Bad blood

33

“Look, Mr. Hassett, we’ve got a court order to do this,” I said, trying to glance over my shoulder for any sign of Mike. “I-I know this is an awful thing to have to think about, but it’s quite possible that techniques we have now that weren’t available when your sister was killed might help us identify-”

Bobby Hassett’s face was just inches from mine. His nostrils flared and his bloodshot eyes narrowed as I spoke. His breath had the faint odor of beer as he interrupted my lame explanation. “Don’t give me none of that. What difference is it to know who the mutt is who killed the kid? He’s lived way too long to make any kind of justice worthwhile.”

“A judge has already made a ruling about this,” I said, inching backward again.

“I know that. I got a call from the DA’s Office last night-”

“My office?”

“The Bronx. Those fools thought they were going to get my permission to do this.”

“Well, that would have been necessary if the judge hadn’t granted the order,” I said, aware that the prosecutor’s phone call was what had alerted Bobby to this morning’s exhumation.

“An order? Let me see your papers.”

Evan Silbey had retreated from this encounter. “Mr. Silbey,” I said, “you’ve got to send your men to find Detective Chapman.”

Bobby Hassett grabbed my wrist and pulled me forward. “Get your damn foot off my mother’s grave.”

I looked down to see the writing on a small flat stone similar to Rebecca’s, though not worn by age and exposure to the elements. The woman had been dead less than six months, according to the date. The grass around her little plot was newer than that around the family graves surrounding it.

“The documents are in the car. The detective picked them up early this morning. I’ll get them for you.”

I was glad to step away from Hassett and even more relieved to see Mike Chapman, leaning on the arm of the morgue driver, limping up the slope that led from the pond.

I didn’t stop to get the court order, but jogged directly down to meet the two men.

“What happened?”

“I fell on my rear end, that’s all. Glad you weren’t there to see it. Twisted my ankle and slid down. Just missed that frigging tree trunk. Could have planted me in old Mr. Woolworth’s mausoleum.”

“Is it-”

“Nah. I stepped into a pile of goose droppings and my foot went out from underneath. It’s just sore. Maybe a sprain.”

“You didn’t catch up to the guy, did you?”

“Not even close. Not even a good look. Like a gazelle, he was.”

I put my arm around Mike’s back and let him walk the rest of the way up leaning on me. “A photographer?”

“Not likely. No equipment dangling and no reason to run.”

“Well, we’ve got another spectator,” I said. “Bobby Hassett.”

“That’s a gruesome thought. He wants to watch?”

“He wants to stop us. Someone from Jefferson’s office called him last night, trying to get his consent in case the judge didn’t go for their application. Tipped him off that something might happen this morning, whether the Hassetts agreed to it or not, and now he’s here to try to prevent us from-from doing this.”

As soon as Mike heard Hassett’s name, he untangled himself from me and straightened up, walking gingerly across the road to get to the family plot.

Mr. Silbey scurried toward Mike. “Please, Detective Chapman. We can’t have a scene here.”

“I forgot-all your peeps are asleep, aren’t they?”

“This man has rights, too, doesn’t he?”

Mike kept moving while he looked around us. Birds were chirping in the surrounding trees, the wind occasionally gusted and rustled the leaves, no one else was in sight but those of us who had come to disturb Rebecca Hassett’s grave-and her irate brother. There was nothing in this pastoral setting to tell us that we were still in New York City.

“Bobby,” Mike said, reaching a hand out to Hassett. “Mike Chapman. Homicide.”

“Yeah. I know that.” His hands were dug as far as they could go into his jeans’ pockets.

“Could we step away from here? Would you let me tell you-”

“Not a chance.”

I walked to the morgue van and spoke to the patient attendants, waiting for their cargo.

“Call 911. Get Chapman some backup from the precinct, okay?”

They both looked startled, and I had to repeat the demand, explaining who Hassett was, to get them to make the call.

I opened the door of the department car and removed Mike’s folder, looking for the court order. I started back over to where he and Bobby Hassett were going head-to-head.

“I don’t understand you,” Mike said. “If it was someone I loved-if it were my sister-and you come along telling me we can maybe solve a crime, find her killer-I don’t care if it’s fifty years later, I’d be so thrilled to get the motherfucker I’d move heaven and earth.”

One eye was on my watch. Forty-five seconds since the 911 call was placed. Officer needs assistance was bound to get a rapid response.

“Yeah, well, you’re not moving this piece of earth.”

I handed Mike the exhumation order, thinking it might help him to have some law to back up his reason.

He flipped the page to the judge’s signature and turned it around so Hassett could read the bottom line. Instead, Hassett swung his arm wildly and knocked the papers out of Mike’s hand.

I bent to retrieve them as Mike signaled the quartet of gravediggers to move in. A minute and a half later, and Bobby Hassett was becoming more agitated, his face reddening and his eyes bulging.

The four workmen picked up their tools and began a solemn march toward Rebecca’s grave.

Hassett waited until they were alongside him, then lurched at the first man, trying to take hold of the long wooden handle of his shovel. Mike took a step forward, wincing as his full weight landed on his bad ankle, and grabbed Hassett’s right arm.

Bobby Hassett spun on his heel and threw his fist at Mike’s face, missing narrowly. The other men backed off as Mike held out both arms to try to calm his opponent down.

It was more than two minutes-two and a half-before the peaceful cemetery air vibrated with the sound of a distant siren.

Hassett punched again, and Mike, unable to dance away on his lame leg, was nailed in the shoulder.

“Don’t be crazy, Bobby,” I said. “Don’t get yourself locked up over this.”

He paid no attention to me and lashed out again, without success.

The siren was getting louder. The gravediggers turned their backs to the commotion and huddled together while Evan Silbey ran for the shelter of Mike’s car. The driver of the morgue vehicle had stayed on the phone-with the operator, I guessed-to let her know when the cops arrived.

The patrol car came from the west, speeding down the gently undulating hill. The two officers parked in the middle of the road, running over toward us.

I flashed my gold-and-blue shield-a prosecutorial copy of the NYPD badge-and identified myself. “That’s Mike Chapman-Homicide-in the blue blazer.”

The younger cop made a beeline for Bobby Hassett, while the older one laughed and took his time. “I worked with Mikey when he was breaking in. I oughta let this one go ten rounds, for all the aggravation he gave me.”

The uniformed rookie wrestled Hassett to the ground and restrained him until his partner caught up and rear-cuffed the silent, sullen man.

“Is it a collar, Mikey?” the older one asked, patting Chapman on the shoulder. “You get him for assaulting you, or did you start up with him?”

“No arrest, Jesse. Just let him cool down. I can’t blame him for taking a shot at me.”

Mike crouched next to Bobby Hassett. “Nice try. I might have done the same thing in your circumstance. Now, we’re going ahead with what we gotta do whether you like it or not. Me personally, Bobby? I’d recommend you get in your car and get out of here. You wanna see how we handle this? Then you’re doing it from the back of Jesse’s RMP, hands behind your back with your mouth shut. I’ll let you know every detail of anything we find out. I promise you she’ll be in good hands.”

Mike paused to get an answer. “What’s your call?”

Hassett raised his head off the ground. The radio motor patrol car obviously didn’t interest him. “I’ll go. Lemme up and I’ll go.”

Mike nodded at the two cops, who released their prisoner and stepped back while he got to his feet.

We all watched as Bobby Hassett walked to the foot of Bex’s grave, lowered himself onto one knee, made the sign of the cross, and bowed his head. Tears fell over the reddened rims of his lids, and with his thick fingers he wiped them off his cheeks. I closed my eyes and thought of the sister he had lost so long ago.

After a minute or so, he stood up, glared at me with whatever energy he had left, and headed across to his car. The patrol car was blocking his way, so he backed up into the intersection and gassed the Toyota as he drove away from us.

Again, Mike waved the workmen on to begin opening the Hassett grave. He talked to the cops and convinced them to stay at the site to make sure no other unexpected visitors interfered with our grim task.

Then he told me to follow him and we walked back to his car. “There’s nothing to see, Coop. Might as well wait over here. Let them do what they gotta do.”

Just as we leaned against the car, another Crown Vic approached. The two men got out and smiled at me, then introduced themselves to Mike.

“Heads or tails?” I heard one of them say. “Heads we get to keep her, tails she goes downtown with you.”

“You’re too late, guys,” Mike said. “We just got permission from the family.”

“What? Who’re you kidding?” The detectives looked at each other before the one in charge spoke. “Jefferson said they ain’t cooperating. He wants the body, Chapman.”

“Bobby Hassett just left us, isn’t that right, Ms. Cooper? All you had to do yesterday was talk nice to him, guys. Guess you couldn’t even get that right. We reached an understanding with him, didn’t we? Like gentlemen.”

“We did, actually. I suggest you find him before you embarrass yourselves,” I said, returning their smiles and thinking of Battaglia’s directive to me. “Mike seemed to have gotten to him this morning. Maybe his technique was a little different than whatever you and your prosecutors told him.”

It had taken less than a quarter of an hour for one of the men to strike his shovel against the lid of Rebecca Hassett’s coffin. I heard the metal edge crack against the wood and turned to look.

The detectives went over to the guys from the morgue to see what story could be coaxed from them, but since the duo were from Manhattan-not the Bronx satellite office of the medical examiner-they weren’t planning to return to First Avenue without the body either.

Another half hour and the diggers were waist-deep in the hole they had made, wedging the wooden box up as they secured it with straps in order to raise it onto the ground. It appeared to be made of simple pine, intact but showing obvious signs of rot on each of the corners.

Mike had gone back over to the grave. He crouched beside the coffin-probably offering a prayer, much as Bobby Hassett had done minutes earlier-then brushed some of the dirt off the worn lid before directing the men to load it into the van for the ride to the morgue.

The driver stood next to the rear door. “Don’t you want them to open it here? Take a peek? Make sure it’s who you’re looking for? That’s how we usually do it.”

“Nothing’s been going according to plan with this. I want her out of here before anybody else shows up, okay? Let’s just get her downtown,” Mike said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

We drove slowly up to the corner of the next plot and followed the van as it made a U-turn to retrace its route to Woodlawn’s entrance. As we passed the Hassett grave again, the men were filling the hole with the dirt that had been displaced.

Mike paused at the intersection, and my eyes were drawn by the movement of something dark off to my right. The ornate headstone that marked the border of the Primrose section of the cemetery had a large relief carving on its face-a weeping mother mourning the effigy of her curly-haired child, a sculpted robe covering her arched back.

The wind gusted again. It caught and lifted a piece of the black-sleeved coat of the person hiding behind the tomb-the same motion that must have gotten my attention originally.

“Mike, look over here. I think it’s the guy you were chasing. He’s come back.”

He made the turn and threw the car into park, opening the door as though to give chase.

“Don’t do it,” I said. “Your leg-it’s not worth it. You’ll make it worse.”

He waved me off and started to lope across the road.

A head appeared around the side of the old granite marker.

“It’s not a guy at all,” Mike said, stopping in place as I caught up to him. “It’s Trish Quillian.”

The figure in black ducked under a tree branch and ran headlong into the maze of shrubs and grave sites beyond the roadway. We’d lost her.

“Crazy as a loon that girl is,” Mike said. “I bet she’s been waiting with Bex-waiting at her friend’s grave for something to happen. I sure as hell would like to know why.”