Once Were Cops

Fifteen

I went to see Lucia, I didn’t want to go, tried to rationalize why it would be a bad idea and then just the hell went, thinking, if she woke, Jesus, she might remember.

The nurse on duty was a dote and said,

“She hasn’t had any visitors, we thought her brother would be by.”

I didn’t say he was currently in lockup and asked how she was doing.

The nurse looked serious, said,

“She was pretty tore up, her arms broken as well as... well, other violations, and she has remained comatose, the doctors don’t hold out much hope.”

I was turning to go, relieved that it seemed I wouldn’t be actually seeing her, when the nurse said,

“Would you like to visit?”

Fuck... no.

I said,

“Yes.”

She was in a private room which was costing Kebar or Morronni a whole lot of cash. I was shocked when I saw her, she was attached to a myriad of tubes, her face still had the marks of bruising and her arms were in plaster. Her face looked ruined, as if she were already dead.

How far in the zone had I been? She’d looked gorgeous that night...

The nurse pulled up a chair, said,

“If you sit with her, it would be... nice.”

I was thinking, rage engulfing me,

“What the fuck difference does it make?”

And as if she read my mind, she said,

“We don’t know, of course, but if you spoke to her, she might be able to hear you.”

Jesus.

And left me with her.

Self-conscious, feeling like a horse’s arse, I faltered:

“Um, Lucia, I... how are you, fuck, Jesus, sorry, for cursing, I um... oh right, I brought you Bob Dylan...”

And because I was afraid to stop, I rambled on about my day, not mentioning her brother shooting a child molester but just stuff about coffee, the city, and then about Ireland and how one day she must come visit... and then I zoned, I think I told her what a sweet fuck she’d been...

When I looked at my watch, an hour had passed. I stood up, my shirt drenched in sweat, went over to her and bent down, put a kiss on her forehead, then I was about to leave when I stopped, reached inside my shirt, unclasped the Miraculous Medal and put it around her neck, looked around and fuck, the nurse was standing there, I couldn’t finish... shite.

I couldn’t help thinking as I got out of there,

“Why do people keep interrupting me with her, the night I’d been there, an orderly had looked in, shouted, The hell are you doing?”

I still don’t know how I got out of there without being recognized and I gave God a bollicking.

At home they believe if you berate God, He’ll seriously come after you and with intent.

In this case, they were right on the goddamned money.

I was still on patrol but with a new partner, an old hand name of Gillespie, who cautioned:

“I’m different from your previous partner, you hear me?”

Like I was deaf?

I said,

“Gotcha.”

He went on to explain how his twenty was nearly in and he didn’t need any heroics or as he put it... showboating.

I thought,

“Yellow prick.”

And that’s how we played it, by the book, boring as hell and I nearly missed my desk gig.

Nora and I were getting closer, I was able to talk to her like I think I never spoke to anyone me whole life. When I told her about Lucia, she cried and offered to go visit. She wore my Claddagh ring with obvious delight, the heart turned inwards. We’d be out having a meal or a drink and I’d notice her turning her hand, letting the light bounce off the gold. It made me... happy?

Kebar made bail but was suspended from duty, pending an investigation and possibly a trial.

Nora and I met him for a drink and he seemed even more ferocious than ever, his skull now completely shaven and a dark slant to his features, like someone with a terminal illness but who was going out with a roar.

We were in a nice bar on the West Side, the sorta shithole where they call you sir with a built-in smirk. Nora had picked it, said they did lovely food and wouldn’t it be nice to go to a smart place.

Right.

The basic truth about cops is this:

You think they ever want to attend Shakespeare in the Park?... Give them a diner on the Lower East Side and a battered copy of McBain, they’re as content as a cop is ever gonna be.

It’s called knowing your limitations or simply being true to themselves.

You know you’re a cop when someone says... the park... you think... muggers.

Nora excused herself, went to the ladies’ room, and Kebar said,

“Real nice girl, you done good.”

I looked at him, the dark circles under his eyes, and asked,

“How you holding up?”

He smiled, a smile that was full of weary bitterness, said,

“This bullshit charge is going away, I had a friend of mine talk to our child molester and he realizes he was mistaken, but what can I tell you, they’re making me jump through the hoops, fuck ’em.”

He looked round, signaled a passing waitress, ordered a double Wild Turkey, looked at me and I shook my head. He said,

“I went by the hospital, saw Lucia had a nice medal around her neck...”

Then he stopped, bit his lip, said,

“Thanks, buddy.”

I went American, said,

“No biggie.”

He didn’t look at me, said,

“Is to me.”

Another week of dead patrolling with the grouch, we spoke little, save for him telling me how it used to be in the good ol’ days.

Yawn.

You want to alienate the young, tell them how it used to be.

A flasher/Peeping Tom was operating in Central Park and we got the job of flushing him out.

The damn place is bigger than Ireland.

Sure came across lots of weird shite.

Rent boys, transvestites who looked more like Hells Angels, desperate cases of homeless people, and of course a whole batch of crazies.

You want to lose complete faith in the human race, troll the park for a few hours.

We even came across a Frisbee thrower, nothing wrong there save he’d lined the Frisbee with lead...

Catch that.

Thursday evening, we get back to the station house and O’Brien comes racing down, said,

“Shea, in my office pronto.”

I’m thinking,

“The fuck is it now?”

I get up there and he said,

“Shut the door.”

He pulls out a drawer, a bottle of Paddy (jeez, I hadn’t seen that brand since my old man died) and two glasses, pours lethal amounts, said,

“Get that down you.”

It burned like a bastard, good though.

He let it settle, then:

“I’ve some bad news.”

I waited, letting the whiskey shield me.

Then:

“You’ve been seeing a girl, named Nora... I um... she’s been murdered.”

I stared at him, and he continued:

“A victim of the strangler, the task force is waiting, they’re going to want to ask you some questions.”

I let my head drop between my knees, the room spinning, and finally asked,

“Where is she?”

“She’s in the morgue, but you don’t want to go there, and like I said... The task force?”

I was on my feet, roared,

“Fuck ’em, I want to see her.”

The zoning had been bad the last few days... did I kill her?

He picked up the phone, spoke in a hushed tone, then put it down, said,

“Special Agent Peters is going to allow that but he’ll accompany you.”

I said,

“Like I give a fuck what he allows.”

O’Brien said,

“I know this is a shock, but don’t piss this guy off.”

I stormed out of the office and ran smack into Peters, he was going to say something and I said,

“Let’s go.”

An unmarked car outside, two agents in it, I looked at Peters, sneered,

“Am I under arrest?”

He kept his voice low, asked,

“Why, you do something?”

The drive to the morgue was silent and when we got there, they flanked me as if I was going to run, I sure wanted to.

The room itself was icy, and those green walls, puke colored, an attendant was standing by a steel drawer, and Peters asked,

“You ready for this?”

“Like you give a fuck, open it.”

The drawer made a squeaking noise as it was pulled back, and a white sheet covered the body, the attendant peeled it back and there she was.

Dead.

Her eyes were closed but I could see the ligature marks round her throat, they’d cut deeply into the skin, I stared at her, keeping my face in neutral and finally I nodded, said,

“It’s Nora.”

We went outside and Peters asked,

“Can I get you something?”

“Yeah, the fuck out of here.”

Drove me back to the station and the interrogation room, Peters indicated the chair, I sat and he stood on the far side of the table, asked,

“When did you last see... Nora?”

“Two nights ago, I was supposed to pick her up this evening.”

He watched me carefully, then,

“Can you account for your movements on that night?”

“Yeah, I was with Officer K... Kebar to his friends.”

He had his notebook out, asked,

“You think of anyone who might have wished her harm?”

I looked up at him, said,

“Morronni, he does a number on Kebar’s sister, and now, my turn to feel his rage, you talk to him, ask him for his whereabouts two nights ago or do you just hassle cops?”

He closed the notebook, said,

“Look, Shea, I understand your anger, your grief, but why don’t you think this was the strangler? A green rosary was used.”

I gave him my granite look, said,

“Because of one small detail, you’re the expert and you missed it?”

He narrowed his eyes, wondering where I was going with this, asked,

“We double-checked everything, it has all the hallmarks of the other stranglings.”

I let him wait a beat, then I said, trying not to let my voice break,

“Her finger is missing, and the gold ring I put on it.”