book.pdf (3 page)

shoulder. Rejecting it, Clayton pushed away from the desk he’d been leaning

on, and stood, inadvertently shaking Jackson’s hand off his shoulder.

“No, you’re all wrong. He’s not even on duty today. He told me he was

stopping by his mom’s this morning and running some errands before joining

us later at the beach.”

“He wasn’t on duty Clay. Craig walked in on a robbery in progress at a

convenience store on Chestnut. He was gone by the time the paramedics

arrived.”

13

As the certainty of those words raced through Clay’s nerve endings, his

knees felt weak and his heart sped up, pounding violently against his chest

wall.

“Oh shit,” he whispered. Moving backwards blindly, he encountered the

edge of the desk he’d been leaning against just moments ago. He sagged

against it for support, lifted both hands and covered his face.

“No, no way,” he said in disbelief. “This can’t be happening.”

Jackson spoke again. “We think the gunman panicked when Craig walked

in and….”

Captain Jackson’s voice faded as the shock hit Clay like a blow to the gut.

Outwardly he schooled his features into hard, grim lines. But inwardly, it

felt like his insides were being ripped apart. How? How could this have

happened? He dealt with tragedy on a daily basis. Death, after all, was part

of the job. This was different; he’d never dealt with death striking this close

to home. Struggling with the conflicting emotions gripping his insides, he

drew on the investigative training and methodical thinking of a trained peace

officer. This training allowed him to gain a measure of control and, when he

spoke again, his demeanor was seemingly calm and his voice appeared

steady.

“Was he wearing his vest?” He asked, even though he knew the answer.

“No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t carrying his service revolver either, not that he

would have had a chance to use it, before…” Jackson paused to clear his

throat, precluding the need for further details.

Clayton’s throat closed up on him, his chest tightened painfully and his

knees began to shake. But he held his ground, operating on auto pilot and

asked the questions he would normally ask as if Craig were no more than

another crime victim.

“Who responded to the call?”

“Piterrelli.”

Clayton turned to look at the young officer. His head was down and he

was noticeably shaken.

“Piterrelli?”

Piterrelli was silent. His eyes were red as if he’d been crying and his lips

were pulled into a grim line.

“Come on, man. Tell me,” he urged.

“I’m sorry Clay, Craig was dead by the time I got there and the perp was

long gone.”

14

Blinding anger crashed down on Clay, making him want to strike out at

something, anything. Startling everyone, he grabbed a nearby chair and

flung it forcefully across the room.

Overcome with rage, he shouted, “Dammit, why didn’t he wait for me. I

offered to drop him off at his mother’s this morning, and help him with

whatever he had to do. If only he’d let me help him, maybe…” His voice

trailed off as a thought suddenly occurred to him.

What the hell was Craig doing over on Chestnut anyway?
”

Piterrelli reached out to comfort him, but Clayton shrugged away from his

touch.

“Don’t! Just, just leave me alone. I need...I just need a minute.” Turning,

Clayton walked several feet away and planted his hands on his hips.

“Jesus, motherfuckin’ Christ!” he shouted. Panic gripped him as a surge of

adrenaline shot through him, simultaneously making his limbs quiver and

shake, and turning his body hot and cold.

Clayton knew people acted this way in these situations, but had not fully

understood them until now. Being a cop, he had seen grief take many forms.

When told a loved one was dead, most people would break down

hysterically. Occasionally, their grief took the form of anger and some

people lost it entirely. Suddenly, he realized it was happening to him. He

was losing it. This all- consuming rage coursed through him, making him

ready to do battle with anything and everything around him instead of doing

what he desperately wanted to do, which was cry for the loss of a best friend.

That realization caused the anger to drain away, and left him feeling weak

and sick to his stomach. Then the tears finally came. They were big, hot

stinging tears that blurred his vision and clogged his throat so badly he

thought he would choke.

“Aw, Craig,” he was able to get past the lump in his throat. This time he

didn’t shrink away from the comfort being offered by his fellow officers, as

they came up behind and stood beside him, gripping his shoulders and

touching his back. With emotion strangling their voices, it was hard to tell

exactly who was comforting whom. Clay turned slightly, and suddenly

found Captain Jackson’s big, burly arms around him, clasping him hard like

a father would comfort his son.

Standing in the Captain’s strong embrace, Clayton heard random comments

from his fellow officers.

“He was a good man, a good cop.”

“Damn, he was only twenty four years old. Hell, he’d hardly even lived.”

“I’m sure gonna’ miss him.”

15

Straightening, Clayton fought and won a measure of control. Studying him,

to make certain he was going to be alright, Captain Jackson thumped him on

the back and released him. Clayton slumped into a nearby chair and covered

his face with both his hands. Vivid pictures flashed behind his closed lids as

he replayed the past four hours in his mind…

When he heard the front door open, Clay rolled out of bed. Scratching his

chest, he ambled down the hall and almost ran smack into Craig.

“Whatup boy?” Craig said to him in greeting, as he raced past him. “I gotta’

piss like a racehorse,” he told Clay as he dashed past him in the hallway on

his way to the bathroom. A moment later, Clay heard the bathroom door

slam in Craig’s room. Shaking his head, Clay went into their small kitchen

to make some coffee. When Craig came in about fifteen minutes later, Clay

offered him a cup.

“Nah,” he said and opened the refrigerator. Rummaging around in there for

quite a while, Craig finally came out with an open carton of orange juice.

“So, what time are you picking up the new ride?” he asked Clay.

Clay noticed Craig had taken a shower and changed into khaki shorts and a

faded Mets T-shirt. His keys were in his hand, and he was obviously on his

way out again. That was nothing unusual. He knew how hard it was to

work all night then come right in and go to sleep.

“This afternoon, before I head to the beach; you still gonna’ meet up with us

later?” Clay asked.

Craig stood by the refrigerator, gulping down OJ. He burped loudly,

showing his appreciation of Florida’s finest, before answering.

“Yeah man, I’m there. But first, I gotta’ stop by my mom’s,” he’d said.

“The mower’s on the fritz and I promised I’d take a look at it before she went

out and brought a new one.”

That was just like him, Clay thought, remembering how good Craig was to

his mother.

Craig’s mom!

Oh, Jesus, Craig’s poor mom. Alarm raced through him, thinking about

her. His mom had been through enough already, she didn’t need this. He

couldn’t let some stranger knock on her door, and deliver bad news like this.

Swiping a hand across his eyes, he stood and faced Captain Jackson.

“Has anyone informed his family, Sir?”

“Not yet,” Jackson replied. “That task would be mine or Rev. Winters.”

Clayton knew Rev. Winters. He’d been police chaplain for as long as Clay

had been on the force.

16

“I’d like to do it sir, if it’s alright with you.”

“You sure you’re up for that?”

“I know his family, sir. It might be somewhat easier coming from someone

they know.”

Captain Jackson paused a moment before saying, “You don’t look so good

Marshall. Sit down.”

He took the chair the Captain motioned him into, trying to come to grips

with this but also knowing he couldn’t let anyone else tell Craig’s family.

After a few seconds, he looked up at his superior and pressed Jackson for an

answer.

“Well, Captain?”

Considering the younger man’s request, Captain Jackson agreed it might be

best if Clay were the one to break the news.

“Ok, if you feel up to it, go ahead.”

Relieved, but still visibly shaken, Clayton muttered. “It’s still so hard to

believe.” Clasping his hands together, he bent at the waist and rested his

elbows on his knees. “A couple of hours ago he was standing in the kitchen,

eating cereal!”

“I know. Just yesterday he invited me to the beach with you guys after my

shift ended today,” Piterrelli added.

Looking closely at the younger officer, Clayton saw pain etched in his

features. Piterrelli was built like a wide receiver with a full head of gray hair,

even though he was only in his thirties. Just last month he’d invited the

entire squad to his sister’s wedding in Little Italy. It didn’t matter that Clay

and Craig were black and Piterrelli was white. The officers in his department

were close knit and looked out for each other like brothers. You never knew

what situation you might walk into being a cop. It helped to know you had a

brother, someone you could trust, to watch your back. This brotherhood

went beyond race, religion and all color lines. To these guys, the only

important color—the only color that mattered—was blue.

“Hell, Mike, I’m sorry man. You’re the one who responded to the call and

here I am falling apart over here, when you must have gotten the biggest

shock.”

“Yeah…” unable to say more Piterrelli, turned away to dry his eyes.

It was Clay’s turn to do the comforting. He rose and draped an arm across

Piterrelli’s shoulder, giving his thick shoulders a squeeze.

“Where is he?”

17

“He’s at the morgue Clay, but don’t go over there and don’t let his mother

go man. He was pretty messed up.”

Clay gave his shoulder one last squeeze then dropped his right hand to his

side.

“This is going to kill his mom.”

“Yeah.”

Whatever Piterrelli was going to say was cut short when the front door

opened, and Reverend Winters strode in. In his sixties with slightly graying

hair, Reverend Winters had kind eyes behind thick, corrective lenses.

“We’ve lost a good man,” he said to the entire room. The calm, subdued

quality of the reverend’s voice reached each officer in the room.

“The last time I talked to Craig he told me that he couldn’t understand why

people stayed at a job they hated. ‘How do they get up every morning? I

love my job,’ he said. ‘I love getting up every morning knowing I can help

people.”

Reverend Winters knew everyone grieved differently. Some of these officers

would work through it by themselves and others may need to talk with

someone to come to terms with their grief.

“Maybe you’ll all feel a little better if you remember that. Craig was a

great policeman, he was a good man and most importantly, Craig Simpson

was a happy man,” he added. “I believe we could all use a prayer right

now.” Grasping the hand of the officer nearest him, Reverend Winters

addressed the room. “Let’s join hands.”

Clay barely heard the reverend’s words. His mind was filled with concern

for Craig’s family, especially his mother. She’d already lost a husband, now

he had to tell her she’d lost a son. Craig also had a younger brother, Tony,

who was only fourteen, and sister, Janae who was twenty one. While Mrs.

Simpson had two other kids, Craig was the oldest and the one she relied on

most since her husband passed away eight years ago.

The prayer ended, pulling Clayton back to the present and Reverend

Winters walked over to where he stood.

“Captain Jackson said you wanted to inform the family, is that right son?

”Yes sir, that’s right.”

“Son, if you feel you must, by all means, do so. But, are you sure you can

handle it?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Reverend Winters studied him. Satisfied, he nodded his agreement.

“Okay son. Come and see me later if you need to talk, alright?

18

THREE

Cynthia Edwards parked her car in back of the salon, entering through the

back door of Nu U and turned on the lights and air conditioning. Although

she only worked in the shop three days a week for a few hours, Cynthia liked

to come in early, finding that was the time of day when she got the most