Saving Room for Dessert (27 page)

“Yeah. For some special purpose or reason, right?”

“Right. Well, the local paper got hold of it and the Pittsburgh papers picked it up, and council got their onions crushed
big-time about not havin’ any special procedure, and so forth, and, uh, you know what happens when politicians get their onions
crushed in public, they get all carried away, and so they wrote up this plan for this board of inquiry just for this one purpose,
and that’s to investigate officer-involved shootings. So what’s gonna happen—”

“Who’s on it?”

“Huh? I’m not sure now. Used to be the chief and the Safety Committee. But then that got changed and I don’t know why so don’t
ask me. Tell ya the truth, council just shuffled committee assignments, so I’m not sure who’s on what. But the mayor has the
right to approve who’s on it, that’s for sure. Nowicki knows. Ask him.”

“Okay What’s the rest?”

“The rest is, like I said before, don’t lie. You lie, and you get caught in a lie, it won’t matter what you did or why. All
they’ll remember is you lied. And for them that’ll be enough to can your ass. You got me so far?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Then let’s go find a witness, preferably one with good eyes and good ears. It’d also be good if they were reasonably
intelligent and not too fuckin’ nuts.”

“You don’t wanna interview me first?”

“I’ll get to that, just let’s see if we can’t find somebody who saw you shoot him. Who called it in, the original beef?”

“Lady across the street.”

“Okay. I’ll take her first, you try the two wives, okay? Where’s Reseta by the way? Thought he responded to this. That’s what
Stramsky said. No?”

“He’s with Scavelli.”

“What’s he doin’ with him?”

“That’s who stabbed Boo. Didn’t I say that before?”

“Not to me you didn’t. I just asked you if it was true he got stabbed.”

“Well that’s who it was—oh shit.”

“What?”

“She’s in the backseat of his MU.”

“Who?”

“Canoza’s—Mrs. Scavelli. He put her in his MU. Right after he picked her up is when her old man stabbed him.”

“After he got stabbed, he carried her to his MU? How’d he get her in the backseat if he was stabbed?”

“Ask him, I don’t know, I just saw him do it, that’s all.”

“So she’s still in the backseat?”

“Far as I know, yeah.”

“Checked her out lately?”

“No. I had a few other things goin’ on, you know?”

“Better check her out, see if she’s okay.”

She better be, Rayford thought as he trotted across the intersection and shined his flash through the window into the backseat.
Rose Scavelli was sprawled across it.

Just as Rayford opened the back door and started to lean in, two other cars pulled up to the intersection. He waited a moment
to see who it was. He recognized the driver of one car as a reporter for the
Rocksburg Gazette
. The other was obviously a photographer.

Rayford started to lean in and was overcome with the smell of feces. He recoiled, covered his nose, and reached in to feel
for a pulse in her neck.

He couldn’t find a pulse. “Oh shit,” he said, moving his finger around on her throat, still trying to find one. “Oh lady,
don’t be dead, please don’t be dead. Got-damn.”

He backed up and shut the door and called out, “Hey? Detective? Sergeant Carlucci! C’mere!”

The reporter and photographer were starting toward him.

“Stop where you are!” Rayford called out to them. “This is a crime scene. I know we don’t have the tape up yet, so you don’t
needa tell me that, but just stay where you are, we’ll get to you in a little while. And no pictures till we say so, got that?”

The reporter and photographer looked at each other, started talking, but stopped and didn’t make any move to get closer to
anybody on the other side of the street.

Carlucci had just knocked on the door of the lady who called in the complaint. He backed up and looked at Rayford, who was
waving his left hand toward himself as though urgently directing traffic.

Carlucci hurried toward Rayford. “What’s up?”

Rayford leaned close to Carlucci and whispered, “Dead.”

“You sure?”

Rayford nodded. “No pulse, no respiration, bowels emptied.”

“Oh man. Oh shit, here we go. Okay, I’ll call the coroner, you get some tape up. We’re gonna do this the right way. You control
the scene, tell Reseta get Scavelli booked and locked in, and then get back here fast as he can. Oh good, here comes Nowicki.”

C
ARLUCCI SET
his tape recorder in the middle of the table between himself and Rayford.

“Uh, before we get started here,” Chief Nowicki said, “just so you know, the board of inquiry will be listenin’ to this tape
and the tape of your previous interview, and they’ll be comparin’ what you said then and what you say now with how you wrote
it up, understand?”

“I understand,” Rayford said.

“Okay, Rugs, turn it on, let’s go.”

Carlucci pushed the record button and said, “Second interview with Rocksburg PD Patrolman William M. Rayford—what’s the ‘M’
stand for, by the way? Meant to ask you last time, I forgot.”

“Milton.”

“Milton?” Carlucci’s eyebrows went up and he smiled. “You don’t look like a Milton.”

“You don’t look like a lotta things you are. And you look like a lotta things you’re not. Want me to name ’em?”

“Okay, sorry I brought it up. Second interview with Patrolman William Milton Rayford, shield number five two nine, in re case
number ninety-nine dash four sixteen. Time is 1000 hours, Thursday, April 22nd, 1999. Interview conducted in room A, Rocksburg
PD Station, Rocksburg City Hall. Conducting the interview are Rocksburg PD Chief Nowicki and me, Detective Sergeant Carlucci.”

Carlucci put his elbows on the table, laced his fingers together, and leaned his chin on his fingers. “We got some problems.”

“Same ones we had last time?”

“Yeah. If anybody saw you fire the shot that struck Hornyak in the right knee, they’re not willing to say so. I’ve interviewed
them all twice. Chief Nowicki has also interviewed them twice, which you know, I believe, correct?”

“Correct, yes.”

“Hornyak and his wife, Mary, Joseph Buczyk and his wife, Susan, Mrs. Marie Tomko, the lady across Jefferson from the Hornyaks
who called in the original complaint, uh, the Jednaks, who live across from the Buczyks, as you know, were not home. The Hlebecs,
who live behind the Hornyaks, also claim they were not home. Forget the Scavellis for the time bein’, uh, the residents of
212 Jefferson, the Halupas, say they saw the first shot but, uh, ran inside and heard the second shot but did not see it.
No point goin’ over each name, but up and down both sides of the 200 block of Jefferson Street, they’re all either deaf, blind,
stupid, certifiably nuts—or they all ran inside after the first shot.”

“Or they were all’,” Nowicki said.

“And of course, as you know, Hornyak is sayin’ it didn’t happen the way you say.”

“Which puts us in the middle of he-said he-said,” Nowicki said.

“Well, what? Is the lady across the street, that, uh, Mrs. Tomko, what’s she sayin’ now—there was nothin’ goin’ on before
I arrived? That made her call?”

“No, not at all. She’s on the dispatcher call tape, she couldn’t deny that even if she wanted to.”

“Well it’s good she’s not.”

“No no, she still says there was a beef between the two of them, she hasn’t retracted any of that, and she still thought it
was gonna get violent, and that’s why she called. But just like the Halupas—and all the rest of them—she says the first shot,
it scared the hell out of her, she backed away from the window, she heard the second one, but she definitely did not see it.”

“Didn’t even see the flash?”

“She says no,” Carlucci said, shrugging. “And believe me, Patrolman, I’ve been up and down that street, and halfway into the
300 block even. Talked to anybody who might’ve had a clear field of vision there. So’d the chief here. We cannot find one
other person who witnessed the second shot, or is willing to say so if they did.”

“Great,” said Rayford. “Fucking great.”

Nowicki tapped Carlucci on the shoulder and motioned for him to turn the recorder off. Carlucci shrugged and turned it off.

“Hey, William, try to watch your language, okay?” Nowicki said. “That’s not what we wanna hear when we play it for the board,
you know? Back it up and erase it, Rugs.”

“Hey, you wanna erase it, you erase it, I’m not erasin’ anything. Somebody gets a hair up their ass, they bring a tape expert
in and he finds out part of it’s been erased, they’ll have all our asses. Hey, leave it in, so he swore, so what? If I told
you what I just told him, you wouldn’t be swearin’? Better believe I would.”

“Hey, Rugs, you keep forgettin’—why, I don’t know but you do. Remember? Mrs. Remaley? That woman does not like swearin’. Why
you keep forgettin’ that, I don’t know, but—”

“I’m not forgettin’ anything about her. She’s the idiot asked me why the man wouldn’t obey the officer’s order to get on the
ground. And was it really necessary for the officer to fire his weapon. I told her that’s the purpose of this inquiry, ma’am,
okay? She’s the pinhead we have to convince. Why you keep thinkin’ I can’t remember her, I don’t know, but believe me, I remember
her.”

“You’re sure that thing’s turned off, right? ’Cause I don’t know what’s worse, ‘fucking’ or ‘idiot’ or ‘pinhead.’”

“Let’s just move on here, okay? I’m turnin’ it back on now. Everybody ready? Here we go.”

“Wait wait. William, indulge me. Watch your language, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hey, everybody, I’m turnin’ it on, okay?”

“Okay, okay.”

“So, uh, Officer Rayford. Once more, in detail, as much as you can remember, tell what happened Friday, April 16th, 1999,
at approximately between 1910 and 1930 hours.”

“You want me tell it the way I wrote it up in my UIR?”

“No no no,” Nowicki said, “don’t tell it like you’re fillin’ out a form. Just talk it through, that’s all.”

“Okay. I got the call—but without referrin’ to the UIR, I can’t remember the exact time. I think it was 1910 hours, but don’t
hold me to that, it might’ve been later.”

“Okay. Go ’head.”

“Okay. I just finished writin’ up a UIR on the Scavellis and the Hlebecs when I got the call. I was driving Rocksburg PD MU
31, and I approached 214 Jefferson Street from Miles Avenue. I was comin’ from the west. I parked across the street, on the
north side, and I approached two men engaged in a verbal dispute on the sidewalk between the houses, uh, that’s between 216
and 214. I knew them both from previous responses to the same address. Joseph Buczyk and Peter Hornyak. Uh, Mr. Hornyak lives
at 214 Jefferson, Mr. Buczyk at 216 Jefferson.”

“Was either man armed—as far as you could tell?”

“Not as far as I could tell. I stopped walkin’ about, uh, approximately three steps from the sidewalk, which, according to
PD policy, is sufficient reaction distance.”

“Where were they standing, approximately?”

“They were halfway between their houses. Looked to me like they were both makin’ sure they were on their side of the property
line.”

“Which is imaginary of course,” Nowicki said.

“Of course. There’s no line there.”

“No fence separating the properties, right?”

“Correct. No fence.”

“What’s between the houses?”

“Just grass.”

“Could you see the grass in that light?”

“In that light? I don’t recall. But I knew it was there. Saw it every other time I responded to that address.”

“And these are typical city lots, right? Neither one is a double lot? And there’s no vacant lot between ’em, is that correct?”

“That’s correct. Typical city lots. Forty feet wide. Houses are twenty-six feet wide. Fourteen feet between ’em. Now 216 Jefferson,
that’s a corner lot. Forty-eight feet wide.”

“But where the incident took place is between and in front of 216 and 214, correct?”

“Right. Correct. Between them. But not where I shot him, no.”

“Where was that?” Nowicki said.

“After Mr. Hornyak kicked Mr, Buczyk, Mr. Hornyak ran backwards to the other side of his house.”

“Okay, wait a second here,” Carlucci said. “Back up. Before we get to that, go back to where you stopped in the street. Then
what?”

“I asked them what the problem was. They never answered me. Never said what started that beef—that dispute at that time. Soon
as I asked, they both started accusin’ each other of startin’ it. Especially Mr. Hornyak. And he was really upset with me
because Mr. Buczyk was out on property bond for a previous dispute between them, which occurred, uh, two weeks before, on,
uh, April 2nd, I believe.”

“Before you go on, what did you have in your hands at that point? Had you drawn your service pistol at that time?”

“No. All I had was my MagLite. Had it in my left hand. I don’t think I’d even turned it on yet. But I didn’t draw my pistol
until, uh, later.”

“Okay. So go ’head.”

“Well, Mr. Hornyak was really, uh, angry because I’d arrested Mr. Buczyk for assault and aggravated assault—I’d have to refer
to my UIR of that incident to recall the exact charges, but the point is, Mr. Hornyak was seriously angry at me because he
thought Mr. Buczyk should still be incarcerated for those offenses. He didn’t understand why he was allowed to be home, when,
as he put it, I’d told him I’d arrested Mr. Buczyk for a felony.”.

“Had you told him that?”

“I might have, I don’t remember. Probably I did, but it doesn’t stand out in my mind what I said or didn’t say at that time.
Didn’t matter anyway, ’cause it wasn’t up to me what Mr, Buczyk’s bond status was. I tried to tell Mr. Hornyak that. So did
Mr. Buczyk. But that just made him madder. Mr. Hornyak. Then they started in about who did what kinda research where and who
thought he knew everything, I mean, it was just two so-called adults woofin’ at each other like a coupla kids. I couldn’t
make sense with either one of them.”

“What time was it? Approximately. And what was the light?”