Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

The NYPD does not stint on resources when one of their own is in trouble, especially when one of their own happens to be Brendan Cooley. They sent SWAT teams and bomb squads, and detective chief inspectors and crime scene units and paramedics and canine teams and generators, and thousand-candlepower lighting rigs, and there were guys from Public Works with hard hats, yellow slickers, and rolled-up maps, and others with pneumatic drills, and they would have brought in the helicopters had they figured out how to get them down in the tunnels. Fulton was there, too, and on Karp's insistence took charge of John Carey Williams, the artist formerly known as Canman, not before informing Karp, with some satisfaction, that Brendan Cooley had alibis for every one of the bum slashings. Which Karp already knew. Fulton was short with Karp, and the police brass were even shorter, but it was also the case that the district attorney is formally in charge of every police investigation. The actual ADAs almost never pressed this point, but it was there to be pressed, and Karp knew it, and so did they. Fulton's career was probably damaged by it-another doleful burden for Karp to carry.

Father Dugan was rushed off to the hospital along with Lucy, who did not want to go, but Karp insisted with a ferocity that surprised even him, and Marlene went along with her. Karp was happy to observe that an assaulted and beat-up daughter trumped the lost dog. You could never tell with Marlene. The cops had sequestered a pier and brought in a trailer for their operations center, and Karp hung around drinking bad coffee and being treated with correct frostiness by the cops. They were bringing out bags now, stretchers with the dead, and bags of remains. Cooley had apparently killed four men outright, and one had died later of wounds received. There were also two corpses with their throats torn out. What there wasn't was live people. No cannibal moles, no David Grale. And no large dog, dead or alive. Karp assembled a picture of what was happening below as reports filtered back to the command trailer. The old sewer, it turned out, had numerous unmapped branchings, and there were any number of passages broken into subways, real sewers, utility tunnels. Tracking through all of it would take weeks, and by that time the fugitives could be scattered anywhere in the thousands of miles of the city's catacombs.

Toward evening, there was a sense of anticlimax among the command cops. The press was avid for a statement, and there were no perps to parade except for a bunch of homeless, whose major crime was being poor. There were grisly human remains (some of them cooked, but they weren't anxious to let that out) and a new prime suspect in the bum slashings, but that was not going to advance anyone's career. Karp didn't feel he had to be present while they concocted their plausible untruths, so he left and ran right into Brendan Cooley, about to come in.

They looked at each other for a moment, and Karp thought that Cooley was thinking of pushing right by without a word, so he stuck his hand out and said, "Look, Cooley, I didn't get to thank you for saving me and my family. I mean it-thanks."

Cooley took the hand and gave it a brief, reluctant shake. He said, "No problem. I should say the same. That was a fancy piece of work there with that bomb. With your tongue. I got to say, you got a pair on you, man. I thought that was fucking farewell and adieu for sure. And that's quite a girl you got there. I never saw anything like it. Fucking guy's holding a bomb, and she just goes right up to him and gives him hell. Hypnotized the bastard like a goddamn chicken."

"Yeah, I don't know whether to be proud of her or lock her in her room forever." Karp shook his head ruefully. "I'll tell you, it never for one minute occurred to me that I would have a daughter like that. My heart's up around my collar half the time. Yours are still young-you got time to prepare, but the day will come."

Their eyes met, and a certain understanding passed between them. Cooley said, "I got to go in there and talk to the chief."

"Yeah. Look, we got stuff we need to discuss. Why don't you come by my office tomorrow, say around ten? We'll talk."

"Should I bring my lawyer?"

"That's your right, of course. But I thought it would be good if we just talked informally, just a couple of heroes shooting the shit. You know how fucked up lawyers can be."

"I'll think about it," said Cooley, and went into the trailer.

Past the cops on guard, and the yellow tape and the gabbling barrier of reporters, Karp was gratified to see his driver and Murrow leaning against a dark sedan. In the car, to Karp's relief, Murrow did not ask for a thrilling replay of the tunnel adventures, but instead conveyed information.

"The thing went down about two hours ago. Paxton's in custody at the One-six."

"Good. Any problems?"

"No. They called your office as arranged when they scooped him up."

"The bust was legit?"

"Oh, yeah. Half the people on that block are snitches. Three Mob-looking guys carrying a duffel bag into a building, the lines were humming half an hour later. Meanwhile, everyone's glued to the tube back at the office. Your exploits. The DA wants to see you as soon as you get in."

"He can wait." Karp looked out the window at the city. It looked the same-people, cars, buildings, all oblivious to what they walked, drove, and stood over. It seemed wrong somehow that only hours had passed since he had descended into the underworld. Like all people who have experienced the remarkable and terrifying, Karp wanted the world to have been changed and was irrationally annoyed that it was going on in its accustomed way, like ants in a child's ant farm.

"What's wrong with your face, Murrow?"

"My face?"

"Yeah, you look like you stepped in dog shit. I stink, don't I?"

"You might want to change your clothes," said Murrow delicately.

They went to the loft on Crosby Street, and Karp stripped and tossed the sewer gear into a trash bag and took a long, hot shower. Bruises he had not felt at the time were blossoming like flowers after a rain, blue and purple. Dressing, he found he had to sit on the bed to get into his trousers. I am getting too old for this shit, he thought.

At the precinct, Karp found Ralphie Paxton in an interview room, looking gray and frightened. Karp gave him a smile.

"So, Mr. Paxton, we meet again. You've got yourself in some trouble now, haven't you? Have you been read your rights?"

"Yeah. Look, I don't know nothing about any bag of dope. Someone must've laid it on me, in my place, while I was out."

"Yes, and I see here on this paper that you have waived your rights. Are you absolutely sure you don't want to talk to an attorney?"

"I don't need no attorney. I didn't do nothing. I told you, they dumped that shit in there when I was out. How do I know what's in the back of some damn closet?"

"I see. The problem with that story, Mr. Paxton, is we have witnesses say you were there when the package was delivered. We even have a witness who says you set up the whole thing for money."

"He's a goddamn liar!"

"Uh-huh. Mr. Paxton, are you aware of the penalties this state provides for possession of narcotic drugs? Under Section 220.21, possession of more than four ounces of narcotic drugs is a class A-one felony. That carries with it a mandatory fifteen-year minimum sentence upon conviction, and then sentences can go as high as twenty-five years. We don't like drug lords in the state of New York."

"I ain't no drug lord, for God's sake! Do I look like a damn drug lord?"

Karp ignored this and went on calmly, still smiling. "On the other hand, we often make allowances for people caught in a squeeze. You don't have to be charged with anything. I can't make you any promises, but sometimes when a person comes forward of their own volition and helps us out, we can help them out. You know how the system works."