Raffi Yessayan: 2 in the Hat

“That’s very funny, sir. I’m going to ask you one more time, then we’ll be going upstairs to see a judge who will hold you in contempt for not answering my questions. Do you know what will happen if the judge finds you in contempt?”

“Yeah. Absolutely nothing. What are you going to do, send me back to jail? I’ve been in the hole for two months now. You can’t do shit to me.”

“Please state your name for the record.”

“I already did. Fuck Y-O-U.”

Connie walked over and opened the door. “Detective, can you get him out of here? Just take him back to the interview room. I want to talk with him before we go to see the judge.”

Ward, looking sickly in his baggy orange jumpsuit, said, “Sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance to your investigation, Mr. DA. I already told you, I ain’t no snitch. But thanks for bringing me to court anyway. It was nice to get out of the hole for the day.” He let out another burst of laughter as the door closed behind him.

Alves maneuvered through the parking lot pocked with mortar-sized divots, the result of decades of poorly repaired potholes. He went in the rear entrance of the bakery and scanned the shop. Half the crowd had their newspapers held so high he couldn’t make out their faces. He went to the counter and ordered a coffee before walking over to the man at the corner table.

“Anyone sitting here?” Alves asked.

“Yeah,” the man said.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Alves took the seat across from him. “Good morning, Sarge.”

“Morning, Angel.” Wayne Mooney folded his newspaper and placed it on the table. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Happened to be in the neighborhood on a Monday morning. Thought I’d stop for a cup of joe.” Alves took a sip of his coffee. “Saw my old boss tucked away in the corner and thought I’d come over and say hello.”

Mooney shook his head. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t come into the Greenhills Irish Bakery and order a coffee.” Mooney stood and grabbed the full cup out of his hand and stuffed it into a trash barrel. Alves sat patiently until Mooney came back with two teas with milk and sugar and two raisin scones with butter and jam.

“Irish breakfast?” Alves asked.

“This is the light version. You should see what the painters and plasterers eat.” Mooney broke off a piece of his scone and chewed it. He stared at Alves long enough to make him uncomfortable. “Why are you here, Angel?”

“Double murder last night.”

“I heard. Two white kids murdered in Franklin Park. Not good for the city’s image. Drug deal gone bad?”

Alves shook his head.

“Funny thing. I heard that the bodies were discovered by a homicide-detective-turned-Pop-Warner-Football-coach. Angel, you’re not ready for Homicide if you have time for your family.”

“This is what I miss about you,” Alves snapped. “You know how to lay on the guilt whenever I try to be a good father. We’ll talk later about my lack of a work ethic, or, what do you call it…Irish guilt.”

“There has to be something more to you stopping in Adams Village for a cup of coffee.”

“I didn’t find the bodies. Iris did. The kids were doing a lap after practice when she found the girl.”

“I’m sorry,” Mooney said. The ruddiness of his face deepened and Alves knew he was angry. “How is she?”

“Pretty shaken. The first full week of school starts today. She went in, but we’ve asked them to keep an eye on her. We deal with so many kids who witness things that no child should have to see. I tried to shelter the twins, and then last night…”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Mooney waved him off. “You moved your family to a nice neighborhood in J.P., a safe neighborhood. But you can’t shelter them from the world.” Mooney took a long gulp of his tea. “How did the case end up getting assigned to you? Because you found the bodies?”

“My squad was on call last night. I was on-scene, the case is mine.”

“Why are you sitting here having breakfast with me? Shouldn’t you be meeting with your sergeant? I’m not your boss anymore.”

“I need to make a confession,” Alves said. “I miss working with you. As much as I hated you breaking my chops and trying to destroy my marriage, I know you did it because you cared about the victims. You tried to make me a better homicide detective. And you always had my back.”

“Your new sergeant doesn’t have your back?”

Alves didn’t respond.

“Who is he?”

“Duncan Pratt.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Exactly,” Alves said. “He’s an okay guy, but his heart’s not in it. He doesn’t know anything about homicide investigations. I’m told he found some good places to hide and study for the sergeant’s exam. He had no trouble getting higher scores than the guys that were out working the streets. And he’s tight with the mayor.”

“How does he know Dolan?”

“Grew up together.”

“Politics,” Mooney said. He shook his head and laughed, an angry laugh. “No one else up in Homicide you can talk to?”

“It’s not an ordinary double murder.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as an ordinary double murder.” Mooney took another bite of the scone, brushing the crumbs into a little heap on the sheet of waxed paper that served as a plate.

“Two kids, high school or college-aged. We haven’t ID’d them yet. Maybe boyfriend and girlfriend. Dressed for a night on the town. Like they were going to a black tie affair at Symphony Hall or a prom.” Alves watched Mooney’s facial expression change as he stopped chewing. “The male’s got a bullet hole in the center of his chest. No exit wound. No signs of a struggle. Definitely a secondary crime scene. This scene was staged.”

“What about the female?” Mooney asked.

“She would have looked terrific in her white dress, hair done up, but for the fact that she had been strangled, most likely with bare hands.”

Mooney deliberately set his green-and-white paper cup on the small tabletop. He looked away and then back at Alves. “It couldn’t be. After all these years.”

“I remember the case from when I was a patrolman. And I remember what you told me about your old investigation. Everything fits.”

Mooney shook his head. “Has to be a copycat.”

“I don’t think so.” Alves paused, letting the facts sink in. “It’s him, Sarge. The Prom Night Killer.”

“Another stupid nickname the media came up with. They don’t know shit about the case. Yet they have no problem giving the killer a moniker that leads to a cult following.”

“I need your help with this one. I’ve got Evidence Management pulling everything from the old cases. I need you to bring me up to speed with the initial investigation.”

Alves waited as Mooney stared out the window at the morning rush on Adams Street, the cars speeding, trying to beat the next light, dodging jaywalking pedestrians. This was where Mooney grew up and where he was going to die.

“I didn’t tell you everything about the case, Angel.”

“You told me all the major details. And that you never caught him. The killings stopped. You assumed he was dead, or in prison. Maybe that he left the area.”

“He left another clue,” Mooney lowered his voice. “Only a few of us close to the investigation knew about it. We can’t be sure it’s really him until we confirm one thing. When is the autopsy?”

“Ten o’clock. But, Sarge, you can’t…”

Mooney stood up and put on his jacket. “You drive.”

Connie closed the door to the interview room. This was his last chance to get information out of Tracy Ward. Connie had already threatened to take him upstairs to the judge, but following through on the threat would only make things worse. The judge would appoint an attorney to represent him, and any good defense attorney would get him out of testifying by suggesting to the judge that he had a legitimate Fifth Amendment right not to testify. If the attorney was creative, he could probably find that Ward had committed some crime which led to him being shot. The court would then hold a private in camera hearing with the witness and his attorney, off the record, outside Connie’s presence, and would probably find that Ward did have a legitimate Fifth. And that would be the end of it.