“They found him,” George said.
“Good. It’s about time.”
“Not so good,” George contradicted.
“Why?”
“They found him dead.”
“Dead! Dead how?”
“Not breathing dead. Dead dead. That’s how.” Bob was losing patience. “That’s not what I-”
“I know what you meant, shithead, but I like to bust balls too.”
“Great. Consider mine busted. Now what happened to Toussant?”
“He OD’d.”
“On what?”
“Bullets.”
One look at the headlines explained Marla’s mood swing.
MURDER SUSPECT MURDERED
Joe let go of Marla’s shoulder, took the paper, sat down and turned to page three. If Joe had hoped more information would allay his fears, he was sorely disappointed.
BODY FOUND NEAR LAKE RONKONKOMA VICTIM WANTED FOR QUESTIONING BY COPS IN HOMICIDE OF RETARDED MAN
BY KEN RIGA
Staff Writer
The partially frozen remains found on the Brookhaven Town shoreline of Lake Ronkonkoma by two teenagers have been tentatively identified as those of Jean Michel Toussant. Toussant, a mental health therapy aide, was sought by Suffolk County Police for questioning in the Valentine’s Day homicide of Cain Cohen. Cohen, twenty, whose severely beaten body was discovered by coworkers inside the tank of a heating oil delivery truck, was mentally retarded and resided in a group home at which Toussant was employed.
Lt. Robert Didio, spokesperson for the Suffolk County Police Department, confirmed that Mr. Toussant was a suspect in the Cohen homicide, but refused to elaborate on how serious a suspect. He went on to explain that pending a full autopsy and toxicological testing, the county medical examiner had listed gunshot wounds as the apparent cause of death. Lt. Didio also declined to be more specific about the caliber of weapon used or number of wounds.
Toussant, a naturalized American citizen born in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, was last seen at his place of work on February 14th after an alleged confrontation with Mr. Cohen. No one connected with the state funded corporation which runs the group home in Ronkonkoma could be reached for comment.
The police request the public’s assistance with this investigation. Anyone having information about the Cohen homicide or the whereabouts of Mr. Toussant during the last two weeks is asked to call the Suffolk County Police hotline at (631)555-TIPS. (Cont’d on page 38A)
Joe was stunned. Only twice before had he felt anything like this: the day I.A. brought him in for questioning and September 11th, 2001. He believed in unfortunate coincidences as much as the next guy, but for him to accept Toussant’s death as being unrelated to Cain’s homicide or even Reyes’ was asking more than he could give. Something was going on that connected all three murders. What it was, Joe could not divine. Some threads connected one of the murders to another, but not both. For instance, the possible connection between Cain’s death and Toussant’s was self-evident, as was the connection between Cain’s and Reyes’. What was the connection between Reyes’ and Toussant’s? And if the information Joe got from the MexSal Saints about the AFA involvement in the Reyes murder proved accurate, the picture became even murkier.
Never mind all of that, Joe had his own neck to worry about. He and Healy had kidnapped Toussant and were, by extension, implicated in the murder. Innocent of the crime though they might be, they may well have facilitated Toussant’s murder. Joe wracked his brain trying to recall if he or Healy had left any obvious evidence connecting either of them directly to Toussant. The crack! Shit! Had he wiped all the vials? The plastic bag? And would the cousin now come forward? If he did, it wouldn’t take a genius to connect the dots of Toussant’s abduction to the fire inspection to Steve Scanlon back to him.
“Are you okay?” Marla asked.
“Okay and me are pretty far apart at the moment.”
“Did you kill him?”
“I wanted to,” Joe admitted.
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
She came around behind him and threaded her arms under his. She kissed his neck and then rested her cheek on his head. He stood up and walked her back into the living room.
“Why are you limping like that?”
“Listen, Marla, I’m gonna tell you how I got those tapes and how I developed this limp overnight. Then I’m gonna ask you to break the law. If you don’t wanna do it, I’ll understand. The cops will eventually work their way back to me, anyhow. And maybe it’s better if you walk away now.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“But there’s stuff about me when I was on the job… Stuff about my partner you don’t know about. It’s ugly. The cops aren’t gonna believe me and you’ll get tarred by being associated with me. I can’t let you-”
“I’m all grown up, Joe Serpe. Letting has nothing to do with this. So tell me how you got the tapes.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“No, not telling me is a bad idea. You need my help. Let me give it to you, please.”
Joe told her everything. She listened, never interrupting. When he was finished, Marla loaded the three videotapes into her bag.
“I’ll take good care of these until this thing blows over.”
“You’re withholding evidence in a murder case. That’s a felony.”
“I know what it is,” she said, looking appropriately nervous. “I know what I’m risking.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I could say I’m falling in love with you. Which would be true and would probably scare you to death, but I suppose it’s my upbringing. My folks were poster children for good intentions. They were the kind of people whose philosophy was a mishmash of misinformed Judaism, Pete Seeger lyrics and public service announcements.”
“You know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell.”
“I know, but I’d like to believe that there are some good intentions not meant to be used as paving stones.”
“Okay, but maybe we shouldn’t see each other for-”
“Forget it,” she said. “I’ll deal with these tapes. That’s my issue. But you’re not getting rid of me, Mr. Serpe, not this easily. I’ll call you later.”
Joe listened to her car pull away. He looked up at his ceiling and pointed his finger at God. “You better not be using her to fuck with me. That I won’t forgive. That I’ll-”
The phone interrupted the rest of his threat.
“It’s Healy.”
“I was figuring you’d call.”
“You heard?”
“Read it in the paper. It could be bad for us.”
“Bad for us, worse for you,” Healy said. “How’s it worse for me?”
“Saw my brother George. He’s in the D.A.’s office. They found a Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc. refrigerator magnet in the ice a few feet from Toussant’s body.”
“Fuck!”
“You didn’t go back and get him after you dropped me off at home, did you?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Healy said, relieved, “your word’s good enough for me.”
“It didn’t use to be.”
