The Squad Room (26 page)

“I’d just realized he was in on it the whole time,” McNamara said.

“Oh, God, it was perfect,” Morality said, wiping his eyes. “Just perfect. Laurel and Hardy—that was us, eh, Pat?”

“It sure was
that
day,” McNamara smiled. “But come on, Timmy, tell them the rest. You gotta give me some credit here!”

“Okay, okay. Truth be told, Pat was a good sport about the whole thing,” Morality went on. “And he felt a
lot
better when he ended up winning the pool for the biggest fish—two hundred bucks! He bought the whole bar later that night, when we got back.”

“Class act,” Rivera said.

“It certainly was,” Morality admitted. “I don’t know how he is with you guys, but back then, it was a grand gesture. Tommy Burke was always the guy buying, back then.” He drank off the rest of his beer in a gulp. “Gentlemen, I’d better be getting on my way,” he said, rising. “It’s been a pleasure, truly it has.”

“All right, Timmy Immorality,” McNamara said, rising for a bear
hug with his former partner. “Take good care, all right?”

“And you, big shot,” Morality said.

When he’d gone, the others looked around at each other, their hilarity settling. Morrison could see that past exploits hadn’t dominated all of the evening’s talk. As the others looked on expectantly, McNamara turned to him to open up the conversation.

“Cap,” he said, clearing his throat, “since these guys are all veterans, and still involved with the military through various organizations, I asked them to dig into that matter we spoke about. I thought you might want to talk it over tonight.”

“Great,” Morrison said. “You all know, of course,” he said to the others, “this has to be of the utmost confidentiality. If you’d rather not do it, I completely understand.”

The other three nodded their heads silently. Nobody was bowing out.

“All right, then,” he said. “All of you served our country—two in the Army and one in the Marines, right?”

Garriga, sitting between O’Dell and Rivera, gave the other two jabs to the ribs. “That’s why they call it ‘The Few and the Proud,’” he laughed. “Most folks have to settle for the Army.”

“Oh, sure, it’s real selective, with guys like you in there,” Rivera laughed back. “Were you a steer or a queer in boot camp?”

“All right now,” Morrison said, knowing this kind of ribbing could continue all night. “Serious business, now.”

O’Dell’s face grew serious. “Cap, I served proudly in the Army, and still have family in the service. I want to make sure this guy is for real, and I have no problem calling everyone I know who can help us. If we’re wrong, okay; but if we’re right, I want you to know it’ll probably open up a pretty huge can of worms.”

Morrison understood exactly what he was talking about. If their suspicions about Galipoli were correct, the question of how he’d slipped past the applicant processing system and made it this far on the job could take them all the way up the ranks.

“I understand that,” he said curtly. “I’m willing to deal with those developments. Now how do you suggest we go about it?”

“We’ll need to start by getting his DD-214, which should show all his deployments,” O’Dell said. “Then we’ll need to track down some people from his old unit and see what they can tell us about him.”

“I’ve got a friend in Applicant Processing who might be able to help with his original folder,” Garriga said.

“Yeah, me too,” nodded Rivera.

“Good,” said Morrison. “Let’s start by talking to them.”

“I assume we’re going to be keeping this to ourselves?” O’Dell asked. “No Internal Affairs?”

“Yeah, I want to stay away from Internal Affairs for now,” Morrison said. “I’d like for us to clean up our own house here, as much as possible.”

“Then let’s try our friends one at a time,” Rivera said. “That way we won’t attract attention with it. You guys talk to Garriga’s friend, and if you strike out, we’ll call mine. She’s good with computers.”

Pat McNamara snickered knowingly. “She still talks to you? I thought you two had a falling out.”

“Yeah, she was mad for a while,” Rivera admitted, “but who can resist this face?”

They all laughed.

“All right, guys,” Morrison said. “I’ll leave the first round to you. Anyone who gets any information, make sure you call me right away. I don’t care what time it is—
call me.
I have a bad feeling about this guy, and I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m right, we need to know as soon as possible. Now I’m going to grab another drink. Anyone need anything?”

The others didn’t, so he made his way to the bar alone. He’d just ordered when he felt a big arm around his neck and a kiss on the top of his head.

“Hey, Cap!”

It was Simmons. He was obviously wasted—surprising, considering that Simmons never got drunk normally.

“Boss, you’re the best,” he slurred, loosening his hold on Morrison’s
neck. “Everyone who ever work’ for you loves you, man.”

Morrison laughed. “I know, Andre. And it’s mutual—you guys are my family.”

“You see? Thass what I’m talking about. You really care about your people, we can tell. We can all tell. Thass what keeps this team so tight.” Simmons made a web of his fingers and clenched them together demonstratively, concentrating hard on them. Then he leaned in close, suddenly serious. “Everyone except that fuck Galipoli,” he said vehemently.
“That
guy’s no team player.”

“I know it, man,” Morrison laughed, rolling his eyes at the constant theme but not wanting to expose his own suspicions too far. “He’s just different. I don’t know, though—maybe it’s his time in the service.”

“Ha! Well, it ain’t that,” Simmons scoffed. He lowered his voice. “It sure ain’t that. Cap, his time in the service is bullshit—Dave O’Malley said so.”

“Oh yeah?” Morrison said, perking up. “What’d O’Malley say about him?”

“Well, it was a few weeks ago,” Simmons said, nodding somberly. “Dave was stopping by the squad room after an arrest, and Galipoli, that fuck, he’s juss talking about ’mself—talking up his time in the military, what he done there, you know, putting the res’ of us down for not serving, that kind of thing. He didn’t see Dave when Dave came in, so Dave just stands there, listen’ to him for a few minutes. He was in the air cavalry, you know—the patch with the horse on it and the stripe across it, like that guy from
Apocalypse Now
, Ronnie somebody—”

“Right,” Morrison said, eager to hear the point. “And what’d Dave say?”

“Dave said the shit Galipoli was saying was all wrong. He told Lou he was
full-of-shit”
—he emphasized these words with jabs of his finger against his palm—“about his tour of duty in Iraq. He said that, right to his face.”

“What’d Galipoli say?”

“Well, thass the funny thing,” Simmons laughed. “Galipoli didn’
say anything—he just got up and walked out the room, like he just got caught lying to his parents or some’m.”

“You don’t say,” Morrison said, feeling a thrill of vindication. “That’s interesting—I may need to talk to O’Malley about that.”

“Oh, yeah, you should,” Simmons said. He tapped his ear. “He’ll give you a
earful!”

“Thanks, Andre; you may have made my night.”

“All in a day’s work, Sir—!”

Simmons made an attempt to stand up straight and salute, tipping comically to one side in his eagerness. Both men laughed.

“How’re you getting home tonight, anyway, buddy?” Morrison asked, holding him up.

“Oh, I’m takin’ a cab tonight, don’t worry,” Simmons assured him. “I don’t want to ride no subway like this—definitely no car.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Morrison smiled, and meant it. In the past, cops generally got a pass if they were pulled over for driving with a few in them; but there’d been far too many tragedies as a result, and those days were long gone.

“Oh, sure,” Simmons slurred. “Fact, I think it’s just about time for me to get going—I’m startin’ to feel a bit buzzed.” They laughed again.

“All right, then, Simmons,” Morrison said, helping him with his coat. “Get home safe. And thanks again for the info about Galipoli—I’ll be sure to check that out.”

29

Tina Koreski was already in the office the next morning when Morrison emerged from the bunk room at 0800. The celebration at Kelley’s had gone late, and aside from Medveded, who was always early no matter what, Morrison was surprised to see anyone there on time. Detectives’ days generally don’t end on time, so their starting times had a bit of leeway too. But Koreski was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and got up to follow him to his office.

“Hey, Cap, before everyone comes in, I’d like to have a quick word with you, if I might,” she said.

“Sure, Tina, come on in,” he said, filling his coffee cup on the way in. He reached into the file cabinet behind his desk for the bottle of Jameson, thought about it, then put the bottle back unopened. Maybe Claudia really
was
making a difference. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to thank you for the other day,” she said, “for giving me a shot.”

He smiled. “I think I should be the one thanking
you
for the other day,” he said. “You said you had a feeling about Rutherford, and you were right. I should’ve listened to you the first time, and given you the first crack at him—I don’t think anyone else could have gotten him to talk the way you did.”

“I appreciate that, Cap—it means a lot to me that you felt I did a good job. You know, I actually surprised myself that night; there were a couple of times I wanted to puke just being so close to that piece of shit. But I was surprised—I held it together.”

“That’s an understatement, Koreski. You impressed everyone that night. And I’ll admit,” he added, “I’m glad the sicko gets to suffer the indignity of you taking him down physically on top of that. It’s typical of these cowards who prey on the weak—they talk a big game when they think you’re weaker, but when they’re faced with someone who can handle themselves, they crumble like
that
.” He snapped his fingers. “And you really handled yourself well, Detective.”

She nodded. “Thanks, Cap,” she said quietly. “It means a lot.”

“Good. Now get back to work, will you?” he said good-naturedly. “We want to make sure these assholes don’t see the outside of a prison for a good long time.”

“Yes sir,” she smiled on her way out.

Despite the general good mood that prevailed over Rutherford and Anderson’s arrest, the day moved along at a pretty hectic pace. Everyone was working on one aspect of the case or another—banging on computer keyboards, putting in phone calls, and meticulously going over each and every Detective Follow-up Report produced throughout the case. The two suspects would eventually be extradited from Boston to New York to face charges, and as always, every
i
in the case file needed to be dotted and every
t
crossed before it could be brought to the District Attorney for court preparation.

With the suspects behind bars, the city was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Captain Morrison, on the other hand, was far from relaxed. The evidence against their guys having committed the fourth homicide was very compelling, so he’d tasked Detective Medveded—whose paperwork was long since done—to revisit everything they had on it, particularly those aspects it shared with the first three murders that were reported on in the media. The similarities were striking; and if it turned out that
these details were nowhere to be found in the public record, they might readily assume their third killer had had some more intimate connection with the crimes or their perpetrators.

Morrison wondered if they’d missed something. Had they pressed those two in Boston hard enough on a possible third suspect? He was sure Anderson would have told Medveded everything he knew, but Rutherford was another story—he only lost his cool long enough to implicate himself; once he’d calmed down, he’d kept his mouth shut. Even given everything he’d told them, there was no way of knowing what he hadn’t—
if
he’d known. The more disturbing implication was that if it
hadn’t
been done by an accomplice of the other two, the crime may have originated with a stranger who simply had access to the case—in other words, someone on the inside. Morrison’s team was good, one of the best; but no matter how strong the gag order is, cops talk—especially to fellow cops—and who knew who’d talked to whom.

He was shaken out of the thought by a hurried knock at the door. Rivera poked his head in.

“Cap, we got another one,” he said. “Female, late thirties—she didn’t show up to work today, and her coworker went to check on her and found her dead with the apartment door open.”

“Fuck,” Morrison said. “Where?”

“Thirtieth and Park.”

“Shit—that’s only nine blocks from the last one. Not good, Frankie. Who do we have who isn’t busy right now?”

Rivera shook his head. “Nobody,” he said, “but Koreski, Medveded, and Garriga are heading over to the scene already.”

“All right, let’s get out there, then,” Morrison said, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll drive.”

The building on Thirtieth was a small one, only four stories, set back about seventy-five feet from Park Avenue South. It had a four-foot-high wrought-iron gate leading to the front door. As they pulled up in front, Rivera pointed to a building across the street.

“Doorman over there,” he said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and the guys on
that
door will have seen something. I’ll head over and talk to the guy on duty now, see if he can give me the name of the overnight guy for now—I doubt our copycat would have worked in daylight.”

“All right, sounds good,” Morrison agreed. “Grease ’em if you have to. I’ll see you up there.”

He headed through the iron gate and was greeted at the front door by a uniformed officer, who pointed him up to the second floor. The door to the street-facing apartment was ajar. Morrison found Detective Williams from Crime Scene in the hallway, bagging evidence.

“Well, hello again, Otis,” Morrison said. “What have we got here?”

“A mess, to start with,” Williams answered. “Whoever did this likes doing it, and definitely
doesn’t
like women. Even more so than the others, I mean.”