The Squad Room (37 page)

There was a long silence. “I’m sorry, Commissioner—what did you say?” Arndt finally managed.

“I think you heard me, Arndt,” Harrington said. “Or perhaps you had Councilman Cook speaking in your other ear?”

“I—I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Arndt stammered, his voice close to breaking.
Good old weepy,
thought Morrison.
Never disappoints.

“You might as well know that I’ll be on the phone with Internal Affairs and the District Attorney’s Office as soon as I hang up with you,” Harrington continued, “and there should be an officer there with you now, ready to escort you out of the building. You may leave your department car keys with my secretary on your way out. That will be all, Arndt.”

Harrington nodded to Morrison, who hung up the phone with a rare thrill of vindication.

“Commissioner, I’d like to thank you,” he said, “not only on my behalf, but on that of everyone that man has ever fucked over.”

“Never a doubt, Bill,” Harrington said, straightening his jacket as he stood. “Now get back to work, and keep me posted. I’ve got a few phone calls to make in a hurry, if you don’t mind my using your office.”

“Not at all, sir—anything you need.”

He stepped out of the office, leaving the Commissioner to do the Lord’s work. As he did, a thought occurred to him.

“Frankie,” he called to Rivera, “get the Medical Examiner on the phone, will you? I need to know what’s going on with that DNA from the gym bag.”

“You got it, Cap,” Rivera said. In another moment he was handing Morrison the phone.

“James, how are you—Bill Morrison here,” Morrison said. “Do you
have any news for me on those new DNA samples?”

“Whoa, Bill, you’re in quite a hurry, huh?” James Fernandez answered with a light laugh. “Not even waiting for my pleasing voice to give you a hello back—! Must be really important, huh?”

“Sorry, Jim,” Morrison said, catching himself, “but yeah, it is. As we speak I have a detective locked up in my squad room under suspicion of two homicides and an attempted rape. I really need to find out if you have anything on those new samples we sent the other day.”

He heard Fernandez whistle. “Understood—my apologies, Bill,” he said. “It sounds like you’re up to your ass in alligators over there. Hold on, let me check for you.”

While Morrison listened to the hold music, he tried to calm his nerves. A case was like a chain: if one link was weak, no matter how strong the rest was, the whole thing could fall apart in a second. He’d seen too many cases lost on the weakness of one piece of evidence, to think otherwise; the burden of proof “beyond a reasonable doubt” meant a shrewd attorney could turn a case at any moment, and although their case against Galipoli was very solid so far, these DNA results would be critical. He was positive the DNA from the panties would match one of their two victims, and he was also pretty sure the DNA from the shorts in the gym bag would come back as Galipoli’s; but if either of those turned out otherwise, it could mean big trouble for them.

Finally the music stopped. Morrison thought of musical chairs, and hoped he’d found a seat.

“Bill, sorry for keeping you so long,” Fernandez said, “but I do have some good news for you. We have a positive match from the cigarette butts, to the homicides on Twenty-First and Thirtieth Streets. We also have a positive match on the shorts in the gym bag—they’re all from the same person.”

Morrison breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s great news, Jim,” he said. “And there’s no doubt on that, right?”

“Absolutely not—they’re off the charts, as far as the numbers are concerned.”

Morrison pumped his fist in the air. Once again, however, his moment of ecstasy was short-lived.

“We do have one problem, though,” Fernandez added. “The panties did test positive for DNA, but they don’t match either of the homicides you have.

“What? But that means—”

“Yeah. Looks like you might have another victim out there somewhere. We’ll run them in our database, as well as through CODIS, to see if they match any other reported crimes, but we’re going to have to get back to you.”

“Okay, Jim, I understand. Thanks very much for you help on this.”

Morrison hung up the phone and called Medveded into his office.

“What’s up, Captain?”

“Did Galipoli say anything about other victims?”

“He’d mentioned something to that effect, but that’s when everything fell apart in there.”

“Exactly what did he say?”

“He said
not all of them
had known they were going to die. When I asked him about others is when he flipped out. Why do you ask?”

“The panties in that gym bag don’t match our two homicide victims’ DNA.”

“Shit,” Medveded said. “I hope he wasn’t just talking things up.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Morrison agreed. “That means he probably had other victims in the car with him, too. Hopefully that warrant will—”

Just then, there was another knock at the door and McNamara leaned in.

“Cap, O’Dell’s got the search warrants for Galipoli’s house and car in hand,” he said. “He’s heading back from court now. Who do you want to execute the warrants?”

Morrison stood and grabbed his coat. “You guys and I will do the house,” he said. “I’ll have Simmons and Garriga get on the car. Let’s get going.”

Not quite forty-five minutes later, McNamara, O’Dell and Morrison arrived at Galipoli’s home in Bay Ridge. It was in a fifteen-story residential building facing the Verrazano bridge. An Emergency Services unit was standing by at the scene; Morrison had Galipoli’s keys, but wanted the help available if they had to make a forced entry. Not even the guys from Galipoli’s former command knew much about him, so Morrison didn’t know what to expect.

They walked into the building and found the super in the lobby, emptying out a trash can.

“Excuse me,” Morrison said, showing his badge. “We’re detectives with the NYPD, here to conduct a search on one of your residents’ apartments. Do you know Lou Galipoli?”

“Yeah, I know the fucking jerk,” the super said gruffly. “And about time somebody came for him. His mom was just getting on the elevator with some shopping bags; you’ll find her in the place.”

“He lives with his mother?” Morrison asked, surprised.

“Yeah, nice lady too,” the super said, shaking his head. “How she made such a son—I never understood it.”

“Thanks,” Morrison said. “We’re going to have to do this delicately,” he added to the others.

“Hey, at least it isn’t another Galipoli we’re going to be dealing with,” McNamara said.

Leaving their Emergency Service cops in the lobby, the three of them headed up to the seventh floor. When Morrison knocked on the door to 701, an older woman with a pleasant face answered.

“Can I help you?” she asked doubtfully.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Captain Morrison with the NYPD,” Morrison said. “These gentlemen with me are Sergeant McNamara and Detective O’Dell. Can we come in, please?”

“Of course—of course. Come on in.”

She led them into a tidy, carpeted living room. Morrison asked her to sit before explaining their warrant and what they were doing there. It was a good thing. As soon as he’d told her that her son was under
suspicion for murder, she fell back into her chair and wept loudly, claiming she couldn’t believe her boy would do anything to hurt anyone. It pained Morrison to hear, as it always did but it was a pretty common story in these cases. The same obsession with manipulation that led many people to kill, helped them keep it a secret from those closest to them.

“Well, it isn’t certain, ma’am,” he eventually interjected, “but we need to carry out our investigation here. Do you mind showing us to his room?”

“Of course,” she said, rising. “It’s just this way.”

She led them down a hallway to a room at the other end of the apartment. The door was padlocked.

“He always likes his privacy,” she explained. “I’m not allowed in here—he calls it his man cave. But it isn’t that I distrust him,” she was quick to add. “I’ve always tried to respect his privacy here.”

“That’s very considerate of you, Mrs. Galipoli,” O’Dell said, turning her away from the others. Not knowing what they were going to find, it was important that she not be there when they entered. “While they carry out their search, do you mind if I ask you a few questions out here in the living room?”

When he’d led her away, Morrison and McNamara pulled on rubber gloves, and Morrison got out Galipoli’s keys. He tried a few of them on the padlock before he found the fitting one. It stuck a little, but eventually the lock popped. Cautiously, he swung the door open and stepped into the room.

The room was dark—almost impossibly dark. The windows were all covered with thick, dark curtains against the sunlight. Morrison flipped on the light and he and McNamara winced. There were at least thirty pictures of women in various state of undress taped on the wall. Most of them had been taken in the street, candid-style—some of women in cars pulling their tops down, others spreading their legs for the camera—but the two detectives soon spotted a few familiar photos among them: shots of the last two homicides, apparently taken
immediately after they’d been murdered.

“This guy is one sick fuck,” Morrison said. “Yeah,” McNamara agreed.

The two conducted a cursory search over the rest of the room. Once they were satisfied there weren’t any additional victims locked inside, they called for the Crime Scene Unit to come and process the scene in depth, and went back out to join O’Dell and Galipoli’s mother in the living room.

“Well,” McNamara said on their way out, “I’ll say this: if Garriga and Simmons are finding anything like this in the car, this one’s going to be pretty open-and-shut.”

“Let’s hope,” Morrison agreed.

When they rejoined the others in the living room, it seemed O’Dell had been able to calm Mrs. Galipoli down. Clearly proud of her son, she was speaking of his accomplishments in an almost reverent tone as she showed the detective a small stack of photos.

“This is Louis at a bodybuilding competition,” she was saying, holding up a faded Polaroid. “Can you believe those muscles? He was just fifteen.” She looked up as Morrison and McNamara sat, and eyed them with silent apprehension.

“Mrs. Galipoli, we’re going to have to have Crime Scene in to look at things a little more closely,” Morrison said. “Do you mind if we sit and speak with you while they work?”

“No, that’s fine,” she said hastily. “You didn’t find what you were looking for?” she added hopefully.

“We’ll have to have them look,” Morrison said evasively. “It’s just normal procedure.”

It was then that Morrison noticed the urgency in O’Dell’s eyes.

“Captain, Mrs. Galipoli was telling me about Lou’s father,” he said.

“Yes—where is he?” Morrison asked.

“God rest his soul, he passed years ago,” Mrs. Galipoli said, standing. She retrieved a photo album from a low shelf and brought it back to them, flipping the pages. She showed them a photo of a young Galipoli,
his face inscrutable, standing with a stern-looking man.

“This is the only picture I have of the two of them,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Silvio died not long after it was taken.”

“I see,” Morrison said. “Was Louis close to his father?”

Mrs. Galipoli’s brows knitted for an instant as she looked down. “No,” she said quietly. “Not really. Silvio was—he was very demanding. He could be hard on Louis. He was hard on everyone,” she added, and her fingers twisted the tissue she was holding.

“Was Louis’s father ever violent toward him?”

Mrs. Galipoli nodded, her eyes still averted. “He loved us, but he had a temper,” she said.

“How did he pass?” Morrison asked.

The bluntness of Mrs. Galipoli’s answer was almost shocking. “He was murdered,” she said simply, and burst into tears. Morrison looked at O’Dell and McNamara as they tried to console her.

“I know it’s difficult, Mrs. Galipoli,” he said when she’d quieted again, “but it could be important to our investigation. Could you please tell me a bit about your husband’s death?”

She nodded, wiping her eyes. “It’s all right,” she said. “It was so long ago—I’m used to talking about it. I’m more upset that Louis is in trouble.”

“I understand completely, Mrs. Galipoli. Go ahead. Where did it happen?”

“It was a few blocks from here, at the park. We were living in a little place on Ninety-Fifth back then, right across the street from there.”

“What happened?”

“Well, Louis was late for dinner, and his father went looking for him,” she said. “I begged him not to go, but he was in one of his moods. He went out with—with his belt in his hand.”

“Go on.”

“Louis came home a little later, maybe an hour later. He was scared he was in trouble. I told him I’d always protect him, and I wouldn’t let Silvio hurt him. I was afraid of Silvio, but I was angry too. We were
both angry, under the fear; Louis was always very angry at his father.

“In the middle of the night, I heard a knock at the door. I thought it was Silvio, but when I answered it, it was a policeman. They’d found Silvio in the park. He was beaten to death. Whoever did it took his money, but left his wallet.”

“Whoever did it? They didn’t find his killer?”

“They never did, no.” She wiped her eyes again. “Just imagine that, as a boy—being so angry at your father, fighting with him all the time, then
that
happens. How could he be expected to deal with that?” She looked at them imploringly, as though to plead with them for understanding. “All these years—how does
anyone
deal with that?” She broke off, the tears flowing freely again. Morrison held his tongue.

He knew, too well, the way some people dealt with that.

A few hours later, they were still talking when one of the Crime Scene detectives pulled Morrison aside.

“Cap, we’re wrapping up here, if you want to take another look in the room,” he said.

“Thanks,” Morrison said. He headed down the hallway and walked in, seeing a good-sized group of bags marked by Crime Scene piled up by the door. The walls were bare.

“I see you found the photos,” he joked. “Anything else of interest?”