Once Were Cops

Seventeen

Joe Mulloy was

Once

...a

...cop.

In New York.

He’d done eight rough months on the streets and it bruised him in ways he still hadn’t fully come to terms with.

Staring down a guy, flying on angel dust, he had an epiphany.

His thirst for investigation was of the written kind.

He wanted to write and use words to track down the dirt.

And he wrote a semifictional account of his time, he’d had a wonderful Rilke title for the book but the publishers told him to get real.

And it appeared as:

Cop Out.

Jesus.

Sold modestly, Publishers Weekly said it had promise.

Translate as... Don’t give up the day job.

He was still earning back the advance.

But it did lead to an offer on a small paper outside Fort Lauderdale and he honed and perfected his craft which led to a bigger paper and finally, to being an investigative reporter.

Made him a great journalist, killed his marriage.

Brooke saying,

“You’re like a dog with a bone, when you’re on a story, nothing else matters.”

’Tis sad ’tis true.

She married a dentist two months later.

And then his beloved adored sister was murdered in New York.

A victim of the strangler.

Nora had been all lit up before this, in her weekly call, she had said,

“Met Mr. Right, not only is he a cop, he’s Irish.”

He’d never heard her so hopeful.

And best, the evening she rang to say the guy had given her his gold Claddagh ring.

Irish women see that as:

Signed.

Sealed.

Delivered.

Then she was strangled.

He was bereft, hit the bottle for a bit then got himself in some sort of shape and went up there for the funeral.

And that’s how it began.

The Mr. Right never showed for the funeral.

The fuck was with that?

Something odd.

The guy was an Officer O’Shea and lo and behold, he was the one who cracked the strangler case.

Hello.

How convenient.

And digging more, Shea’s partner was killed in a very dubious drug bust.

When Joe tried to get in touch with Shea, he learned he was on vacation.

Vacation?

His partner is killed, his girl is strangled, and he takes a holiday?

Hero cop.

The blues joined ranks, closed out questions, especially from a goddamned reporter.

And... Mr. Right got his gold shield.

Nora got a cold grave, his partner got the same, and Shea got to make detective.

Joe went back to his job and began to dig.

Eighteen months of solid research and he had some names to work with.

Gino.

Morronni.

Fernandez.

And a total blackout from the NYPD.

He wrote to Gino, said he was doing a book on the Brooklyn strangler and would Gino like to give his version?

A guy doing three life sentences, he’ll talk to anyone.

Joe traveled up to the max security pen, brought lots of cigs and candies.

He’d been to the joint before and knew what passed for currency there.

He was put in a small room and they brought Gino in, manacled from head to toe, in a green prison uniform.

Joe said,

“Thanks for taking the time.”

Gino looked like death warmed over, the prison pallor accentuated by a yellow sheen to his face.

He said,

“Buddy, all I got is time and not even much of that, I’m sick.”

Joe shoved the carton across the table and a disposable lighter, the guard moved over, checked the carton and then let them be.

Gino peered at the candies, asked,

“Got any Hershey’s Kisses there?”

No.

Joe said,

“Next time.”

And Gino gave a smile that might have actually been tinged with sadness if he could for a moment let the tough guy persona ease.

Joe asked if he could tape the interview and Gino shrugged, hard ass back in place, asked,

“Whatcha wanna know, bud?”

Joe looked at his notes and then:

“You always claimed you weren’t the strangler, any way of backing that up?”

Gino said,

“There was an incriminating photo of the kid taking kickback from Mr. Morronni.”

Joe noted how even though Gino was never getting out of prison, Morronni was still mister. He asked,

“The kid?”

Gino looked enraged, said,

“Young Irish cop, I trashed his place, sliced up his uniform, and he had a hard-on for me, when the cops hit my place, the photo was gone and under my mattress, the gun that killed the kid’s partner and the rosary beads... fuck’s sake, I haven’t said a prayer since I was ten years old and I ain’t going to lie to you, I hurt people but never... never a broad.”

Joe digested this, then asked,

“Any idea of who the strangler was?”

Gino said,

“The kid, he was Irish, he offed his partner, and set me up for the gig, you ever meet this kid?”

Joe shook his head. Gino said,

“Got them brooding Irish looks going for him and a kind of slow burn, but you don’t get it at first, he seems harmless but then you think, there is something real cold about the dude.”

“What about Morronni, Mr. Morronni, what did he think?”

Gino sighed, said,

“It was him put it together about the kid, all the kid’s problems went away, everyone got wiped and he got to be a hero, very slick, I tell you, bud, I’ve met some real predators, some stone killers, and none of them, none of them had the iciness this kid has.”

The guard moved, said,

“Time’s up.”

Joe stood, said,

“I’ll be back soon, with the Hershey’s Kisses.”

Gino laughed, said,

“Better be real soon.”

Before he left, Joe went to see the warden, thanked him for his cooperation, and asked,

“Gino seemed sick, is it just jail time?”

The warden looked at Joe, then said,

“Lung cancer, he’s got maybe a month.”

Joe involuntarily muttered,

“Jesus.”

The warden said,

“I don’t think Jesus has much to do with it.”

Joe read through his notes, then compared them with a telephone call he’d had with Morronni.

They both sang the same song.

Joe did some more research on Shea.

In the eighteen months, he’d been to Ireland for the death of his mother and had cracked some high-profile cases, he was on the fast track to the top.

He checked the time of Shea’s Irish visit and then used his search engine to check on murders there.

Shea had been in his hometown of Galway and got a hero’s welcome.

Joe nearly missed it.

A girl had been strangled in Sligo, a silk ribbon used.

Joe would bet anything it was green.

He’d one last person to see, Peters, the head of the task force.

Retired six months ago, he was living in Boca, Joe got the number, said about the book he was writing and could he perhaps talk to him?

He could.

Joe drove up there, and marveled at the display of money in Boca.

Peters lived in a small bungalow off the main strip. Joe knocked at the door, he’d brought a bottle of Maker’s Mark, his research had shown that Peters liked to sink a few.

He opened the door in silk pajamas, and Joe’s first impression was how old he looked.

Bit like the Hef in fact but he didn’t think any bunnies would be running around.

They went into a small living room, obsessively tidy, bachelors go one of two ways, let everything slide or keep it in regimental order.

Joe handed over the bottle and Peters went to get some glasses.

When he returned, he said,

“You were on the job?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

Peters indicated Joe should sit, as he poured healthy slugs of Maker’s, said,

“You have cop eyes and you cased the place, like only a cop does.”

Joe was impressed, said,

“Did eight months out of the Nine Seven.”

And Peters asked,

“Why’d you quit?”

Joe thought about shining him on but the guy was sharp so he told the truth.

“I couldn’t stomach it.”

Peters nodded, then:

“Me, I loved it, still be doing it but I got sideswiped by a damn cab, they pensioned me out, worst day of my life, the fuck am I supposed to do now, tend to my roses?”

Joe had clocked a bare garden, not a single flower in it.

Peters drank from his glass, gave a slurp of contentment, asked,

“So, what do you want?”

Joe ran down the strangler case, Gino, Morronni, but didn’t mention Shea, then said,

“I’d like to hear your thoughts on it.”

Peters poured another wallop, swirled it around in the glass, as if there might be some truth in there.