Ken Bergman frequently came in on Saturdays to clear up the past week’s paperwork, to review payroll, and to work on his dissertation. Then he’d shower and head out on a date or hit the clubs in Huntington. Sometimes, during the summer, he’d quit early and drive out to the Hamptons. The truth was, he came in on Saturdays because of blind hope. Marla often came into her office late on Saturday afternoons to clear up paperwork or have a few sessions with residents whose weekly work schedules sometimes interfered with their regular meetings.
So it was that Bergman sat listening to Marla’s voice through the paper thin walls. It wasn’t an especially pretty voice, but there was something so calm, so comforting about it that he longed to have it comfort him, to tell him everything would be okay as Marla herself rocked him in her arms. Ken did all right for himself. He had professorial good looks and had his rap down. But love had long eluded him. Yet from the first day Marla walked into his office, he was certain he would have sacrificed everything for her. He could hear Donna’s nasal voice through the wall as well. Whatever she and Marla had worked on yesterday already had positive results. Donna seemed to be back to her old self.
The group home manager was so pleased, so caught up in his daydream that when the front bell rang, he simply reached back and buzzed whoever it was in. He heard heavy footfalls in the hallway outside his door and looked back at the security monitors. There was an unfamiliar man at the door holding something in his right hand. Christ, Ken thought squinting at the monitor, is that a gun? He picked up the phone, but before he could dial 911, he heard Marla scream.
Bergman burst through his office door, colliding with a larger man. The force of the impact knocked both of men to the floor, the intruder’s head smacking hard into the opposite wall. An automatic pistol, likely jarred loose by the collision, lay on the floor by the big man’s work boots. Bergman began to reach for it when he noticed Marla pulling Donna toward the front door.
“Not that way!” Ken screamed. “There’s another one out there. Go for the back door.”
“You little fuck,” the big man, no longer stunned, growled at Bergman.
His opportunity to disarm the intruder gone, Bergman scrambled to his feet and ran after Marla and Donna.
“Everyone stay in their rooms! Stay in your rooms!” he screamed as his ran. He ran with his arms flailing and his legs far apart so as to keep as much of himself between the armed man and the fleeing women. As he turned the hall corner, he caught sight of Marla and Donna at the opposite end of that hall. One more turn, a few more steps, and they’d be out the backdoor.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bergman was laying face down on the carpet before he heard the third bullet whistle over his head. He knew he had been shot, but strangely, luckily, he thought, there was no pain. Bergman thought himself lucky until he tried to move and nothing moved except the blood filling his lungs. He waited for the shooter to come up behind him, to feel the cold muzzle against the back of his head, but did not hear his footsteps.
“Pavel,” he heard someone yell as the front door clicked open. “Pavel, boy, go around the back. The back, goddammit!”
Bergman wondered if that was a Georgia or Florida accent. It’s funny what a dying man thinks about. Then his bizarre final thoughts were interrupted by footsteps, but they were coming from the wrong direction and they were far too quiet to be a man’s.
“Kenny, Kenny,” Marla whispered to him, straining to turn him over. She cradled him in her arms, his blood covering the both of them. “Kenny,” she stroked his hair. “Don’t worry, everything will be all right. It’ll be okay.”
He died with a crooked smile on his face that Marla would never quite understand.
“Come on, bitch!”
A huge hand grabbed her by the hair and fairly lifted her out from beneath Bergman’s lifeless torso.
Serpe could see the road flares ahead and that deathly sick feeling returned as he approached the two Suffolk County blue and whites blocking Union Avenue. A bored looking cop tried waving him away, but it would take considerably more than a wave to make him leave. Joe put his car in park and popped out the driver’s side door. If you ever want to get a cop’s attention, challenge his authority.
“Sir,” the cop said in a less than friendly tone. “You’ll have to move your vehicle and-”
“I’m the one who called this in.”
“Yeah, right. What are you, another fucking reporter?”
In spite of his desperation and near panic, Joe did not want to risk flashing his illegal shield now unless he absolutely had to. Back in the city, they have short memories. They’d have already moved on. No one was going to hunt him down for using questionable tactics in an emergency. But a prick like Detective Hoskins would shove that shield up his ass before having him thrown in lockup. On the other hand, Serpe didn’t have time to debate.
“Is Detective Hoskins on the scene?”
“Who?”
Serpe had had enough. He bolted between the two blue and whites and took off in a wild sprint. He could hear the two cops behind him, but did not look back to see. He had already done enough looking back in his lifetime.
“Freeze, motherfucker!” one cop, the one he’d spoken to, ordered.
“Stop now! Right now!” the other cop screamed.
But Joe would not stop, could not stop. His legs moved involuntarily. He did not see the road ahead of him, the whirling cherry tops, or strobes. All he could see was Marla, her slight body covered in blood, her intense brown eyes staring up at him, silently asking why me.
He was getting close now. There were blue and whites everywhere, unmarked cars, an ambulance, a crime scene van. Cops huddled in small groups, some drinking coffee. Joe’s heart was pounding, his throat dry. He strained to breathe, the stitch in his side ripping him apart.
“Stop him!” one of the cops called out from behind him. “Get him down!”
But cops are not that much different than anyone else. In groups they are slower to react: looking, hesitating, waiting for the next guy to do something. Mostly, they looked confused. Some stirred, a few going for the sidearms. None committed to going after Serpe.
His legs wobbly, he fell across the crime scene tape like a runner at the finish of a marathon. Now the cops moved. His hands were cuffed behind his back.
“Hoskins! Kramer!” Serpe cried out, unable to hold down the desperation another second. “Hoskins! Kramer! I need to speak to either Detective Hoskins or Detective Kramer!”
Skilled hands moved along his body, patting him down, checking for concealed weapons, identification, etc. At least Joe had had the presence of mind to tuck Healy’s Glock under the front seat of his rental before getting out to talk to the cop on the Belt Parkway. He knew the sight of his shield would be enough to get that guy’s attention. That it did. Within five minutes the Suffolk County PD had been notified and Joe had a cherry top, siren blowing escort to the Nassau county line.
“Holy shit, Dom,” the uniform who frisked him said. “This guy’s an NYPD detective. You better see if there’s a Detective Hoskins or Kramer on scene.”
They pulled Serpe up to his feet and let him lean against one of the blue and whites, but didn’t uncuff him. That would be the detectives’ call. They got the glory, let them have the headaches. Joe was well acquainted with the attitude.
“Well, look who the fuck it is, Kramer,” Hoskins said too loudly as he and his partner strolled over to Serpe. “We told you to keep your nose outta our shit, didn’t we?”
“This isn’t your shit, Hoskins. This has got nothing to do with gangs.”
“Tell it to someone who give a rat’s ass, Serpe. How do you have the balls to carry that shield with you, you piece of shit?”