William Landay - The Strangler

But opposite Michael was his favorite, Amy Ryan, whose cool redheaded presence was the best part of these Sunday dinners. Amy was Ricky’s girlfriend, and Michael harbored an illicit, quasi-romantic affection for her. Amy was wry, Amy was brave, Amy was funny, Amy was lovely, Amy was hip, Amy was profane, Amy was smart-her merits jostled for attention and it would have been impossible for Michael to name the one or two he liked best. Tonight she was wearing a white oxford shirt that may or may not have been Ricky’s, which struck Michael as a poignant gesture. She wore Ricky’s shirt as other girls had worn his varsity jacket once. There was a little of the bachelor’s yearning in Michael’s feelings for Amy. She made him question his instinct for solitude.

The group was still unfolding their napkins when Amy mentioned, “So, Brendan, I hear Alvan Byron is going to take over the Strangler case.” She spent a few seconds surveying the dishes on the table in a nonchalant way-noodles and gravy and garlic bread-as if the answer would not make a bit of difference to her.

But Amy Ryan was a reporter, one of only two women on the staff of the Observer, and Brendan Conroy wasn’t falling for any of her career-girl tricks. “Are we on the record or off?”

“Oh, Brendan, come on. Listen to you. We’re just talking. Alright, you tell me, on or off?”

“Off.”

“Okay, off. Remember that, Margaret,” Amy said, “we’re off the record.”

“Who could forget it?” the older woman drawled.

Conroy folded his arms. “Alright, then, here it is. Alvan Byron will not take over the Strangler case for the simple reason that he could not solve the Strangler case. He hasn’t got the people or the resources or the know-how.”

“He’s got Michael,” Ricky said.

“And we’ve got Joe.”

“Exactly.”

“Ricky-y-y,” his mother growled.

Michael forked a tangle of spaghetti onto his plate and, head down, he mixed red sauce into it with extraordinary care.

Conroy turned back to Amy. “Let me tell you something, girly-girl, before you go dancing off and write some story about the great Alvan Byron. Your Mr. Byron is not a cop, has never been, will never be a cop. What Alvan Byron knows about police work would fit on the head of a pin, with room for a few dancing angels.”

Ricky: “The great Conroy has spoken.”

Amy: “He is the Attorney General, Brendan. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“No. See, you don’t understand. Byron’s the Attorney General-that’s just the problem. You don’t go to a dentist for a broken leg, and you don’t send a lawyer to do a cop’s work. I look at the Attorney General’s office and do you know what I see? A law firm. Yankees and goo-goos and Hebrews, and the one lonely Irishman named Daley, and the whole place run by a colored fellow.” He smiled at his witticism. “Whole outfit is upside down.”

“And you,” Michael said, “have got thirteen dead women.”

Ricky: “Plus Joe, don’t forget. Thirteen dead women-and Joe.”

Conroy held Michael’s gaze. “We’ll find him.”

Kat said, “Better find him fast. I don’t sleep at night, with Joe off working and this lunatic running around. I feel like he’s hiding in the closet somewhere, and if I fall asleep…”

“We’ll catch him. Don’t you worry. It’ll all be over soon.”

“Brendan,” Ricky said, “no offense, but Mike’d catch your strangler before Joe gets through his first dozen doughnuts.”

Joe waved his knife.

“Well.” Amy sighed. “I’m just telling you what I hear, Brendan. Byron is going to take the Strangler case. Bet on it.”

“I’ll take that bet, girly. It’s Boston PD’s case. I can’t imagine why on earth we would ever give it up.”

“If Byron says you’re out,” Michael said, “you’re out.”

“That’s what you think.”

“That’s the way it is. He’s the A.G., he’s got statewide jurisdiction. If he wants the Strangler case, he can just take it.”

“See, now that just shows how little you know, smart guy. I’m sure you’re right about the legalities. But there’s what’s legal and there’s what’s practical, and Byron can’t solve that case without BPD’s support. Doesn’t matter what’s in your law books. This is the real world. And in the real world you can’t solve a homicide without homicide detectives. Byron doesn’t have them; we do.”

“Yeah, Mikey,” Ricky said, “you’ve been spending too much time with your Hebrews and goo-goos.”

“And your coloreds,” Joe added.

“And Yankees,” said Amy.

Michael: “Well, maybe you’re right, Brendan. You don’t need any help. It’s, what, a year and a half? And what have you got? Thirteen dead girls and not one arrest. City’s scared half to death. Hell of a job.”

“Michael,” Margaret cautioned, “that’s enough.”

Michael shook his head. He was not sure how he’d got into this position. He did not care much about the Strangler or Alvan Byron. He simply felt an irresistible urge to contradict Brendan Conroy. Something about Conroy’s voice, that sententious tone of his, brought out the worst in Michael.

Conroy seemed willing to let the whole thing pass. He would not grant Michael the satisfaction of goading him into a reaction. “We’ll catch him,” he repeated without any real conviction. “You wait and see.”

“So,” Amy cut in, “you still want that bet, Brendan?”

“That Byron won’t butt in? Sure. I just hate to take your money, girly-girl. How’s two bits, can you afford that? They pay you enough at that fish wrapper?”

“Doesn’t matter. I won’t be paying it.”

Conroy grinned and raised his glass to Amy. “I like your style.”

Michael rolled his eyes.

Joe saw Michael’s eye-rolling and misinterpreted it. “It’s easy to make fun from the cheap seats, Mikey.”

“I didn’t say anything to you, Joe.”

“I’m a cop, too.”

“I wasn’t talking about you, Joe. Just let it alone.”

“Yeah, you were. You were talking about cops. I’m a cop.”

“Your dad was a cop, too,” Conroy threw in.

“Let’s leave him out of it,” Michael said.

“I was just saying-”

“Leave him out.”

“Sorry, Michael. I didn’t mean anything.”

“He didn’t mean anything,” Joe seconded.

From the police reports, Michael had formed an image of his father’s death: In an alley in East Boston, his heart pierced by a bullet, Joe Senior had shimmered down to the ground, hands pinned to his sides. That was the image Michael saw now, and it made him venomous.

“Brendan, you might have let that chair cool off before you sat down in it.”

“Michael!” Margaret’s tone was more astonished than angry.

Conroy was unruffled. “I see.” He simply had not understood and now everything was clear. “Maybe I should go.”

“So go,” Michael said.

Joe pounded the table with the butt of his fist.

Conroy dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. Margaret, ladies, thank you for all this. Excuse me.”

“Brendan,” Margaret instructed, “you sit down. This is my house, you’re my guest. It’s enough of this.” Mother Daley could be magnificently huffy. Her late husband had called her Princess Margaret. The three boys, more accurately, called her Queen Margaret.

“No, Margaret. Maybe Michael’s right, it’s too soon.”

“Michael is not right.”

“Some other time. I don’t want to spoil this beautiful meal.”

“Brendan! You sit down. Michael is going to apologize.”

Ricky said, “What’s he got to apologize? He didn’t do anything.”

“Mind your own business, you.”