Collision Course (A Josh Williams Novel)

by Joe Broadmeadow

  "Don't you ever use that word again.”

  "What the fuck. Are you a nun now? Suddenly you have standards. You fuck anything that is breathing at the start of the process and now you're gonna lecture me about being fucking proper?"

  Chris slapped him again and kicked out his legs. Josh looked up.

  "I am going to say this one more time, I have no idea what's going on here, but I do know one thing. You will never use those words when referring to your wife again. Is that clear? If I ever hear you use that word about her again, lying on your ass will be the least of your worries. Is that clear?"

  Josh started to sob.

  Chris realized she made a mistake. She should have asked Josh first. There was something going she did not understand.

  "Josh, I'm sorry. I thought seeing her would help."

  Josh sat back down and buried his face his hands. "I don't know, I don't know." Chris sat down next to him and put her arm around him. "Talk to me Josh, maybe I can help."

  Chapter 20: Voluntary Confessions

  Joe McDaniel was tired. Ventraglia was just about broken, but he could not keep his focus on him. He worried about Josh.

  More often than not, it was the cops who really cared that ate their guns. It is one of life's ironies that the type of personality that made the most compassionate and effective cops made them the most vulnerable.

  Josh was one of them. He cared.

  He did things right.

  Did everything he could to give JoJo a chance to give up.

  Unless he found a way to cope, it would eat him alive.

  McDaniel found his own way; he wanted to point Josh to that. He was troubled knowing that he could not.

  Nightmares are personal demons, finding their own solutions.

  So he went back to doing what he did best, getting people to admit to things that they prefer to keep to themselves.

  With few exceptions, everyone possessed a trigger that compelled the truth, or at least a version of it. Sometimes it was a latent guilty conscience, sometimes, a misplaced sense of accomplishment.

  Often it was just weariness, McDaniel's stamina outlasting theirs.

  When Ventraglia started talking, McDaniel listened dutifully and wrote it all down. He made sure Ventraglia signed the Waiver of Rights form. Another detective witnessed the signature and filed it. He made sure Ventraglia initialed each line in the statement and signed it. He offered to add or change anything Ventraglia said needed to be.

  He also knew it was bullshit.

  The forensics told a different story. The cloned cell phone showing the calls to Machado and 911, the shotgun traced to a B&E McDaniel knew Ventraglia committed. However, it was enough to tie the moron into a felony murder wrap.

  All of which was recorded on the video camera, embedded in the wall of the interrogation room. The recording device, under lock and key in the Internal Affairs division, was inaccessible to anyone.

  Anyone, that is, except Joe McDaniel.

  When one has been a police officer as long as Joe McDaniel, you accumulate favors. Some of these favors cross generations.

  On a cool summer evening in 1971, an East Providence Police Officer spotted two young males in the back of a closed business. Getting out of the car and approaching them, he saw one of them drop a screwdriver. The officer grabbed the kid and pushed him against the wall, as he did this the second male jumped on the officer, trying to get to his gun.

  The officer, hanging onto the weapon with one hand, was fighting for his life. A patron of Bovi's came out, saw the fight, and went inside to call the station.

  Joe McDaniel was the first car on the scene, running to the officer he heard him yell, "They’re trying to get my gun, Joe, the fucks are trying to get the gun."

  McDaniel used his blackjack on the head of the kid on the officer's back, and then took out the front teeth of the other one.

  McDaniel pulled the toothless one to the ground and cuffed him. The other one was unconscious.

  A month later, Joe McDaniel went to court and convinced the prosecutor to drop the charges on the youths so they could enlist in the service. They both did, served in Viet Nam, and returned to start an alarm and video surveillance company.

  Flashing forward to 1985, the new police station was under construction, Joe McDaniel persuaded the owner of the company contracted to install the video cameras to provide him with a key to the system. Joe McDaniel locked many people up, but he never forgot they were human. He took care of those who made mistakes of judgment, not for any other reason but his humanity and understanding of human behavior.

  The key might come in handy someday if a good cop was in trouble or justice needed some help and was about to be denied.

  That day arrived.

  He thanked Ventraglia for his ‘honesty,’ stood up, and left the room.

  Sometimes a little truth is all one needs. The public defender would have to reveal all the truth to compromise the lies in the statement, which in and of itself would incriminate the son-of-a-bitch.

  How is it in the trick box, asshole?

  Handing the documents to the Captain of Detectives, McDaniel said "Hey Cap, we got this wrapped up, I am buying at Bovi's, see you there," and winked.

  The Captain, who was in diapers while McDaniel was already on the job, nodded, put the documents in the investigative file, and left.

  McDaniel went to his desk and retrieved the key.

  A short while later, he returned, wearing the police issue raincoat, black side out, and a Richard Nixon mask. He entered the interrogation room and inflicted such pain on Ventraglia as to make a Gestapo interrogator cringe. Moreover, he did it without any blood, the raincoat being a protection from the relaxation of Ventraglia's bowels that often issued from these moments.

  The janitor would be pissed, but not surprised, about the extra time required to clean the room.

  This did not change anything, McDaniel thought. But, God help me, it felt right.

  Chapter 21: Reports and Findings

  The Medical examiner's report was the usual mishmash of terminology, visceral descriptions of tissue conditions, and organ damage evaluations

  Three hyper-velocity Black Talon 9mm rounds worked as advertised. One penetrating the brain, two fatally damaging the pericardium.

  The skin, muscles, and bone shield the heart. The pericardium, a tough sack surrounding the heart, protects, lubricates, and holds it in its position.

  When punctured, the pericardium fills with blood and compresses the heart, preventing it from performing its critical function. It causes an abrupt loss in blood pressure leading to unconsciousness and death in a few minutes.

  Briefly, the M.E. concluded that the victim, Anthony Machado, aka JoJo, was a twenty-four year-old, light-skinned, black male, five-foot ten inches, one hundred sixty-five pounds, in good general physical condition. Machado's body showed evidence of several previous significant injures including the following,

  Gunshot wound with skull fracture and significant residual scarring on the left front of the head.

  Muscle and surface damage to the upper left leg consistent with an explosive device injury with evidence of second and third degree burns.

  Gunshot wound to the lower left abdomen.

  Extensive scarring on the upper and lower back consistent with shrapnel from an explosive device.

  These injuries had been treated and healed as best as could be expected considering the nature and extent of the wounds. The leg wounds causing limited mobility of the limb.

  Mr. Machado died of multiple gunshot wounds to the pericardium resulting in Pericardial Tamponade.

  The M.E. ruled the cause of death to be Homicide by Gunshot. It was for the grand jury to determine whether the shooting was a justifiable homicide.

  Chapter 22: The Tavern

  Bovi's Tavern is a landmark in the City of East Providence. Some would say it is a tired looking building, others would say it has charm. One thing is certain; it is a rarity in i
ts longevity.

  It sits at what is undoubtedly the most confusing intersection of streets in the State of Rhode Island, if not the United States. This area is known as Six Corners.

  Bovi’s has served generations of locals and countless others from all over the world. Monday night Big Band and Jazz tradition, begun back in the 50's, is a musical legend among aficionados and the tradition continues to this day. Portraits of the many musicians that played here, pictures of the championship softball teams, and newspaper stories of the history that is Bovi's cover the walls.

  There is a distinctive, if unofficial, differentiation between the day-to-day crowd gathering after work, the late night crowds on Fridays and Saturdays, and the most interesting of all, the morning and early afternoon clientele. Each group possessed a unique character. Some were able to cross over and move between all of them; most were content with being a part of their own period, so to speak.

  Throughout the saga of the Bovi’s epoch, there have been legendary members of the frequent drinkers club. Some of whom are memorialized by plaques or nameplates affixed to their favorite chairs, or over the bar at their favorite spot to stand. It was for many, something for which to aspire.

  Many of the customers are from the public safety services of the City of East Providence, as well as other towns, cities, state, and federal agencies, which contribute to the cosmopolitan mix that makes this place unique.

  Much good-natured ribbing takes place between the cops and firefighters. All in the camaraderie of those that share an intimate view into the hell that is their workplace.

  Josh Williams, Chris Hamlin, and Joe McDaniel were members of this intimate, albeit non-exclusive society.

  Francis Patrick O'Malley, Gunnery Sergeant, United States Marine Corps (Ret.), was the current cornerstone of the afternoon contingent, accompanied by his loyal and faithful, if imaginary, friend. The friend bore a name that changed, sometimes daily, sometimes over two or three days, and sometimes in the middle of their conversation.

  Frank O'Malley was proud of many things, one of them for being the sculptor of the divot in David Anthony Ventraglia's head.

  Frank O'Malley was a creature of habit. 35 years in the Marine Corps will do that to you. He would walk in the door at 13:00 most days, except Sunday.

  If it were at the beginning of his financial windfall that was his pension check, he would drink Guinness. This would go on until his budget for good beer was exhausted then he would switch to Miller, Bud, or whatever Lite. He would order his last beer at 3:30; sip this one until 4:15, rise from "his" seat, bid farewell to his imaginary friend, and head out the door.

  On Sunday, he would come in at 12:15 wearing a shirt and tie, carrying a copy of the Sunday letter published at St. Domenicks.

  Parishioners, and Father Jim Swanson as well, never saw Frank at Mass, yet he always held the letter and raised his first glass in a toast, in which all present were required to participate, to "the Glory of God and the United States Marine Corps."

  He lived by the budget. He once made the mistake of exhausting his money prior to the deposit of the next check and forced to rely on the charity of others, he never let it happen again.

  However, Francis also bore a secret. Francis loved to read. He read, and more importantly, remembered everything he read. His ability to do this won him many free drinks. He would bet he could read any article in the newspaper and recite it word for word. He never made a mistake, even after he consumed what for most would have been a week's worth of beer.

  O’Malley was engaged in conversation with Jimmy the Rake, and the empty stool between them, telling one of his oft-repeated stories of his days as a Marine.

  “I wish he’d come up with something new to talk about.” Karen said. “I could tell all those damn Marine stories.”

  "Want to hear a real good Frank story?"

  "Ah, I suppose, he's not gonna demonstrate farting again, is he?"

  "No, a real story, a story about Frank you would never believe if I told you. Watch this." Josh paused a moment while Frank engaged in conversation with his invisible friend, then walked over to him.

  "Excuse me, ah..."

  "His name is Adam!"

  "Ah, Adam,” addressing the empty chair. “Might I have a word with Frank?” Smiling he turned and said, "Frank, tell Karen here the most romantic thing you ever did for a woman."

  Frank's eyes lit up. He sat up tall and straightened his shirt. He smiled; a tear came to his eye. Taking a deep breathe, he held it as if to savor the memory, then slowly exhaled.

  "Karen she was beautiful, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She came into the bar at twenty Water Street in East Greenwich. I haven't always hung around in Bovi's, you know."

  "I know the place Frank. Did you have a date with her?"

  "No, no, that's the best part. It was one of those moments, one of those times when two people, directed there by forces more compelling than anyone can imagine...” Frank paused, looking out the window, and then turned back to Karen.

  “Two people, well, they connect, they look at each other and just know that this time, this moment, and this encounter would be remembered for the rest of their lives."

  Karen looked at Josh. He was staring into his drink; he looked like there were tears in his eyes.

  My God, their actually sharing something with me, she thought.

  Frank took a long sip from his drink, finished it, put it down and looked at Josh.

  "Why do you make me remember this, why do I have to feel this all over?"

  "Frank, it really is one of those stories that reminds me of our humanity, Karen will understand."

  "No she won't, they all break your heart...I have to leave."

  "No, no Frank, next one is on the house. Please, just tell me, I want to hear."

  She poured Frank a tall one, the one he only could afford for the two or three days it took him to go through his good beer budget.

  "Okay," taking a deep breath, exhaling slowly, and then downing half the beer, he continued.

  "She sat a few seats over from me. She ordered a Chardonnay and kept looking out at the boats. I assumed she was waiting for someone."

  Frank drained the beer.

  "I can't do this, Josh, I have no idea why this still hurts...but...I just can't."

  "Karen, give him and I another one on me."

  Karen looked at Frank, saw as sad face as she had ever seen on a man, she felt sorry for him.

  "Bullshit, drinks are on me. Well, symbolically anyway," pouring two more drinks for them and a special soda for herself, "Please, Frank, I want to hear this."

  "Well, I am not much of a pick ‘em up easy guy, but she was just so damn beautiful, I thought I'd give it one good try."

  Josh bowed his head, turned, and focused on looking out the window.

  Karen looked at Josh. Was he, holy shit, is he, is he, what the fuck, he's crying, what is going on?

  "I walked over and introduced myself," Frank said, forcing Karen to look back at him.

  "Hi, I'm Francis Patrick O'Malley, could I sit here and talk, we are, after all, only on this planet for a short period of time”. Pausing again to take a long drink, “I know it sounds stupid but it was all I could think of...she was way out of my league, Karen."

  Frank looked down into his drink for a moment, "She looked at me with the most exciting, and saddest, eyes I have ever seen."

  ‘Please, I'd like that,’ she said, ‘I just brought my father's......I mean my boat in, my father died last month, and I am not sure it's tied up properly.’

  "I said I'd be happy to make sure it's tied up. I know a few things about knots."

  Josh turned to face them, "Of course he said that Karen, the Marine Corps is, after all, part of the Navy."

  Frank glared "Yes it is asshole, the men's department. You smart-ass, fairy humping, fly-boy...”

  "Stop! God, you two, I want to hear the rest of the story."

  Josh turned back to the window.
<
br />   Frank took another drink of his beer and smiled. "So I went out and retied the boat, I came back in and sat down. We talked for hours, we talked about everything, she was brilliant, she told me she was here to finish selling off the rest of her father's things and then she stopped and became very quiet.

  I asked her what was wrong.

  She said she just wanted to talk about good things. She told me she was glad I came over to talk with her; it made her feel safe.

  I thought to myself, this is the first time in my life I was listening to what a woman was saying, rather than looking for clues on how to get her knickers off."

  "You know I have always loved that word knickers."

  "Shut the fuck up, Josh" Karen and Frank said in perfect, if unrehearsed, unison.

  Josh raised his glass, lowered his head, and resumed his observations of the wrong way traffic on Taunton Ave.

  "Karen, we decided to get a bottle of wine and go out to her boat, it was docked at the last slip, past the bright lights, and the sky that night was breathtaking. She started to point out constellations and stars and... Well, frankly, I was in love. I know this sounds stupid and you can't imagine this ever happened to me but it did."

  Josh farted, loudly.

  "I will take that drink away, you fucking pig, you asked him to tell the story, it is a wonderful story, let him continue, please, just be quiet and it is open bar for you two."

  "I am sorry, I am trying to help my friend here, and I know this is hard for him, should I get my own drink?"

  "Yes, dammit, get your own fucking drink; make me one for God's sake." Karen came around the bar, sat next to Frank and put her arm around his shoulder.

  "Thank you, Karen, and I thank that Jewish guy with the holes in his hands, the one that brings so much comfort into this world, that you quieted my misguided, unromantic, insufferable friend over there."

  Josh poured Frank another tall one, made himself a Ketel One on the rocks, and poured Karen a giant 7&7.

  "Hey, I am the one that asked you to tell the tale, even I know a good story," resuming his observations of Taunton Avenue.