Saints Of New York (3 page)

'You're late.'

'I am.'

'I think you
should try and be on time.'

'I did try.'

'Could you try
harder?'

'Sure I could.'

'So take a seat,
Frank . . . tell me what happened this morning?'

'You can read my
report.'

'I want to hear
it in your own words.'

'I wrote the
report. Those
are
my own words.'

'You know what I
mean, Frank. I want to hear you tell me what happened.'

'He cut his
girlfriend's throat. He cut his own throat. There was so much fucking blood it
was like a water slide at Tomahawk Lake or something. How's that for you?'

'Tell me from
the beginning, Frank. From the point you got the call about how he was holding
the girl hostage.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because I can't
be bothered, that's why. Jesus, what the fuck
is
this?'

'This is
therapeutic counselling, designed to help you deal with
the
stress of your
job and make you feel better. You know that.'

'You want to
make me feel better?'

'Sure. That's
what I'm here for.'

Then come over
here and take care of me.'

'No,
Frank,
I
am not going to
come over there and take care of
you.'

'You married?'

'Is
that important?' 'Maybe . . . I'm just thinking . . . you got no wedding band,
but maybe you just don't wear it 'cause you kinda like burned-out alcoholic
cops hitting on you.'

'No, Frank. I
don't wear one because I'm not married.'

'Well, how 'bout
that! I ain't married neither. So what say I come down here to your cozy little
office, we draw the blinds . . . you know how it is. That's the kinda stress
counselling I could really use right now.'

'Is that what
you feel?'

'Damn right it's
what I feel. And I bet you do too,
Doctor.
If only it wasn't for professional ethics, eh?'

'Whatever you
say, Frank.'

'Now we're
talking.'

'No, Frank, I
don't think we're talking at all. You're trying to offend me, and I'm humoring
you.'

'Is that what
you think I'm doing? Saying shit that will offend you?'

'I do think
that. You're trying to shock me. That stuff about coming over to take care of
you, for example.'

'No, Ma'm,
that's how I go about courting someone.'

'Well, if that's
true, then I figure we're all pretty much safe from the charms of Frank
Parrish.'

'That's funny.
Now you're trying to make me laugh.'

'No, I'm not.
But I
am
trying to give you an opportunity to release some of the stress and trauma that
goes with your particular line of work.'

'Oh, shee-it.
Save it for the rookies and the faggots and the female officers.'

'That's a very
slanted viewpoint.'

'Hey, lady, it's
a very fucking slanted world.'

'So you don't
want to talk about Tommy Scott and Heather Wallace.'

'That a question
or a statement?'

'Whichever.'

'No, I don't
want to talk about Tommy Scott and Heather Wallace. What the fuck use would that
be?'

'Sometimes
people need to talk.'

'Sometimes
people need to have other people urinate all over them. Don't mean it does 'em
any good.' 'Why do you think you're doing this, Frank?'

'What?'

'Trying to
offend me.'

'Lordy, lordy,
little girl, you
have
led a sheltered life. You think that's so offensive? Hell, you should hear what
I say to members of the general public.'

'I've heard
about some of those things.'

'Well, this is
me being polite, okay? On my best behavior.'

'Well, your
best behavior
has
gotten you eleven verbal cautions, two written warnings, your driver's license
suspended, and a one- third pay hold until Christmas. Oh yes - and a
recommendation that you see me on a regular basis until your attitude
improves.'

'And you think
it'll do me some good? Coming on down here and talking to you?'

'I hope so.'

'Why?'

'Because it's
what I do, Frank. It's my job, my purpose.'

'And you're a
shrink, right?'

'I am a
psychotherapist.'

'Psycho-the-rapist.'

'No, Frank, a
psychotherapist.'

'I've met a few
rapist psychos in my time.'

'I know.'

'You
know?'

'Yes, Frank, I
know some of the people you've had to deal with. I know about some of the
things that you've seen.'

'And what does
that tell you?'

'It tells me
that you're a troubled man. That you might need someone to talk to.'

'Am I that
obvious?'

'Well, yes, I
think you are, Frank. I think you are that obvious.'

'You wanna know
something we were taught in Keystone Cop School?'

'Sure.'

'Sometimes the
obvious occludes the truth. And sometimes things are exactly as they appear.'

'Meaning what?'

'Well, it's real
simple. I
appear
to be an aggressive, fucked-up,
alcoholic
loser with some twenty years on the career clock . . . and you can throw into
that incendiary mix my dangerously low self-esteem and a taste for cheap women
and expensive whiskey, and you wind up with someone that you really don't want
to get involved with. And like I said, even though that is only who I
appear
to be, I
think you're gonna find out it's exactly who I am.'

'Well, it looks
like we're going to be spending a few really interesting weeks together.'

'You're worried
I'm gonna go crazy, aren't you?'

'I don't like to
use that term.'

'Oh for God's
sake, when did everyone start getting so goddamn scared of words? It's just a
word,
okay? Just a
fucking word. Crazy. Crazy.
Crazy.'

'Okay, so I'm
worried that you might go crazy.'

'Some people
never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.'

'You think
that?'

'Bukowsky said
it. You know Charles Bukowsky?'

'He was a drunk,
I believe.'

'He was a
writer. A writer. Like I am a cop, like you are psychotherapist. The booze
doesn't define us lady, it augments the already rich fullness of our lives.'

'You are so full
of shit, Frank Parrish.'

'Are you
actually allowed to say that to me? Doesn't your professional ethical code
prevent you from telling me that I am full of shit?'

'Go home and get
some sleep, Frank. Come back and talk to me when you're in a better mood.'

'Hey, that might
just be never, Doctor Griffin.

Somewhere
on his desk - somewhere beneath the first officers' reports, the supplemental,
the evidence submission slips, the
body
custody forms, the fingerprint dockets and the interview
notes
- was a cell phone. It rang now, with a harsh sound, almost
bitter,
as if accusing Frank Parrish of something.

There
were few phone calls that did not have a dead body at the other end. Before the
cell phone age those who attended to such matters could have been elsewhere,
unreachable. Now the dead bodies found them wherever they were: no hiding and
no heroics
for
the detectives
of Homicide Unit Two, Nineteenth Precinct, South Brooklyn.
We get there when the killing's done,
they say. They
will also tell you that most murders are brief, brutal and uninteresting. Nine
times out of ten they are also pointless.

Like
the old saying
Tutte e Mafia in Italia,
everything - just everything - is dead in Homicide.

Parrish
located the phone, answered it.

'Frank,
it's Hayes here.'

'Hey
there. What's up?'

'You
know a guy called Danny Lange?'

'Sure
I do. Mid-twenties, weaselly-faced kid, did a three-to-five
for
robbing a drugstore.'

'Yeah.
Well, he's dead. Someone put a .22 in his head. You
wanna
come down here and sort it out?'
      

Parrish
glanced at his watch: it was quarter after five. 'Can do. Where are you?'

Parrish
scribbled down the directions, then grabbed one of the uniforms to give him a
ride in a squad car. The traffic was bad, jammed up and tight along Adams. They
took a right after the Polytechnic University, made better time along Jay, and
came out opposite Cathedral Place. Parrish could already see the red flicker
from the
black-and-whites. They pulled over sharply and Parrish got out, telling the
uniform to head on back. To Parrish's left was an empty lot, a derelict coupe
hunched like a sad dog, a handful of federal yellow flowers escaping from
beneath the hood.

Back of the
tapes Danny Lange was spread-eagled on the ground, head at an awkward angle,
the expression on his face something akin to mild surprise. He was looking back
towards the church at the end of the street. There was a neon sign up there,
the light from its tubes subdued by smog and dirt, that Parrish knew well.
Sin Will Find You Out.
No shit, Sherlock, he had thought the first time he saw it.

'You turned him
yet?' Parrish asked Paul Hayes.

'Ain
't done a
thing,' Hayes said.

'No
change
there then,' Parrish quipped.

'Go
fuck
yourself, Parrish,' Hayes replied, but he was half-
smiling.
'There's a
deli half a block down. You want anything?'

'See
if you can
get me some Vicodin. If not, aspirin. And a cup
of
coffee. Black and
strong.'

Hayes disappeared.

Down on his
haunches, Frank Parrish surveyed the body silently for some minutes, aware
that darkness was dropping fast. He sensed the uniforms watching him from the
black-and-whites.

Danny had leaked,
just a little. That was not unusual for such a small caliber. It would be up to
the ME to make a call on this as the primary or secondary crime scene. This was
the drop, nothing more. Parrish put on latex gloves, went through Danny's
pockets, found the better part of a hundred bucks which he tucked discreetly
into his shoe. No ID, no driver's license, no billfold, no watch. Still,
despite such missing artifacts, this was no robbery. Danny Lange was not a man
to wear a watch or carry a billfold, or even a man who washed, for that matter.
Dying had not tempered his characteristically rank odor.