Broken Angels

13

The press conference was a zoo. It was held in front of the Roundhouse, near the statue of the police officer holding the child. This entrance was closed to the public.

Today there were twenty or so reporters-print, radio, and television. On the tabloid menu: roasted police officer. The media was a slavering horde.

Whenever a police officer was involved in a controversial shooting- or a shooting made controversial by a special interest group, a reporter with a dull axe, or for any number of headline-generating reasons-it was incumbent upon the police department to respond. Depending on the circumstances, a variety of respondents might take on the task. Sometimes it was Internal Affairs, sometimes the commanding officer of a particular district, sometimes even the commissioner himself if the situation, and the city politics, warranted. Press conferences were as necessary as they were annoying. It was a time for the department to pull together for one of their own.

This conference was run by Andrea Churchill, the Public Affairs Inspector. In her mid-forties, a former patrol officer in the Twenty-sixth District, Andrea Churchill was a scrapper, and more than once Byrne had seen her shut down an inappropriate line of questioning with a stare from her ice blue eyes. In her time on the street she had received sixteen merit awards, fifteen citations, six Fraternal Order of Police awards and the Danny Boyle Award. To Andrea Churchill, a pack of clamoring, bloodthirsty reporters was a Tastykake for breakfast.

Byrne stood behind her. To his right was Ike Buchanan. Behind him, in a loose semicircle, were seven other detectives, street faces in place, jaws firm, badges out front. The temperature was around fifteen degrees. They could have held the conference in the lobby of the Roundhouse. The decision to make a bunch of reporters wait around in the cold was not lost on anyone. The conference was mercifully winding down.

"We are confident that Detective Byrne followed procedure to the letter of the law on that terrible night," Churchill said.

"What is the procedure for a situation like that?" This from the Daily News.

"There are specific rules of engagement. The officer must consider the life of the hostage first."

"Was Detective Byrne on duty?"

"He was off duty at the time."

"Will there be charges filed against Detective Byrne?"

"As you know, this is up to the district attorney's office. But at this time they have informed us that there will be no charges."

Byrne knew exactly how it was going to go from here. The media had already begun the public rehabilitation of Anton Krotz-his terrible childhood, his mistreatment by the system. There had also been an article on Laura Clarke. Byrne was sure she was a fine woman, but the piece had made her out to be a saint. She worked at a local hospice, she helped save greyhounds, she had done a year in the peace corps.

"Is it true that Mr. Krotz was once in police custody and then let go?" a reporter for City Paper asked.

"Mr. Krotz was questioned by police two years ago in connection with a homicide, but was released due to insufficient evidence." Andrea Churchill glanced at her watch. "If there are no more questions at this time-"

"She didn't have to die." The words came from the back of the crowd. It was a plaintive voice, hoarse with exhaustion.

All heads turned. Cameras followed. Matthew Clarke stood at the back of the throng. His hair was unkempt, he sported a few days' growth of beard, he wore no overcoat, no gloves, just a suit in which it appeared he had slept. He looked pitiful. Or, more accurately, pitiable.

"He gets to go about his life as if nothing happened," Clarke pointed an accusatory finger at Kevin Byrne. "What do I get? What do my children get?"

For the press this was fresh chum in the water.

A reporter for The Report, a weekly tabloid rag with which Byrne had a not so amicable history yelled, "Detective Byrne, how do you feel about the fact that a woman was killed right in front of you?"

Byrne felt the Irish rise, his fists clench. Flashbulbs flashed. "How do I feel?" Byrne asked. Ike Buchanan put a hand on his arm. There was more Byrne wanted to say, much more, but Ike's grasp tightened, and he knew what it meant.

Be cool.

When Clarke moved to approach Byrne, a pair of uniformed officers grabbed him and hustled him away from the building. More flashbulbs.

"Tell us Detective! How do you feeeeeel?" Clarke shouted.

Clarke was drunk. Everyone knew it, but who could blame him? He had just lost his wife to violence. The officers took him to the corner of Eighth and Race and let him go. Clarke tried to smooth his hair, his clothing, find a little dignity in the moment. The officers-a pair of big kids in their twenties-blocked his path back.

A few seconds later Clarke disappeared around the corner. The last thing any of them heard was Matthew Clarke screaming "This… isn't… over!"

A stunned silence held the crowd for a moment, then the reporters and cameras all turned to Byrne. Beneath a blitzkrieg of flashing bulbs, the questions rang out.

"— could've prevented this?"

"— anything to say to the victim's daughters?"

"— would you do if you had to do it all over?"

Shielded by a wall of blue, Detective Kevin Byrne headed back into the building.