Obsessed, page 5
Instead, I found my grandfather on the phone, discussing a proposal to provide free lunches to needy kids on the weekends. He had found a supplier who could provide simple meals and some city agency that would pay for it. I smiled as I listened to his “rational voice” while he finished his conversation.
As soon as he hung up, Seamus smiled at me. “I feel blessed by the Lord Almighty that you could find time in your busy schedule to come by and visit an elderly priest.”
“Can it. You’ve been just as busy as me.”
“And I’ll bet you’re really here to talk about your two sons and their encounter with some bullies yesterday.”
I smiled. His Irish accent made everything sound pleasant and at the same time like an accusation. “I do want to talk about the incident. The boys seemed pretty open, but I wanted to make sure they didn’t leave anything out.”
My grandfather said, “They told you it happened down the street and not on school grounds, right?”
“I’m not looking to assign liability. Just wondering what happened.”
My grandfather held up his hands like he was trying to keep me calm. “I know, I know. Didn’t mean to come on so strong. I’m just so used to dealing with parents who’re outraged about one thing or another. One father complained that we were talking about Jesus in class. Imagine that, a Catholic school that mentions Christ. God save us from stupidity.”
I waved off his apology. “I haven’t been mad at the school for anything since I got detention in sixth grade for horsing around with Matthew Callahan.”
Seamus sighed. “All I know is what the boys told me. They were wearing their school shirts and I think that’s what attracted the other boys. It’s sort of a cool thing now to single out kids in any kind of a religious school. Maybe that’s what they were trying to do.”
“Any ideas on how to keep it from happening again?”
“If the boys stayed on school property, they’d be fine.”
“I understand that. But I also don’t want them to be afraid to walk down the street. There should be some kind of middle ground.”
“That’s the way it is with everything. Politics, sports, anything humans are involved in. There should be some middle ground, but usually no one looks for it. People stake out their positions and rarely want to listen to the other side.” He leaned in and looked at me more closely. “Sweet Jesus but you look tired. Did you get any sleep last night?”
I just shrugged. A homicide detective’s universal answer to that question. Then I heard the opening chords to the piano solo from “Layla” and reached for my phone. It was Terri Hernandez. I picked up immediately.
Terri said, “They just found a body in New Rochelle. It’s Juliana’s friend, Suzanne Morton.”
I muttered, “Shit.” I popped up and headed for the door, waving good-bye to my grandfather. He nodded back. How many times had this happened on the job over the years? Even before he was a priest and worked in the bar he owned. When the NYPD called, I went running. It rarely mattered who I was with or what I was doing.
At least my grandfather understood the meaning of the word duty.
Chapter 17
AS I NAVIGATED the roads north, I was torn. Should I phone Mary Catherine and Juliana to break the news or wait until I had more information? It was always a tough call. I could hardly even contemplate what hearing words like that might mean to me. I let the idea wash through my brain and felt my anxiety rise.
The whole drive was just images of Suzanne Morton in my house, laughing and preparing for life after school.
About forty minutes north of the city, wedged in with half a dozen other towns in Westchester County, New Rochelle was not the kind of place accustomed to murder.
I pictured Suzanne’s parents, David and Rachel. I didn’t envy the poor New Rochelle police officer who would have to drive to notify her parents in Yonkers that their daughter had been found, and that she was dead.
Every cop remembers giving their first death notification. There’s nothing in the academy and no training that can adequately prepare you to tell someone a family member is dead. It doesn’t matter if the death is from a car accident, a drowning, or a homicide—it’s difficult to look at a mother’s face and tell her that her child won’t be coming home.
My first notification was about eight days after I started with the NYPD. I was in the Bronx and my training officer got the call that we were to notify a family that their daughter had been struck by a truck and killed in East Harlem. My training officer said the best way to learn was to do it by myself. Later, I realized the veteran patrol officer hated to make notifications. Seeing people in grief tore him up.
He’d paused at the front of the building with me, saying, “Be honest, be direct, and try to be helpful. Those are the only rules. If helpful means you stand there and listen to them cry for ten minutes, that’s what you do. If helpful means leaving them alone, then you exit immediately.”
My right hand had trembled as I knocked on the second-floor apartment door not far from Yankee Stadium. A woman, about forty-five and dressed in surgical scrubs, answered the door. She was a nurse about to go on shift. As soon as she saw me, she blurted out, “Who is it? My husband? My son? My daughter?” Later I realized that nurses see as much death as cops do. They know the dangers out in the world.
I’d wanted to stick to the script and make sure I had everything perfect. Instead, I just looked at the ground and sort of mumbled, “I’m so sorry. Your daughter was hit by a garbage truck. She was pronounced dead at the scene.” At the time it might’ve been one of the hardest things I’d ever said to someone. And the response was exactly what I thought it would be: the woman stumbled back, plopped onto a small, floral couch, and started to weep. Wail might be a more accurate term.
I had no idea what to do. I stepped into the apartment and eased onto the couch near the woman. I just sat there while she sobbed. I asked her if I could help in any way or perhaps make a phone call. She just shook her head.
About twenty-five minutes later, my training officer came up to the apartment to see what had happened. He said I did the right thing sitting with her. No death notification has ever been easy.
Now I found myself parked in the lot beside the bland tan building that housed the police department on North Avenue in New Rochelle. I raced up the sidewalk’s low incline toward the front steps. Just as I made it through the set of glass doors, I saw Rachel and David Morton standing by the reception desk. My stomach tightened, and I tried to put on a calm face.
Rachel looked up as I was walking toward them. She immediately burst into tears. David took her in his arms and stroked her hair. He just stared at me silently.
“I am so sorry. I was hoping for the best. I don’t know what to say.”
David Morton had a distant look on his face as he said to me, “Someone stuffed our little girl in a cabinet behind an empty construction office. They think she’s been there at least two weeks.” His voice started to break, then he said in a louder voice, “Two fucking weeks.”
Over the years, I’ve found that families of a missing person feel their loss twice when that missing person turns out to be a homicide victim. The pain can be unbearable. Families are ripped apart, and parents have even committed suicide over the death of a child. I know never to take the reactions of a grieving family personally. They have a lot to process. I stood with them in reception until a detective stepped out to meet them. She looked at me like I was a representative for the family.
I just badged her and said, “I was hoping to talk to the lead detective on the case.”
We all awkwardly walked through the open door and down a long, sterile hallway. I saw a few cops I knew from joint cases or training.
New Rochelle had a dedicated homicide detective. Once that detective was overwhelmed, the department rotated the homicides that occurred within its city limits among three detectives who handled other crimes in addition to homicide.
Once I got the Mortons settled with a victim advocate, I headed off to find out who had been assigned the case. I saw a detective I’d known for years. She specialized in crimes against children, but I had to know who had caught this homicide.
I said, “Sandy, who got assigned the body they found this morning?”
She rolled her eyes and shrugged as she said, “Bill Stanton.”
I muttered, “Shit, not ‘Suicide’ Stanton.”
Chapter 18
I FOLLOWED SANDY through the small building to the detective bureau. It was more hectic than I would’ve expected for a town of eighty thousand people. I scanned the room for Bill Stanton, the detective who’d caught the homicide, and saw the fifty-four-year-old, balding detective at a desk in the corner. As usual, he had a washcloth next to him, which he used to wipe the sweat from his forehead about every three minutes. No one had ever told me whether he had a medical condition. I wasn’t about to ask.
He got his nickname, Suicide, as a joke. All nicknames cops give one another are jokes. Some are in poor taste. Some are extraordinarily clever. This one was somewhere in between. Stanton had an excellent clearance rate for death investigations. But an unusually large percentage of those clearances were classified as suicide. It seemed to be his working theory on every unnatural death. He created elaborate reconstructions to prove suicide, even if the theories worked only one in ten times. I’d never heard of anyone else doing that. I didn’t know if it was because Stanton was competitive or lazy. But that was how he’d earned his name: clearing cases via suicide.
He glanced up at me and said in a fast clip, “You want to take one of my cases? I just got a new homicide. Tell me you think she was killed in the city and her body was moved up here. I’ll be happy to give you everything I have on the case.” He grabbed the washcloth and wiped his forehead.
“I wish it was that simple. She’s a friend of my daughter. I’ve been keeping her parents informed on Suzanne’s missing person’s case.”
“I’m sorry to hear there’s a personal connection. But I gotta tell you, Bennett, all kinds of shit has been dropping around here. The burglary rate is off the charts. Armed robberies are up in all of the Westchester towns. And this homicide is our fifth since May. That may not cause a stir in Manhattan, but it’s a big deal here.”
“I’m here because of the Mortons, but I wanted to find out the circumstances of her death. We’re wondering if this homicide could be linked to a couple of deaths we’re looking at in the city. It’s a possibility.”
That caught Stanton’s attention. “Are you talking serial killer?” He reached again for the washcloth.
“It’s a possibility. But if it is, you won’t be able to write this one off as a suicide.”
Stanton scowled at me. “That shit’s not funny. I don’t even know how that nickname got started.”
I held up my hands. “I retract my snarky comment.”
“What do you want from me, Bennett?”
“Details about the body, method of death, everything.”
“Look, Bennett, you’re a good guy, I’d like to work with you. But right now, I’m getting screamed at for a briefing with our assistant chief, the mayor, and my captain. We’ve only had the body a couple of hours. I haven’t even seen it yet. Let me get back to you tomorrow or the next day, when I have more information.”
Reluctantly, I agreed to leave and call him the next day. I didn’t want to say something I might regret. I didn’t understand a homicide detective who hadn’t gone out to the scene immediately. I didn’t care if he had half a dozen other cases.
As I worked my way through the maze of hallways, I saw the Mortons sitting in a small but comfortable-looking room. Suzanne’s mother dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex. Her father just stared at the victim advocate. I weighed the risk of stepping into the room. I didn’t want to upset them any more than they already were. Or maybe I was just trying to justify avoiding something I didn’t want to do.
Just then I glanced at my watch. It kicked me into gear. I was supposed to be at Holy Name coaching the first practice of the girls’ basketball team in a little over half an hour.
Chapter 19
I WAS ALREADY wearing an official blue Holy Name basketball coach’s shirt. I didn’t say anything about the mustard stain on the collar or the hole under the arm. The shirt had probably been around since I was a student here. The girls were already huddled in a group at the corner of the bleachers. A relatively new nun named Sister Elizabeth was checking uniforms and talking to the girls. When she noticed me, she stepped away from the group to talk to me in private.
She had a flat, midwestern accent. “Mr. Bennett, I’m thrilled you agreed to coach. Your height alone is going to give you credibility.”
I laughed at that. Then I looked at the group and said, “Are there any assistant coaches?”
Sister Elizabeth looked stricken. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry. You’re the only parent who answered the call to service. But I can help. I played some ball in college. And I have a few ideas for the girls.”
“If you played college basketball, you’re eminently more qualified to coach these girls than I am.”
“The problem is, I also coach volleyball and field hockey. I can’t always be here just for basketball. Sister Sheilah said that you’d enjoy coaching and that you were good with the kids. I guess you’d have to be if you’ve got ten of your own.”
I liked this young woman who said what was on her mind. “In your opinion, how are the girls’ skills?”
She hesitated. “About what you would think they’d be. Except for your daughter Fiona. She’s shown some real ability.”
“Really? That’s good to hear.”
“Not only does she have a decent jumper, she also goes to the basket hard. She’s fearless.”
I smiled as I looked over at my beautiful daughter talking with her friends on the team. “She gets that from playing hoops with her brothers. They don’t cut her any slack. She wouldn’t survive if she didn’t throw the occasional elbow or take a hit once in a while. If she wasn’t tough and aggressive, she’d hardly see the ball.”
I got the girls together and started some simple drills. First, they warmed up by dribbling all the way around the edges of the court three times. Then we did a few shooting drills. Sister Elizabeth was right. I was impressed at how Fiona confidently handled the ball. Then she started sinking everything from twelve to fifteen feet out. How had this slipped my notice until now? The boys always said she was okay. Not great. Just okay. Had she been holding out on them? She was smart. Maybe she’d been trying to sandbag them for some big reveal down the road.
I enjoyed seeing the girls concentrate so hard. After a while, I noticed my grandfather at the very top of the bleachers, watching the practice. Even with ten great-grandchildren, the man managed to show up for almost every function.
I felt a wave of melancholy as I thought about poor Suzanne Morton. It can be easy to get sucked into an endless loop of despair and hopelessness with this job. Early on in my career, a senior homicide detective told me that no matter what I see on the job, life goes on. I was trying to honor that sentiment right now. But watching these girls laughing and playing made me think of how many things Suzanne would never again experience.
All I could do was prepare these girls to play as best they could. That’s what “Life goes on” means.
Chapter 20
I WAS HAPPY to get back to the apartment a little earlier than usual. Today hadn’t been as long as yesterday, but it was still trying. Thank God I’d had the chance to spend some time with Fiona and the basketball team. I was still amazed at how good Fiona was. The whole team had some skills. Sister Elizabeth had done a great job teaching them the basics of the game.
I see rudderless kids on the street with no direction, no adult to encourage them, and no real interest in most activities. I learned when I was a kid that sports provide a place to have fun, get some exercise, and give some focus. I feel it’s important for kids to keep busy. I’m lucky that I’ve never had to force any of my kids to join a club or try a new activity. They all seem pretty interested in a lot of different things.
From arts and crafts to cooking, each of the kids has a serious interest. Juliana has her acting. Jane writes in her journals and is a phenomenal student. My oldest son, Brian, is working hard at straightening out his life and is enjoying his job at an air-conditioning repair company.
I found Mary Catherine in the kitchen. I was excited to tell her how well Fiona had played. I really felt like basketball could be Fiona’s “thing.”
I swept my wife up in a hug but instantly felt something wasn’t right. I took a step back, looked at her, and asked, “What’s wrong?”
She led me by the hand to the living room, where Ricky and Eddie were playing a video game. A video game during daylight hours? Usually that would be a rule infraction. But Mary Catherine eased up on the rules when the kids weren’t feeling well or had had a bad day.
I didn’t see any fresh cuts or bruises.
Mary Catherine said, “The same boys bothered them again today.”
I looked to Eddie to tell me the whole story.
He started up instantly. “Dad, we weren’t causing problems. We went down the street to the other basketball hoop. Trent was going to meet us after he put something in his locker. Before we even got to the court, I heard someone say, ‘Look, the little Christians are back.’ It was the same two boys, and they had another boy with them. When Trent wandered up and asked what was going on, one of the boys punched him right in the face.”
I glanced around the apartment. “Where is Trent now?”
Mary Catherine said, “He’s cleaning up in the hallway bathroom.”
I broke off from our conversation and rushed to the bathroom. Trent was sitting on the edge of the tub, holding a washcloth to his nose. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but any blood coming out of your kids is too much.
