The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel (20 page)

As Cronin entered the house, everyone could hear him say in a low voice, “Son of a bitch.” He looked at Bud and Paul and asked, “Do we know what happened yet?”

Bud answered him, “Paul dropped Rachelle off at 12:20 am. It’s pretty clear that Winters entered the house about 1:15 am. Officer Walker dialed 911 from her cell phone at 1:21 am, and shots were fired at approximately 1:22 am. We received texts at 1:24 am. I arrived on the scene at 1:28 am, Paul at 1:30 am. Uniform officers were on the scene about a minute before me and attending to Sherry and trying to attend to Rachelle. However, no one could touch her ’til her sister arrived from her date at 1:35 am.”

Cronin then asked, “Was it a coincidence the sister got home at 1:35 am?”

“No, sir,” Bud replied. “Paul called her as he was running up to the house. She was already driving home. She just stepped on the gas when she got the message.”

“And the body outside?”

Bud again replied, “He was the intruder, most likely. We are not sure yet because Sherry was unconscious with a knife wound when officers got here and put her in the ambulance.”

Cronin looked outside at the body of Winters and noticed Bud was the only one doing the talking. He said, “So everyone is getting killed who was involved in this mess. You two get to the hospital, try to get statements from Sherry Walker if she makes it out of surgery, and now Rachelle is most likely the only one that can tell us what happened to our friend on the lawn.” As they left the house, Cronin followed them.

“Paul!” he yelled. “Detective Powers, I would suggest you get your head out of your ass.” Paul acknowledged him and got in the car with Bud as they drove over to Mather.

Cronin stayed at the house to look around a bit, both inside and outside the home. He had Lynagh and Healey check the vehicles to identify Mason Winters’ car to have it brought in for evidence. “Well, well, well,” he said as he stood on the front porch. “Mr. Phil Smith, you are doing such a good job of eliminating everyone.”

He called Bud’s cell phone and told Bud, who had just arrived at the hospital, “Bud, try to get someone to talk tonight. I want to know if the mask that was at the hospital and the killing of Starfield was here tonight.”

As Cronin turned around to go back in the house, he said to himself, “Mr. Phil, why are you not killing Deborah, why are you not killing Rachelle? Who are you, Mr. Phil? Who are you this time, Ghost Face? Hmm, I will find out, I promise.”

As he entered the house, he looked at the den where Sherry was to sleep. He went into every room of the house hoping to find one detail that would help with the case. He found nothing until he went into Rachelle’s office, where he found pages of written notes on the back of desk calendar pages. There were hundreds of pages with handwritten notes on them. It looked to him like she was writing a book. He flipped through the pages, going over her notes. Some of the desk calendars had the format of a story, and others were of outlines—character summary, chapter summary with a brief outline for each chapter. Rachelle was writing a book called
Vanished—The Port Jefferson Murders
. He found her cryptic messages that were going to be in
Newsday
for the next seven days.

On her desk, stuck against the back shelf, between the crack of the shelving, were photos. There were Rachelle with Madison, younger photos of her with her parents, a photo of Paul at the restaurant standing alongside Rachelle and Joey Z. He opened the drawers to her desk and found more photos. They consisted of the Cross Island Ferry, outside and inside. There were signs that photos were not allowed, but somehow she got them. Based on the events that happened, the detective lieutenant really wasn’t surprised she had gotten away with it.

In the bottom drawer were papers, what seemed liked notes. It looked as though Rachelle saved every note that was given to her. Many of them were from Paul, written on the back of business cards and napkins, and it was clear there was an emotional attachment for Paul and apparently for Rachelle, if she was saving everything he wrote to her. There was nothing in the notes that was inappropriate for a police officer, but it was clear there was some kind of relationship. It was more clear to Cronin as to why Paul seemed so out of it, and he began to question himself having the detective stay on the case.

He put his attention on the other side of desk drawers. They were filled with the articles she had written for the
Port Jefferson Now
newspaper. Award certificates, correspondence, and columns on letters written to the paper from the local community and fans. Cronin began to walk away from the desk when, hiding in plain sight, was new mail lying on her bureau. He picked up the short stack of mail, which he thought was interesting because it was all addressed to Z Pita or the paper’s address. He sorted through Cablevision bills, Verizon cell phone, bank statements, and stopped at the envelope that had the return address of Phil Smith. He had used the address from his home, but since the house had been under 24-hour surveillance, the return address was just a formality. It had not been opened, but he didn’t wait or care.

With the amount of bloodshed and the possibility of another cop being killed he opened the letter and read,
“Dear Ms. Rachelle Robinson, I hope this letter finds you alive. I say this because I really don’t know how much longer you can survive this. You put yourself into something that is way over your pretty little head. Even so, I can say the same thing for me. The important thing is that I want you to know that the person going around killing my former partners is not me. True, by wearing a mask it would leave room for doubt. However, that is the point. Someone is wearing the mask and killing because they want to frame me for this. Someone wants a freebie. I expect you to print this in your next article if you are alive. If you don’t, I will make sure you won’t be alive for the following week. If I am going to be framed and if it appears there is no way in proving it, then I have nothing to lose, right, Ms. Robinson? Our only intent was for the $5 million to return Debbie Lance. If I have to, I will come for you, and I won’t be wearing the mask. I will want you to know it’s me. With anticipation of your cooperation. Phillippe Smith. P.S. Have a nice day.

C
ronin picked his cell phone from his pocket, forgetting it was 2:30 am, and called FBI Special Agent O’Connor. He said, “Jack, meet me at 9:30 am if you can at
Port Jefferson Now
editorial offices. It’s in regard to the case. Oh, sorry, it’s 2:30 am. Having another one of my cops likely murdered will do that to you.” O’Connor volunteered to meet Cronin at the hospital, but the detective lieutenant declined. He said, “Get some sleep. See you in the morning.”

He walked back out to the kitchen, where there was an answering machine. He pushed the button and played back all the messages. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe one. It was Bud singing to Sherry, checking up on her at 11:30 pm. It seemed ordinary for Bud, though. As Detective Lieutenant Cronin left the house, he instructed two uniformed officers not to leave the house until they were relieved. There would be uniformed officers assigned at the house until the case was finished or, as he thought when he walked away,
till no one was left alive
. A morbid thought, but he was beginning to think it was a realistic possibility.

He got in his car and drove the short distance to Mather Hospital. He was sure that Suffolk County executive Marshall Collins would be there for another cop fallen in the line of duty. Even the chief of police might be there or on the way. Cronin walked in to the hospital and told some of the officers to make sure the press was controlled outside as word of the events spread. He was met in the hallway by Agent Sherman, who decided to stay up when he heard about the shooting.

“It’s pretty clear the murders and the kidnapping are all tied together,” Cronin said as he greeted the FBI agent.

“What about John Winters?” Sherman asked.

“What about him?” Cronin replied. “If we don’t find him soon, he will probably show up dead. Someone wearing the mask doesn’t want a trial; they want this to be over.”

Sherman responded, “The letter doesn’t mean Smith is not the killer. This could be his way of trying to frame others.”

“True,” Cronin replied, “but if he had killed Deborah Lance and Rachelle Robinson while he was killing his former partners, he wouldn’t have a hell of a lot of witnesses to worry about.”

Sherman continued the debate, saying, “Debbie Lance and Robinson never saw him anyway.”

Cronin came back at Sherman again. “He has done everything to show us he is a lowlife; he hasn’t done anything to show us he’s a killer except this letter on his intentions. It raises the question, doesn’t it? Which is what he wants anyway. We have to find John Winters before we find him in the gutter. One more thing,” he said to Sherman. “No one, and I mean no one, other than you is to know about this letter, understood?”

Sherman paused then replied, “Understood.”

Cronin found Bud and Paul outside of the surgery room and inquired as to her chances.

“We don’t know anything yet,” Bud replied.

Cronin looked over at Paul and asked, “Are you going to talk tonight?” His voice was heard throughout the wing.

“Yes,” Paul replied.

Cronin stepped in front of him and said, “I don’t have to remind you that you are involved in this up to your ass. The events that kicked this off were based on your theory.”

Paul shot back at the detective lieutenant, which he had never done before, saying, “Are you blaming me for this, or are you saying I kidnapped Deborah Lance and wanted all this to happen?”

Without missing a beat, Cronin came back, “I’m saying the turn of events after the kidnapping is based on your gut to figure this out. I’m also blaming myself. I let you run with this.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Paul interrupted him.

“Tell me, why?” Cronin questioned.

“If we had not drawn these assholes out they would have gotten the money and moved on to someone else after they killed the girl.”

“Yes!” Cronin yelled. “But we would not have had a dead cop and another one likely on her way.”

“No,” Paul yelled back, “this case most likely has stopped what would have gone on! The FBI had no leads that they told us about. This would not have been solved.”

“Paul,” Cronin replied, “our main witnesses are here in the hospital, and the killers are being eliminated by one of their own or someone else with a vengeance.”

“Someone else?” Bud finally spoke. Cronin pulled out the letter and let Paul and Bud read it.

“Do you believe it?” Cronin said to Paul. “Look at me, Detective. Do you believe after reading this letter that it’s bullshit or there is someone else playing vigilante behind the mask?”

“It’s one of two things,” Paul answered. “It’s Phil Smith trying to throw us off, or he doesn’t want to be framed for it. Whoever is doing it, it is clear they want us to believe it’s Phil.”

“Or,” Bud said, “whoever is doing it doesn’t really give a shit what we think and is just taking care of business.”

“Why?” Cronin remarked.

“We are going to find out,” Paul answered.

“Listen to me,” the detective lieutenant remarked. “I have a press conference in the morning, which is about five hours from now. I really don’t give a shit if you two never get shut-eye again. I want a report on the status of this given to me 45 minutes before I go on national television as to why this is happening. Have you spoken with Rachelle yet?”

“No,” Paul answered.

“If you find out anything, I want to know if she saw how Mason was killed and if the killer was wearing the mask. The same one, or a different one, and if the body type is the same that we saw on the hospital video and was described by Deborah Lance.”

“I know what to do,” Paul replied sarcastically. It was not in his nature, and Cronin was caught by surprise by his defensiveness.

“Paul, are you too close to this case? Is there something I need to know about your relationship with Rachelle? If you lie to me, I will make sure you’re suspended for 90 days. Tell me the truth, now.”

Paul looked at him straight in the eye and said, “The truth is we are friends, but I was and have been hoping for more. I care about her. That is the truth.”

Cronin paused and asked, “Can you handle this case?”

“Yes,” Paul replied.

“Listen,” Cronin said as he looked at both Bud and Paul. “I know this is different than anything we have ever worked on and maybe different than most cops have had to deal with, but if we don’t come through this and end this soon, it will be something that we regret forever, not to mention the disappointment we will carry with us. Now I need both of you to do what you have to do within the law to get this case over and out. Get with O’Connor and Sherman, and let’s put our heads together to find John Winters and Phil Smith. I need you guys to step up and be with me on this.”

As he started to walk away, Paul yelled, “Boss, can we make a copy of the letter? I think we should each have it on us.”

Cronin shook his head and gave it to Bud, saying, “Keep the letter to just the three of us right now, understood?” Cronin didn’t mention that Sherman knew about it and didn’t feel the need to tell them at that point.

As they waited in the hallway, Cronin asked one of the doctors if they had information on Officer Walker. He replied that they had given information to her husband about five minutes prior and that he was in a room set aside for immediate family in surgery.

“We are family also,” Cronin remarked.

The doctor simply replied, “Let me speak to her husband to see if he will come out and talk to you.”

Bud came back with the copy of the letter and gave the original back to Detective Lieutenant Cronin. Sherry Walker’s husband, Gabe, came out to greet the three cops. They all stood there waiting for him to speak, afraid to ask if she was going to make it.

Gabe took the cue and said, “She was lucky. The doctor told me many factors are going to save her life. The hospital being so close, her physical conditioning, and most important, the stab wound in the abdomen missed the abdominal artery. The fact that medical assistance came quickly to control bleeding is another factor.” A sigh of relief came over the detectives.

“Mr. Walker,” Cronin replied, “we are so pleased to hear this. We don’t know everything yet, but by the evidence, it’s likely she saved the life of Rachelle Robinson during the attack and intrusion of the house.”

Gabe shook his head and said, “Well, that’s Sherry. She’s always been a hero to me, and now she is to someone else.”

“Mr. Walker,” Cronin said as he turned to walk away, “I’m sure the mayor of Port Jefferson and the chief of police as well as fellow officers will be paying their respects to Officer Walker throughout the day. They won’t expect to be allowed to see her, but they will want be in the hospital to show support. I just wanted you to know, so you don’t feel bad about obligation to them. They understand, but a brother or sister in uniform in the hospital, they will want to be here to show support and respect.”

Gabe Walker shook his head and thanked Detective Lieutenant Cronin. He then said, “Maybe in a couple days, you can tell her yourself.”

“Count on it,” Cronin replied. “I’m going to get a couple hours sleep. See if you guys can find out anything here. Maybe take a nap for an hour or two while you’re waiting here.”

As he walked down the hall, Paul said he was going to Rachelle’s room. Bud decided to tag along before he went to see how Deborah Lance was coming along. They were told she would be released on Thursday, and Bud wanted to see the list of names who visited her while she was in the hospital. Paul and Bud flashed their badges at the two cops standing guard at the room. They nodded as they entered to see Rachelle sleeping, with Madison holding her hand, also asleep.

“We should wait,” Paul said. “We are going to be here all night anyway.”

As they turned around to walk out, Madison’s voice was heard saying, “It’s 3:00 in the morning.”

Paul and Bud turned around, and Paul said, “Sorry, Madison, we were just checking in on her.”

“You know,” Madison replied, “my sister’s life was a good one until the two of you got close.”

“Wait a minute,” Bud replied.

“No,” Paul said, “let her get it out of her system,” as he held up his hand to Bud.

Madison continued, “It’s one thing to be friends, but you got her involved in this, she was shot in the head, which could have killed her, and now she’s right back here again, scared out of her wits to even open her eyes. She’s going to need therapy, she’s so messed up right now. You know, Paul, I really don’t think you are healthy for my sister, and as you cops say, I have the evidence to back me up. My sister is everything to me, and I’m not going to let her get killed simply because she cares about you.”

“Madison,” Paul said gently.

“Don’t Madison me,” she replied. “Now I’m asking you to do your job, but I don’t want you hurting my sister anymore, and I’m not talking about emotional issues. You are not safe to be involved with.” She looked at Bud and said, “And that goes for you too; let my sister live a normal life.”

Paul answered her, “So this means you are going to ask her to stop writing articles that bring attention to herself?”

“You! You!” she pointed back. “You had her write the articles to begin with! I will speak to her, but please stay away from her unless you have a job to do.”

“We will need to speak with her as soon as she wakes up,” Bud replied. Madison started to walk back to Rachelle’s bedside.

“Let us do our job,” Bud said.

“You do your job,” Madison replied, “but stay away from her when this is over. I don’t want you around her, and if you want her safe, you will understand what I’m saying.”

She turned her head to look at Rachelle sleeping and brushed her hair off her forehead. Paul walked out the door and headed down to the café, which was not serving anything at 4:00 am, but he went there anyway. Bud gave him some space for a couple minutes and thought better of it and went to check on him. He walked in and saw something he never even thought would happen. It was Paul sitting at the table with his hands over his face. He could tell by the sounds coming through his hands that Paul was shedding tears. Bud was torn up seeing his partner in a state of tears, and he sat down across from him and just sat there. No words, no talk, but he was there for Paul if he wanted to talk. Bud let Paul have the next 20 minutes to shed tears and think about everything that had happened in the past week.

Finally he spoke, saying, “She’s right. I almost lost Rachelle twice in the past week because she has been with me.”

“Yes,” Bud said, “because she wanted to be with you. She wants to be a part of what you are and what you do because it’s what she has wanted to do. Don’t you get it? This is her choice. You didn’t force her to do anything. Everybody is a little emotional right now, but I will tell you this: you let Rachelle make the decision on her life. Not Madison, not you. She is going to do what she wants.”

Paul replied, “When I saw her frightened to death sitting in the corner of her room, my heart broke in two, which tells me that maybe Cronin is right, that my head is not clear on this. All I cared about was trying to hold her and protect her, and she wouldn’t let me touch her.”

Bud put his hand on Paul’s arm and said, “She wouldn’t let anyone touch her.”

“Yes,” Paul said, “but she looked at me and said, ‘Where were you?’ like I let her down. I want to just jump off a bridge somewhere, watching her eyes look at me and saying, ‘What took you so long to be here?’ I felt my heart being stabbed.”

He went on for another hour, talking to Bud about his life, his father, his years knowing Rachelle, his relationship with Cronin. For once, Bud was a rock. He was supportive and he was serious. The conversation changed subjects as Bud spoke about his childhood. Paul learned so much about his partner and why he, as they would say, “hides behind a clown’s face.”

“I needed humor to save myself,” Bud said. “My dad was an alcoholic; he would beat my mom when he had too much to drink. I tried to stop him a few times, but he would pummel me. One night, when I was 12 years old, I went into my parents’ bedroom with a baseball bat, and I swung as hard as I could. I hurt his arm, and he grabbed the bat from me and was ready to swing back when my mom started screaming while covering me. I pushed her away and said it was OK, that I was no longer afraid of him. He was a coward in my eyes. I knew I wanted to be a cop to put people like him away. I suppose he could have killed me if he wanted to, but he stopped. I guess when he realized I was no longer intimidated by him, he simply packed up and left. We never saw him again. I was close with my mom, and it was devastating to me when I lost her to cancer when I was 25. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. Anyway, humor has helped me get through school and my life after losing her. One thing I did get from my mom besides her fun approach to life was learning. We read so many crazy things. Not books like normal people, but things like, hmmmm, things you didn’t know about Long Island.”