neatly cut, shoulder-length blond hair. She wrapped her arms around the crying girl, rocking her slightly, whispering in her ear. At one point, the blond woman turned her head toward the rear of the chapel. Her eyes met Joe’s. Well no, his met her’s, but her eyes-light brown, close-set, intense-saw through him, or maybe saw nothing. Joe looked away.
The rabbi asked that everyone be seated. Only Cain’s mother and the Down’s girl continued crying. Prayers were offered, the cantor sang. The rabbi said his piece. Joe liked that the rabbi had known Cain his whole life and had a funny story or two to tell. Joe had attended far too many funerals conducted by the ranks of rent-a-clergy, men in black gowns reading the deceased’s name off recipe cards. The priests at Ralphy’s parish had refused to conduct his service or to even let his body inside the church. Rosemarie had been forced to shop for a cemetery that would take him.
Then the rabbi asked if there were any mourners who would like to come up and share their memories of Cain.
“By our very presence here today, we acknowledge our great loss, a loss that is as incalculable as the depth of the Lord’s love. Then let us not try to measure the loss. We lay ourselves open to a period of grief and mourning,” the rabbi said. “So, please, if any among you would like to speak in celebration of Cain’s life, step forward and share your memories with us.”
No one from the front two rows stepped up. Joe understood. Even though he believed that dead was dead, no matter what kind of package it came in, he knew that murder always seemed so senseless to the victim’s family that it left them deaf and dumb. A cop knows better. Murder has sense to it, just not the kind the victim’s family could comprehend.
The Down’s girl got up, walked to the podium. Tears streamed down her round, round cheeks. Joe was struck by her face. It was a face meant to smile, he thought, not a face for suffering.
“My name is Donna,” she said too loudly, not even trying to choke back tears. “Cain was my friend. He was smart and taught me things like his boss Frank taught him. The oil place was real important to him. He told me he felt all grown up there. I wanted him to take me there so I could feel that way too, but he said Frank wouldn’t like that.” She looked right down at Cain’s parents. “He didn’t want you to be mad at him. He didn’t like when you got mad at him.”
The blond woman walked quickly up to the podium, but without trying to embarrass the girl. She took Donna’s arm and led her outside the chapel.
Then, to Joe’s surprise, Frank was on his feet, moving to the podium. He never quite made it. Cain’s mother charged him. She nearly knocked Frank off his feet.
“You son of a bitch!” she screamed, clawing at him. “You and that stupid business. I never wanted him anywhere near that dirty place. You killed him! You killed him!”
Joe and Cain’s father pulled her off Frank. Joe diffused the situation by taking Frank out the door of the chapel that led directly to the parking lot and the waiting hearse.
“She’s right, Joe. I as much as killed the fuckin’ kid.”
“She’s grieving. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Joe said, remembering how Rosemarie had blamed him for Ralphy’s suicide. “It makes it easier if you got somebody to strike out at. Trust me on this. Inside she’s probably blaming herself. Shit, if I hadn’t thrown the kid off my truck. Who knows?”
They were halfway to Frank’s car when two men blocked their path.
“What a pretty couple they make,” the bigger one chortled out of the side of his sloppy mouth.
Cops, Joe thought. There was something vaguely familiar about sloppy mouth. He was a good six-foot-two, in his late forties with a jowly red face and a lazy left eye. His eyes seemed bluer than they actually were, in contrast to his ruddy complexion. He had the wide shoulders and thick body of an athlete gone to seed. The partner was small only in comparison. He was a six-footer, early thirties, clear brown eyes and a trim moustache. The bigger cop was strictly a Sears man. The partner had pretensions. There didn’t seem to be a stitch of polyester on him.
“What can we do for you, Detectives?” Joe took the offensive.
“Listen to him, Kramer,” the big man started up again. “The Snake knows we’re detectives.”
First Healy and now this clown; it was the second time in less than a week he’d been called by his old moniker and neither time did he much care for the speaker’s tone of voice.
“Do I know you, Detective?”
The big man stuck his face in Serpe’s. “I know who you are. That’s what’s important here. But just to show you I’m a fair guy, I’ll do introductions. That handsome devil there is Suffolk County Police Detective Jeff Kramer and I’m Detective Lieutenant Timothy Hoskins from the Fourth Homicide Squad.”
Neither name rang Joe’s bell. Frank remained quiet, still lost in his own sense of guilt.
“Detective.” Joe nodded to Kramer.
“You don’t remember me, do you, asshole?” Hoskins was at it again. “I’m Rosemarie’s first cousin. You remember Rosemarie? You flipped on her husband Ralphy, you fuckin’ disloyal sonovabitch.”
“Yeah, now I remember you,” Joe said calmly. “And I remember why I forgot you. What do you want? A little far off your patch, aren’t you? This is Nassau County last time I checked.”
“You don’t worry about whose patch is where. This case here, the retarded kid, is mine,” Hoskins sneered, throwing his thumb at the funeral home.
“But you didn’t catch it,” Joe blurted. “You weren’t even at the crime scene.”
“Well, it’s mine now. Imagine how happy I was to see your name in the reports. I was fuckin’ thrilled.”
“And you’re busting my balls why?”
“Other than because I feel like it and that I can. I just wanted to rub it in your face you dickless fuck.”
“Hey!” Frank snapped out of it. “Watch your mouth, Detective.”
“Take it easy, Frank,” Joe warned, stepping between him and Hoskins.
“Yeah, Frank, take it easy,” Hoskins aped. “Your employee here suffers from selective loyalty. When push comes to shove, he caves. You wouldn’t want him to cave in on you.”
“Rub what in?” Joe repeated.
“We got a suspect,” Kramer finally spoke.
“That’s great,” Frank said.
“Yeah, great,” Hoskins sneered. “You’ll love this, Snake. The suspect’s name is Jean Michel Toussant.”
“Mr. French?”
“That’s right, Snake, Mr. French, the mental health aide from the group home. We got witnesses say Toussant had it in for the kid. This tard who’s next door to the kid says he heard a disturbance in the kid’s room Saturday morning. Apparently, Mr. French had a puffy left eye that day. Told the rest of the staff he slipped on a wet floor and banged his cheek into a wall. Since the kid was gone, there was no one to dispute his account of things. And you’ll never guess what we found in the victim’s room.”
“Blood spatter.”
“Bingo!” Hoskins mocked. “See, Kramer, he walks like a cop, talks like a cop, but-”
Serpe ignored him. “So what’s Toussant say?”
“Nothing yet,” Detective Kramer answered. “We’d have to find him first.”
“He ran?” Frank said.
Kramer nodded. “He ran. Left work early on Saturday, complaining about the puffy eye. Didn’t show for work Monday. His neighbors haven’t seen him.”
Hoskins glared at his partner. If looks could kill, several generations of Kramers were doomed.
Kramer yawned. Apparently, he was pretty used to Hoskins’ antics.
“You got any leads?” Joe asked.
“Fuck you, Serpe,” Hoskins said. “I wouldn’t a told you a thing, but now I’m glad Kramer got a big yap. It gives me a chance to tell you to keep your rat fuckin’ nose outta this case. Maybe if you had protected the kid like you promised, we wouldn’t be standin’ here at his funeral makin’ nice. Oh yeah, I heard about that. He bragged to all the tards about how his cop friend Joe was gonna protect him. Yeah, well you did a bang up job, didn’t ya, Snake? Relyin’ on you is like a death warrant.”
Once again, Hoskins pressed his face threateningly close to Joe’s. “What’s a matter, Serpe, nothin’ to say? See, partner, he knows I speak the truth. He sold out his best friend. Both Ralphy and the kid would be alive if they hadn’t met you.”
“That’s enough, asshole!”
