The badge and gun clipped to her belt told me that my career in the force was over and Special Situations was a smartass name for Internal Affairs.
Roma finally looked up and after a moment announced, “We're not Internal Affairs.” He stood up and held out his hand. I took in his details as I shook his hand: strong grip, about five nine, trim cyclist's build, short dark hair peppered with gray, mustache and trimmed goatee, expensive suit and a pair of penetrating gray eyes. He looked more like a hardened corporate attorney than a cop.
“I'm Inspector Martin Roma. I head up the Special Situations Squad, which is a subgroup of Special Operations. We handle...unique cases. You've already met Detective Velasquez and behind you is Detective Steve Sommers.”
Special Ops is the unit that holds Emergency services, the NYPD Harbor unit, NYPD Aviation and a host of others. Essentially the largest SWAT force in the country. Whatever this Special Situations group was, it was headed by a full Inspector, which was unusual to say the least. Most precincts are headed by Captains or higher ranked Deputy Inspectors. Inspectors are the next rank higher.
“Officer Gordon, this isn't a witch hunt.”
Sommers snorted behind me in amusement as Roma said this.
“It's a job interview.”
“Ah Sir, there must be a mistake. I haven't been on foot patrol long enough to change jobs.”
“Well that's normally the case, Chris..may I call you Chris? But Special Situations has a certain degree of latitude to select personnel that other departments don't. Gina has told us about your activities of Saturday night. Meeting you was the natural next step.”
I glanced at her once, noting her hard stare and returned my puzzled attention to Roma.
“The Special Situations Squad doesn't appear on the Department's org chart, Chris. The Department will not admit or deny our existence, but we have strong funding and a free hand to handle our mission. As you are fully aware, there are many things that go bump in the night and sometimes the day. Our modern society doesn't officially recognize them, but a city of eight million people attracts more than its fair share of them and always has. The NYPD created this group over fifty years ago to investigate and deal with those things that are a danger to society but aren't recognized by that same society. Which brings us to you. You see, we've been hearing through our contacts in the clergy about a young man that could exercise any evil entity without fail and without religious means. Gina, as the Squad's Parapsychologist, has been quietly looking for you and when she brought NYPRT in check out that demonic entity, lo and behold, your name popped up.”
I was trying to keep up. NYPD had a group that dealt with the supernatural! Velasquez was a parapsychologist and Peter had thrown me under the bus. After a moment’s pause, Roma asked,
“You have questions?”
“NYPRT told you about me, Sir?”
“Don't be too hard on poor Peter. The lion's share of their funding comes from us, as we use their personnel and equipment to help our investigations where appropriate. Gina really did find that case and call them in. It was only when they had exhausted their normal exorcism channels that he was willing to bring you in. Can't blame him, really. A Class Five entity is nothing to sneeze at, although Gina tells me it took you just a little under four minutes to completely eradicate all trace of the vile beasty. How does that work?”
I stalled for time as I tried to figure out what to say.
“Er, Class Five entity sir?”
“We classify demonic entities on a ten class system, Gordon, with five being middle of the pack and ten being Linda Blair type situations. How do you classify them?”
“Ah, either geographically bound or corporeal, Sir.”
“What the hell is corporeal, Gordon?”
“You know..ambulatory...occupying a body...ah sir.”
He just looked at me for a moment. Velasquez's mouth was hanging open a bit, ‘til she shut it and looked to Roma in question.
“Gordon, are you telling me that there are entities that can move about on their own...in a person's body?”
Oops. My stalling technique had let out more than I had planned.
“Well, yes, in an empty body, sir. I...ah...call them meat shells...as the person is long gone.”
From behind me, Sommers threw out the next question. “How do you rank the house-bound ones, then?”
I turned to answer: “I don't. They’re pretty much all the same as far as I'm concerned. Not much trouble, although they throw stuff and play mind games. It’s the Hellbourne..the ambulatory ones that are the challenge.”
“And you don't use any religious methods?” Roma asked.
“God and I aren't on speaking terms, sir.”
“Does your odd violet aura have anything to do with it?” he asked.
“You see auras sir?” He nodded, so I answered. “Yes sir. I use it to a..rip them from their meat shells and then I ...well...I guess you could say I banish them. Sir.”
They all looked at me for a moment, but the silence was suddenly broken by three cell phones ringing at the same time. Roma read the text that came through on his, then dialed a number and identified himself. After listening for a moment, he answered, “Have the rest of the team meet us on site.” He hung up and turned to me. “Gordon, we have a call. I want you to come with us on this. I'm interested in your reactions. Consider it part of the interview.”
We moved quickly downstairs with me pausing to grab my rain gear and patrol bag. A stack of sub sandwiches caught my eye as I passed through the Muster room and I grabbed one in a plastic bag and stuffed it in my cargo pockets on my navy blue BDU pants, not knowing when my next meal would come.
I rode in the backseat of the dark Ford Explorer, next to Velasquez. Roma had shotgun and Sommers was driving. We headed north out of Brooklyn, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. The city street view suddenly gave way to green trees and I realized we were entering Central Park area. In the twelve months I had been in the city, I hadn't made it to Central Park. Sommers parked in a cluster of official vehicles near the north end of the park, after entering through the gate near 102nd Street. I jumped out of the vehicle and followed the other three as they bee-lined for the center of activity, which was the middle of a bunch of ball fields in a wide meadow. Cops and Emergency services personnel, dressed in raingear, were all over the place, treating wounded, taking statements, photographing bodies, with some obviously searching the grounds for something. Roma was met by some Homicide types and I could just hear the conversation over the pouring rain.
“About an hour ago, six to eight perps attacked a group of ball players trying to get a game in between showers. There are eleven wounded, six dead, including four of the attackers.”
“What weapons did they use?” Roma asked.
“The attackers? Just hands and teeth. The bystanders? Anything they had, mainly umbrellas.”
“Teeth?” Roma asked.
Gunfire suddenly erupted at the north end of the field, causing most of us to grab our guns. Roma just turned to look, and the rest of us holstered after seeing the officers at that part of the field put away their guns and move to the downed individual.
“Make that five of the attackers,” the Homicide officer added.
Roma turned to look at the three of us. “Have a look around and see what you can find out.”
Sommers joined the group that had just done the shooting and Velasquez headed to where the EMTs were treating the wounded. I moved across the field, trying to read the tracks in the torn up muddy field.
I could see that a group had moved in a straight line from the entrance we had just come through to one of the ball fields. It looked like several attackers had peeled off to assault bystanders on the way. A blanket covered body lay off to the side, a bare foot poking out from under. At least four of the attackers had continued straight on. A body lay in front of me, eyes open, lips drawn back in snarl, head bent back at an impossible angle. One of the four, I guessed. A pair of woman's shoes where lying a little further on and the tracks showed female sized feet moving away from the dead attacker, a pair of child-sized shoe prints moving parallel. I paused, confused by the next pattern. The small female-sized feet disappeared, covered or obliterated by some really large dog tracks. Where the hell had the dog come from? I shifted around a couple of Crime Scene types who were photographing another body, this one with its throat ripped out. Same snarl on the face though. Okay, first attacker gets his neck broken...by the woman? Second gets his throat ripped out by one hell of big dog. I picked up the tracks again, heading slightly northwest. At least the dog's tracks and the child's. What happened to the woman's? I couldn't find them, so I kept on with the ones I had. Which brought me to body number three, also with its throat ripped out. The rain was coming down harder and a normally difficult crime scene was fast becoming impossible. The daylight, already muted by the storm clouds, was almost gone and I broke out my Surefire LED light to help pick out the tracks. I could smell the blood and feces of the dead attackers, mingled with a wet dog smell and a salty coppery blood smell that was different from the dead bodies'.