Crosshairs, page 9
I felt like I’d hit a nerve when I asked about vices. It was hard to tell in a situation like this. I turned to Trilling, hoping the charming young man might find a different approach.
Trilling said, “Mrs. Bannon, you read about this latest case in the paper, right?”
She nodded.
“Did your husband or you know either of the other victims? The first one or this latest one?”
She shook her head.
Trilling hit her with a series of decent questions. He was trying to find a connection between her husband and anyone else on the case. I liked the way he was thinking. It was the first time I had seen his natural investigative sense.
I heard two cars screech to a stop in front of the house. Then heavy footsteps on the porch. The front door burst open. Four men, all in their thirties, and all of a decent size, rushed into the room.
I looked up and said, “You must be Louise’s brothers.”
The tallest one, still in his FDNY uniform, growled, “And if you upset our sister…”
Louise said, “They’re asking about Tommy’s vices. Making it sound like it was his fault he got shot.”
One of the brothers was dressed in a mechanic’s uniform with grease smeared across the front and the name LIAM on an embroidered name tag.
I stared at the man, who looked like he was unpleasant in the best of times. “You’re not a firefighter like your brothers?”
“Eat shit.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re too eloquent for the FDNY.”
Maybe I should have left the juvenile comments for another time.
The mechanic growled, “We’re gonna fuck you up.”
CHAPTER 36
I’D NEVER HAD anything like this happen at a victim’s home. I certainly didn’t want this interview to turn ugly. That didn’t change the fact that I was standing in the living room of Louise Bannon’s house, facing her four brothers, who looked like they were ready to make a physical statement.
The tallest brother, the one in uniform, turned his hips. He looked like he knew how to punch. The two other brothers, presumably the other firefighters now off duty, were heavier and built more like wrestlers. They squared off against Rob Trilling.
The brother in the mechanic’s uniform cracked his knuckles as he stared at me.
I said in an even voice, “Don’t let this get out of hand, fellas.”
The brother in uniform said, “Why not? If the NYPD takes as long to investigate this as it has my brother-in-law’s murder, I’ll be an old man before anyone comes for me. Maybe it’s time you arrogant cops feel a little of the pain the rest of us put up with.”
I stole a quick glance over at Trilling. He didn’t look concerned. Then again, he never did. One of the brothers facing him said, “I kicked a cop’s ass a few years ago.”
Trilling smiled and said, “Oh, I doubt that.” It took a moment for that dig to sink in. The tubby off-duty firefighter dropped lower, like a defensive lineman ready to knock down a quarterback.
The two brothers facing me took their cue. The tall one in uniform threw a wild roundhouse swing at my head. I juked to the side and then planted a good left directly in his solar plexus. It was the best punch I’d thrown in years. All the air went out of him as he sank down to his knees, trying to catch his breath.
Both of the brothers facing Trilling lunged at him at the same time. Trilling seemed to barely move. He guided one brother into the other, then stepped to the side. It took them both a moment to clear their heads, then, incredibly, they lunged at him exactly the same way.
This time Trilling let one pass him completely, then struck the other brother in the head with his elbow. When the first brother turned to charge him again, Trilling delivered a perfect side kick, right in his lower ribs. The brother bounced off a floral couch that had seen better days and tumbled onto the hardwood floor.
The mechanic charged me with his head down. All I did was bring my knee up as hard as I could, and I caught him right in the face. He stumbled and fell on the floor with a whimper.
Now both Trilling and I backed toward the door. Louise Bannon stood in an archway, staring at her four brothers sprawled across her living room. She cut her eyes to me and said, “I guess they went a little overboard.”
I said, “What should we do about it? They assaulted us.”
The tall brother had started to catch his breath and come up off his knees. He was clearly the smartest of the group. I suspected he was probably the oldest brother, and the spokesperson. He said, “We’re frustrated. We don’t hear nothing about Tommy’s murder. Then two cops we don’t know just show up out of the blue and start interrogating our sister about his life. Maybe we did get a little carried away.”
I thought about it for a moment. I didn’t like the idea of hitting these guys with an assault charge. At the very least, a couple of them would lose their jobs. I had everyone’s attention as they stared at me.
I said, “If we go by old-school rules, I can let this slide.”
The mechanic, using his bare hands to try and stop the blood pouring out of his nose, said, “What kind of old-school rules?”
“If no one has to go to the hospital, no one has to go to jail.”
We backed out of the house and walked down the pavers to the street.
Trilling said, “I’m impressed. I knew you were smart, but I didn’t know you could tussle like that.”
“I can do it, I just don’t like to.”
Trilling glanced back at the house, then said, “Real nice folks, you New Yorkers.”
I chuckled at that. Then I said, “Ready to head up to the Bronx for what I hope is a calmer interview?”
“I’ll meet you at the office at one. I have to run to an appointment right now. Sorry.”
All I could do was stare at him. Just when I’d thought I had Rob Trilling figured out, I realized I was wrong.
CHAPTER 37
TRUE TO HIS word, Rob Trilling walked into the office at 1 p.m., just as I finished my Lenwich turkey and provolone sub.
I was still annoyed about our morning workout session with the Staten Island firefighters. I asked, “Did you eat?”
“Not hungry.”
A few minutes later, we were both in my Chevy Impala, headed north to the Bronx to interview Wendy Robinson. The tipster had said that Robinson worked out daily at a hybrid boxing-wrestling gym.
The Bronx had evolved over the years. There was a time when people were uneasy going to the Bronx, but in recent years local activists had brought in a number of grants and set up programs for kids. People who don’t live in disadvantaged areas often have a hard time grasping the connection, but as a cop, I know how valuable youth programs can be to deterring crime.
We drove through Kingsbridge Heights, looking for the gym. We had to stop for a few minutes in front of the community center while some news crews interviewed a tall, good-looking Latino man. He was dressed in a nicely cut suit and seemed familiar.
Trilling shook his head and muttered something.
I said, “What’s with you?”
Trilling pointed at the man speaking to reporters. “You know who that is?”
I took another look and shook my head.
“That’s Gus Querva. I looked for his brother, Antonio, on a homicide warrant out of Baltimore. Antonio is supposed to be hiding in the city somewhere. The whole family is a bunch of dirtbags. They organize the gangs up here in the Bronx and then put on the front of trying to help the neighborhood. The whole time they’re squeezing businesses for protection money. They haven’t helped the neighborhood, they’ve ruined it. Guys like that make me sick to my stomach.”
I rolled down my window to see if I could catch what Querva was saying. He was talking about programs for kids, bringing qualified teachers to the area. I didn’t hear anything I could disagree with.
And just like that the impromptu news conference was over. I noticed Trilling’s eyes track Querva as he stepped away from the microphones. It was one of the first times I’d seen actual emotion in Trilling’s face. Maybe the captain I’d met at West Point was right: Trilling did have passion.
I drove past the community center slowly and let Trilling stare at his nemesis as Querva walked and spoke with several reporters trotting along with him.
I said to Trilling, “We can’t fix everything.”
“Then what’s the point?”
I had to think about that for a few seconds. I felt like I was back in my philosophy classes at Manhattan College. Finally I said, “The point is to do the best we can with what we have. There’s another side to the law-and-order equation. People have to work with us. People have to want things to get better.”
“That’s why things always stay the same. Bullies bully, thieves steal, and no one’s willing to do much about it.”
CHAPTER 38
IT TOOK LONGER than I’d expected to find the gym where Wendy Robinson worked out. The reason we couldn’t find it was because the gym had absolutely no advertising. There weren’t the usual bay windows where you could look in and see people getting fit. There was no sign on the door or on the side of the building.
We had parked and were walking down the sidewalk when I saw a homeless man sitting on the steps of a closed business. I thought I could take a moment to show Rob Trilling one of the tricks of being a detective in New York City: make use of all available information. Homeless people generally spend their time outside. Usually that’s in one neighborhood. That makes homeless people experts on who comes and goes and who belongs in certain neighborhoods.
It was hard to tell how old the man sitting on the steps was. Somewhere between forty-five and sixty-five. His gray hair was cut short, but his beard traveled the length of his chest almost to his belly button.
Trilling whispered to me, “He’s holding a leash. Make sure there’s not a dog that could surprise us.”
I appreciated Trilling’s sense for detail. He wasn’t wrong. But somehow I didn’t see a German shepherd jumping out from behind the steps at us. Still, we approached carefully.
I smiled and gave a wave to the man as we approached. I said in sort of a loud voice, “Hello. How are you today?”
The man nodded and said, “Pretty fair, today. That’s not the way it always is.”
Trilling casually leaned around the steps to see what was at the end of the leash. Then he jumped back a foot.
It was the first time I’d seen Trilling agitated and it was obvious in his voice. He said, “That’s not a dog. That’s the biggest rat I’ve ever seen in my life.”
The homeless man started to cackle. He pulled on the leash. I was astonished to see a huge rat scurry out onto the sidewalk. The leash ended in a harness that went around the rat’s back and chest. It was probably made for a Chihuahua or poodle, but it seemed to fit this super rodent pretty well.
The homeless man reached down and stroked the rat. It was clear the rat enjoyed it, and it snuggled up closer to the man’s leg. The man said, “Nothing to be afraid of, Nigel.”
Trilling said, “You named a giant rat Nigel?”
“I originally was going to name him Cecil, but it just didn’t sound right for a rat.”
I wasn’t sure if the homeless man was just having fun with Trilling. Either way, it was good for someone from Bozeman, Montana, to get a different view of New York.
I asked the man if he knew where the gym was, and he pointed to the building across the street. We were making progress. When I saw how closed off the building was, I decided to show the man Wendy Robinson’s photo. I had her New York driver’s license photo and the description from the tipster who’d said she was tall and athletic-looking. The man nodded and said, “She’s in there most days. But she’s done something with her hair. It looks funny now.”
I chatted with the man for a few minutes, partly as a way to conduct surveillance without drawing attention but mostly because I was interested.
The man said, “You know all those sad stories about businessmen who lost everything or veterans who ended up on the street?”
Both Trilling and I nodded.
“I ain’t none of that. I started drinking beer and really liked it. When I was twenty-eight, I got a job at the port, then hurt my back. The pills they gave me mixed pretty good with beer, and I discovered I had no interest in going back to lifting heavy things off boats. A year later I’m living with my mom. Two years after that she kicked me out. I’ve been on the street sixteen years. No rules, no one telling me what to do, and no schedule. Aside from freezing my ass off in the winter, I do all right. Me and Nigel are making it together.”
When I looked up from the homeless man, I noticed a woman coming out the side door of the boxing gym. She fit the general description of Wendy Robinson except her hair was dyed red and blue. There was some white on the tips in the back. Then I realized she was trying to wear a US flag as a hairstyle.
Trilling noticed her at the same time as I did. I stood up and reached in my pocket to find any loose bills to give the homeless man. Before I could come up with a five, I noticed Trilling hand the man a ten-dollar bill.
My new partner was starting to make me smile more and more.
CHAPTER 39
WENDY ROBINSON HAD a fast stride. Even at six foot three, I had to scramble to catch up to her. A detective learns early in his career not to call after someone. Especially someone who could be a suspect. If I shouted, Hey, Wendy Robinson, I need to talk to you! she could easily break into a sprint and I might never see her again.
It was Rob Trilling who made the smart move. He called out, “Sergeant Robinson, is that you?”
The woman stopped and turned. I saw she had a pretty noticeable shiner on one eye. “Do I know you?”
Trilling said, “I’m Rob Trilling, 75th Ranger Regiment.”
“Nice to meet you, but how did you know who I was?”
Trilling pulled his badge from the inside pocket of his windbreaker. “I’m with the NYPD now. I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk to us.”
“What’s this about?” She tensed, then looked up the street to see if anyone was closing in on her.
It made me think we might be on the right track. The little action of turning her head and bending her knees told me she was thinking about running. That meant she was a legit suspect.
Trilling said, “We have a few questions about your rifle skills we’d like to ask you.”
That had a profound effect on the former Army sergeant. Instead of looking to flee, she turned to face us fully and said, “Ask away.”
I tried to put her at ease by introducing myself, then said, “I guess my first question isn’t necessarily official. How did you get the black eye?”
A smile spread across her face. “You don’t work out at a boxing gym without taking a few knocks once in a while.” She looked at Trilling and said, “Why does it look like you have a black eye?”
“Nothing interesting. Just clumsy.”
“Why on earth do you want to talk about my rifle skills? Is the NYPD that desperate? I have an arrest for disorderly conduct and feel like I’ve already performed my public service.”
I appreciated the way Trilling took over the interview, sensing a connection with Robinson. He put her at ease by chatting with her about their shared military service in the Army. Not only did I learn some of Wendy Robinson’s interesting background but I also saw a different side of Trilling. He was relaxed and friendly. They made inside jokes that both of them laughed at.
Finally Trilling asked her how she became sniper certified in the Army.
It seemed like the question energized Robinson. Now she pulled me into the conversation. She had an expressive face and talked with her hands as well. “I applied for every interesting school that came available. It turned out they had a special program where they were testing out female snipers.” Now she looked directly at me and said, “There’s a big precedent in history for female snipers. Especially during World War II with the Russians.”
Robinson explained to us how she passed every test they threw at her, physical and mental. “It felt like every sergeant along the way assumed I was going to fail. Everyone thought I would be on a bus back to Fort Belvoir or some other base to wait out my time. But I fooled them all. And along the way I became addicted to serious exercise.” She looked back at me and repeated, “Now will you tell me why you’re interested in my rifle skills?”
I respected her frankness. I decided to match it. “Will you tell me why you were going to run when you realized we were the cops?”
There was a slight hesitation. Just enough for me to notice and leave a little spark in my brain. “Isn’t everyone nervous around the police? You’ve got a good eye to pick up on the fact that I thought about running. Just an instinct.”
I nodded and said, “Fair enough. And we’re interested in your rifle skills as part of our investigation into the series of murders by a sniper.” I purposely decided to leave out the part where someone she apparently knew had phoned in a tip about her.
Robinson’s eyes got wide and she said, “You think I might be the Longshot Killer? That is so cool.”
“I’m assuming you wouldn’t think it was cool if you were really the killer.”
She cocked her head, a lock of blue hair tumbling into her face. “I don’t know how to answer that because I’m not the Longshot Killer. I suspect that if I was the Longshot Killer, I’d still find it kinda cool you thought it was me.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re telling me you’re not the sniper who’s murdered three people here in the city.”
She gave us another big smile. “I like the way you frame questions. You’re correct. I am saying I am not the Longshot Killer.”
I opened my notebook and showed her a single-sheet printed calendar, each day in the last two months clearly laid out in its own individual square. It was an old trick I’d learned before there were calendars on phones and tablets. I had circled the night Adam Glossner had been shot on the balcony of his Upper West Side apartment.
