“And away we go.”
11
I reread the story. Blood, thick like cement, swirled and pounded in my head. Misunderstandings. Errors of judgment. Callousness. Human frailty. Weakness. All of it was quantifiable, rectified by specific reactions. Errors could be fixed. Misunderstandings explained. Human frailty bolstered by gaining strength.
I’d dealt with all of these in my investigative journalism. But the emotions I felt when I read those words were completely foreign. There was no rational explanation as to how suddenly I was wanted for killing a police officer.
I’d always wanted to report about crime, corruption. Men and women convinced they’d get away with it, until I proved they couldn’t. And now, with my picture splashed across thousands of newspapers all over the city, I’d become exactly who I’d hoped to expose. True reporters only want the story. They never want to be the story. And now here I was. The hero of the day.
I read the story again.
Reporter, 24, Kills Police Officer
During Failed Drug Bust
In what has been described by Police Commissioner Ray Kelly as a heinous act of violence against one of the city’s most beloved peace officers, Detective Jonathan A. Fredrickson, 42, was shot and killed late last night while investigating a drug deal gone sour. The alleged shooter, Henry Parker, 24, a recent Cornell graduate and a junior reporter at the New York Gazette, fled the scene and has yet to be apprehended.
According to Commissioner Kelly, Fredrickson was responding to the site of an alleged heroin exchange in an apartment building at 2937 Broadway in Spanish Harlem. It remains unclear whether the tenants, Luis and Christine Guzman, were involved in the deal. The building’s superintendent, Grady Larkin, 36, admitted to hearing strange noises coming from the Guzmans’ apartment, which he relayed to Officer Fredrickson when he arrived at the scene. Fredrickson apparently discovered the Guzmans tied and beaten, and upon confronting the assailant, still present at the scene, was shot with his own gun in the ensuing struggle. Larkin claims to have seen Parker running from the crime scene, carrying a bag that may or may not have contained the alleged narcotics.
Luis Guzman, 34, on parole for armed robbery in 1994, and his wife were being treated at an undisclosed medical facility for wounds suffered in the attack.
Luis Guzman is listed in stable condition with a fractured jaw and three broken ribs and was unable to comment. Christine, 28, is suffering from a concussion and facial lacerations.
“He hit me,” Christine said of Parker’s brutalization. “He hit me a lot. I was screaming at him to stop, but he kept hitting my husband until he couldn’t talk anymore.”
She continued, “That policeman died to protect us from Henry Parker. We could both be dead. He sacrificed his life. We will never forget what he gave for us.”
And, according to several sources within the NYPD and FBI, neither will New York’s finest.
Said Kelly at an early morning press conference, “This city will not rest until Officer Fredrickson’s killer is found. This investigation will be the very definition of swift justice.”
The local branch of the FBI has been called in to aid in Parker’s capture. The Assistant Director in Charge of the New York City FBI branch, Donald L. West, said his agents would receive special jurisdiction to cross state lines if found that Parker has fled the state.
Detective Fredrickson is survived by his wife, Linda, and two children.
The pounding blood in my head slowly came to a boil.
He hit me, she said.
Christine Guzman lied to the police. So did Grady Larkin, the superintendent, a man I’d never met. The world had collapsed onto itself, and I was caught in the middle.
It had to be a dream. I was a college graduate, had just started my dream job at a respected newspaper. I was supposed to do great things, accomplish my goals, all the good stuff that would secure me respect and money, and give my reputation longevity. And now I was accused of killing a policeman. A husband. A father. A man who protected the world from criminals. Like me. How was this possible? John Fredrickson-a fucking cop-had nearly beaten two people to death, almost killed me in the process, and now I was facing the vengeance of an entire city.
Drugs. A heroin deal. That’s what the paper said. That’s what Fredrickson must have been looking for, and what the papers assumed I stole. But why would a cop go to such brutal lengths to retrieve drugs? And why did Christine claim they didn’t have it, risking all three of our lives?
And why would a cop, with a family no less, risk everything by beating two unarmed people nearly to death?
I didn’t have the answer.
And now thousands, maybe millions of people, thought I was a cop killer. John Fredrickson was a hero. I was a common thug, a young punk who thought he was above it all, whose vices led to a cop’s death. I was part of the tainted blood I’d wanted to purify. And now they had to destroy me before I spread my disease.
I stepped outside the greasy deli where I’d been perched in a back booth with the newspaper folded in front of me. My stomach heaved every time the front door swung open, my muscles clenched and ready to run.
Ironic. I’d always wanted to be Bob Woodward. Pete Ha-mill. Jimmy Breslin. Recognized. Now, my only hope was that the world would see right through me.
I stopped at a thrift store and bought a pair of crappy warm-up pants and a white T-shirt whose collar had already begun to fray. My sneakers I threw into a mailbox, replaced them with a worn pair of Sambas. A cheap pair of sunglasses hid my eyes. But these were only stopgap measures, using bubble gum to plug a ruptured dam.
There were few people in New York I could turn to for help, and if they came up empty…I tried not to think about it.
I walked quickly toward the subway, keeping an eye out for lurking transit officers. I felt light-headed, searching amongst unknown faces for any hint of danger. My hands could be shackled before I knew what happened, I could be beaten to death in my cell, either by cops who thought I’d killed one of their own or by criminals who’d consider it a feather in their cap to kill a man who’d taken a policeman’s life.
Stepping onto the uptown 6 train, my legs felt weak, rubbery. It was all I could do to support my own weight.
The train chugged along, and at each stop I scanned the new passengers, watching intently for the royal blue dress of the NYPD. My life, it seemed, was now entirely up to chance.
I exited at 116th Street and found the nearest pay phone. It killed me to call him after this. I had to hope he’d believe the truth.
My fingers trembling, I inserted a quarter and dialed. The switchboard operator picked up, a woman’s superficially perky voice on the other end.
“ New York Gazette, how may I direct your call?”
“Wallace Langston, please.”
“Just a moment.” I heard a click, then ringing as my call was put through. I chewed on a fingernail, then stopped. Can’t draw any attention. Must act normal. Just another guy on the phone.
A guy with a murder charge hanging over his head. A dead man haunting his thoughts. An entire city turned against him. A whole life…
“Wallace Langston’s office.”
Shit. It was Shirley, his secretary. She’d recognize my voice. And once she did, I’d never get through. She’d call the cops in the blink of an eye.
I raised my voice an octave and gave myself a slight lisp. Thank God my chosen profession wasn’t acting.
“Yes, Wallace Langston. Is he in?”
“And who may I ask is calling?”
“Um…this is Paul Westington calling from Hillary Clinton’s office. Mrs. Clinton is ready to give the Gazette an exclusive on her presidential aspirations.”
Silence.