by J. B. Turner
“I’ve been better.”
A deep sigh. “I’m sorry about your brothers, man. Really, I am.”
“I know. But they knew what they were getting into. They took eight down, I heard.”
“The rest of them will soon get the message, bro. Don’t ever fuck with our crew. I know you’ll give them an extra reminder this afternoon.”
“They don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
“They will tonight. I know who you are. I’ve looked into your eyes, Todd, and I can tell exactly the type of warrior you are. I know you won’t let us down. And I sure as hell know you won’t let Charlie’s memory down. Or your brothers’, God rest their souls.”
O’Keefe took a deep breath. “Amen to that. Tell me, where’s my ride?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Cab will be out front in two minutes. We’ll need to bounce you around for a little while, to make sure no one is tailing you.”
“I understand.”
“Anyway, get in the cab. Once the driver is confident it’s clear, he’ll take you to a friendly port of call. Use it as your base camp for a little while. They’re expecting you.”
The Hell’s Angels clubhouse in Newark, New Jersey, was located on a seedy street in a run-down part of town. Inside was a bartender, a Black Sabbath song playing on the jukebox, and Fox News on the TV—a reporter standing outside Yankee Stadium—volume off.
O’Keefe pulled up a stool. The bartender placed a cold bottle of beer on the grimy wooden bar. O’Keefe took a couple of gulps. It felt good.
The jukebox began vibrating to a Metallica track. The music brought back memories. Charlie had introduced him and his brothers to all his favorite bands: Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, Ted Nugent, Stevie Ray Vaughan. Old-school.
He let his mind wander deeper and deeper into childhood memories. They’d been the toughest kids in their rural upstate neighborhood, bar none. As the youngest, he had always looked up to his two older brothers. Nothing seemed to bother them. He always admired the way they never lost face by backing down in a fight. Even when they knew they would get hammered by a group of older kids, they still faced the fuckers down. Eventually, when they grew up to be fearsome men, O’Keefe noticed the looks on other people’s faces. They were scared. And that was before his two older brothers really got started.
O’Keefe’s gaze was drawn to the TV. Footage of the dead NYPD officers. Goddamn it. Travis and Ryan should be here with him, sharing a toast. It wasn’t fair.
He knocked back the beer. The biker behind the bar handed him another cold Heineken. “I was told that if you need anything, just to get you whatever it is.”
O’Keefe stared at the guy, took a gulp of the cold beer. “I’m going to need a ride into the city.”
“Not a problem. When?”
“Very soon. Got business to attend to.”
The biker nodded and glanced up at the TV. “Sure thing. Well, just let me know, and I’ll get you into the city, whenever you want.”
O’Keefe nodded. His cell phone rang. It was the shot caller again.
“You find the place OK?”
“Got it.”
“Enjoy the beer. What I’d give for a cold one. Todd, I know you loved your brothers. I loved them too. We all did. And they’re going to go down in AB history. But we know the risks. This is what we do. And those cops . . . well, they had it coming. What they did to Charlie and all . . .”
“I want to hit back at them.”
“I know, bro. We want more blood. We demand more blood.”
The line went dead.
Nine
The chopper carrying Reznick and the special agent who was playing his babysitter, Joe Farrelly, touched down on a ball field in Southampton, Long Island. Without so many words, Reznick had gotten the message: Farrelly would be Meyerstein’s eyes and ears while Reznick talked to Robert O’Keefe. He was starting to wonder if he shouldn’t have just left this task to others and gone to meet up with Lauren and make sure she was safe despite not returning his call.
But the more Reznick thought about it, the more he began to wonder if, just like America had learned in the weeks, months, and years after 9/11, there was more to this morning’s attack. He considered it inconceivable that the FBI or even the NYPD hadn’t had an inkling or a tip-off that something was coming, especially something carried out by such a well-known group. It just didn’t make sense.
From Reznick’s point of view, there were more questions than answers. He sat in silence, mulling them, while he and Farrelly were picked up and driven in an SUV to the oceanfront home of Robert O’Keefe.
Reznick surveyed the house—a grand Colonial mansion—as the car headed up a gravel drive fringed by beautiful oak trees.
He could see that the eldest O’Keefe brother had done phenomenally well. On the chopper he’d read the file the FBI had hastily compiled. Robert O’Keefe was the smartest of the four sons. He’d excelled at school, teachers describing him as “incredibly bright.” Thanks to nearly perfect SAT scores, he’d won a merit scholarship to Cornell and become the first in his dirt-poor family to attend college. He studied economics, graduating at the top of his class, before he was snapped up by a blue-chip New York hedge fund.
The file painted a picture of the American Dream. The poor kid who rises from a humble background because of his hard work and natural, God-given talents.
Robert O’Keefe had already been interviewed by the FBI and the NYPD earlier that afternoon. But the more Reznick learned about him, the more he wanted to speak to him face-to-face, to try to understand if there was something, anything, that the FBI or the cops had overlooked or hadn’t thought important.
The guy had impeccable taste. It was a beautiful house overlooking the ocean. Reznick reckoned it would have cost millions. Maybe tens of millions.
O’Keefe’s wife opened the door and let them in. She wore a cream cotton sleeveless summer dress with espadrilles. Her eyes were heavy, mascara smudged. “Robert is out back,” she said. “Go easy on him, please. He’s pretty upset about all this.”
Reznick and Farrelly followed Mrs. O’Keefe down a highly polished hallway. Professional portrait photographs of O’Keefe’s kids lined the wall. The two men headed through a huge open-plan kitchen and out French doors into the garden.
O’Keefe was slumped in a wicker chair, whiskey in hand, tears running down his face. He wore a pale-blue polo shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. “Jesus Christ, I thought I was done. I answered all your questions. The other guys said they had no more questions.”
Farrelly said, “I know this is a difficult situation, Mr. O’Keefe, and I know you’ve already given a statement to the police and my colleagues earlier today.”
O’Keefe nodded. “I’m as appalled as everyone else. I’m sickened. But I didn’t know anything about any of this, I swear.”
Farrelly pulled up a seat beside him. “Robert, Special Agent Reznick would like to ask some particular questions. Would that be OK?”
O’Keefe sighed. “What’s there to talk about? My brothers are nutcases. What more do you need to know? I’m disgusted that I came from the same gene pool.”
Reznick said, “We understand. I can only imagine how painful this must’ve been for you.”
O’Keefe cleared his throat. “It brought back a lot of the things I’ve been working through with my therapist. It’s taken years to get my head in shape. But it’s all fucking exploded today. I’m in pieces.”
“I can see that,” Reznick said. “And I know talking about this for the second time today is not pleasant for you. But we could really use your help to be sure we’re not missing anything.”
O’Keefe’s eyes filled with tears. “I was just watching some of the news footage from Yankee Stadium. It’s sickening. Cops? I’ve got friends in the NYPD. Good people.”
“I know. So, do you mind answering some questions?”
O’Keefe closed his eyes for a moment as if steeling himself for th
e ordeal. “What do you need to know?”
Reznick turned to Farrelly. “Joe, I need a favor. Do you mind if I speak alone with Mr. O’Keefe?”
Farrelly frowned. “That’s not how this was supposed to work.”
“Look, I want to talk privately with Robert. If you have a problem with that, why don’t you call Assistant Director Meyerstein and see if she’s OK with it.”
Farrelly scratched his head and grimaced before saying, “I was supposed to accompany you.”
“And you did accompany me. And now I need some time alone with Mr. O’Keefe here. Call Meyerstein if you need to.”
Farrelly shrugged. “Fine.”
O’Keefe’s wife ushered Farrelly inside.
Reznick waited until Farrelly was in the kitchen with O’Keefe’s wife, out of earshot. He pulled up a seat opposite the man and sat down. He studied the face of the eldest O’Keefe. The guy resembled his crazy brothers, but without the tattoos and mean eyes. “Tough day for everyone, Robert. I’m sorry about this. I know you have nothing to do with this.”
O’Keefe was shaking his head, eyes downcast, hands trembling. “I appreciate that. The guys that were here earlier bulldozed in, acting as if I was part of my brothers’ crew. It’s absurd. I’m telling you, I’m as freaked out as everyone else.”
O’Keefe closed his eyes for a few moments as if struggling to come to terms with all of it.
“Helluva shock you must’ve had,” Reznick said. “I can only imagine what you’re going through. I don’t have any brothers.”
“Trust me, you don’t want brothers like mine.”
“You work in Manhattan, Robert?”
“General Motors Building, Fifth Avenue. Right in the heart of the city. I have an apartment where I stay during the week.”
“Where’s that?”
“Couple of blocks away on Lexington. Jesus, I was even supposed to be at the Yankee game today, but I had some paperwork to catch up on.”
“Yankee fan, huh?”
“Yeah, since I was a kid.”
“I was up there at Yankee Stadium this morning, with my daughter. We got caught up in it. We were going to the game.”
O’Keefe ran his hands through his hair. “You kidding me?”
“Just going to a baseball game on the Fourth.”
O’Keefe nodded. “Things like this aren’t supposed to happen. You read about shit like this. I can’t begin to imagine what went on there.”
“It was rough. Robert, I believe that something like this, what happened today, carried out by two of your brothers, couldn’t have just happened out of thin air.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe someone had knowledge of what was about to happen.”
“You think I did?”
“I want to know what you know. For example, did you know that they were capable of carrying out such an atrocity? Did you imagine in your wildest dreams they could do this?”
“Yeah, I fucking knew it.”
Reznick was taken aback by O’Keefe’s ready admittance.
“Sure, I knew. I knew what kind of guys they were becoming. And that’s why I got the hell out. I knew it would come to this. No one listened to me. Not a soul. I talked about it. I told people.”
Reznick held up his hand. “Hang on, hang on. You told people?”
O’Keefe shrugged. “That’s right. I warned them. But no one listened. I know what my brothers are like. I know them better than anyone. They’re bad seeds.”
Reznick nodded. “I’ll come back to that in a minute. But first, Robert, I’m going to level with you. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. I’m going to be honest with you. Completely honest and transparent. But in return, I would hope you will do the same with me.”
O’Keefe nodded. “I have nothing to hide.”
“First, what that Fed said? Special Agent Farrelly? That’s not true. I’m not a special agent in the traditional sense. But I do report to one of the most senior executives at the FBI on matters pertaining to national security. Do you understand?”
“I think so, yeah. National security. Do you mean classified stuff?”
“Exactly.” Reznick rested his hands on his knees, staring straight at O’Keefe. “You’ve built an enviable life for you and your family. I admire that. It couldn’t have been easy.”
O’Keefe stared off into the distance. “You have no idea.”
“I was lucky . . . I had a father who was around. Who taught me the difference between right and wrong. But from what I understand, you and your brothers weren’t so lucky.”
“Let me tell you, it was a living nightmare. I hear people talking about how guys like me are privileged. Privileged? They don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. I had to work my tail off. People talk about not having much money. Trust me, they don’t know what it’s like being as poor as we were.”
“I understand.”
“That was just one part of my fun childhood. You want to talk about the emotional, terrifying impact of a guy like Charlie Campbell on our family?”
Reznick nodded.
“It was hell. From the day he arrived, I knew it would end in bloodshed. I could see the way my brothers looked at Campbell. From the very first day, they worshipped him. But I could see what he was. He was a maniac. Manipulative. He manipulated my mother. And then my brothers. I got out of there as fast as I could.”
Reznick appreciated his honesty. But he needed Robert to open up more, so it was time to return the honesty. “It sounds like you’ve watched some of the coverage on TV about the sniper attacks.”
O’Keefe nodded. “It’s like a nightmare.”
“It was bad. Real bad. As I said, I was there when it happened, with my daughter, when your brothers began firing.”
“Is she OK? Your daughter.”
“I haven’t been able to get in touch with her, but I’m hoping she got to a safe place. Robert, you’ll probably find out at some point, but I think it’s only right that you know how they died.”
“The police? I know how they died.”
“No, I mean your brothers.”
O’Keefe sipped his drink. “I don’t know if I need to know that.”
“I think you do.” Reznick took a few moments to gather his thoughts. “A guy outside Yankee stadium stopped a motorcyclist at gunpoint, hauled him off the bike, and went after your brothers when they tried to escape.”
“The cops mentioned that. That’s unbelievable.”
Reznick sighed. “I know the full story. Better than anyone. Robert, I was that guy. The guy that went after them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was the guy on the motorcycle. I killed them both. I killed your brothers. I wanted you to know that before we go further.”
O’Keefe’s eyes began to fill with tears.
“I pursued them, and I killed them. I’m not proud of that. But it had to be done.”
“I feel sick.”
“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I’m sorry it was me. But it would have been someone else. If I hadn’t, they might have killed more cops, or other innocent people, as they made their escape.”
O’Keefe wiped the tears from his eyes. “They were bad. But they were my brothers. I hated them. But they were still my blood.”
Reznick sighed and stared out over the waves crashing onto the beach in the distance. “I know. The cold, hard fact is that they killed eight cops and wounded quite a few others. That was their doing.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say whatever you want.”
O’Keefe’s lower lip was quivering.
“It says a lot about you, your character, that you didn’t follow that same path,” Reznick added. “It must’ve been hard for you seeing your brothers choose that life.”
O’Keefe shook his head. “I wish . . . I wish I could turn the clock back.”
Reznick stayed silent.
O’Keefe dabbed his eyes with the back of h
is hand. “I knew it would end like this. I just knew it. But I never imagined it would be so terrible.”
Reznick nodded. “You say you knew it would end like this. What exactly do you mean? Take me back to the beginning.”
“It all leads back to Charlie Campbell, my stepfather. That’s how it all started. The first day Charlie Campbell came into our lives. He was a racist. A psychopath. And I was scared shitless just being in his presence. He gave off those vibes.”
“I read some of Campbell’s FBI file on my way over here. But I’d like to hear more about him from you.”
“Why? He’s dead.”
“That’s why. I believe his death about three months ago might have been the spark that led your brothers to stage the attack today.”
O’Keefe began to break down and shake his head.
Ten
Camila Perez sat down in a booth at her local diner in Hempstead, Long Island, overlooking the parking lot. Her eyes were drawn to the TV behind the counter showing the distressing scenes coming in from Yankee Stadium.
A waitress stopped by and poured her a coffee. “Isn’t that terrible?” she said. “Is nothing sacred? It should be a lovely day for people. Police just doing their job. Awful.”
Camila shook her head. “I don’t understand. So they only killed cops?”
“Chopper blown out of the sky, four civilians killed. But mostly NYPD. My brother-in-law works in the Bronx. He’s a cop. Thankfully he wasn’t on duty today. But I was just talking to my sister, and she’s traumatized, as you can imagine.”
“I’m glad your brother-in-law is safe.”
“So am I. He’s a good man. Anyway, life goes on, right? What can I get you?”
Perez didn’t feel like eating, but she needed something to make her feel better. She ordered pancakes with maple syrup. Once she’d finished, and had another cup of coffee, she was feeling marginally better.
She sat alone for the next hour, drinking coffee, scrolling through messages from friends talking about the horrific scenes in the Bronx. She checked out what people were saying on Twitter about it, but too many people were sharing disturbing blood-soaked cell phone footage taken at the scene. Eventually, she put her phone away.
