Mission Flats

54

Chelsea, Massachusetts, just outside the Boston city limit. 6:34 A.M.

We waited for them in a desolate parking lot. At our backs the Tobin Bridge soared a hundred feet in the air, its exoskeleton of I-beams topped by a vertebral elevated road. Dick Ginoux stood with us, having driven the department’s Bronco down from Versailles the night before. He stamped his feet in the cold, looking slightly bewildered in his uniform and Smokey the Bear hat. Kelly wore his usual flannel coat, but this morning he had pinned his little six-point star on the breast pocket: OFFICER, VERSAILLES POLICE DEPARTMENT. He spun his nightstick contentedly and whistled under his breath ‘I’m Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover.’ It was hard to tell if the nonchalance was a deliberate attempt to keep me cool or if Kelly truly felt blase about being here. For my part, I struggled to suppress an adrenaline smile. The scene reminded me of an exchange of spies in a Cold War novel. In the Bronco I found my Versailles Police Department jacket, with its little embroidered Chief Truman.

We did not speak much. The sky was ash gray, the air intensely cold for November. For a long time the only sound was the traffic noise on the bridge high above us, Kelly’s whistling, and the spinslap of his nightstick.

Inevitably, Dick picked up the tune and began to sing softly, ‘I’m looking over, a four-leaf clover, that I’ve overlooked befo-o-ore. The first is for sunshine, the sec-und for rain — ’

‘Dick.’

‘The third’s for my ba-by that lives down the lane.’

‘Dick!’

‘Oh, let him sing, Chief,’ Kelly advised. ‘There’s nothing better to do.’

‘Come on, Ben,’ Dick prodded. ‘I’m lookin’ oh-ver, a four-leaf cloh-ver, that I oh-ver-looked be-fo-o-ore.’

Incredibly, Kelly sang too — and horribly. ‘The first is for sunshine, the secund for ra-a-ain. The third’s for my baby…’ It was like watching a beloved uncle fast-dance at a wedding. You didn’t know whether to laugh or avert your eyes. ‘There’s no use explainin’, the one ree-main-in’, is sum-one that I a-do-o-o-ore! Come on, Ben Truman.’

I gave in and moaned along with them for the finale. ‘I’m lookin’ over a four-leaf clover that I overlooked — bum-bum — that I overlooked — bum-bum — that I overlooked bee-fo-o-ore.’

Kelly looked down and indulged me with an approving nod. ‘Attsaboy,’ he said.

It was nearly seven when Beck’s black Mercedes sedan slid into the parking lot. The car came to a stop in front of us, and Beck and Braxton stepped out. Braxton wore an oversize, hooded sweatshirt under a leather Avirex jacket. He scowled at us.

I stepped forward, but Kelly caught my wrist. ‘You’re the senior officer here,’ he reminded me. ‘Let me do this.’

Kelly frisked Braxton while reciting the familiar litany: ‘Harold Braxton, you are under arrest for the murder of Robert Danziger. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to have an attorney present at all questioning. You have the right…’

Braxton stood with his arms extended, glaring at me, resenting this whole procedure and resenting me for failing to exonerate him. By his furious stare, he seemed to be proclaiming that he was not submitting, not really, not in his heart. He did not recognize our authority or his own impotence.

Kelly pulled Braxton’s arms down to cuff him behind his back.

‘Chief Truman,’ said Beck, ‘is it necessary for him to ride all the way to Maine with his arms behind his back? Why don’t you put the handcuffs in front? It’s a long ride.’

Braxton looked down. He wanted no part of a plea for leniency.

I nodded. Kelly uncuffed and recuffed Braxton so his hands were in front, then led him to the backseat of the Bronco. This was the trophy arrest every cop in the city was stalking, yet there was little pleasure in it.

‘Arraignment will be tomorrow morning,’ I said in a muted voice.

Beck nodded and turned to leave.

I glanced up at the bridge for one last look — the same bridge Frank Fasulo had jumped off twenty years before. All that exposed framework, miles of girders. It was one of those ugly places where a city’s substructure is revealed. We see them — train yards, power plants, manholes — and we are reminded of the hidden complexities. It is as if the skin has been pulled back and the skeleton of the city is exposed, the pumping veins, the secret systems. I’d had enough of all that.

‘It’s done,’ I told Kelly and Dick, and myself. ‘Let’s go home.’