# 17 - Chapter Seventeen "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

It Hurts to Say Goodbye 

Chapter Seventeen 

Lieutenant Boswell stood on 11th Street’s sidewalk and looked up at The Roundhouse. He remembered the last time he stood in this very spot and the emotions he felt – the confidence, the pride, the power and mostly the expectation of success. 

Now, it was plain, bald fear. 

There were the questions that kept multiplying. What could Captain McAllister do? Sure, it was a lot, but he was part of the system, the police system with its structure and limits. Orlov was a completely different animal, yes animal. For the Russian bear, there were no limits. He was free, ready to do anything, any time, with no restraint. Boswell knew he was failing, and he knew there was no way he could succeed, not by their rules, anyway. One phrase kept returning to him: “Shit into Shinola.” 

Now, it was coming from both sides: first from the powerful Captain, and then from the Russian. Boswell knew he was given shit, vague facts about that Siegel guy, and then told to come up with Shinola, an air-tight criminal charge, or even a confession. 

Nothing was clear, and nothing was possible. There was no hope.

The picture was clear to Boswell. He saw himself returning to street duty with the funny cap and a cop’s uniform on his back. There would be the shame: word of his failure and demotion blabbered by all the cops he knew, and passed from one district to another, from one officer to another, from one office to another. What could be worse than that? That was where Orlov came in. The Russian could do anything, there were no boundaries.

They were still there, the rounded twin structures of The Roundhouse, the power of Philadelphia’s police force. It was late afternoon. Boswell’s eyes glued to the walls of glass, the reflected light from the sinking sun blinking at him like a menace, and then the twin structures took on the form of handcuffs, and that was what he felt now, he was held prisoner but forced to march on. 

March on? He tried to visualize where McAllister’s office was. He knew it was on the fourth, the top floor, of course. That’s where it would happen. Boswell knew he’d be sitting across from McAllister, staring across his wide desk, listening to the captain’s shouts, hearing the riot act for his failure. 

But it was strange. Boswell couldn’t place where McAllister’s office was. The elevator banks, the hallways, he realized he couldn’t even remember how many doors he had to pass before he got there. But Eddie Buckley, his partner, that uppity brother, he’d remember. He was the smart one, and maybe not a bad guy, after all. And he was too smart to find himself in deep shit like me.

Get it over with, Boswell told himself, the sooner the better. 

He advanced toward the glass doors, and they automatically rolled open. He walked up to the security desk.

“Hey, fella. How ya doin’?” the officer behind the desk said. He was a big guy, maybe ten years older than Boswell, with a round, sad face. Boswell looked at him, and thought he was filling out his time until retirement. 

At least he remembers me, Boswell told himself. He started to walk through the turnstile. 

“Hey, wait a second, buddy!” the officer said, his voice turning official and louder. “You gotta sign in. Who ya think . . . anyway?” 

Boswell froze. He had no choice. “Sure, okay.” He took the clipboard and entered the information on the form: His name, title, time, the person he was seeing, et cetera. Okay, he knew he couldn’t argue. He moved toward the turnstile.

“Woah there, not yet,” the duty officer said. “And ya know, I gotta make a copy of your police ID and hold your sidearm. Security, ya know.”

“But I never,” Boswell began. “Just last week, I didn’t need to.”

“Look’it, I don’t make the rules, not me,” the officer said, his face becoming even sadder. “On your way out, it’ll be here. I promise. You got it?”

Boswell slipped off his jacket, detached his shoulder holster with his black Glock 40 caliber and handed the holster and weapon over. 

  “Okay, buddy, you’re good to go. Fourth floor, office four-hundred, elevator around the bend.” The officer gestured with his thumb. As soon as Boswell was out of sight, the officer looked down and shook his head. 

In the elevator, Boswell started to think of phrases he could use when Captain McAllister criticized him over the Fairmount Park Murder Case. There was no doubt, better safe than sorry: “We’re really making progress. We’re setting up another meeting with Siegel. We’re interviewing other people that went to Gertie’s Pub. I think he’ll come around. The waitress, I think she’s ready.”

But he knew the truth: They were all false and meaningless.

The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor. Boswell remembered now; he had to turn right to the end of the hallway. He walked slowly, but then picked up his pace. The door in front of him had the numeral 400. 

He pushed it open and entered the office. He stood in the middle of the office and announced: “I’m here to see Captain McAllister.” 

No one paid attention. 

Finally, the blonde secretary, the stunning one, the blonde who sent Boswell’s imagination into overdrive the last time, stood up and straightened her short black skirt. She took a few steps toward Boswell and mumbled: “Captain McAllister doesn’t want to see you. He’s very upset, and he doesn’t want to be disturbed. He told me to give you this. That’s all I know.”

Boswell heard the words, but his eyes were glued to the secretary’s short skirt and black stockings. 

Hardly looking at Boswell, she handed him an envelope. 

Automatically, Boswell said, “Thank you.” 

 “I’ll tell you what it says. It’s so short; I can remember it. It says: ‘You got five days.’ That’s all, all it says.” 

With no smile, she went back to her desk and, as if teasing him, she crossed her legs and smoothed out her skirt. She looked up at him. 

Boswell didn’t understand her expression, maybe defiance, or challenge, or ‘you’re not so important.’ But his mind was elsewhere, letting his mind wander, following her every move as she moved around in her chair. 

He thought: What if . . . ?

That’s enough! he told himself. Don’t get sidetracked. He turned, walked toward the door and reached for the door handle.

“Hey you, detective!” she shouted from her desk. “Got something else for you!”

Boswell stopped and turned. She was walking toward him with a package. This time she was smiling.

“Just to show you the captain’s not a bad guy, he has a book for you, a book with a page marker.” 

Her voice was blank, cold, but there was the slightest lilt in it. “I’d read it if I was you.” 

Boswell stood, not knowing what to do. He felt clumsy. Automatically he repeated, “Thank you.” And he exited the office. 

Halfway down the hallway, he stopped, ripped open the envelope and confirmed the note. Yes, that’s it, he told himself. Then he ripped open the package and pulled out a book. 

He was confused. What the fuck, giving me a fucking book. Of poetry, Jesus fuck! Then he read the cover: “Wonder Words: Collected Poetic Works – 11th Annual Edition.” There was a blue, plastic paper clip sticking out of the volume. 

It didn’t make sense. Boswell’s mind went blank. Why the fuck they giving me a book of poems? What’s that got to do with the Fairmount Park Murder case? They’re playing with me. They’re squeezing me. 

He stuffed the letter in his breast pocket and hugged the poetry collection against his chest. He left the wrapping paper where it fell, on the hallway floor, and walked briskly for the elevator. 

When the elevator hit the ground floor and the doors opened, he had one desire: Get outta here.

Boswell noticed the security officer. At least it’s the same guy, the big, old guy. 

Boswell marched up to the security station, and the officer turned and looked at him. 

“Hey, buddy, you’re good to go,” the officer said. “Nothing to sign. You’re a free man.” 

In the back of his mind, Boswell sensed just the hint of fear, his own fear. But he didn’t want to admit it to himself. 

“Hey,” he said. “My Glock, you got my Glock, and my holster. Remember, don’t ya?” 

The officer shook his head, and looked up at Boswell. “Oh, shit, yeah. Lemme look.” He looked in the drawers in the desk, making the sound of rustling paper. Mumbling to himself, he turned and started moving boxes and bags around in the shelves behind the desk. 

“Look’it, I know I promised you.” The officer’s face took on a sad expression. “I know that. But I showed it to one of the guys, he thought it was cool. But he promised to put it right back. How much you pay for it, anyway.” 

“Look’it, I don’t wanna bullshit about my gun; I just want it back.”  

The officer said, “Gee, gee whiz, I’m really sorry. Maybe he put it in the wrong place. Lemme look for it.”

Of course, Boswell thought. Trapped, sure. That came from the fourth floor.

The officer stood for a few seconds, rubbing his head. Then he left his post and went behind a glass partition. When he returned to the security desk, he was carrying the weapon and holster.

“Sorry,” the officer said. “Really, I guess he forgot and put it in the wrong place. Anyway, I got it.” He handed the weapon and holster over to Boswell. 

Boswell accepted them, took off his jacket, strapped them up and slipped on his jacket. He grabbed the book and turned to leave. He mumbled, “Thanks.” 

As he walked toward the glass doors, he could hear the officer, “No shit, buddy, I’m really sorry. Honest.” 

In front of the doors, Boswell turned. “I got it,” he said. “Don’t sweat it. We’re all doing what we can.” 

He exited The Roundhouse. He stood on the sidewalk for a few seconds, then turned – without looking back – and headed south on 7th Street. He decided to walk back to the 6th District on Arch Street, through Chinatown.

Chinatown, that’s it. I’ll look at some of those little China dolls, and that’ll take my mind off this. No, you asshole, that’s your problem! Fuck’it, it’s in your wiring. Can’t fight nature. 

It was around four-thirty, and Arch Street was crowded – mothers dragging their children while they shopped for the evening meal, old women jabbering in a language Boswell knew he’d never understand, a few elderly men, one struggling forward with a cane, and several others with walkers.

As he threaded his way through the crowd, his eyes sought out the young women. He spotted one wearing a long, tight dress, a Chinese fashion in a glittering blue fabric. He stopped for just a second and turned to watch her. 

Lookin’ at babes, and getting all worked up, he told himself. What’s the use? What good is all that? They got their own lives. They don’t want you. And that blonde, she was just playing with you. What’s gonna happen? You’re gonna get all worked up, and then nothing. Nothing. At least it takes your mind off the mess you’re in.

But it didn’t work. 

He didn’t want to think about the case. No, not the case now, he told himself. Now it’s my case, ‘cause I’m right in the middle of it. One way or another, it’s gonna be my case. Five days, he told himself. How generous! And we got shit! Why the fuck they trying to frame that Siegel guy? He doesn’t look guilty; he doesn’t feel guilty. And now, you know what it really is: It’s him or me. 

The Russian ape, the captain, they’re playing, the game they’re playing, it’s a rough game. And me? I’m nothing to them. I’m nothing. Except, I know stuff. They told me stuff, maybe too much. 

Admit it, Boswell told himself. From the beginning, the very beginning, you been a loser. You tried, you really tried hard, at least sometimes, but you been a loser from the beginning. 

And, you don’t know what the fuck to do. 

-0-

When Boswell walked into the 6th District station, he could have believed he was in the middle of a rodeo. The place was crowded, with uniformed cops shouting to each other, plainclothes cops huddled in doorways or turned toward the scarred walls, whispering to each other, holding private conferences. 

It was the late-afternoon rush. At one end of the room, a collection of civilians was lined up to talk to the duty sergeant. And every once in a while, a cop was pulling a cuffed arrestee through the crowd to be processed.

Boswell had no idea where Buckley was. The 6th wasn’t their regular base, so they had to hunt desks or work spaces where they found them. The choice was the main hall or one of the two side rooms. Boswell searched until he finally found Buckley at a corner desk in the last side room. 

Boswell stood in front of the desk until Buckley finally looked up from the case files he was studying. 

“Hey, man, how ya doin’?” Buckley said. “I don’t know if you’re a big movie fan, but you’re kinda looking like you just lost a fight with Godzilla, or maybe Jaws. I’m sorry. Not tryin’ to be funny, but you’re lookin’ whipped.” 

“Might as well tell you the truth,” Boswell said. “You fuckin’ got that one right. Yeah, I’m feelin’ kicked around. So, what’s going’ on?”

“If you feel like it, pull up a chair, and I’ll ‘splain ya.”

Boswell surveyed the nearby desks and spotted a vacant chair, grabbed it and pulled it over to the end of the desk where Buckley was working. Boswell plopped down on the chair and asked: “So, what’s goin’ on?” 

Buckley studied his boss through thoughtful eyes for a few seconds. “Glad to see you’re sittin’ down, ‘cause we got a new challenge. I been looking through these case files, seeing if there’s anything similar. Thing is, we got a new murder. Who knows if it’s gonna be ours, I’m talking assignment, sure, that’s a big question. But it looks like it’s got ties to our case.”

Boswell couldn’t control himself. His body started shivering. He tried to hold it down, cover it up. “Jesus fuck, I can’t believe it,” he was raising his voice. “What the fuck’s goin’ on. Jesus!”

Boswell didn’t know any of the other officers in the room, but he could see heads turn in his direction. Then, little by little, a few officers started walking by where he was seated, sometimes slowing their pace in hopes of picking up some rumors or gossip. 

“Fuck, we don’t even got a place to talk,” he said. “What the fuck we doing here?”

Buckley said, “Sorry, nothing we can do. Guess we gotta keep our voices down.” 

Boswell forced himself to smile. The diversion had given him time to calm himself. “Okay, whisper me more info.” 

Buckley leaned toward his boss. “Most important, the body was found in Fairmount, same spot, I’m not kidding. And guess what, by kids hunting for their soccer ball, or some kinda ball. And it was a guy, middle-aged guy, and the report said ‘of small stature.’ And strange, his head was blasted, just about blown off, no shit, fuckin’ destroyed.”

Two things hit Boswell. One of them was the name Orlov. It had to be. Boswell didn’t know where he’d learned it, but Orlov had a little Russian guy working for him, the guy actually in charge of mixing up the drugs Orlov was selling. And the other thing, the phrase “him or me.” Boswell knew he had to frame the Siegel guy, or he – Boswell – would suffer, how, he didn’t know. But the choices didn’t look good. 

It was Boswell’s turn, and he leaned over the desk to get closer to Buckley and said, “I don’t know what I can tell you. There’s stuff going on that’d scare the shit outta you.”

“Sure I wouldn’t know,” Buckley said. “You give me shit stuff to do, little projects to fill up my time, and then I don’t see you. I don’t know why you been avoiding me. Yeah, we had things to work out. But I thought we were partners, working on this stuff. Where you been, anyway?”

“I been trying to save my skin, that’s where!” Boswell blurted out. He stopped himself. “Yeah, that’s it.” 

“Man, you can trust me,” Buckley said. “I mean it. Look, I know we, the two of us, we been having our ups and downs, and sure, maybe I did stuff to piss you off. I don’t know.”

“Well, I know,” Bosewell said. “I been the big asshole. I been pushing my authority, tryin’ to be the big boss, and all that shit.” 

“But if what you’re saying, it’s like in a different universe,” Buckley said. “It sounds . . . I don’t know, it’s beyond serious.” 

“It is, it really is,” Boswell said. “I been at headquarters, the big one, The Roundhouse. I’m gonna be honest with you, more honest than I been so far. I’m in deep shit, really deep shit. And honest, it’s my fault, and now I got a big decision to make. I don’t know how much to tell you. It’s complicated, so complicated I don’t know where to start. But the question is, if I tell you, I don’t want to fuck you up, too.” 

Buckley stared directly at his boss. “I’m up to it, man. I’m up to it. I wanna do the right thing, I guess that’s my only condition. I got no idea what’s going on, but I wanna be on the right side.”

“Me too. I made some mistakes,” and Boswell looked away from Buckley. “And I been getting deeper into the shit.” Then he looked directly at Buckley. “I gotta stop it. I don’t know if there’s a way back.”

Buckley said, “Look’it, I got an idea. You tell me some stuff, maybe stuff that’s not directly about you, and we’ll see if I got any ideas, any useful ideas. And if I think it goes in the wrong direction, or into areas I don’t like, I’ll raise my hand and say I want out. And I get out, maybe asking for a transfer, or whatever. I don’t know.” 

The two men leaned back in their chairs. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t know what to do, or if they should move forward.

“I don’t know,” Boswell said. “I don’t fuckin’ know. Look, I live alone. No one’s depending on me. My mom and dad? Haven’t seen ‘em in years. Frankly, we didn’t get along so good.” He stopped, then started talking again. “You, bet you got a wife and one or two kids. I never asked you, I was busy bein’ the big boss.”

“Two kids,” Buckley said. 

“Okay, two kids, and they’re depending on you. What if you get in the same shit I’m in?” 

Buckley didn’t hesitate. “We gotta be smarter, that’s all.”

They waited. Finally Boswell said, “Okay, listen. Like I said, I was at The Roundhouse, talking to the big boss. I won’t tell you his name, but . . .”

“Don’t have to,” Buckley interrupted. “It’s Captain McAllister. I’m not so smart, I just know how to read. His name’s on some of the reports.”

“Okay, see how smart I am?” Then Boswell continued, “I was given a message from him, a note, really. I got five days to deliver the Siegel guy. I gotta trap him, get him to confess, or have new proof that I could get the assistant DA and a judge to issue a murder warrant. That’s all. Easy, huh?”

It was after five o’clock, and the district offices were starting to thin out with the changing of the shift. Officers were heading for the locker room, and then some of them were heading for the exit, some still in their uniforms, but some had changed into civilian attire. All of them appeared rushed to get home to their families. 

As one desk after another was vacated, the 6th District’s offices started to feel like a morgue. 

“You still got the note?” Buckley asked. “Could be useful.”

“Yeah, sure. Here, no problem. And then the secretary gives me this book of poetry.”

Buckley said, “There’s another question, if they want you to frame him, who’re they trying to protect?”

“Well, guess what? I asked myself that, too.”

Buckley said, “Maybe we should be trying to find the killer, the person that really knocked her off, like finding the real murderer.  That’s genius, huh? That’s our job anyway, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I know, you’re right,” Boswell said. “But we been trying. Maybe we got off track. And me, I been worrying about the fix I’m in, worrying how to get outta the deep shit I worked myself into. No doubt, we couldda done more.”

“Bet you could almost read my mind,” Buckley said. “I never thought it was him, from the very beginning. Remember him, when we told him. The guy fell apart. How could it be, how could it be him. Jesus, I’ll bet he loved her.” 

“Maybe, right now, I just don’t know. But look’it, for the time being, look at this book,” Boswell gave Buckley time to read the cover, and then opened the book to the page with the blue plastic paper clip.

Both detectives started reading the Introduction.

“Okay, it’s strange as hell, but it’s startin’ to make sense to me,” Boswell said. “This is takin’ us back in time, before she was killed. We know some of this shit. He told us in our one interview, the one I did such a great job at. This is his poetry group, at Gertie’s Pub. He told us that Faith Gruen was there a lot, and now we have it. She musta been there when he read his poem, this poem.”

“So ya see?” said Buckley. “Maybe he’s a big intellectual. Maybe he writes good poetry. See what she says? Listen, ‘ . . . a sensitive poet, assuming the persona of a troubled soul, he achieves transmitting emotion . . ’ So, she’s saying that it’s not really what he did, he didn’t go through all this stuff. He’s pretending, telling us a story.” 

Below the introduction was the text of a poem. 

AN ANGEL AND A MONSTER ®

Boswell read the title; he couldn’t believe it. And he saw that it was long, more than two pages, and he had to turn the page to see the end. He told himself that there was no way he’d read the entire thing, at least not right now.

But two stanzas jumped out to him.  

                                     

Oh Babe, sometimes I’m in such a mood,

A mood like I’m losin’ everythin’, and just don’t care, 

Feelin’ that old black cloud takin’ over me,

I’m wantin’ to shout and jump up and down,

A heat buildin’ up in me, an’ I’m getting’ madder,

Shoutin’ and actin’ tough, makin’ me feel badder .

So, Babe, I gotta tell ya, I gotta say . . . 

I got an angel in me, 

And it can reach the sky. 

Got an angel in me, and it’s gotta fly. 

But I got a monster in me,

Oh man, he’s mean and he’s wicked.

Got a monster in me, and he’s gotta roam free. 

It came slowly, but the meaning was starting to dawn on Boswell. Jesus, it’s about a guy with a trigger temper. He just can’t stop himself. The guy that wrote this, sure knew his subject. There’s stuff you just can’t fake. 

“It’s like a confession,” he told Buckley. “It’s like he’s admitting he can’t control himself, like he gets so crazy mad, he just can’t hold himself back.” 

Buckley looked troubled. “Yeah, but, she says he’s a master at pretending. Read this intro. She explains it; he has this power. He can pretend like he’s someone else; the words come to him. And he writes them down, but he’s talking like someone else. She calls it his talent.

“We could try using it,” Buckley said. “We could try using it against him. But he would fight, and honestly, I don’t think he really killed her. He just doesn’t look like a killer to me. And remember when we told him? Sure didn’t look like a killer then.” 

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” Boswell said. “But you could look at it the other way. Maybe he’s not so fuckin’ smart. Maybe that’s really him talking.”

Boswell studied his partner. Sure is an uppity brother, he told himself. But I gotta hand it to him, he’s smart. Me? I’m no genius. I been trying to be the big boss. You know, maybe I’m the loser. No, I know deep down, I’m not the loser, but not the real winner. And Jesus, Boswell told himself, Buckles goes ahead and puts his ass on the line for me. I sure don’t wanna be the guy getting him killed. And sure enough, the big boys, they’d tell me, I’d be the one has to tell his widow, a woman on her own with two little kids. 

“Look’it, I got an idea,” Boswell said. “it’s getting’ late. You go home to your family. Gimme some time. I’ll look at all this stuff again. I’ll think it all over and really think. If we both agree, that’s it, we’ll shift strategy, really look for the real killer.”

“And what about McAllister?” Buckley asked. “He’ll be on your ass and . . . ”

“And nothin’. We don’t even report to him. He just started throwing his weight around. Our real boss is Captain Schaeffer. If we run into trouble, we’ll come clean with him.”

“Okay, you’re the boss,” Buckley said. “You’re my boss.”

“See ya tomorrow,” Boswell said. He put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Have a good evening.” 

Boswell watched Buckley gather up his personal effects and jam them into his backpack, and then turn and walk slowly to the main section and the exit. 

 -0-

Boswell looked at the clutter on the desk in front of him, the book, “Wonder Words: Collected Poetic Works – 11th Annual Edition,” the files and reports and other documents. 

You should be studying all that stuff, he told himself. If you’re gonna make a decision, you gotta know all the facts. So, there’s a good two, three hours of study there. Not on your life! 

Just call! 

Just try, gotta try. One call, and I should know. Maybe it was him, there’s a chance, and he wants to get it off his chest. You know how some killers are. Sure, maybe he’s the big brainy guy, and it’s working on him. They just can’t carry the guilt around, it gets heavy, they gotta admit it. If not, that’s the way it is. That’s the way it’s gotta be. 

Boswell swiveled his chair around and surveyed the room. It was empty. Then he put his phone on the desk in front of him, and dialed a number. 

Elliott Siegel answered immediately. “Hello.”

Boswell recognized his voice. “This is Lieutenant Boswell. I just wanna tell you something. This isn’t a social call; it’s official. I wanna inform you that the department has declared you a person of interest. That is, a person of interest in the murder of Faith Gruen. It’s procedure that I inform you.”

The line was dead for a few seconds. Then Boswell heard Siegel’s voice, speaking fast. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t trust you. You’re trying to intimidate me. I don’t know.”

Boswell tried to sound calm and professional. “The procedure, I’m mandated to follow it. It protects parties that could be involved in or have something to do with criminal acts. It’s felt that you’re withholding evidence, you’re not coming clean.”

“I don’t believe you,” Siegel said. “You think I’m stupid, or what? I know you’re trying to frame me. Why not look for the real killer? If you think it’s me, com’on, arrest me, and then I’ll get my lawyer. Don’t keep pounding me.”  

Boswell heard the click in his telephone. Siegel hung up. 

What the fuck now? Boswell asked himself.