Once Were Cops by Ken Bruen Page A

said,
    “Kebar had told me Gino was always playing with
    a worry beads and I didn’t make the connection till
    the other night when I realized Gino is Italian, he
    wouldn’t have a worry beads but he would have a
    rosary beads.”
    Peters was on the phone, yelling to get him Gino’s
    address and to have the task force suit up and get
    ready to roll.
    He looked at me, said,
    “Sit tight, this pans out, you’re in fucking clover.”
    I’d swear he was grinning.
    Gino was charged with not only the stranglings but
    also the murder of Kebar, the slugs in Kebar’s
    head matching the Ruger.
    The papers went to town on it and my photo was
    plastered all over, I looked pretty good, serious
    face, intense expression, and the mayor said I was
    exactly the type of young man the department was
    now recruiting.
    Kebar was given a hero’s funeral, and in full
    uniform, I attended. As he had no family, I got the
    flag, thought that was a neat touch.
    And … I got my gold shield.
    In Kebar’s apartment, they’d found tapes of
    Morronni’s threats and bribes and he was currently
    under indictment.
    He’d asked to see me.

    Yeah, like that was going to happen.
    He claimed he had evidence of me taking bribes
    but none came to light.
    I was given two weeks’ compassionate leave for
    the loss of Nora and my partner and I went to
    Miami, lay on the beach, watched the gorgeous
    women, well, mainly I watched their necks, so
    delicate, just crying out for ornamentation.
    I had to fight the urge, and the department doctor
    had given me some tranquilizers which I doubled
    up on, add a half bottle of Jameson and I could bite
    down, swallow hard and resist the impulse.
    The odd time I thought of Lucia, and by now,
    they’d have transferred her to some state place.
    I remembered her lovely neck and the Miraculous
    Medal I’d put on it.
    She’d be left to rot, I figured, and then said,
    “Shite happens.”
    No matter how I tried to summon it, I couldn’t get a
    picture of me killing Nora and cutting her finger
    off, that crap would never occur to me … I think.

    I’ve not got much time for the cops, but I feel sorry
    for them with all those violent crimes.
    -Buster, great train robber
    JOE MULLOY WAS Once … a …cop. In New
    York.
    He’d done eight rough months on the streets and it
    bruised him in ways he still hadn’t fully come to
    terms with.
    Staring down a guy, flying on angel dust, he had an
    epiphany.
    His thirst for investigation was of the written kind.
    He wanted to write and use words to track down
    the dirt.
    And he wrote a semifictional account of his time,
    he’d had a wonderful Rilke title for the book but
    the publishers told him to get real. And it appeared
    as: Cop Out. Jesus. Sold modestly, Publishers
    Weekly said it had promise. Translate as … Don’t
    give up the day job. He was still earning back the
    advance.
    But it did lead to an offer on a small paper outside
    Fort Lauderdale and he honed and perfected his
    craft which led to a bigger paper and finally, to
    being an investigative reporter.
    Made him a great journalist, killed his marriage.
    Brooke saying,
    “You’re like a dog with a bone, when you’re on a
    story, nothing else matters.”
    ‘Tis sad ‘tis true.
    She married a dentist two months later.
    And then his beloved adored sister was murdered
    in New York. A victim of the strangler.
    Nora had been all lit up before this, in her weekly
    call, she had said,
    “Met Mr. Right, not only is he a cop, he’s Irish.”
    He’d never heard her so hopeful.
    And best, the evening she rang to say the guy had
    given her his gold Claddagh ring. Irish women see
    that as: Signed. Sealed. Delivered. Then she was
    strangled.
    He was bereft, hit the bottle for a bit then got
    himself in some sort of shape and went up there for
    the funeral.
    And that’s how it began. The Mr. Right never
    showed for the funeral. The fuck was with that?
    Something odd.
    The guy was an Officer O’Shea and lo and behold,
    he