Queens Property & Evidence Control
Pearson Place Warehouse
47-07 Pearson Place
Long Island City, N.Y. 11101

13 July

The Property Office at Pearson Place Warehouse was at the end of a long, brightly light corridor lined with chain-link fence. Beyond the fence on both sides of the corridor, rows of tall shelves holding cardboard storage barrels stretched seemingly into infinity. At the Property Office, a locked gate in the fencing and a narrow counter protected by more chain-link allowed the public and NYPD personnel to interact with the property officers on duty.

Fontana placed the list of case numbers he had compiled on that counter.

"Could you please send everything ASAP to Detective John Munch at Manhattan SVU?"

The low chuckle he received in reply warned that his request was unlikely to be granted quickly.

Here's where I could force the issue... tell this numb-nuts how his sarge owes me... how Sgt. Tierney's son, who died LOD, worked with Munch... but there are smoother ways to play this....

Before the clerk could leave, Fontana tapped his index finger on the counter below the metal fencing.

"I have an appointment to see Sergeant Patrick Tierney. Could you tell him Detective Joseph Fontana is here?"

That, all by itself, may be enough....

The officer headed off to Fontana's right and out of sight. Fontana stepped to his right, positioning himself so he could see both the property office and the entrance door at the other end of the corridor.

While waiting, he picked a bit of lint from his lapel.

Dark gray suit, white shirt, rep strip tie in grays and fuchsia—as conservative as I can get... Judith's suggestion... she wants me to look solid and substantial when I see Skoda... makes sense... I'll take any edge I can get....

The property officer returned to unlock the gate and let Fontana into the office.

"Down here," he told the detective. "First on the right."

'First on the right' was more of a cubicle with tall Plexiglas walls than an office. Photos and plaques filled the one solid wall behind the desk, mementos of a long career with the NYPD.

The uniformed sergeant behind the desk rose when Fontana entered.

Five-seven, hundred and fifty pounds, pushing sixty but still a bit of brown in his gray hair... nicotine-stained fingers, strong hand shake, weak smile, and bleary blue eyes... Sgt. Patrick Tierney, newly returned from bereavement leave....

As soon as the greetings and condolences were offered, Fontana took a seat at the side of Tierney's desk. The sergeant turned his chair to face the detective.

I'm here because Sgt. Tierney asked me, but he doesn't look too thrilled about it... neither am I... I've got nothing to make him feel better... the truth might set people free, but it rarely makes them happy....

"How are you doing?" he asked.

Sgt. Tierney seemed to shrink inward as though wanting to hide from that question. His gaze shifted to the floor and his mouth worked for a second before he managed to answer.

"It's been like swimming through wet cement. Things I do every day like shave and eat and go to work—I have to consciously remember to do them. Nothing's easy any more; it's all hard. Alma—well, Alma cries a lot. Something will catch her eye: a photo of Freddie, the roses he helped her plant, a Mass card, and she just closes her eyes and cries. She never makes a sound—she just cries. I hold her and I try to comfort her, but I can't. She wants her boy back... same as me."

Tierney's voice faded on the last three words. His eyes blinked as he lost focus then his gaze returned to Joe's face with an intensity that set the detective back in his chair.

I saw that same expression twice yesterday... Tom and Ellen Meade, sitting with Van Buren in her office, the two of asking how, after all their years of hoping and praying, their son ended up a dead cop-killer... the lieutenant's eyes locked on me the moment I entered the squad room... I knew immediately what she wanted... hardest thing I've done in weeks was to open her office door and go in....

Joe cleared his throat.

This guy wants to know why his son died... he wants to know how his son's killer died... but the 'why?' has no answer and me telling him how Jason Meade died won't bring him any peace....

Joe cleared his throat again.

"I know what you want, but I gotta tell it my own way. There's a lot to this, and I gotta tell it my own way."

Sgt. Tierney nodded and Joe drew in a deep, procrastinating breath.

"I talked to Jason Meade's parents yesterday morning. They flew in from Missouri to claim their son's body. They both want the same things you want—they want their son back, and they want to know why he is dead. The first one is impossible...."

Joe paused while Tierney's eyes filled with tears. The sergeant leaned forward to pull large white handkerchief from his back pocket. Once he had dabbed at his eyes and blown his nose, Fontana continued.

"The second one requires knowledge I don't have. I don't know why the pervert who took their son chose him and not some other kid. I don't know how he ended up with Dominick Anacacis. I don't know what Anacasis did to make Meade a cop killer—at least, I don't know the specifics."

The generalities are enough to make me want to puke....

"All I could do was tell them that the kid they would have raised—the one who was taken from them—never would have killed anyone. All I could do is tell them how I wish with all my heart that I could have brought their Jason back to them instead of blowing him away."

Scrawny little tow-headed kid, lying face down by his teddy bear with two exit wounds in his back... I'm never gonna lose that image....

"And I do wish that—just like I wish I'd never walked into Lucky Foods to see your son on the floor with his partner and those two civilians. I wish the security video I watched over and over had ended with Fred and Tammy cuffing Timothy Weston while Mr. Bashir thanked God for being alive. I wish I knew why good cops die, and why little kids get hurt, and why rat bastards like Anacasis exist, but I don't. The only thing I know is...."

Joe stopped to blink away an odd blurriness in his vision.

"The only things I do know is that Fred Tierney was a damn fine cop. Tammy White was a damn fine cop. Jason Meade was both a killer and a victim. We're supposed to stop the first and save the second. I had to choose between the two because I couldn't do them both."

Tierney sagged in his chair. Whatever triumph he might have wanted from Meade's death was lost to the regret in Joe's voice and eyes.

I also know I'm never gonna hurt the way you're hurting... only a parent can grieve like that, and being a father is one of the things I never bothered to try...

"I don't know if that answers your questions," Joe whispered, "but it's all I got."

They sat without further conversation, neither man moving, the only sound the harsh intake and outflow of their breathing. Finally, Tierney rose and held out his hand.

"I appreciate all you did, Detective—both for my son and for... for—"

Joe jumped to his feet and grasped the sergeant's hand in both of his.

"Yeah," he said, not knowing what else to say. "I wish it was more."

His leave-taking was awkward: another hand shake, greetings to Mrs. Tierney and an expression of hope that things would be better soon. Joe hurried through the property office and down the fence-lined corridor, eager for his SL500 and its ability to take him away from Patrick Tierney and his grief.

He did note the request for release of evidence still awaiting processing.

Tierney is conscientious, the type who regularly checks the list of requests to be worked... he'll spot my name and Munch's and he'll make the connection... he'll say the word and people will scurry all over this warehouse looking for those nineteen evidence boxes... no need for me to drop names or get heavy-handed... all I had to do is bare my soul....

He headed for the Long Island Expressway, his next stop One Police Plaza and the Manhattan Property Office. After that would be his appointment with Emil Skoda.

It was so much easier when I didn't give a damn what people thought or how they felt... guess there's no way back to that... I'm gonna have to learn to deal with it....