Dave Zeltserman: Small crimes

'I heard something about it.'

Phil forced his grin back and shook his head slightly. "The man's only fifty-six and he's dying of stomach cancer. Manny always was a tough bird. Normally I wouldn't have a chance of cracking him, but, when a man's dying, sometimes he needs to unburden himself. You know, at one point I think every drug, gambling, and prostitution dollar that flowed through Vermont went into his hands. You remember Billy Ferguson? I think you investigated his murder.'

'I remember.'

'I guess you would,' he said. 'It's not as if we have a lot of murders here, and I don't think we ever had one as brutal as that one. How many years ago was that?'

'I don't know. Maybe ten.'

Phil thought about it and shook his head. 'I think it was less than eight and a half years ago. Only a few months before you maimed me. I'll tell you, Joe, that was one hell of a brutal murder. I don't think I ever saw anyone beaten as badly as Ferguson was.'

He waited for me to say something, but I just stood there and stared back at him. After a while he gave up and continued.

'Billy Ferguson was in way over his head with gambling debts,' he said. 'As far as I could tell, he owed Manny thirty thousand dollars. I suspect Manny sent one of his thugs over to collect and the situation got out of hand. Do you remember anything from your investigation?'

'That was a long time ago. But as I remember, we hit a brick wall. No fingerprints, no witnesses, nothing.'

'Well, I'm not giving up on it. I'm making it a point to visit Manny religiously.' Phil laughed, but his grin was long gone. 'I'm spending time each day reading him the Bible. I think he's beginning to see the light. With a little bit of luck I'll get a confession any day now and clear up Ferguson's murder along with a few other crimes that have always bugged me.'

I didn't bother saying anything. He was wasting his time, but he'd find that out for himself. Manny Vassey was joined at the hip with the Devil, and there wasn't a chance in hell he'd ever find God or confess to anything. My cab pulled back up to us. Before I could say a word, Phil grabbed my duffel bag from me and swung it into the cab's trunk. 'Be seeing you around, Joe,' he said as he walked off.

I sat back in the cab and took out of my pocket a worn and creased photo of my two daughters. The picture was taken at Courtney's first birthday. Melissa at the time was only a little over three, and the two girls were standing side by side, Melissa holding Courtney's hand to keep her standing upright. They wore matching yellow dresses, both with pink ribbons in their long blonde hair. Both girls looking a bit chubby, Courtney more so than Melissa. I felt a tug at my heart seeing the shy little smile breaking out over Melissa's face and the look of total confusion on Courtney's. I remembered the rest of that day. The way Courtney's face had ended up covered in chocolate ice cream, and Melissa later hugging Courtney like she was some sort of doll. And both girls jumping onto my lap, both giggling like crazy. I had few other memories of my girls, at least ones that I cared to remember.

After a while I carefully slid the photo into my wallet. Then I closed my eyes and thought about how I had ended up the way I did.

Nine years ago I was up to my eyeballs in gambling debts. I was in deep, a lot deeper than Billy Ferguson ever was. Back then I was out of control. It wasn't that I was a coke fiend, but I did too much of it, and I did too much drinking and too much gambling. Way too much gambling. Especially on football games. I would've been better off flipping a coin than the way I picked them. There were weeks I was shut out completely. But that's the thing with degenerate gamblers – you always think you have an edge, that you'll make it all back with one big bet. Of course I never did. All I ever accomplished was getting myself in deeper.

I owed Manny a lot of money. I was paying him back as much as I could, but it was never enough and he kept putting the pressure on. When he threatened to hurt my wife and children, I knew I had no choice. I agreed to do jobs for him to work down the balance. At first the jobs were small, fairly inconsequential, but over time Manny kept upping the ante. Somehow I had to get out from under him. I started taking bigger chances with what I stole from the police evidence room. The sheriff of Bradley County, Dan Pleasant, who was maybe the most corrupt law enforcement officer I'd ever met, found out that Phil had discovered some of my forged documents and was building a criminal conspiracy case against me. I thanked Dan for the information and told him I'd take care of things.

I was pretty coked up the night I broke into Phil's office. I found the documents implicating me. I was pouring gasoline around his office when he showed up. It was past midnight and he had no right showing up when he did, but there he was. We just kind of looked at each other. He knew what I was up to, and he should have left and called the police. Instead he tried to stop me. Now Phil's a big guy. He was a star linebacker in high school and even played in college, but I was fighting for my life. I guess I was also kind of crazed from the coke and the adrenalin.

Somehow I got him on his back and grabbed a letter opener from the desk. I guess I was stabbing him with it. To be honest, that part is nothing more than a blur in my mind. I really don't remember too much of it. What I do remember is at some point Phil had stopped moving. I got off him, lit a match, and waited for the fire to spread before leaving.

The funny thing was I had always liked Phil. I always thought of him as a solid person, a good family man, just an overall decent human being. If I'd had a real knife, like a fishing or hunting knife, I would've killed him that night. The letter opener wasn't sharp enough. I did damage – Jesus, did I do damage – but I didn't kill him.

About the time I was setting the fire he must've pulled a silent fire alarm. I didn't see him but he must've done it then. The police and the fire trucks showed while I was leaving the building. I just about walked into them. My dad was working as a fireman then, and he was with them. Hell, I think I was still holding onto that bloody letter opener.

I was arrested that night. I could see the disappointment in some of my fellow officers' faces, but I could also see some anxiety. Several of them would go to prison if I talked. Harold Grayson, probably one of the better lawyers we have around here, was hired for me by the police union. He wanted me to plead innocent, claiming I suffered diminished capacity due to my excessive cocaine use. I refused and pled guilty instead. It seemed time to take my medicine. And I kept quiet about everything else I knew. I also worked out a deal with Manny – I'd keep quiet about him, too, in exchange for wiping my slate clean, No one else was implicated.

During the last seven years, when I wasn't playing Morris at checkers, I spent my time trying to understand how I had taken the turn that I did. It shouldn't have been that way. There was nothing in my background to suggest I'd end up a crooked cop, a cocaine user and a degenerate gambler. I'd had a normal childhood. I was born in Bradley, spent my whole life there, played quarterback for my high school team, and ended up marrying my childhood sweetheart. I'd only been out of Bradley County a few times in my life and never more than a four-hour drive away. Hell, I'd lived the perfect Norman Rockwell existence.

As a kid, I watched Adam-12 and Dragnet and can only remember wanting to be a cop when I grew up. After I graduated from high school I joined the Bradley Police Department. I never looked to make any money on the side, but the bribes were there waiting for me and I took them. Some of the local bars would offer me fifty bucks to look the other way on Friday and Saturday nights about their customers maybe driving home drunk. And then I started getting my weekly stipend for ignoring what was going on at a local strip club named Kelley's. And there were other things. Like us splitting up money that disappeared from the evidence room and helping ourselves to what we could take off the occasional drunk. It started out small, little crimes, nothing big, but that's what got me into gambling and cocaine. The payoffs and thefts made me feel dirty and made me want to unload the money as quickly as I got it. I'm pretty sure that's what got me started.