Crosshairs, p.3
Crosshairs, page 3
The man said, “Hi, I’m Rob Trilling.”
CHAPTER 9
I TURNED AND stared at the young man standing just outside Walter Jackson’s door. It wasn’t just that Rob Trilling had surprised us in the middle of discussing his service record. It was that he did look incredibly young. He looked like he could’ve been one of my kids. Age-wise, he actually could have been.
It was quite a blow to an active cop who tries not to think of himself as getting older.
It was Walter who saved me. While I just sat there with my mouth open, Walter slid out from behind his desk and extended his hand. I was still trying to get my head straight and say something intelligent. I couldn’t even really judge Trilling’s height because six-foot-six Walter towered over him, like he did over most people.
Finally I stood and introduced myself.
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Please call me Mike.”
Trilling nodded but didn’t say anything else.
I said, “We’ll be working together.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told.”
“I’m looking forward to it. I could use a perspective on long-range rifle shots.” I took a moment to study the young man as we all stood there. I guess I’d expected him to say something in response, but he just stood there quietly.
Walter suggested I introduce the new guy to the lieutenant and the other detectives on the squad. It didn’t take long to walk him around the office. I noticed he had extremely good manners and didn’t say much. He used “sir” and “ma’am” a lot but generally waited for people to ask him questions before he said anything.
When all the introductions were done, I led Rob Trilling to our conference room. I shut the door so we would have some privacy. I brought over a folder with reports giving a broad outline of all three cases and what had been determined so far about where the shots had originated.
I tried to put Trilling at ease and said, “Can I get you some coffee?”
“No thank you, sir.”
“Call me Mike.”
Trilling just nodded again. He wasn’t at attention, but it was close. There are a lot of former military members who continue their public service as officers with the NYPD, but it’s usually not this easy to spot them. They typically slip into a more relaxed, civilian mode. This guy seemed like he was still a Ranger.
“Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“Not much to tell. I was in the Army and now I’m with the NYPD. That sums things up pretty well.”
“Are you from this area originally? I can’t place your accent.”
“I’m from just outside Bozeman, Montana.”
“How on earth did you end up in New York City?”
The young man just shrugged and didn’t say anything.
I stood there in awkward silence with this twenty-four-year-old former Army Ranger. After almost a minute of dead air, I had to say something.
I said, “Look, I moved us in here so we could have some privacy. I’m getting the sense that you don’t like the idea of working on this case with me. Talk to me, cop to cop. Nothing either of us says will leave this room. What’s going on?”
It took almost a full ten seconds before Trilling looked me in the eye and said, “It feels like I’ve been assigned here so you can keep an eye on me. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“No one said you did.”
“That’s the problem with the NYPD. No one says anything. They move you around or send you someplace new, but no one ever explains why they do it.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“The military lets you do your job. If you screw up, they tell you. Here, it seems like they dance around issues, and it doesn’t help with accomplishing the mission.”
“What do you think our mission is?”
“To protect people.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
CHAPTER 10
I SAT AT my desk after Rob Trilling had left. I was at a loss. My initial meeting with my new partner had been a little tense and awkward. Altogether less than spectacular. Less than encouraging, even. Veteran cops have a natural inclination to want to help younger cops along. Pass on some advice, maybe a few decent quotes. It makes you feel like you’ve done your part.
Rob Trilling was not making me feel that way. He’d seemed happy to scoot out of the office and grab the gear he needed from the FBI task force. I’d told him we’d start early the next morning. I hadn’t given him a time on purpose. I wanted to see what his idea of “early” would be, what kind of a work ethic the young man had.
But he’d left me with a number of questions. Questions that made me uncomfortable but I had to get answered. You can’t be with one agency for as long as I have been and not have a list of contacts that could fill up three phones.
I wasted no time jumping on my phone. I was able to reach exactly who I was looking for. Sergeant Alane Eubanks was an old friend who was now working as some kind of liaison to the federal agencies and a task force coordinator. It was a desk job after she’d been ambushed by young men claiming to fight fascism. They’d fired sixteen shots at her and hit her three times. The three bullets had put Alane in the hospital for more than two months. She’d fought her way back on the job. The shitheads had taken a generous plea offer and were now in jail upstate.
Alane sounded like her usual cheerful self when she answered the phone. “Bennett, you old dog, how’s it hangin’?”
I couldn’t hide my smile, hearing her sound like her old self again.
Alane made me fill her in on the family. She’s one of the few people who can remember the names of all ten of my kids. I remembered how Alane once told my daughter Bridget that the next time a particular boy started to pester her, she should punch him right in the nose. No boy is going to admit that a girl clocked him hard in the face, Alane said. But she’d left out one detail: she’d forgotten to tell Bridget not to do it in front of a teacher. Bridget may have scared away a bully, but she spent a week in detention for it. Secretly I was still proud of her.
After we made it through the family roundup, I was finally able to ask Alane, “How are you feeling now?”
“Not bad. Few aches and pains. One of the bullets damaged my bladder and I feel like I have to pee all the time. I guess it’s better than the alternative.”
I set her up for one of cops’ oldest jokes. “What’s the one thing you never want to hear anyone say again?”
“‘It comes with the job.’ I swear to God I will punch the next asshole who thinks being shot is part of a cop’s job description.” Every cop hears that every time they’re punched in the face or stabbed or shot. Then Alane said, “So what prompted this call out of the blue?”
“I got assigned a new partner named Rob Trilling. Most recently he was over at the FBI fugitive task force.”
“The really young guy? I remember him. Good-looking too.”
“That’s him. I was just wondering if you had any insight into why he’s been shuttled around even though he’s been on the force less than two years.”
“The FBI says he’s a real go-getter. They like him.”
“He made it sound like he had been sent here as a punishment.” I noted the long silence on the other end of the phone.
Finally Alane said, “I know they pulled him from Emergency Service a couple of months ago and sent him to the FBI. Our command staff had put him into ESU without the usual time in grade, and enrolled him in sniper school immediately. He got moved to the FBI without much notice.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, not really.”
“Can you guess?”
Alane had a slightly harsher tone when she said, “You’re the devil, Michael Bennett. I’m trying to be a professional.”
“And I’m trying to make sure I’m not being saddled with a problem partner who could get me killed.”
She started slowly. “Okay, this is only conjecture. Command staff must be worried about him for some reason. Either some kind of complaint or a weak allegation against him. It’s easy to shuttle someone off to a simple task force. Looking for fugitives. What could go wrong?” There was a pause before Alane asked, “Why the hell is he working in Homicide?”
I explained the case and his expertise.
She said, “That makes sense. He’d be the right guy to talk to. I can tell you, all his assessments are very good. But you know how people around One Police Plaza get nervous and overreact about every little thing.”
I really did know.
CHAPTER 11
I MISSED DINNER but somehow managed to make it home before everyone was asleep. When you have ten kids, it takes a while to greet everyone properly.
I finally found myself alone in the kitchen with Mary Catherine. The fertility treatments had become a little less jarring to her physically. She looked good and seemed to have a pretty reasonable handle on the household. I felt bad that I hadn’t been more help. Some people might say it’s crazy to try for an eleventh kid. I understand that. But with ten adopted kids from my first marriage, I also understand Mary Catherine’s desire to have a baby.
I filled her in on my first conversation with my new partner. I tried to paint a realistic picture. She picked up that I was concerned the meeting had been tense.
Mary Catherine said, “Invite him to dinner. That way you get to see a different side of him, and he gets to meet your wonderful family. Including your beautiful new wife.”
I chuckled. “Having someone over for dinner seems to be the Irish answer to every problem.”
“Because it tends to solve every problem. No one can be upset over a good brisket with onions and carrots.”
“Let’s give it a little more time. I’m not ready to give up an evening to this guy just yet.” Then I did a little math and realized I’d only said hello to nine children. I looked at Mary Catherine and said, “Where’s Jane?”
“Juliana said she’s at the library working on something super-secret.”
“Sounds like her.”
From the dining room table, where she was drawing with crayons, Chrissy yelled, “I bet she has a boyfriend.”
Mary Catherine was quick to point out that my youngest daughter should mind her own business.
Chrissy innocently said, “Isn’t my sister my business?”
I stepped out into the dining room and kissed the top of Chrissy’s head. “That’s a pretty good answer. Is that what you think Mary Catherine meant by her comment?”
Chrissy shook her head and said, “Nope.”
I glanced into the kitchen to see Mary Catherine smiling. We are definitely on the same sheet of music when it comes to raising these kids.
I went back to the kitchen and nibbled on the kids’ leftovers. I guess that’s a dad thing, no matter how gross everyone thinks it is. There were no other immediate problems on the horizon with the kids, so I decided to venture into a slightly more controversial topic.
“When is the next appointment with the fertility doctor?” I asked. Now I knew to keep my voice a little lower.
“Day after tomorrow. And we may get some concrete information one way or the other.”
“Have you given any more thought about when we should bring it up with the kids?”
Mary Catherine looked at me and shrugged. “Trying to find the right time with at least a quorum of the kids has been hard. I think I’d rather wait till we have some real news. No reason to get them excited—or upset—by spilling the beans too early.”
“What do you mean ‘upset’? None of them would be upset by a new baby in the house.”
Mary Catherine gave me a look like I was an eight-year-old trying to use physics for the first time. “It’s hard to tell how people might react to big news like a new baby. I’m thinking specifically of Chrissy, and maybe Shawna, because they’re the youngest. Chrissy’s used to being treated like the baby of the family. I don’t know how she’d react to being replaced in that role.”
“We’ve raised those kids right. I guarantee they’ll support any new addition.”
“I hope you’re right. I agree that we’ve raised them to support one another and the family as a whole. But you know that doesn’t mean there aren’t some squabbles every once in a while.”
Thank God I’d found a woman who understands dynamics like this much better than I do. Tough family discussions like these make me realize the relative safety of work once in a while.
CHAPTER 12
I HAD A quick goodbye with the kids and Mary Catherine as I rushed out the door before 7:00 the next morning. I wanted to set an example for my new partner, so I arrived at work at about 6:50. I had plenty to do around the office anyway.
I stepped into the quiet squad bay, glad to see a light on in Walter Jackson’s office. I needed a little time with Walter, the earliest riser on our squad. I don’t know that anyone has ever beat him into the office. I’d have to hear a few puns, but I’d get a lot done.
I felt a twinge of anxiety about mentoring Rob Trilling. He was so young yet had more experience than I had in the military and in combat. That could sometimes translate to a good police career, but sometimes it didn’t. I had seen it go both ways. The strict discipline of the military helps with the transition to police work. But the job requires an incredible amount of flexibility. I was worried about whether he’d be open enough to listen to my suggestions. Most people think cops are trained to investigate. That’s not untrue—they do go to classes for it—but the real learning happens on the job. What worried me was that there was nothing Trilling had done with the NYPD that told me he understood investigations. Sure, he had moved into Emergency Service quickly and they had obviously wanted to take advantage of his military background. But working patrol and a fugitive task force wouldn’t prepare you for homicide investigation.
I shuffled toward Walter’s office with a list of things I needed. I could hear Walter’s deep voice and assumed he was on the phone. I heard him laugh about something. Then, just outside the door, I stopped.
Walter wasn’t on the phone; he was chatting with someone in his office.
I stepped through the doorway and was surprised to see Rob Trilling laughing and nodding his head. They both looked up.
Walter said, “Mike, you didn’t tell me the new guy could hold his own with puns.” He looked at Trilling.
No one can resist Walter, so Trilling said, “I love the way the Earth rotates. It really makes my day.”
Walter almost fell out of his chair laughing. I smiled and nodded. It was a lot more than I had gotten from the young officer.
I avoided asking what time Trilling had arrived. He’d obviously gotten here before me, and I didn’t want him to think I really was keeping tabs on him. It was clear the young man had some drive and ambition. I liked that.
I looked at Walter and asked for the backgrounds on each of the victims in the case.
Walter said, “Rob’s already got them all. He even showed me a few more public records databases we can access for free. Just another way to look at things.”
Trilling kept his mouth shut, as usual. He looked up at me and shrugged. He finally said, “A little trick to supplement the FBI info on fugitives. They never look too far into social media or anything like that.”
I nodded and mumbled, “Good. You ready to head out to Queens? We gotta go look at the site of the first shooting. We’re also going to have to come up with a list of potential snipers who live in the greater New York City area. There can’t be all that many.”
Trilling said, “Military snipers are relatively rare. I was a Ranger, but not a sniper with the Army. The NYPD also put me through the weeklong sniper class.”
“Why? You could already shoot.”
“A lot of people grow up with guns and are really good shots. That doesn’t mean they’d be good snipers. There’s a lot more that goes into sniping. Tactics, movement, and decisions on the ground are just as important as having good shooting skills.”
“Do you think the list is a good idea?”
“I think we can use it, but I wouldn’t depend on it. I talk to guys at the VA all the time. I’ll see if they have any ideas.”
I nodded. “Sounds like we do need to get you over to look at the first crime scene. I’ve never read a good account of exactly where the shot could have come from.”
We were in my car and headed to Queens a few minutes later.
CHAPTER 13
IT WAS STILL pretty early, so we stopped at a little café on Kissena Boulevard in Queens, not far from the address where the first victim of the sniper was killed. I was hoping to use a little quiet time to get to know Trilling better and maybe smooth over our rough start.
We sat outside at a tiny table with our coffees and breakfast sandwiches. I sprang for both of us, hoping it might loosen up the young former Army Ranger. After five minutes of sitting there silently, sipping coffee and watching people stroll by on the wide sidewalk, I realized Trilling wasn’t going to say anything unless I started the conversation. He seemed quite content to keep his mouth shut unless compelled otherwise. Normally, I’d consider that a great characteristic in a relatively new cop. In this case, I needed to try and reach him.
Out of the blue I said, “Where do your folks live?”
It was as if he had to gather his thoughts even on a simple question. It took a full five seconds before he said, “My mom still lives just outside Bozeman. I don’t have any contact with my dad.”
I would’ve liked to explore that more, but his tone made it clear that was all he was going to say about it. Instead, we were interrupted by a young, pudgy guy walking by, wearing the uniform from one of the local grocery stores. His name tag said, CHIP.
Chip stopped near our table, looked right at me, and said, “What’s coffee run these days? About five bucks?”
I just nodded.
