Blood in the Streets, page 1
A POST HILL PRESS BOOK
ISBN: 978-1-64293-063-4
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-64293-064-1
Blood in the Streets
© 2018 by Dion Baia
All Rights Reserved
Cover design by Cody Corcoran
This book is a work of historical fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and characters aside from the actual historical figures are products of the author’s imagination. While they are based around real people, any incidents or dialogue involving the historical figures are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or commentary. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Post Hill Press
New York • Nashville
posthillpress.com
Published in the United States of America
Contents
The End
Seven Days Prior
Frank Suchy
Monday
Tuesday
Downtown
December 9, 1967
Wednesday
Thursday
The Funeral
Saturday
August 30, 1970
Evening
Midnight
12:37 a.m.
Union Station
Acknowledgments
About the Author
THE END
“One…”
With so much rage locked up inside, Frank was deranged, driven crazy by an unfamiliar psychotic madness. Every option seemed rational, even the irrational. What was more, he couldn’t control it. He literally saw red. He sensed all the blood in his head flowing straight into his temples and forehead, causing his mind to almost boil over, like it was about to explode and spew out into the air all the anger, desperation, and revenge he wrestled to keep locked away deep inside of him. The cold steel of his .357 service revolver did not give as he squeezed the handgrip harder than he ever thought possible, desperately trying to vent some of the fury out of his body.
Yet all it did was transfer the pressure out and down the long barrel and make the kid’s sweaty forehead he had it pressed up against turn bone white.
In the background, the needle of the record player skipped around at the center of the LP that spun lazily on the turntable’s platter, projecting a crackling static of mechanical white noise into the sonorous, dingy, pre-war apartment. So many thoughts bounced around like tennis balls in Frank’s head, questions:
What should my next decision here be, really? What then, if I choose to let this kid go, and then this savage subsequently slips through the cracks and escapes justice? Can I live with that? Live with myself? And honestly, should I even bother to care about my own wellbeing at this point? Every time he closed his eyes it all returned to haunt him.
Frank was on the dark side of the moon now, his mind set to autopilot.
“Two…”
What now, asshole?
The answer to that question may determine if Frank lived or died tonight. Or if the kid on his knees in front of him kept breathing after the count of three, or if the back of this cunt’s head would add a little color to the wall of this shitty little apartment.
Frank’s life no longer mattered. He knew that, and it didn’t bother him; he just didn’t want this little mope here to hire a fancy lawyer and get off unpunished. It was more than this piece of shit deserved. But if he didn’t get the answer to where this murderer was right now by the count of three, well, he was going to ventilate this asshole in a heartbeat. Full stop.
The broken glass shards in the shag rug from the shattered coffee table crunched underneath his dress shoes as Frank shifted his weight. It was the rage guiding him now. The blind fury, the hate, the loathing for whoever did this, and their complete lack of empathy, even now at this late stage in the game, when they were called on it. Someone with this blatant disregard for life didn’t deserve to live.
Frank’s grip tightened on the weapon, his trigger finger danced on the lever, testing the play that the apparatus had within its action.
“Three.”
Could he do it? Should he do it? COULD he really do it, though, really?
Frank closed his eyes, exhaled, and calmly unloaded the .357, unable to escape the deafening successive reports confined inside the large room.
SEVEN DAYS PRIOR
Saturday, October 11, 1976
Dawn
The bright, sobering sun shone down upon East Rock Mountain in such a way that it perfectly silhouetted the city of New Haven in a warm orange hue directly below, making the harbor and Long Island Sound that lay just beyond glimmer as though millions and millions of tiny diamonds had been tossed across her choppy waves for all to see. Frank Suchy gazed out from the parking lot of the observation area down at the autumn foliage which camouflaged and hid the city and suburbs below, thinking to himself how tranquil it all looked. It made him think of when he came up here with his mother as a boy. How fun life used to be, how none of the real world was known to a child. Oh, how he envied those days. As fast as one of the twinkles of light reflecting off the water in the harbor faded, though, so did those memories leave his mind.
Frank was in his late thirties, and as he liked to say, his body was starting to ‘creak.’ That was the just deserts of being active and athletic in his youth. Frank wore his light brown hair long nowadays, just beginning to curl over his ears. He frowned, and his hand instinctively went to stroke the bushy moustache that used to inhabit the space below his nose, which he momentarily forgot he’d shaven off the night before.
His eyes wanted to shift their gaze toward the park and river that was at the southwest base, bordering the suburb of Hamden. He never drove past there anymore and had completely erased it from his mind, but being this far up the mountain, that particular wooded area was kind of hard to ignore. It was one of those things where, the more he tried to remove it from his head, the bigger of a black dot it was on the landscape, beckoning him to look over. It took all of his strength to instead ignore that little voice that was in the back of his head, daring him to gaze over. Much like it did with him and the old bug. But alas, a noise brought his mind back to why he was now up here on such a beautiful morning. It was his team’s turn to be up.
Frank turned back to the small row of parking spaces that abutted the lookout area and his eyes found the dark lime green Ford LTD Country Squire. He bent over and stuck his head into the car via the passenger-side window, the broken glass of which littered the pavement below and crackled under his feet. What was left of the victim’s skull on the passenger side was starting to attract the nighthawks of the insect world, looking for a quick meal. The shotgun blast took off about three-quarters of the young man’s head, leaving the bottom jaw, the right cheek, right eye, and ear, and what looked to be maybe his medulla oblongata. Everything else now decorated the vinyl back seat and ceiling liner of the LTD. A glance at the tableau was all Frank needed. He removed his head from the window and looked over the scene.
Pellet marks were present on the shattered windshield as well as on the front hood and right fender. Frank stepped back, trying to gauge how close the gunman could have been to inflict so much devastation on his victim. He peered over to the driver’s side and at the open door. A trail of blood slithered away from the Country Squire, toward the mountain’s towering bronze and red granite Soldiers and Sailors monument, erected to honor those local residents who fought in the country’s early wars of the seventieth and eightieth century. The blood trail reached thirty feet, where it halted in the two-lane road and connected to a much larger pool of dark, coagulated blood.
Even as high up on a mountain as this one, maybe the most remote place in New Haven, a crowd could still be attracted. People were already two deep behind the yellow police tape, smelling out the crime and looking on at every movement the New Haven Police Department made. It could make a man nervous being under a microscope like he and the force were these days, but Frank was used to it now and in some weird way, after all these years, he was still fascinated by it.
“Gun wavin’ New Haven,” he muttered to himself.
A young uniformed officer, or blue suit, as they were called, crossed into his line of sight, blocking his view from the gathering crowd. The rookie looked down at his notes, like he was gathering the courage to brief a superior for the first time.
“Talk to me…” Frank’s eyes darted down to the officer’s nameplate that glimmered in the sun, “…McCurdy. Whatcha got?”
The officer nervously flicked a page. “Well, um, Sergeant,” he hesitated, “a radio car pulled through here at about five a.m. and found the driver, a male identified by a Connecticut State license on his person as Matthew Hallwell, lying about thirty-six feet from the car. He’d passed out after dragging himself away from the scene. He was taken to Saint Ray’s and is reported to be in critical but stable condition, suffering from multiple laceration wounds from the buckshot he received from a shotgun. We have not been able to get a statement from him thus far. The vehicle is registered to a Louis and Debra Brighton of Hamden.” The officer unconsciously gestured with his pad north, toward the bordering town of the same name which was vi
One of Frank’s partners, Graham Birdsall, a dusty-haired detective who had been with Frank since 1972, walked around from the back of the car with his notepad in hand.
“You think they were up here in lover’s lane necking or something?” Graham inquired. Frank glanced back down to the victim in the car and at the guy’s black leather pants which were unbuttoned, exposing his genitalia.
“Whatever gave you that idea, Graham?” Frank asked rhetorically.
“I guess the fact this has been a hangout after dark for all kinds, queens included, for years now really kind of gave it away,” Graham answered back, half grinning.
“The victim who was taken to the hospital,” the rookie said, “his pants were undone and his joint, um, penis was exposed as well.”
Frank smirked. “Well, there you go, Officer, you got this thing half solved.” He winked at Graham.
McCurdy chuckled to himself and glanced back down at his notes.
“You may be right, though,” Frank said. “Their sexual preference could very well be a motive here. It looks like the VIC here took the brunt of the impact, judging from the damage on the windshield and fender of the Ford.” He took a step back. “It would appear our killer was standing about here, and it looks as if our victims had no warning, so maybe the perp watched for a little while before taking it to the next level.”
Frank looked around on the ground. “No shell casings,” he muttered. “Why haven’t the lab guys arrived yet?”
The officer stole a glance at his watch. “Last we heard they were stuck in traffic up on the Wilbur Cross Parkway, near Oakdale, sir. That’s why we didn’t touch John Doe here, we were waiting on them.”
“What are they doing way the hell up there?” Frank snorted. “Taking in a seminar?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant,” McCurdy replied. “Hopefully they’ll be here any minute now.”
“Okay. Go make sure the perimeter is secure. When they do get here, have them check those bushes over there for any signs of disturbance. Maybe our mope likes to watch first. Graham, you were up, so you take the lead on this one.”
“Okay.”
“I think you and I are gonna have to carefully move this body to see if he’s got any ID in his back pockets, which will be fun with rigor set in,” he said to Graham.
Frank looked down at the body in the passenger seat, wondering if the guy even had back pockets with leather pants.
“Get Joe and Randy into the loop too.” Frank started around the car toward Graham, speaking about the two other detectives that filled out the five-man unit.
“Joe’s already on his way to the hospital to sit with the victim, in case he wakes.”
“Wow, Spinall’s up early today then?” Frank said with a smirk. “Great.” He looked over to the young rookie. “And good job, McCurdy.”
McCurdy smiled at the compliment before turning away and starting to leave. Graham grinned at Frank and nodded as if to tell his partner to watch.
“How long have you been out of the academy, Officer?” Graham queried.
“Um, about a month now, Detective, uh, sir,” McCurdy answered with the respect one gives to a commanding officer.
“Remember the three rules they tell you as a rookie?”
“Oh shit, I know this,” the Youngblood said, stumped.
“Check the receivers on the call boxes when you use ‘em, ‘cause kids like to put dog shit on them. Don’t let children wear your hat unless you wanna run the risk of getting lice. And don’t walk too close to the buildings in the projects because people sometimes like to drop bricks on our heads. Okay?” Graham smiled at him.
“Thank you for the advice, sir.”
Frank put a hand on the rookie’s shoulder. “He’s no ‘sir.’ And good work, officer.”
The Youngblood put his pad in his pocket and headed toward the police tape that was dragged over the bushes disguising the entrance to a footpath.
Frank turned toward Graham. “They didn’t tell me that in the academy.”
“Well, times are a-changing.”
“Fair point.” Frank sighed. “Okay, Graham, let’s see if this guy has back pockets and pray he hasn’t been incontinent yet.”
FRANK SUCHY
Sunday Morning, October 12, 1976
A mist hung low on the grassy hills. The wet dew gave the slanting terrain and surrounding forest a glossy sheen, provided by the glare of a low-hanging morning sun that lingered just above the tops of the trees. Gradually, the far-off purr of an engine came into earshot long before a vehicle was in view.
A Ford GT40 Mark 3 shot around the corner and started up the long straightaway at lightning speed, the biggest one at the racetrack. The hammer was slammed to the floor and the metallic baby blue car was temporally shielded from view by the sloping hills, popped up again, then vanished a moment later. When the GT40 rounded the corner, the driver shifted gears and the tires skirted the track’s slick edge, audibly making itself known as the rubber hit the dirt and zipped back onto the asphalt. The Mark 3 again shifted in a loud protest into the next gear, sending it dangerously fast toward the upcoming curves. Yet the car was kept on the road and expertly controlled.
It came around the last turn and hit the straightaway that led to the finish line. Within seconds, it sailed across and decelerated.
An older, bearded man who was watching the exhibition checked his watch, put his hands in his pockets, and shook his head disapprovingly. The Ford slowed and made a U-turn and lazily started back toward the finish line. The gray-haired man combed his beard with his long, bony fingers and walked out from the pit to meet the baby blue Mark 3. The vehicle coasted to a stop.
Stepping out, Frank removed his black helmet and unzipped his leather racing jacket. He frowned again as his bottom lip instinctively still went to touch the bushy moustache he’d shaved off. He tossed the helmet on the seat and greeted his mentor, Vincent Channing, ex-NYPD Homicide Detective First Grade, five years retired now. Along with sharing a career, they both were fascinated with fast cars. And they both shared sobriety. Vince was Frank’s sponsor and the man who taught Frank how to navigate through the world in which he now lived. Racing had become an outlet toward which they could concentrate their energy. Since Frank was blessed to own such a rare vehicle as a GT40, why not put it to good use?
The two stood in silence for a moment before the older man finally spoke.
“There’s no point,” Vince blurted out finally, cleared miffed. “I said, if you’re gonna get killed while trying to beat a record, there’s no point. And if you keep on doing it like this,” he said, raising his long finger toward Frank, “Lime Rock’s liable to kick you off the track, which I would half agree with them about, in principle.”
“Gotta have something to look forward to accomplishing,” Frank retorted after some thought.
Vincent answered with another shake of his head and turned away. His Santa Claus-sized beard distorted as he curled the side of his lip. “Well, I won’t be the one using a can opener to peel you out when you wrap yourself around one of them trees out there!” He knew there was no talking to his younger friend.
Out of the small wooden shed popped the head of Don Gordon, an old man who oversaw the track on a weekend. In his hand, he held a phone receiver, which he raised in the air. “Suchy! Hey, Frank! Work!” the old grease monkey yelled.
Frank took off his gloves and squinted. “See, Vin? The world keeps going around.”
Frank hoped he’d get a day off to be able to get his mind off the job. He’d found that was what he needed these days to keep a comfortable balance between everything. But that wasn’t to be. The detectives worked in five-man squads, four detectives under a sergeant. Frank oversaw his team, and he and Graham spent the majority of yesterday, basically all afternoon and Saturday evening, processing the East Rock scene and running down any friends and relatives their victims had. The survivor, Matthew Hallwell, was still under sedation post-surgery, after the doctors cleaned out as much of the lead as they could from the shotgun blast and stemmed the bleeding from the excessive damage. Some of the pellets were too dangerous to remove, so they unfortunately had to be left alone and, sadly, would become morbid keepsakes for the kid if he pulled through.
