The Squad Room (19 page)

“Sure, I understand. I mean, I was just getting the team ready to go to Boston to pick up our serial-murder suspects, but you seem like you’ve made up your mind.”

Arndt froze. “What—what are you talking about?” he stammered.

“Well, I just got off the phone with the lab, and we have multiple print hits on our suspects. We were heading out to grab them today.”

“What suspects?” Arndt asked, confused.

“Well, obviously it isn’t important,” Morrison said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d better get started on cleaning out my desk, for whoever’s taking my place.”

“All right, stop, stop,” Arndt said. “You’re not relieved—only, why wasn’t I briefed on this sooner?”

“We only got this break within the last hour,” Morrison explained. “Why do you think I haven’t acted on it until now?”

The Chief’s mood changed instantaneously. “I knew you could do it,” he said ingratiatingly. Morrison could already see him itching to call the PC and pat himself on the back. Morrison glared at him.

“Well, first of all, I
didn’t
do it,” he said through clenched teeth. “A task force of talented men and women did it. It’s
teamwork
, Arndt—something men like you and your boy Galipoli never seem to understand.”

Arndt wasn’t listening. He turned and walked out of the office, already dialing his phone. “I got them, Commissioner,” they heard him saying as he walked out. “Yes, that’s right. Can you hold off on the press conference? We’re heading up to Boston to pick them up now.”

Once he was gone, the detectives in the squad room had a good laugh at his expense. Morrison came out to join them, but suddenly felt a nauseous feeling run through him. He sat, feeling a tingling running down his arm as he did. Sergeant Simmons walked in, just in time to see him putting a hand to the tightness in his chest.

“Hey Cap, you okay?” he asked. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Morrison told him, waving him off. “Just some chest pain. I probably just need a drink.”

“I’m serious, man, maybe you should get to the hospital,” Simmons insisted.

“No chance,” Morrison insisted. “We’ve got to get to Boston and grab these two—I’m
not
missing out on that. Besides, Winston Churchill worked through a heart attack, and if that’s what I’m having, I’ll be fine. My kids are covered. But just so you guys know,” he added to the rest of the room, “if I do go, I want an Inspector’s funeral. Remember that. If I don’t get one, I’ll haunt your asses.”

“All right, all right,” Simmons conceded.

As Morrison was getting the task force together for a briefing on their way out to Boston, Tamika put through a call from Commissioner Harrington. Morrison picked up, glad to have good news.

“Bill—do we have these guys?” Harrington asked.

“Just about,” Morrison said. “We’ve got positive print hits on both subjects, putting them at the scene for the first three murders. We’re still waiting on the DNA. I’m about to brief my team before we head up to Boston.”

“So you aren’t ready for a press conference just yet?”

“No, Sir, we aren’t.”

“Glad I called, then,” Harrington said. “I have Arndt flipping out, telling me he’s got the guys and calling for a press conference ASAP.”

Morrison laughed. “Typical. No, we need to get to Boston and talk to these guys first—hopefully we’ll get some statements to tie them up nice and tight.”

“All right. Bill,” Harrington went on, “you said your print evidence tied them to the first three murders. Do you think these guys are responsible for all four?”

“Still up in the air,” Morrison said. “I can tell you this, though: if the fourth isn’t them, we may have a problem. No one outside of this taskforce knew about the stuff they’d used in the other three murders, so unless these guys told someone else what they were doing, or one of them did something on his own, I’m at a loss right now about it.”

“Okay, well, let me know the minute I can release something—the mayor and this city want answers.”

“Of course, Commissioner. You’re my first call, once these guys talk. I’ve got the best interview people in the world going with me, and we’ve got search warrants going through for Greenwich and their dorm rooms.”

“Good. Tell all your people thank you, from me. We’ll have a Jameson when this all goes down. I miss the good old days—my whole life’s so political now. And listen, call me on my private line or cell phone. I don’t need Arndt any more involved in this than he is already.”

“I understand, Commissioner.”

The two old friends hung up, and Morrison emerged to get his team briefed.

The whole group was ready to go—Simmons and Rivera, the Coke Brothers, Tina Koreski and her unlikeable partner Galipoli, Garriga, and Medveded. Everyone knew his role, and was prepared for a long couple of days. It would be important to try to get an incriminating statement out of one or both of their Boston dirtbags; courts couldn’t always be trusted with mere forensic evidence, and in the case of guys like these
two—no prior records, wealthy families, well educated—a steadfast profession of innocence could still be a serious problem.

Morrison brought Koreski with him in his car, and their four-hour ride began with a lot of talk about the case. He was pleasantly surprised at how much detail Tina had absorbed about the case; he’d never doubted her ability, but it was clear she’d come a long way since joining them. It wasn’t long, though, before her talk turned to another familiar subject.

“I gotta talk to you about this Galipoli guy again, Cap,” she said. “I know you’ve gotten a lot of complaints about him, including from me, but—”

“Let me guess,” Morrison said. “You can’t work with him either?”

“No, Cap, it isn’t that. I know he’s got a service record, and I’m trying to give him a chance. But the way he’s been with this case, it’s just been really scary. I mean, he actually scares me—especially with what I’ve been through, I’ve kind of got a sixth sense about people, men in particular.”

“I believe it. So what do you mean, the way he’s been? Like, with how he looks at the photos and stuff?”

“Yeah, that, and some of the comments he’s made.”

“Such as—?”

“Crazy shit. Like, talking about the victims, he’ll say they must have really pissed these guys off, and that they were lucky because it might have been worse. He’s said a few things that even made it sound like he admired what they did. Fucked up stuff, Cap. The guy just isn’t right.”

Hearing his own words echoed back to him gave Morrison pause. “How does he act towards you, Koreski?”

“Oh, like a total douchebag. I mean, he’s so self-absorbed, all he talks about most of the time is himself; but he still thinks every woman wants him, me included. He even had the balls to tell me,
Hey, you may be into women, but I know you’d love to get me in bed
. Arrogant son of a bitch.”

“Has he made you feel threatened?”

“Not particularly yet, outside of the way he talks about our victims.
But I could see it turning real fast.”

Morrison considered. He knew he had to take at least some of this with a grain of salt. The guy was definitely an asshole, and probably a bit fucked up from his time in the military; but realistically, it was a pretty slim chance that
any
cop—no matter how much of an asshole he was, or how bad his PTSD—could admire what had been done to their victims. Still, coming as it did from his team, Morrison had to take it seriously.

“I’ll pay more attention to his actions,” he said finally. “Once we sew this case up and we don’t need the extra manpower, we ought to have a better shot at getting rid of him. For now, though,” he added, “let’s focus on grabbing these two in Boston. I have a feeling that’ll solve a lot of our problems at once.”

22

Morrison and his team arrived in Boston around five. Traffic wasn’t quite as bad as it was during rush hour in New York, but it was close.

When they were within city limits, he called Sergeant McNamara to ask him if there’d been any movement.

“None at all, boss. Our guys came out to grab some stuff from the local store, but they’ve been cooped up inside ever since.”

“All right. We have every exit covered, right?”

“Absolutely—the extra guys you sent made a big difference,” McNamara confirmed. “Everything’s covered this time. And hey, I’ve been speaking to a Detective Lieutenant from District D-14 of the BPD—really good guy—his name’s Francis Donohue! Can you believe that, boss? What’re the chances, huh?”

“He must be smiling down on us from above,” Morrison smiled. “Is he the one helping us out on this?”

“Yeah, one of them. But you’ll be meeting with Lieutenant Wayne Polk—he’s all set to meet with our team at their Brighton location, at 301 Washington Street. He also hooked us up with the Boston College PD, and they’ll be at the meeting too. They’ve really helped us out with making sure we had places to do our surveillance from without standing
out like a sore thumb.”

“Great. And you? Can you break away for the meeting without hurting our coverage at the dorm?”

“Sure, Cap, no problem. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes or so.”

Morrison pulled up in front of the D-14 stationhouse, just a minute ahead of the rest of his team, and smiled at what he saw. The outside looked about as different from a New York stationhouse as it could have. The building was a welcoming, tan brick structure, with a wide granite staircase leading up to the front door. Above the door protruded a white second-story porch, surrounded by a white railing; and all around the building was a nearly block-sized lawn of nicely manicured, picturesque grass.

“Far cry from what we’re used to, huh, Cap?” Koreski asked.

“I wonder if they’ll send out a butler for us,” Morrison joked. Once he and his team were through the front door, though, they saw enough similarities to the stationhouses back at home to feel at ease. The interior was worn and battered-looking with use, and the desk supervisor on duty looked like he was having the kind of day that most patrol supervisors were used to. At the moment he was wearily answering the questions of a pair of young officers who seemed as though they had yet to find their way to the locker room, much less the streets of Boston. It was a pretty universal annoyance for desk supervisors; the academy could only teach recruits so much, after which point the responsibility almost always devolved on the desk supervisor on duty. As a result, they tended to become surlier the longer they worked the desk; and it was clear to Morrison that this supervisor had been doing it a long time.

As Morrison approached the desk and held out his shield, a look of relief passed over the supervisor’s face. He dismissed the two young cops immediately.

“Good day, boss,” Morrison said, showing the customary deference. Although he outranked the supervisor, he was in their house.

“Good day, Captain.” The desk supervisor smiled, immediately
recognizing Morrison’s New York accent. “What brings the NYPD up to Boston?”

“We’re here to see the detective squad commander.”

“No problem—up the stairs, second door on your right.”

Morrison and his group headed up the stairs into the detective squad room. Now this was what he was used to. People in suits, jackets off, sat all around the room, busily working on computers and talking on the phone, dealing with their case loads. One man looked up from his computer, and stood to greet the captain.

“Detective Lee Sherman,” he said, offering his hand. “Can I help you guys?”

“Captain Bill Morrison. One of my sergeants, Pat McNamara, has been talking to your boss—is he in?”

“Sure, come this way.”

Detective Sherman led them into a briefing room, and had them take a seat. In a few minutes, a tall, powerful-looking man entered the room. Morrison and his people began to stand, but he held up his hand.

“Please, don’t get up for me—you guys must be tired after your trip up,” he said affably. He extended a hand to Morrison. “Captain Morrison? Lieutenant Wayne Polk. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” Morrison said. “We really appreciate your help on this one.”

“No problem. Always glad to get a couple of psychos off the street. From what I’ve heard, these guys have been a real pair for you, huh?”

“Yeah, they’ve definitely made our lives miserable for a while now,” Morrison agreed. “I’m just glad they didn’t do anything up this way as well.”

The door opened again, and Sergeant McNamara walked in. Lieutenant Polk greeted him like an old friend.

“Pat! Glad you could make it,” he said. Morrison made a mental note to thank McNamara later. The police fraternity was always open, but out-of-town visitors’ behavior still always determined the level of cooperation they received, and it was clear to Morrison that McNamara had
done an excellent job of keeping on good terms with their Boston allies.

Lieutenant Polk sat and turned back to Morrison. “Sergeant McNamara has fully briefed me on what’s going on,” he said, “and I wanted you to know, I’ve requested the assistance of the BPD Special Operations Division. I know this is just going to be a voluntary request to bring these guys back to the stationhouse, but if things go badly, it’s always nice to have the guys in heavy vests ready to help out.”

“Agreed,” Morrison said. “If we can get them to come out voluntarily, that’ll be enough for me—I’d just rather not have to go in after them, with all the other students inside.”

“All right. We’ll leave that to you guys; McNamara says you have an idea of how that’ll go down. How about warrants?”

“Our ADA, Stan Rosenthal, has got arrest warrants drawn up for both of them. He’s holding off on presenting them to the judge, in hopes that we can get statements out of them voluntarily.”

“Okay, great. We’ll follow your lead—we’ll make sure we have guys covering the whole dorm while you pick them up. I assume you’ll be stationed in the lobby?”

“Yes, that’s the plan.”

“You think they’ll come quietly?”

“I think so. We have reason to think they’re probably going to try to play it cool, so if we pick them up casually they may come back without any trouble. They’ve gotten over the system their whole lives; hopefully that cockiness will work in our favor this time.”