# 5 - Chapter Five "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

Chapter Five  "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"  

Chapter Five 

It was Monday afternoon, and Lieutenant Doug Boswell had a problem: He hoped to start working his way out of the mess he found himself in. But there were just too many pieces in the puzzle – too many people and groups and separate agendas  – to hold in his head at one time, let alone to understand and organize all of the details and come up with a solution.  

So, he had to follow his regular SOP: Fall back on his gut and his instincts and hope for the best. 

Boswell’s first step was finding a convincing excuse for taking off without his new partner. He tried to sound serious and official when he announced he had errands to run. 

Eddie Buckley’s reaction was predictable. The spunky sergeant cocked his head to one side and wore a quizzical smile. He might as well come out and said “You shittin’ me, man?” When Boswell added the admin tasks that he, Boswell, should have done days earlier, and said it was important to organize the files for “the Fairmount Park murder case,” Buckley’s reaction stayed pasted on his face.  

Boswell’s instinct spoke to him; he knew that he had to be alone. He couldn’t share what he was doing with his new partner. It was already after three when Boswell departed the 6th District station. Since it was only a few blocks to city center, he decided to walk. He told himself he needed fresh air and exercise to think. 

His route took him through Philly’s Chinatown. The streets were crowded with tourists and women dragging their children along as they shopped in the food stores. For a police detective in a hurry, the old Chinese were the worst; they slowed the human flow as they struggled along with their loaded shopping carts, or – too often – their canes or walkers. 

Boswell moved in and out of the crowd as he advanced south along 11th Street. He enjoyed watching some of the tourist women in their tight jeans or shorts, but especially the beautiful Chinese babes who looked like dolls that got his juices flowing. But real annoying, it was the old Chinese jabbering away in Chinese. 

All the time, Boswell was thinking about how he had to guide “the Fairmount Park murder case” in the right direction and use the different elements to get the right conclusion. In his mind, it all was a jumble.  

There was Buckley, so far an essential element, but a potential problem. Do I need him? Fuck, the guy’s so independent, so uppity, doesn’t know his place. He just can’t be controlled, always has his own ideas, and the bastard turns out to be right. He could screw up the whole thing. He keeps finding stuff, and I can’t reject it.

Or, Boswell wondered: Can I get him to think I’m his buddy, make the guy think I’m on his side? Win him over, and then sacrifice him. Fuck no, sure can’t imagine that! That uppity brother’s on a whole different wavelength! He’d sure fuck everything up! No doubt about that! 

So, if I gotta get rid of him, what can I do? Fuck, we just can’t have a dead cop! Jesus, no! There’d sure be a huge blowout over that. All bets would be off! No. Maybe just get him off the case, say he’s disruptive, not a team player. But not when he finds important stuff, and then I gotta praise him. Keep him outta the field, give him more admin stuff to do in the office. The problem, shit! He just knows stuff, too quick, too smart!

But now, this afternoon, I got him in the office. He’s got all that paperwork to go through, I’m keeping him busy. 

And then there’s that Jew guy! Talk about stereotypes, the guy’s name is Siegel, and he wears those phony professor glasses. He looks like he has money, in that phony historic house, leather couches and stereo in the ceiling. We tell him his girlfriend’s dead, and he pulls that weepy shit on us! I need him, I gotta use him, but I gotta be careful. I can’t let him wiggle away. That guy too, just too fuckin’ smart! 

Market Street, and Boswell waited for the light to change, so he could get his show on the road. When he had permission to “walk,” he moved along with the crowd. That’s Philly, streets jammed with a bunch of jerks that get in your way.  

If they’re not happy, if the big guys don’t like what I’m doing, I’ll just tell ‘em I’m doin’ what I can. That’s what I’ll tell ‘em. I sure can’t control everything. 

What can one cop do, anyway? 

Boswell was a South Philly kid, born and raised. His family lived in one of the crowded little boxes on the narrow streets down by Oregon Ave. That was before the big-box shopping centers and all the immigrants, the Latinos and the Orientals, took over. His dad was a big man, and Boswell regretted he didn’t get his father’s genes. Dad drove a big semi rig for a company transporting home appliances, and he was on the road for days at a time. Mom, a dowdy homemaker that was constantly cleaning the house and buying the groceries for the dishes she prayed her man would love. Boswell saw that he didn’t, he didn’t even care. In fact, Dad didn’t appreciate much, and it was painful for Boswell to endure the silence during meals and all the time at home. 

Boswell attended public schools, all the way from K through 12. He was not a good student, and his teachers at Saint Neumann’s High told his mother he would have to study hard to even make average grades. He worked just a bit more diligently, and somehow graduated. But, while he learned little in school, he learned more on the street: he saw police officers driving big, shiny cruisers and getting respect. People didn’t want trouble with the cops. And some cops made money off side deals. 

Becoming a cop was tough for Boswell. He had to struggle, and study hard to get through the academy, and he had to struggle even more when he started out as a patrolman on the street. But he watched and he learned, and saw how some cops rose in the ranks and gained power. It was a whole police political game. 

Then he saw a chance to make some cash. In the beginning, it all looked harmless. Boswell didn’t understand the gradual process that entrapped him. It was the smallest thing; he only agreed to turn a blind eye on the sales of a small drug gang operating in South Philly. But little by little and step by step, he found himself caught; it was like a staircase starting out at the top floor, one step at a time down, until he found himself in the basement, under the thumb of a big-time drug boss. 

That was Boswell’s secret, and now he had to find a way to break the bonds that controlled him. If he had to sacrifice another person or persons, he knew those would be collateral damage, just the sacrifices he had to make, as long as it wasn’t self-sacrifice.   

It was almost four when Boswell arrived at Gertie’s Pub on Sansom St. In front of the place was empty. He pushed the front door open, looked around and took a seat at a small table against the wall opposite the long bar. The place was dark, empty and silent. Like a cop, Boswell examined his surroundings – posters on the wood-paneled walls, the bar well-stocked, no bartender, actually no anybody. Every table had a napkin holder and a menu. 

Boswell started to glance through the menu when a waitress came through the swinging doors from the kitchen. As she walked toward his table, 

Boswell noticed she had red hair and wore a low-cut white blouse with frills. Fine, a live one.  

She smiled when she arrived at his table. “What can I get you, stranger?” 

“If you got it, how about just a Jack Daniel’s with ice?”

“We sure got it. It’ll be just a second.” The waitress walked over to the end of the bar and then slid in behind it to prepare Boswell’s drink. 

When she returned and served Boswell, he took a sip and smiled with satisfaction.

She smiled back and said, “Can I ask you a question?” 

Boswell answered. “Sure, why not?” 

Her smile widened and her eyes gleamed. “Well, you’re not gonna arrest me for serving a drink to a cop on duty, are you?”

Boswell forced a smile. “How’d you fix me?”

She said, “Where should I start? Okay, one thing. It’s too early for the after-work crowd. And how you’re dressed, ‘cause some of your buddies have the same tailor. And, you know something? I’m sure you been here before. Sure I’ve seen you before. It was a while ago. My name’s Rebecca, not Becky, but Rebecca.  Anyway, welcome back, can I get you anything else?”

A change came over Boswell. He turned cold and official. “I’d like to ask for your help. It’s about a police investigation, and it’s confidential.” 

Boswell pulled a printed flier from his breast pocket, laid it on the table and smoothed it out by pressing it with his right palm. The masthead said “Wonder Words,” and the front page exhibited a list of poets, each one with a photo, the dates of a future appearance, and a short bio. The third entry was of Faith Gruen, and her photo was circled with a black marker. 

Rebecca stared at the photo. “Why? Why you showing me this? Why you have this?” 

Boswell took a polite sip of Bourbon, but then he lifted the glass to his lips again and gulped down a mouthful. He stalled for several seconds. “Faith Gruen is deceased. We’re investigating her death. Her body was discovered in Fairmount Park, and we’re investigating . . . ” 

Rebecca broke in. “Oh, God! No! We didn’t see her . . . I didn’t see her for a while. I don’t know. Oh, my God!” In just a second, the waitress’s face bunched up, her mouth and eyes closing and tightening. Then, she wavered and leaned against the table steady herself. “Oh, no! She’s a wonderful . . . I don’t know. What to say? She was a . . . Such a sweet person!”   

Boswell waited. He glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Rebecca pulled a chair out from under the table and fell onto it. She tried to control the sobs jerking her body. Tears were running down her cheeks, and she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands. Then she grabbed some paper napkins from the table, and wiped her eyes. The napkins showed traces of mascara. 

“But we didn’t know anything, nobody knew anything,” she said between her sobs. “It wasn’t in the paper. I didn’t see it on TV. How could she? How’d she die?” 

Boswell looked at her bare arms, lean and tan. As she gulped in air, he looked at her breasts in her frilly blouse rise and fall, and he felt like . . . . But he stopped himself. “At this point, I can’t say much. We’re just starting the investigation. Can I get you something? You want anything?”

Gradually, Rebecca got her breathing under control. She looked up at Boswell; she forced a sad smile and said, “That’s my job. No, I’ll be okay. I think I’ll be okay now. It’s just . . . She was such a sweet person. You want something?”

“Yeah, I need something. Look’it, we’re trying to find out how she could’ve died, the circumstances, and all that. If you can help, if I could ask you just a few questions, is that okay?” 

“I’ll try,” she mumbled. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara. “I don’t know what I can do. You know? The poetry club’s upstairs, they have their readings upstairs on the second floor. They have their own bar and all that. When I’m on duty, I serve the main floor.” 

Boswell handed her another napkin, and she dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. 

“I’m wondering about the evening of May thirteenth, not that long ago,” Boswell began. He took a small notebook and a ballpoint from his breast pocket. “You know about how many people usually attend?”

“I don’t know, really. It goes up and down, depending who’s on the schedule. But maybe forty at the most, but sure fifteen or twenty, never less.” 

Boswell pressed on. “So, on May thirteenth, that wasn’t that long ago. It was a Wednesday, I’m sure you remember. Was Faith Gruen with the group? Was she here that night?”

Rebecca hesitated. “I think so . . . Maybe she was. Wait a second! Yeah, she was. There were a lot of people at the bar; the place was really crowded. But I remember talking with her. We always talk. I wished her luck; I think she was gonna read something that night.”

“And then after, when the poetry group was breaking up, did you see her leave? Did you talk then, and did you see if she left with someone?” Boswell was leaning forward; he felt his instincts were starting to work. Maybe everything would go fine. He waited; he knew he had to give people some time. 

Slowly, Rebecca started speaking softly. “I’m starting to remember the night, really crowded. So many people, a lot of them were at the bar, but a lot were just standing around. Faith stayed downstairs for a while, talking with some people. I know she left, of course, but I don’t remember seeing if she was with anyone. Could’ve just left alone. I don’t know.”

Boswell said, “Okay, let’s try something else.” He reached down, into his side pocket, and pulled out his phone. He pushed a few buttons and an image of Elliott Siegel appeared on the screen. Boswell held the phone up so Rebecca could see the photo. Boswell asked, “You know this person?” 

Rebecca moved closer to the phone. Her eyebrows arched in a troubled gesture. She leaned back in her chair, placed her hands on her arms and hugged herself, pushing her breasts together. 

She raised her voice. “That’s El! Why you do that? He’s a friend of ours. My God, he looks like he’s crying! You made him cry?”

Boswell jerked his eyes from her chest and stared at the waitress’s face. At first, he was surprised by her reaction. He knew there was something he didn’t understand. What the fuck! What’s the matter? Did I fuck up?

He tried to look sympathetic, understanding. “We did talk with him, yes. And I wanna tell you, we were really gentle, really supportive. He seems like a good guy, but we had to inform him, our duty. We did spend a few minutes with him, but we saw he needed time, to come to terms with Faith’s death, so we granted him his . . . his privacy.”

Boswell saw that Rebecca was studying him. He saw that her expression was changing. 

“I’m sorry. I guess I got a little . . . It’s just that he’s a friend. You’re right, he is a good guy, a very sweet guy.” 

Boswell saw that he had to move fast. Just get a few more answers. “Was El Siegel there, I mean here on the thirteenth? Did you see him? Was he with Faith at any time?” 

“Sure, I remember now,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I saw him. No, I’m sure. He was there, and I don’t think he was with Faith.”

“So, who was he with?” 

“A few times, I saw him with a younger man. I think someone told me he brought his son; that must’ve been his son.” 

  “Any one tell you his name? You know who might know?”

She said, “I don’t know, really. But you could ask El. I’m sure he’d tell you.” 

“Thanks,” Boswell said. “We will. But lemme  . . . I gotta tell you, we’re not gonna give up. If she was murdered, if someone murdered her, the murderer has to pay. They can’t get away with it.” 

Rebecca looked at Boswell, at his eyes. She smiled, and her expression softened.  

The phone in Boswell’s pocket started ringing. He didn’t want to answer it. He had just ordered another Jack Daniels, and Rebecca leaned low over the table to place the glass right in front of him. 

After only one Bourbon, Boswell was feeling loose and easy, and now he was watching the young woman’s breasts fall forward and almost escape from her low-cut frilly blouse. And Boswell believed she was telling him something. 

He didn’t want to be disturbed by his phone. But it kept ringing. 

Fuckin’ phone, he thought. He pulled it out of his pocket. He tapped “ACCEPT” and said, “Boswell speaking.” 

“Lieutenant, this is Buckley.” 

Shit, Boswell thought. Fuckin’ shit, the last person in the world I wanna talk to right now. 

“What you want now?”

“We got another body,” Buckley said. “I’m out at Fairmount. I was in that pissy corner. I found anther body, this time a guy.”

Reality hit Boswell hard. He knew; this was the worst. He had to take charge. “You hold on!” he shouted. “Don’t you move! Just hold on!” 

Holding his phone, Boswell looked up at Rebecca. “Listen, I’m sorry. Police emergency, I gotta go. I’m sorry. It’s urgent.”

When Boswell stood up, he pushed the table, and the glass of Bourbon spilled. He looked down at the table. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Rebecca said. The look in her eyes, she was lost. 

Boswell pulled his wallet from his back pocket, drew out two twenties and dropped them on the table. “Remember,” he said. “Not a word, nothing we talked about.”

Then, Boswell rushed outside. He leaned against the iron grill blocking the alley next to Gertie’s Pub. He saw the narrow street starting to fill up with office workers anxious for a few drinks. 

“Okay,” he shouted. “Talk to me. I’m tellin’ ya, this better be good.” 

-0-

Days after the investigation at Fairmount, the thought still bothered Eddie Buckley. He couldn’t get the smell out of his mind: Why did the crime scene in Fairmount Park reek of urine? Why would someone or something relieve himself in a stand of trees in the park and leave such a disgusting odor that was sure to last for days, maybe even weeks? The question kept popping up and irritating him. 

There had to be an explanation. 

For Buckley, the opportunity came just three days after visiting the park with Doug Boswell. It was Monday afternoon at the 6th District station house, and just out of the blue Boswell announced he had errands to run. It was strange; his looie was trying to make it sound so official. 

Boswell turned two file folders loaded with documents and photographs over to Buckley and told him to review the files on what was now called “the Fairmount Park murder case,” organize everything by date and the form of evidence, and then write a memo on any conflicts between the evidence turned up by the original team and the evidence turned up by Boswell and Buckley. 

Yes, it was a strange order, Buckley concluded. 

He found an empty desk where he could work and started going through the files. It was true; they were a mess. Was that the reason Boswell had been keeping the files away from him? While Boswell criticized the first investigation team, the one that was apparently fired, Buckley was never told their names nor the official reasons for their firing. 

So, here Buckley was handed a plain admin job of no urgency that was Boswell’s responsibility. 

In fact, Boswell remained a mystery for Buckley. Because of his rank and his seniority, there was no doubt about Boswell’s authority. But why did Boswell constantly impose his decision on every action they took. Early on, when the two officers started working together, there was definitely friction. Then, Boswell changed a hundred and eighty degrees; he became his buddy, a buddy who wanted to give Buckley credit for finding important evidence at Fairmount Park. 

Can I trust the guy? What’s his game? If Boswell’s just a bossy cop, shit, that’s normal around here. But the guy’s different. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe the way I act. Maybe it’s the fact that I got my own opinions, and I try to think things out in a logical way. 

Okay, I got this job to do, and I’ll show the guy. 

The job was easy. The evidence and other stray documents produced by the original team were limited, not more than twenty separate items, and they were easy to arrange in chronological order. The material that Boswell and Buckley produced was more extensive and in different areas and different time spans. 

The one piece of evidence Buckley found important was the autopsy report on Faith Gruen. The report was professional and appeared compete. The official cause of death was loss of blood, from multiple stab wounds, perhaps more than ten in the area of her heart and abdomen. A high level of pure cocaine was found in the blood remaining in her body. And the team at the Medical Examiner’s Office determined that she had been raped, most likely when she was under the influence of the cocaine. 

Buckley read the words in the report, just cold words on paper. At first, the words were distant and didn’t provoke any emotion. But when their meaning started to resonate in his mind, he felt troubled, then outraged, and then sad. Why, how could this happen? A young woman, how? There was no indication in the file that Faith Gruen was guilty or even suspected of any crime, nothing about drugs, nothing at all. How could this happen? 

You’re a cop, Buckley told himself. You know it’s a dangerous world out there. But he found it hard to concentrate. Finally, Buckley forced himself to complete his report. He spent less than an hour identifying the few conflicts between the two investigations, the areas that still had to be explored, and finally new ideas and priorities. 

Leaning back in his chair after typing his report, Buckley decided: We gotta identify the killer or killers. How could they? We gotta ID ‘em, and then we gotta figure their motives and any other bad guys involved. 

And one place to start, one place I gotta go to is that stand of trees in Fairmount, that area Boswell didn’t want to go ‘cause it was unpleasant, it had the stink to high heaven. Imagine that! No, I don’t wanna go in there ‘case it smells like piss. That’s what my looie said. You knew you’d end up here! You been wanting to go back there from the second your looey said let’s get outta here, it stinks. 

Buckley stowed the reports and his memo in his locker, grabbed an evidence kit, a large flashlight and a surgical face mask from the guys in the evidence section, and checked out an unmarked cruiser. He knew the route by heart: Zip up 11th Street, get onto the Vine Street Expressway, the Montgomery Exit, and there you are.

It was just past four in the afternoon. It was a beautiful day with a cloudless blue sky. And, no matter how the excursion might turn out, Buckley felt good. He felt free and proud that he was making his own decisions. 

There’s no doubt why you’re here, Buckley told himself. You just can’t take no for an answer, and something drives you to understand things, and then find the reasons and the solutions. So, here you are. Your looie’s gonna get pissed. But you’re ready. Boss, it’s all there in the reports. I didn’t have a choice. I had to follow up on these leads. You want me to just have a few brewskies at a local cop hangout? We’re in this together, right? We both wanna find the bad guys, Right? 

Why you gotta keep diggin’? Why you pushing when you know what Boswell’s gonna say? ‘Cause that’s what you are. That’s what you’re made of. That goes way back. 

Buckley was a West Philly kid: tough, independent, smart, and ready to jump onto an opportunity. He was raised in University City, one of the Philadelphia neighborhoods going through gentrification. Sure, his family lived on 54th Street, not yet a place of increasing property values. That’s sure to come. 

But his family was solid. His mom was a teacher, serving in the same Philly public elementary school for more than fifteen years, so far. Every afternoon, she came home bragging about “her kids’” progress. His dad was a taxicab dispatcher. He earned job security because he had a no-nonsense voice and a flawless memory. The family had its rules, like Buckley and his younger brother had to treat others with respect, help cook meals and clean up. And Buckley learned that his dad spoke with authority because he knew a lot about what made the world tick and offered solid advice. In fact, the whole family talked everything over. Most important, the home was full of love. 

-0-

It’s strange, Buckley thought. The stand of trees looks just the same, just like I been here a bunch of times. Sure, it was true when he was a kid. And now, maybe it’s ‘cause I been thinking about the place so much.   

Buckley approached directly from Belmont Avenue. He turned the cruiser up the hill on the gravel path and parked near the break in the trees he used before to gain entry to the clearing at the center of the stand the last time. 

The yellow police tape with their warning “Crime Scene Do Not Cross” had been removed, perhaps by the tech evidence team, thinking their job completed. 

The ground was dry, and the gravel crunched under his feet when he got out of the cruiser and walked around to the trunk and grabbed the evidence kit, the big flashlight and the face mask. 

Blocked by the massive tree trunks and the growth of shrubbery, the central area was silent. The smell wasn’t as strong as before, but it was still present, so he still slipped the surgical mask on. Surveying the area across from the entrance, he understood why the tech team didn’t investigate beyond the central area; a line of the evergreen trunks seemed to block all entry. 

But Buckley stepped around the trench that had held Faith Gruen’s body and searched for a point of entry. Nothing, every path seemed blocked. He pushed though the underbrush to the right and finally found a narrow break leading left. He pushed through and . . . 

I think I saw this movie already one time, he told himself. No, couldn’t be the same thing, by the same cast of characters. The smell of urine was getting stronger. He stepped over some large boulders and branches, and there it was: 

Just like with the body of Faith Gruen, Buckley could make out a body wrapped in plastic sheeting in a trench, obviously clumsily dug by someone in a hurry. Careful to avoid touching any evidence as much as possible, Buckley moved the sheeting aside. The face was obscured by pinecones and evergreen needles and maybe nibbled on by small animals, but it appeared to have a short beard, thus the face of a male. 

Further confirmation of the gender of the corpse, a large, square belt buckle reflected the few rays of light filtering through the trees. 

And then Buckley saw it: A small knife was sticking out of the corpse’s chest. This weapon, this evidence must be protected, he told himself. He slipped an evidence packet over the knife to protect any evidence on its surface, and tried to remove it. It resisted. He pulled harder, felt scrapping, removed the weapon and closed the evidence packet.

Get outta here! Buckley told himself. Your work is done here. Jesus, your work’s surely done. You didn’t see this in any movie before. 

But before pushing through the brush, he snapped some photos of the new corpse and dug up some soil samples and put them in a second evidence bag for the crime lab.

In his hurry to make his way back to the police cruiser, some branches whipped Buckley across the face. He reached up to his forehead and felt some scratches. He looked at his hand. A little blood’s a small price to pay, he told himself. 

Once seated in the cruiser, he dialed Boswell’s number. 

Buckley didn’t understand. The connection was good; there was no obstruction, but Boswell’s phone must have rung more than a dozen times. Finally, his boss answered but then told him to hold on. 

“Okay, I’m back,” Boswell’s voice said over the phone. “What you got?  I’ll tellin’ ya, this better be good.” 

“Like I’m saying, I’m out at Fairmount, where we were before, the place in the trees,” Buckley spoke into his phone. “I found another body. And, Oh yeah, he had a knife stuck in him.”

Boswell was shouting, “What the fuck you talkin’?” 

“I didn’t have a choice,” Buckley said. “It’s all in the report you wanted. Anyway, you wanna get another crime scene team out here? I think we gotta pursue this lead, don’t you?” Buckley looked at his phone, and he saw he was losing battery power. 

“Out here where? Where are you?” 

Buckley looked at his phone’s battery level. “It’s that pissy corner in Fairmount. I’m tellin’ you first. I knew there was more there. When I went over all those reports, I just knew. And I knew we didn’t want to give any bad guys the chance to clean it up.” 

“Just don’t you move!” Boswell said” You hear, don’t move! I’m on my way. I’ll be coming with the crime scene guys.” 

The connection went silent for a few seconds. Then, Boswell’s voice came back. “Oh, by the way, nice going. I gotta say. We’re making progress.” 

Buckley opened the cruiser’s door for some air and waited. To Buckley, the statement on the phone sounded flat, insincere, in fact, it sounded forced.