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I stepped forward and had to stifle a yelp. He had bandages wrapped around his face and forehead as well as his left arm. He looked like he belonged in the film The Mummy.
I took a seat right next to his bed and leaned in to get a better look. I didn’t care what the State of New York said—he still looked like my little boy asleep in the bed. I could just see the rough edges of the stitches on his cheek at the edge of the gauze bandage.
It hurt me both physically and emotionally to see my oldest son like this. Since his arrest and conviction, I had lived in a half fog of worry. The DA wanted to make an example of a cop’s kid who had made a mistake. The example haunted me every day.
As if sensing I was there, Brian turned his head, then opened his eyes. The smile he gave me made everything I’d gone through worthwhile.
I said in a low voice, “Surprised to see me?”
His voice was a little scratchy. “Not at all. I knew you’d come.”
He reached across with his right hand and took hold of mine. I carefully leaned down and touched my forehead to his. I almost cried, but I didn’t want to upset him.
After a few minutes of silence, Brian lowered the covers and lifted his gown to show me the two red stab wounds on his abdomen, covered by thin gauze. In total, he had gotten thirty-six stitches.
“I was scared, Dad. Really scared. It was two guys I barely knew. They passed me on the rec field and just started to slash and stab. It just happened that one of the corrections officers was standing nearby and was on the ball.”
I tried to limit my professional questions, designed to figure out who did this and who ordered it. Brian explained that he didn’t know much except they were both Mexicans who claimed to be part of a cartel. No one at Gowanda messed with them.
Brian told me again about the war between the Mexican cartel and the Canadian mob over territory. He’d warned me about the brewing feud when he first went to prison. He wondered if he was just caught in the middle.
Most people associated the word mob with Italians from New York, but the term applied to a lot of organizations. The Canadian mob was mostly made up of French Canadians who were loosely affiliated but banded together when threatened by outside groups.
Then Brian said, “But it doesn’t matter what happened to me. I’m worried they might come after you or the family. It’s all my fault. I brought all this on.” He started to cry.
That made me cry. I tried to tell him not to worry about it, that it wasn’t his fault, but I wasn’t so sure. Maybe this was all related to retribution for his working in the drug business and my trying to ruin that business. I knew drug cartels could be ruthless.
I said, “Brian, you’re not responsible for other people’s actions. You’re a good kid who made a mistake. I’ll fi
x all this. I promise.”
His eyes turned up toward me. “Really? Do you think you can?”
I squeezed his hand gently. I couldn’t put into words how much it hurt to see my son like this. Not only the bandages but also the agony over what he had put the family through.
Being a father was so much harder than being a cop.
Chapter 16
Alex Martinez had done reconnaissance on NewYork–Presbyterian, attached to the campus of Columbia University. The hospital had a stellar reputation. If she thought the gunman would die of his wounds, she wouldn’t bother to follow up. But chances were he’d survive the injury. And that meant he was a risk.
She had come to the hospital earlier to pay a visit to the main security room. She told the uniformed guard she’d lost her wallet, so he sent her to the lost and found department, in the empty administrative office—where the camera feeds were. She disconnected the main cable on the other side of the wall, counting on the fact that it would take an hour for someone to figure it out.
Now, in the late afternoon, no one seemed to notice her as she walked down a fifth-floor corridor, pushing a gurney. She was dressed in billowing blue scrubs designed to hide her shape, and a blue surgical mask covered her face. The outfit would make a description more difficult later. She knew exactly what room the gunman was in and how many nurses were on duty. This was the slow time for the nurses. There were three on duty, and one of them was in the cafeteria on the first floor.
She’d waited until the other two were busy in patient rooms. This was her chance. Alex had a flutter of nerves. No amount of preparation could compensate for a freak coincidence.
She saw the corrections officer sitting on a folding chair in front of the gunman’s door. He paid no attention as she came toward him with the gurney.
Alex did not take killing lightly. There had to be a clear reason and purpose behind taking a life. Usually that reason was money.
Her heart beat faster as she scanned the man for weapons. All he had was an ASP baton on his belt, but he was fit and muscular. She knew she’d have to act decisively.
Just as she started to squeeze past the uniformed corrections officer, he stood up to give her more room. She liked good manners.
He smiled and said, “Can you manage okay?” He made sure she got a good look at his biceps as he held up his hands to let her pass.
She nodded and said, “Aren’t you nice.” Alex noted his relaxed demeanor. Perfect.
