippolito.

  “Couple hundred bucks. A little more. Guess it wasn’t a robbery.”

  “No ID?”

  “No. Wait a second.” Palmer found a single laminated card in the wallet. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  Palmer held it up. “Department of Correction ID. Name is Paco Johnson.”

  Ippolito squinted at the ID. “Ah, Christ. What’s this guy, on parole?”

  Palmer unfolded the papers he’d pulled from the victim’s back pocket. “Jeezus, this son of a bitch just got out yesterday.”

  “What?”

  Palmer handed the discharge forms to Ippolito, who checked the dates.

  “You fucking kidding me? This guy ain’t been out even a day.” Ippolito squinted at the dates again. “Christ, he was in seventeen years.”

  Palmer stared down at the inert body and shook his head, trying to look concerned while thinking: Shit, man, people are gonna be all over this one. Department of Correction. The Parole Division.

  He took the papers back from Ippolito.

  Paco Johnson had been discharged from Eastern Correctional Facility at 2 P.M. yesterday, Tuesday. He checked his watch. Palmer could already see the headline: PAROLEE DEAD SEVENTEEN HOURS AFTER SEVENTEEN YEARS IN PRISON.

  He took out his notebook and carefully wrote down the time, place, victim’s name, and the name of parole officer assigned to him: Walter Ferguson.

  5

  Wednesday morning a little after eight, Walter Ferguson walked from his apartment on Livingston Street to his office three blocks east. As the highest-ranking member of the staff, he tried to be the first one in every morning. This morning, two men were waiting for him. Walter quickly made them for NYPD detectives. One older. One younger.

  The veteran detective looked like he had definitely worked past his normal shift and wanted to get home. The younger one appeared to be ready to go another shift and another after that if needed.

  Walter went through a quick mental inventory of parolees who might have caused two detectives to show up. Unfortunately, it was a long list.

  * * *

  By ten thirty, James Beck had finished most of his morning routine and sat restlessly in his usual spot at the far end of an old oak bar on the ground floor of his building in Red Hook. Sections of the morning edition of The New York Times lay stacked on the bar in the order Beck had read them.

  Demarco Jones stood cleaning the back-bar shelves and wiping down bottles, his puttering around adding to Beck’s restlessness.

  Beck thought about calling Ferguson, but decided to wait. Walter would be busy enough dealing with Packy’s hitchhiking stunt.

  Just then the front door opened, and Walter Ferguson entered.

  Beck saw the expression on Walter’s face. Noted he was alone. A sick feeling hit him just below his solar plexus.

  Walter Ferguson, normally a vigorous, distinguished African-American man, looked sallow, tired, barely able to move. He was dressed as usual in a suit and tie, but uncharacteristically the top button of his shirt was open and the tie pulled loose.

  “What happened?”

  Walter stepped to the bar, placing his right hand on it for support. He neither looked at Beck, nor answered his question.

  Walter cleared his throat and said, “Demarco, may I have a whiskey, please.”

  Demarco’s brow furrowed. He had never seen Walter Ferguson drink alcohol. He poured Johnny Walker Black into a rocks glass. No ice, no water.

  They waited for Walter to take a long sip.

  Walter put his head down and rested his foot on the bar rail, waiting for the burning in his throat to subside.

  He looked up, his eyes distant, his voice choked with emotion, and said, “Paco Johnson is dead.”

  Nobody moved, as if moving would confirm the truth.

  Beck stifled an anguished curse. He came off his bar stool and took a step toward Ferguson. “Walter, what the hell happened?”

  Walter turned to Beck. The older man looked so distraught that Beck involuntarily reached out and put a hand on his arm.

  Walter responded in a flat, toneless voice.

  “Two detectives showed up at my office this morning. From the Forty-second Precinct in the Bronx. They discovered Packy’s body on the street this morning. I forget the exact location. Somewhere, I … I’ll have to look at a map. They said a man opening a bodega saw the body and called it in about six o’clock. They found ID on him and my name and address on his release papers. They came to my office this morning for information.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Beck. “What happened to him? Where was this?”

  “Northern Bronx. Near where the, uh, mother-in-law’s apartment is. Where he was staying.”

  Beck turned away, gripping the bar with both hands, grimacing, trying to fight off the anguish and helplessness.

  “What happened? Did he have a heart attack or something? What was he doing out on the street at six in the morning?”

  “James, this is bad. Very bad.”

  “Walter, please, just tell me.”

  Manny Guzman had come out from the bar kitchen. Dressed in his usual work clothes, Manny looked like a tough, old short-order cook, except for the prison tattoos peeking out from the collar and cuffs of his canvas work shirt.

  He had heard Walter’s report and walked slowly, solemnly, to stand on Walter’s left. Demarco remained behind the bar with no expression.

  Walter took a small sip of his scotch and spoke calmly in a more normal voice.

  “Here is what they told me. And trust me, I used every bit of my authority to get as much information as I could.

  “They responded to a nine-one-one call at about six o’clock this morning. Near the end of their shift. Two uniformed patrol cops were already at the scene. Packy was half on the sidewalk, half in the street.

  “They did a preliminary exam. They said it looked like Packy had been in a fight, but what killed him was a gunshot to the head. Small caliber.” Walter pointed his forefinger to a spot behind his right ear. “Right here. No exit wound. Bullet still in him.”

  Walter paused, blinked, and then continued.

  “The younger cop said they didn’t find any shell casings or anything near the body. They left when the Crime Scene Unit arrived to come to my office, but before the medical examiner showed up. They’re still processing the scene. The only witness so far is the store clerk who reported seeing the body. The area was most likely deserted when it happened, but they’re canvassing for witnesses.

  “I asked them about when they thought it happened, but they wouldn’t guess. Said they’ll wait for the M.E. report. They reassured me there’d be a thorough investigation.”

  Walter paused for a moment, and then continued.

  “The older detective asked me if and when I’d talked to Packy. I told him about seven-thirty last night.” Walter turned to Beck. “What time did I call you, James?”

  Beck had to focus to answer.
“Uh, yeah, yeah. Seven-thirty.”

  “Okay. So, sometime last night between then and six in the morning. I told them Packy called me from a pay phone near his mother-in-law’s place.”

  “Are the cops going to talk to the mother-in-law next?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think Packy went to her place after he talked to you?”

  “Yes. I think so. And they found him near the mother-in-law’s. I told them her address, they said it was within walking distance of where they found the body.”

  Beck had forced himself to calm down even though he was seething, guilty, hovering between devastated and determined.

  He said, “I should have…”

  “No, James. I told you not to go up there.” Walter rubbed his face with both of his big hands, pulling himself together, standing up straight to his full height of just over six two. He cleared his throat.

  “Packy Johnson was the responsibility of the Division of Parole from the moment he stepped out of that prison. He had an officer in my group assigned to him, a man under my supervision. I was the one in charge of Packy. He was my responsibility. I should have gone to see him last night after he hitchhiked into town, but I made an error in judgment.” Walter shook his head at the recollection. “I don’t know what I thought, but I made a terrible mistake, and now Packy is dead.”

  Beck said, “Walter, you can’t…”

  Walter waved him quiet.

  “What I’m saying is, Packy was my responsibility. And still is until everything is resolved, and he’s had a decent burial. I will follow up with the homicide investigation, with the medical examiner’s office, with whomever. I’m not letting this go.”

  Beck said, “Yes, Walter, of course. When did the cops leave you?”

  Ferguson checked his watch. “About forty minutes ago.”

  “Okay.”

  The question alerted Walter. He turned toward Beck. “James, you can’t get involved in this.”

  Beck stepped back from the bar and nodded. “I know.”

  “James, we don’t know what happened yet. You have to let the police handle this. If you get in the way, go out there and do anything foolish”—Walter paused and looked at Demarco and Manny—“it won’t do anybody any good.”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you, Walter. And like you said, you’ll follow up on everything.”

  “I will.”

  Beck placed a hand under Walter’s elbow, put his arm around the taller man, and gently guided him toward the front door.

  “You promise you’ll let me know whatever you find out. As soon as you find out.”

  “Of course.”

  “After they’re done, after they find out what they need to find out, we’ll make arrangements with you about the burial. We’ll cover whatever it costs. You know that, right? Can you claim the body? There’s no other next of kin is there?”

  “Packy has a daughter, but as far as I know there hasn’t been any contact between them for years.”

  “Right, right. I think I knew that. But can you be in charge of the body? I mean, claiming it and all so we can make the funeral arrangements.”

  “Yes. Packy is still the responsibility of the division until the case is resolved. I’ll try to find the daughter and notify her, but I’m responsible.”

  “Okay. Fine. Good.”

  Beck had walked Walter Ferguson to the door.

  “How’d you get here, Walter?”

  “Car service. I told him to wait.”

  Beck opened the door and saw the car parked across the street.

  “Okay, good. I’m—I’m at a loss here, Walter. I don’t know what else to say.”

  Walter stepped out of the bar into a day that had continued to be gloomy and overcast. He turned to Beck. “What can you say?”

  The two men shook hands solemnly. Beck watched as Walter walked slowly toward the car. After a few steps he turned back and faced Beck.

  “James.”

  “What?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For listening to me.”

  Beck nodded, grimacing at the effort to contain the emotions overtaking him. Three seconds after the car pulled away, Beck turned back into the bar, not even bothering to close the door. He let out a primal curse of rage and slammed a fist down on the nearest table.

  Manny Guzman, baleful and solemn as ever, had already taken off his apron, heading back to the kitchen for his guns.

  Demarco pulled Beck’s gun lockbox out from under the bar and placed it on the bar top. He took out a Benelli M2 Tactical Shotgun with a pistol grip from a cabinet in the back bar. He laid it on the bar, pulled his Glock out from his waistband at the small of his back, and brought out boxes of ammunition from under the bar.

  Demarco asked, “What’s the old lady’s address?”

  Beck spoke slowly, trying to keep his anger in check.

  “I’ll give you directions. Goddam fucking parole board. We had to use her place so it looked like he was with a relative. So it would look good on his fucking COMPAS score. But she wasn’t a blood relative. She was nothing to Packy.”

  Manny returned to the bar room, the old gangster’s expression without affect. Maybe old friends like Beck and Demarco could see an extra intensity smoldering in his dark eyes, but even without it, Manny Guzman, a stocky Hispanic man in his fifties, looked to be a man intent on a reckoning.

  Manny had a gun in both of his front pants pockets. A Charter Arms .357 Magnum Bulldog revolver for up close. A Smith & Wesson .38 Special for longer distance.

  “Do we need Ciro?” Demarco asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Beck. “But Packy was one of us. We have to call him.”

  6

  After their meeting with Walter Ferguson, John Palmer and Ray Ippolito pulled up to an address on Hoe Avenue located seven blocks from where they’d found the body of Packy Johnson.

  Palmer parked their unmarked car in front of a row of redbrick two-story buildings that ran the entire block. The public housing had been built in 1958. Each building held four apartments. From the outside, everything looked well maintained. All the windows had child-safety bars on them. The garbage cans were lined up neatly out front.

  Palmer checked the address he had written down in his notebook and pointed to the entrance two sections to their right.

  “Over there,” he said.

  “Think she’s gonna have anything to tell us?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Ippolito knew the best chance to find a lead usually happened in the first hours of a murder investigation. Despite needing sleep, he knew they had to keep going for as long as they could, even though he didn’t have high hopes. Most murders were committed by someone who knew the victim. But Paco Johnson hadn’t been on the streets for seventeen years. Maybe this was a simple drug deal gone bad, just another guy out of prison looking to score. It happened so often it was a cliché. But Ippolito didn’t think so. The man had clearly been in a fight. He still had his wallet on him with over two hundred dollars in it. And where they’d found him wasn’t a known location for drug deals.

  He put it all out of his mind and followed Palmer toward the entrance. Ippolito knew Palmer saw this case as an opportunity for advancement. He was the most ambitious young man he’d ever known. It ran in the family. Palmer’s father, John Palmer Senior, had a reputation for being a hard-charger. He was a well-known lobbyist and political operator with clients both in Albany and Washington. Ippolito had zero doubt that John Junior fully intended to use his father’s connections and influence to advance his career.

  More power to him, thought Ippolito.

  They found Lorena Leon’s buzzer. After three rings, a garbled voice came over the intercom.

  “¿Qué?”

  Ippolito leaned toward the speaker. “Policía. Lorena, abra la puerta, por favor.”

  Palmer said, “You sound like you know her.”

  “Exactly.”

 
A buzzer sounded. They pushed open the entrance door, stepping into a musty interior. The humid weather seemed to intensify the cooking odors, cat piss, and general mustiness of the old building.

  Both men trudged to the second floor. They passed cinder-block walls painted institutional green. The linoleum floors were worn down to black in the center of the stairwells. Ippolito found apartment 2G. At the second knock, the door opened to the width of a safety chain. The weathered face of a short, thin Hispanic woman peered out at them.

  Ippolito held his police identification in front of her eyes. “Policía.”

  She squinted at the identification. “¿Qué deseas?”

  “Estamos aquí para hablar con usted acerca de Paco Johnson. ¿Se puede abrir la puerta, por favor?”

  Palmer added, “Ma’am, don’t be alarmed. Just open the door so we can ask you a few questions.”

  The door closed. Ippolito and Palmer listened for the sound of the chain being removed, but heard nothing. They exchanged looks. Palmer raised a fist to bang on the door when it suddenly opened wide.

  Lorena Leon stood in the doorway, defiantly blocking entrance. She had once been a good-looking woman. Even now, after a lifetime of hard years, she made sure to color her gray hair a deep brown with something she bought off the shelf at the local Duane Reade. But she couldn’t cover the deeply etched lines in her skin, or hide the anger and defiance in her eyes. She wore a pair of old jeans that hung off her bony hips and a clinging, faded white top with navy blue horizontal stripes that emphasized her sagging breasts.

  Ippolito asked, “Okay if we come in?”

  She stepped back and hacked a phlegmy smoker’s cough.

  Old, cheap furniture crowded the small living room. For some inexplicable reason, an iron skillet filled with fried ground beef sat on a heavy 1950s coffee table in front of a beat-up red couch.

  Drooping green drapes covered most of the room’s two windows, blocking the gray daylight outside. A tired window air conditioner ground away, doing very little to change the fetid air filled with cooking smells.