The Squad Room (30 page)

“Oh, man. What happened?”

“She screams, I swerve to miss hitting Bambi, and we run off the road into a ditch and knock down a tree.”

“Holy shit! Was everyone okay?”

“Oh, sure. More than okay—still fighting! The cops showed up, and me and her were still fighting like cats and dogs, screaming at the top of our lungs.”

Rivera laughed. “Incredible,” he said. “The cops good to you guys?”

“Very good. They weren’t too happy when they first got out of the car, but when I identified myself they couldn’t have been nicer. They took me and my wife to a local diner to get us to calm down while they were doing the report—they even bought us coffee. That wouldn’t happen nowadays.”

“Yeah,” Rivera sighed, with the feeling of every older generation of cops that the younger generation of cops was no good.

They pulled into town. Cold Spring, a little town about an hour or
two up the Hudson from the city, looked like the archetypal American town—Main Street, quaint little clapboard houses, American flags on every other telephone pole. They passed a few antiques stores and restaurants, family-owned businesses by the look of them. It was a refreshing change from what they were used to.

At the dead end of West Street by the water, they found a small blue compact sedan with a man sitting in the driver’s seat. He waved to them, rolling down his window as they pulled up alongside the car.

“Sergeant Rivera, I presume?” he asked.

Rivera nodded. “That’s me,” he said, “and this is Detective O’Dell.” He and O’Dell showed their badges.

“Great,” the man said. “Captain Richard Dyer. Pleasure to meet you both. Follow me, if you would.”

They followed him out of the park to a place called the Hudson House Inn. When they’d parked, they found Dyer at an outside table at the far end of the porch, seated with his back to the street. He was everything they’d expected to see in an officer of the United States Army: tall and lean, with short, almost crewcut-style hair and a calm, steady gaze. They’d done some looking into his background before their trip, and found numerous personal testimonies to his character along with a number of service medals.

“I know you guys like to sit where you can see who’s coming toward you,” he said amiably, “so I left those for you.” He gestured to the two chairs on the opposite side of the table.

“That’s much appreciated,” Rivera laughed as they sat. “It would’ve been distracting otherwise.”

“I know the feeling,” Dyer said. “Now, how can I help you gentlemen?”

Rivera got right to the point. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Camp Falcon, and some of the men and women who served under you.”

Dyer nodded thoughtfully. “Well, don’t get me wrong, I loved serving my country,” he said, “but I have to admit, it’s been a long time
since I heard that name, and since I left active-duty service, I haven’t stayed in touch with too many of those people, either. I don’t mind saying I’m trying to forget some of that past.”

“I understand,” Rivera nodded. “But I thought you were still in the service.”

“No, I left. I’m in the reserves, but now I own my own business—computer IT.”

“All right,” Rivera said. “Well, whatever you can remember will be helpful, I’m sure. For starters, can you tell us anything about Lieutenant Gerald Lyons?”

Dyer smiled fondly. “Ah, Jerry was one of the finest men who I ever served with,” he said. “Got his CIB—er, sorry, Combat Infantryman Badge—”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Rivera assured him. “Both of us are former military.”

“Oh, all right. Well, he got his CIB his first week on the ground. Real soldier’s soldier. He wanted to go to Ranger school at the end of his tour, but he never made it home.”

“What happened to him?” asked O’Dell.

“We took a mortar attack at the base,” Dyer said quietly. “He was one of three killed. Four others were wounded.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Rivera said. It was clear the Captain was still troubled by the loss. “Can you tell us when exactly the lieutenant was killed?”

“Sure,” Dyer said without hesitation. “That was October 6, 2006.” When the other two sat in significant silence, he went on. “It was a pretty widely known date. It was all over the media—so many false reports about what happened that day.”

“I’m sure there were,” Rivera said. “And what about Louis Galipoli—does that name ring any bells for you?”

Dyer’s face darkened. “It sure does,” he said. “That man was one of the loudest, most undisciplined soldiers”—he shook his head—“strike that,
human beings
I’ve ever known.”

Rivera and O’Dell nodded. It seemed Galipoli’s way of winning friends and influencing people hadn’t worked for him in the military, either.

“I see,” Rivera said. “Well, besides that general statement, what can you tell us about him?”

“Oh, he was bad news from day one in Camp,” Dyer said. “One complaint after another. The icing on the cake was when he tried to rape a female soldier.” He nodded as the other two exchanged glances. “That’s right, despicable but true. I don’t remember her name, unfortunately. She was lucky that someone walked in on them; otherwise she’d have been raped.”

O’Dell leaned in, deciding to go for the main point. “Captain, I know this is going to be a tough question,” he said, “but in your opinion, how does a guy like that go from being on the block for a court martial to being awarded a Silver Star?”

Dyer favored them with the incredulous look they’d come to know well.
“What?
You must be crazy,” he said with a laugh. “There’s no way he was put in for a Silver Star! The guy was the most useless individual ever to serve in our military. He was well on his way to being drummed out of the service. Silver Star—! He wasn’t even allowed outside the wire! All the non-coms were afraid to take him out; they thought he’d frag one of them.”

O’Dell took some papers out of his folder, including a copy of the commendation write-up for Galipoli’s Silver Star.

“Can you take a look at this and tell us what you think?” he asked. Captain Dyer carefully looked over the paperwork, shaking his head.

“Conspicuous gallantry,” he mumbled in disbelief. “This guy was a coward—a disgrace to the uniform. And signed by Lieutenant Lyons—! Absolutely impossible. This is a fake, I’m sure of it—a total fake. Look here: it was written on the day Lieutenant Lyons was killed.”

The two nodded. Neither of them had missed the connection. “Do you think it’s possible that Galipoli forged the lieutenant’s name on this commendation?” O’Dell asked.

Captain Dyer picked the papers up again and looked over the signature line. “Well, this is going back some years now,” he said, “but I don’t recall his signature looking like this. I couldn’t swear to it, but I’m pretty sure that’s not his signature. I’m guessing this guy is the reason you wanted to speak to me about Camp Falcon, then?”

“Yes, sir,” Rivera answered. “We’re trying to verify some things about his past.”

“He wanted for something?”

Rivera cleared his throat. “Actually, he’s a detective in the NYPD now.”

“A
detective?”
Dyer repeated. “Man, you guys must have really lowered your standards to let
that
guy aboard. He’s a maniac.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” Rivera said. “But let me change topics a moment. What can you tell us about Ernesto Gonzalez?”

Dyer blinked. “He’s a great soldier, and a better man,” he said. “He’s one of the few people I have kept in touch with over the years, though I haven’t spoken to him in a while now. Don’t tell me he’s mixed up in something too—?”

“Not at all,” Rivera said. “We just spoke to him yesterday. He’s the one who gave us your name. He said he wrote Galipoli up for most of his complaints, including the last one for attempted rape, and also said that Galipoli was brought to Lieutenant Lyons’s tent shortly before the attack that killed him, and—”

“Stop right there,” Dyer said, raising his hand. “Are you telling me that on October 6
^th
, 2006, Galipoli was with Lieutenant Lyons
during the attack?
If that’s what you’re saying, how could he not have been injured?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that,” Rivera said. “I wasn’t there. But I do have a somewhat sensitive question for you. Once the attack was over, did you see Lieutenant Lyons’s body?”

Captain Dyer looked down at the floor, the color draining slowly out of his face. He sat stock-still for a moment, breathing deeply.

“Are you all right, Captain?” Rivera asked gently.

After a moment, Dyer looked up again. “Talking to you today has brought back a lot from my past that I’ve tried to keep there,” he said. “Jerry Lyons was one of my closest friends in the military. The day he was killed was extremely difficult for me, and one of the primary reasons I left active duty.”

“I understand,” Rivera persisted, “but did you see his body the night he was killed? Believe me, Captain, I’m only asking because I have to; it’s very important, possibly critical, to what’s going on right now.”

The captain looked directly into Rivera’s eyes, his own welling up with tears.

“No, I didn’t,” he said finally. “I saw the body bag he was in, but I never opened it. I couldn’t. Maybe that sounds weak to you, but he was my best friend.”

“It’s not weak at all,” Rivera said, shaking his head. “We’ve each been in the same position, many times.” He waited a moment before posing the most difficult question of all. “Captain,” he said, “do you think there’s any possibility that he—that Louis Galipoli may have killed Lieutenant Lyons after the attack started, and used the attack to cover it up?”

Captain Dyer sat breathless for a long time, his eyes searching sightlessly over the tabletop.

“Oh my God,” he said quietly. “He killed Jerry Lyons. This piece of crap killed him, and because I couldn’t look at his body, the motherfucker got away with it.”

O’Dell and Rivera’s eyes widened. O’Dell began to say something, but stopped himself as Dyer went on.

“The non-coms all told me he was capable of fragging them,” he said. “I never believed it was actually possible, but it all makes sense now. The guy was on his way to being court martialed, and because of a freak attack at the wrong time, he was able to kill my best friend, destroy the paperwork for his court martial, and replace it with this bullshit Silver Star commendation.” He slapped the paper in disgust. “I’m sorry, guys, but we have to stop here. I have to notify the CID—the United States
Army Criminal Investigation Command,” he explained, forgetting in his passion that his listeners were military men. “They’ll want to talk to you guys—this is serious shit, gentlemen. God, thanks to me he could have gotten away with it!” He stood abruptly, shaking his head. “Listen, I’m sorry I can’t give you more, but this is mind-blowing for me right now,” he said. He took out his phone. “I just need to get in touch with someone at the CID—I need to talk to them right away.”

“It’s all right,” Rivera assured him. “You’ve been very helpful, really. I’m just—are you sure you’re going to be all right, Captain?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Dyer answered, with an effort. “I just have to make sure this gets put right. This means a lot of work! They’re going to need to get in touch with Jerry’s family to exhume the body, have an autopsy done—this is no simple matter.” He shook hands hurriedly with the two detectives. “I’m really sorry to go like this, gentlemen,” he said, “but I think you’re in a position to understand my concern.”

“We certainly are,” O’Dell said, looking over at Rivera. “And anyway, don’t worry about it—from what you’ve told us, it sounds like we’re going to have some work to do ourselves.”

34

The news from Rivera and O’Dell was the last straw, and Captain Morrison instructed his top three sergeants to call an emergency meeting of select members of his task force. The meeting was scheduled to take place at Luigi’s—this was a matter too sensitive for the precinct at large—and Morrison waited apprehensively at their table in back for his team to file in.

The first to arrive were McNamara and the Coke boys. “What’s going on?” Leo Kasak asked Morrison as they sat. Morrison looked at McNamara.

“You didn’t tell them?” he asked.

McNamara shook his head. “I figured it was best held for when we were all together,” he said.

“All right, then,” Morrison said. “Sit tight, boys; I don’t want to have to go over all of this twice.”

The remainder of the group—Rivera, Simmons, O’Dell, Garriga—showed up within the next few minutes. Koreski and Medveded, out surveilling Galipoli, were conspicuously absent.

As the team seated themselves, an air of somber mystery restraining their usual high-spiritedness, Morrison felt a swelling of camaraderie mingling with his apprehension. Everyone around the table, sergeant
or detective, was someone he trusted with his life. Now he would have to trust them with Tina Koreski’s as well.

He cleared his throat.

“All right, listen up, everyone,” he began. “Some of you know why we’re here, and others don’t, so I’m just going to go over everything with you. Ultimately, I’m going to ask you to be involved in something that you might not want to get involved in, and I want you to know that if you’re uncomfortable with it, I understand, and I won’t fault anyone for dropping out. I don’t expect everyone to agree with what I’m about to tell you; it’s a difficult thing even for me to bring up, especially because it may involve one of our own.

“As you all know, since the Boston boys’ murders, we’ve had a copycat killer running around the city. We’ve all been particularly struggling to figure out how this person had access to certain information regarding those early crime scenes that wasn’t released to the press. As we have discussed before, there were really only two possible explanatory scenarios. One was that Anderson and Rutherford had told someone else about what they’d done. The other was that it was someone on the inside—someone within the department. Since the arrest of those two psychopaths last week, and their denial that anyone else was involved, certain information has come to light that leads me to believe, very strongly, that we have a serial murderer on our team.”