David Rosenfelt - Airtight

Of course, Judge Brennan, murdered in his garage, wouldn’t be hearing any more cases.

A media story is like a campfire.

It reaches a full blaze quickly, and then gradually starts to die down. But as you add fuel, it flares up again.

The story of the Brennan murder, and my shooting of Steven Gallagher, was running out of fuel. That was mostly because we found Gallagher so quickly, and because his death meant there was no trial to look forward to. Had the crime not been solved, or if there was a manhunt, the story could have burned for weeks.

Much was already known about Gallagher, his difficult upbringing, his subsequent descent into addiction, and his Marine hero brother, Chris. Chris had not been heard from, though it was known that he was back in the states on leave.

A funeral was being planned for Judge Brennan for two days later, to give time for the large crowd who would surely attend to make arrangements. Messages of outrage and horror had already been chronicled, and published accounts revealed how many respected legal and business leaders actually used Twitter.

Judge Susan Dembeck had not yet announced whether she would stay in her post until a replacement for Judge Brennan was appointed and confirmed. It was expected that she would, though this represented something of a hardship for her, since her husband had a serious illness and she was retiring to help care for him.

The President would soon be appointing a new candidate to take the place of Judge Dembeck, but that person would begin at square one in the confirmation process, and the state of gridlock in the Senate would once again make it very time-consuming.

Billy Heyward kept me in touch with details of the case as it came together, and I was relieved to hear that initial DNA testing revealed that the clothes stuffed in Gallagher’s closet had Judge Brennan’s blood on them. That meant that the postmortem on the case would be quick and uncontroversial. It also confirmed my belief that I did the right thing.

But the day went by without my hearing from Bryan. I was surprised, but the truth was that I had little experience with a brother finding out that I had slept with his wife, so I wasn’t sure what normal behavior would be.

I was disturbed by a phone call from Julie near the end of the day. She asked if I had heard from Bryan, and I told her that I had not. “He hasn’t called me, either,” she said. “I’m worried about him.”

“I’m sure he needs the time to think this out, to digest it. Maybe to decide whether he wants to shoot me or hit me over the head with a baseball bat.”

“I know it’s got to be incredibly hard on him,” she said. “But I want to talk to him. I feel so terrible about this.”

“You could call him at work.”

“I was going to, but they called me.”

“What does that mean?”

“He didn’t show up for work, and didn’t contact anyone there. They were worried about him.”

The conversation with Julie must have been even more devastating for Bryan than I imagined, and I imagined it as being hugely upsetting. Bryan doesn’t miss a day of work, not ever; he’s the hardest-working person I know. And to just not show up, without notification, is totally and completely out of character.

I got off the phone and tried him at home. I got the machine, and left a message that I knew what he was going through, and I was sorry and we needed to talk.

With nothing else to do, I headed down to the Crows Nest for a couple of beers and a burger. It was a comfortable place to be; there were always cops around who I knew and usually liked, though the next time we talked about work there would be the first.

I got home at a little after nine, and parked in my driveway, which is along the side of the house. I walked around towards the front and as I went up the four steps to the porch I noticed that one of the windows on the left was open.

It was only open an inch, but hey, I’m a cop, and I notice stuff. What was important was that I hadn’t left it open. I’m an air-conditioning nut; I leave it on all day so the house will be cool when I get home. And this particular window was behind a table, so it’s not even one that I ever open.

So if I didn’t open it, someone else did. Which meant that someone might have been in my house, and might still be there.

It was safest to assume the latter, and if that was the case, then they would have heard me pull into the driveway. The smart thing for me to have done would have been to call for backup and go into the house in force.

I didn’t do that for a couple of reasons. The very stupid one was that it was my house and I could defend it without help from anyone. The less stupid one was that it could be Bryan, who found the doors locked and decided he wanted to wait for me inside. Climbing through a window would have been completely out of character for him, but with what he’d been going through, his behavior might be tending towards the unusual.

I went around to the back of the house. There was a ladder there; I hadn’t put it away after a visit by the satellite TV guy. I looked in through the window, and didn’t see anyone inside, so I placed the ladder against the house, as gently as I could.

I climbed up to a window in a guest bedroom, since I knew the lock on it was broken. If you’re going to break into a house, it’s easier if it’s the one you live in, since you know the nuances.

It was difficult climbing up to the window and then through it with my gun drawn, but the potentially most dangerous part of this operation was when I physically went through the window. The truth was that if there was somebody waiting for me there with a gun, having my own gun drawn would be of little help. Of course, if it was Bryan, having my gun drawn would make me feel like an idiot.

I got into the room undetected, and made my way out to the hallway, and then to the top of the steps. There was a light on in the den, which was just to the left off the stairs, but I could have left it that way. I’d know soon enough.

Having the high ground in battle is almost always an advantage, one of the exceptions being when the battlefield is a house in Paterson, New Jersey. If there were people down there, they could have been in a number of places, pointing their weapons at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for my convenient arrival.

I edged towards the outside wall of the den, then quickly moved in, gun in firing position. There was a man sitting on the couch; he wasn’t Bryan, and he wasn’t anyone I had seen before. The other thing he wasn’t, even though he was staring at my gun, was worried.

“You noticed the window I left open. Not bad … I was testing you.”

I kept the gun pointed. “Who the hell are you?”

“Chris Gallagher. You killed my brother.”

“The Marine,” I said.

He nodded. “The Marine.”

I lowered the gun, but still held it in my hand. Gallagher was far enough away from me that I’d have time to raise it and fire if he made a move. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Think what you want.”

“Steven never hurt anyone in his life, except himself.”

“His clothes were hidden in his closet with Judge Brennan’s blood all over them; they matched the DNA. He had a gun and raised it to shoot me when we came in. Maybe you didn’t know your brother as well as you think.”

“You got a brother Bryan, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You know him pretty well?”

“I do,” I said, not liking where this was going.

“Heard from him today?”

Chris Gallagher described the situation calmly, without apparent emotion.

If that approach was to worry his audience, in this case me, it worked really well. His words reflected the fact that he was in total control, but his manner drove it home even more forcefully.