He’d know soon enough.
His dreams were troubled, Shea in a Nam jacket, the music of Hendrix blasting behind him, and a black figure, in the smoke, never quite emerging but oozing malice and menace... Nora was right there, saying in Irish, Sin scéal eile... that’s another story.
He was up way before the alarm, felt the cold seep through his bones and figured he’d been too long in Miami. He wondered anew how he’d tramped those same streets for eight months, he brewed some coffee, at least the damn sparse room had that, and grabbed a fast, tepid shower, then dressed for warmth. Poured his coffee into a mug that held the logo:
CHRISTIANS ARE DOING IT FOR THEMSELVES.
He muttered... duh?
He sat, sipped at the steaming coffee and took a bite out of a stale doughnut, cop legacy.
Read through most of his notes and then the doubt surfaced, as it always did, was he up to it?
How would it be if he got face-to-face with Shea... the guy who’d more than likely strangled his sister... and his hands began to shake?
He said,
“Fucking marvelous.”
Shea, to see a tremble in his hands, that would be just hunky dory. He suddenly remembered a visit to a death row inmate, some five years back, the guy had been convicted of murdering three children in a horrendous fashion and was due to be executed in two weeks. Joe had been corresponding with him for over a year, doing a series of articles on the last weeks of death row inmates. The guy, named Sutton, had finally agreed to see him.
Joe, a prison pro by then, had brought along the requisite candies, smokes, and gum, those guys loved to chew.
Sutton had been led into the room in manacles, the orange jumpsuit and two guards along. Took him a moment to get seated due to the chains, then he stared at Joe, asked,
“How yah doing?”
Joe was thrown, rallied.
“Um, pretty good.”
And barely stopped short of asking him how he was doing.
Jesus.
Joe pushed the goodies over and Sutton nodded, said,
“These homies gonna be firing me up in a few weeks.”
Joe could never be sure but it seemed as if a smile passed between the guards. He took out his recorder, asked if Sutton minded and as long as he lived, he’d never forget the smile on Sutton’s face as he said, in a very friendly tone,
“Do whatever you gotta do, bro, but trust me on this, you ain’t never gonna forget this here... chat.”
Joe, going by his usual rote, asked,
“How’s the clemency plea progressing?”
Sutton, a smile curling on his lip, said,
“You been misinformed, hoss, else you ain’t done your damn homework.”
Joe, flustered, angry too, had he screwed up? Tried:
“They’ve turned it down?”
And Sutton let out a thin laugh, not like any laugh Joe had ever heard, more like a thin dribble of hysteria, said,
“I didn’t apply for no clemency, hoss.”
And Joe, like an idiot echo, went,
“You didn’t?’
Sutton, with some difficulty, turned around in his seat, looked at the guards as if to say,
“You believe this shit?”
Then back to Joe, said,
“I done killed those kids, why in tarnation I be seeking mercy?”
Joe, accustomed to pleas of innocence, angry rebuttals, said,
“You don’t deny it?”
And got that horrible mockery of laughter again, Sutton said,
“Damn straight, not only did I kill ’em, I enjoyed it and gimme a shot, I’d be out there, doing ’em all over again... Fire me up another smoke, hoss.”
Joe had forgotten all his journalistic distance, his honed skills, simply asked,
“You... enjoyed... hurting... children?”
Sutton stared at him, then said,
“You better get a grip, hoss, you hope to stay in this line of business, it’s who I am, what I am... I fess up... but you, mistah... who are you?”
Then Sutton shouted to the guards,
“Git me the hell outa here, this guy is some kind of amateur night and I’m missing American Idol.”
One of the guards whispered to Joe as they left,
“You sure you’re cut out for this line of work?”
Joe learned from that, learned well, cut yourself off from the task in hand, it’s a job, you’re a pro and do it... professionally.
When Sutton was executed, Joe drank three shots of Jameson to mark each of the three children and said as toast to Sutton,
“May you roast in hell.”
And meant it.
The private terror of the liberal spirit is invariably suicide, not murder.
Twenty-Two
Things had been going so well, I’m Irish, I should have known that shite was coming.
Rodriguez seemed to have his lazy smile in place all the time and I asked,
“What’s with the smile, you know some private joke I don’t?”
He was chewing on that damn stick as usual and he said,
“Lots of jokes you don’t get, boss.”
The fuckhead, one of these days, I’d see about cashing in his chips, I smiled back, asked,
“Try me?”
He moved off from the wall in that languid way he had, said,
“Naw, it’s more like a black thing, you dig?”
It had been his idea to recruit cops from different precincts, unofficially of course, get a network in place, throw some payola their way and cover our arses. I got a call from a guy down in the Seventh, name of Jay, took me a moment to figure out who he was and as I did, he said,
“Houston, we got a problem.”
Jesus... cops.
I said,
“Spit it out.”
He told me about a journalist who was reinvestigating the strangling and the whole Kebar scenario, claimed he was doing a book. I wasn’t concerned, journalists came at this every so often, I’d meet with them, give them my neon charm and apparently access to all areas, get their endorsement, truth is, I kind of enjoyed it, fucking with these hotshots. Jay said,
“This guy used to be on the job, was my partner for a time.”
Now, I relaxed, ex-cop, perfect, I said,
“No biggie, what’s your problem?”
He paused, then:
“He’s Nora’s brother.”
Took me a moment to get it, then kept my voice level and asked,
“So?”
“He wants to meet with you, I thought you should be prepared.”
I glanced up at Rodriguez, who was definitely interested, then said,
“I’d be glad to meet with him, any relation of Nora’s... makes him, like, family.”
Yeah, like dead family.
Then Jay said,
“He won’t know you know who he is.”
I focused, then said:
“Thanks, Jay, and we may have something real sweet coming your way.”
He protested,
“There’s no need, boss, I just wanted to keep you in the frame.”
Dumb fuck, like there was a cop on the planet didn’t want something, I said,
“Consider it an early Christmas bonus.”
And hung up.
I outlined the call to Rodriguez, who mulled it over, then said,
“Let him come on in, see what he’s got.”
I said,
“Why the hell not.”
Rodriguez took off to do some background on the journalist, one of his real talents is finding dirt.
The journalist’s call came in just before noon and he sounded affable, laid-back, shooting me the line about his book, and would it be possible to have a meet, get my take on the whole saga?
Jesus, he was full of it.
I was equally smarmy and said,
“I’m always available to the press and hey, I’m having lunch in an Irish pub on Park Avenue and Thirty-eighth... you want to join me, we could do a relaxed interview, you guys like the odd brew, am I right?”