Chapter 5: Infernal Affairs
“Statler and Waldorf” were an Internal Affairs duo who were obviously older gentlemen. Their real names were Horowitz and McNally, which sounded like a law firm. Even though they were out of Manhattan, they seemed to be permanently assigned to me, out in Queens. We first met over a death in custody inside the station itself. Every time I drew my gun, they seemed to be there sooner or later.
Thankfully, this was the first time that I had seen them in over three months. Yes, though my last major shootout was over half a year earlier, IA had come down on me pretty hard, dissecting every part of my life. However, before the shootout that closed down the Moloch death cult that had kidnapped my son and tried to kill me, Horowitz and McNally had confided in me that much of the pressure that drove them to come after me had come from the Mayor’s office. Considering that a Deputy Mayor was the Voodoo man of the cult, I wasn’t all that surprised.
The call from D was at nearly three in the morning. The flare went up, and everyone closed ranks. As I said earlier, it’s one thing to rat out a cop. It’s another thing to try to kill one. News of the Dark Web bounty seemed to make it to the station house before I did.
Internal Affairs had arrived by five.
By the time they had finished debriefing me, it was six.
They leaned back after going over the footage, my testimony, and my family’s testimony.
Horowitz started. He was a bit scruffier than McNally, with gray hair and beard. It looked like a professor with tenure who stopped caring what he looked like when he strolled into work. “The NYPD has nearly 40,000 cops who are on the job. Assuming we only have a rate of 1% corruption, that’s still four hundred crooked cops who would be at least seriously tempted by this cash.”
McNally nodded with a frown. “Keep in mind, this is low-balling it. If we had a 1% corruption rate, we’d be bored out of our minds a lot more often than we already are. And we’re bored quite a lot. Last time we were bored, we dug into just how many cops fixed parking tickets for their friends and family. Which was about the least shocking thing in the world. Oh, look, every cop has a friend or family member who ended up on the wrong side of the latest arbitrary and capricious ticketing offense the Mayor decides he wants enforced this week. Not a shock. But we’re talking about serious corruption.”
Horowitz conceded the fact. “Let’s go big. “Let’s say we have a 10% corruption rate.”
McNally: “That’s 4,000 corrupt cops.”
Horowitz: “But that includes all sorts of corruption—”
McNally: “Everything from ticket fixing to bribes to moonlighting as mob button men—”
Horowitz: “So let’s say that ten percent of them are corrupt enough to want to kill you.”
McNally: “That’s still four hundred guys.”
I frowned. This would not be fun.
Horowitz: “Split the difference and half the first number. That we have a 5% corruption rate—”
McNally: “Which is a lower corruption rate than public school teachers, by the way.”
Horowitz: “That still leaves two hundred cops who are willing to kill a fellow police officer for the right price.”
McNally: “Which is an awful lot of guns, bombs and cop cars out to kill you and anyone in the way.”
I held up my hands. Their back-and-forth -dialogue was giving me a headache. I hadn’t expected them to keep going. “Hold on a second. Let’s figure this out logically, okay? Because I think the reasonable first step is to figure out who hates me enough to want me dead, and who can afford a bounty this big. Because, honestly, while I have stepped on more than a few toes in my time, I can’t imagine who has that much loose change floating around out there.”
Horowitz and McNally exchanged a look. I followed the exchange of glances and tried to interpret them. When that failed, I simply asked, “What? What is it?”
Horowitz looked sheepish. He shrugged. “Well, you see...”
McNally: “Remember Rene Ormeno?”
I felt the bottom of my stomach fall out. Rene Ormeno had been a distraction during my ordeal with Christopher Curran, the serial killer who had been possessed by the demon. He was a senior officer in MS-13, which was one part mafia and one part terrorist organization. Their relentless violence was all to further their moneymaking schemes—human trafficking, sex slavery, guns, and drugs.
The last time I saw Ormeno, he had his own private padded cell in the loony bin. He had to be strapped to the wall every waking hour. Before I had taken down the possessed murderer at Rikers Island, the legion within him had possessed a large chunk of the prison population – including Ormeno. When the demons had been banished, Ormeno had been reduced to a raving, gibbering maniac...except when I entered his cell. Then he was stone cold sane. Apparently, I had that effect.
I could still see his crazy eyes when he snapped from being a rambling lunatic to a creature with agency—evil agency that willed nothing more than to destroy me.
But thinking of Ormeno as being anywhere else but in that cell made the world go sideways. “What about Ormeno?”
“Well, ya see—” Horowitz started
“Ormeno is out.” McNally finished
“Yeah. He’s free,” Horowitz concluded
I blinked. I felt like I had been gut punched. “What do you mean that he’s free? Last time I saw him, he was a total nutcase. A danger to himself and to others.”
McNally shrugged. “He got better.”
My jaw dropped. “That’s impossible considering ...”
Considering what, Tommy? I thought. Considering that a demon had left its mark in Ormeno’s brain? Considering that your presence was the only thing that seemed to calm the—heh—demons in his head? Go ahead, smart guy, say something.
“Considering the last time I saw him,” I said weakly.
Horowitz shrugged this time. “Don’t ask us, Detective Nolan. We’re not shrinks.”
“However, he is a clue,” McNally added
“Because gee, I wonder if MS-13 could raise ten million,” speculated Horowitz.
I frowned, my brows furrowing. “Wait a second. If he ‘got better’, I thought that the DEA and ICE also wanted Ormeno? They wanted him to flip on Thirteen? Right?”
They exchanged another glance. They had an entire conversation pass between them that I couldn’t hear. It was starting to get on my nerves.
McNally: “It’s in part a combination of lawyers, judges, ACLU reps, his time in the rubber room, and he’s been out of circulation for nearly a year.”
Horowitz: “Who knows if the DEA even wants him anymore?”
McNally: “MS-13’s entire operation could have changed.”
Horowitz: “Which means that Ormeno is useless.”
McNally: “Besides, welcome to NYC’s asylum policy. Both illegal and mental”
Horowitz: “It’s difficult even deporting illegals who are high-profile murderers.”
My brain was starting to hurt. “But Ormeno is a monster.”
McNally: “And?”
Horowitz: “... so, Tommy, have you ever considered WitSec?”
I stared at them both for a long moment, saying nothing. After all, it was a lot to take in, and their blitz style of conversation was faster than Wimbledon.
Go on the run. It was unthinkable. Imagine, being part of a police force with a paramilitary wing, its own foreign intelligence service, a small army that could go toe-to-toe with the National Guard for a few rounds ... and then being told to run and hide because maybe a few dozen of them were bad actors.
But then, Mariel and Jeremy and our unborn child. They were just as much at risk. How would they react under continuous threat? I knew that living with me came with its own problems. Heck, living with me was constantly being in condition red. Had we gone another month with peace and quiet on the home front, we might have even relaxed enough to be taken by surprise. What if Mariel and Jeremy had been caught in a crossfire? What if the SWAT team had used an RPG or threw a grenade through my window? What would have happened if we hadn’t been ready for them? Would the SWAT team have murdered my entire family as well? I couldn’t imagine a situation where they could have acted otherwise—the situation would have compelled them to assassinate all of us. Staying outside of police protection? That was akin to suicide.
... Though, on the other hand, I had been awakened by an angel of the Lord. The timing was too suspicious to have been otherwise. I had been instructed to smite the agents of Satan. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine that a handful of corrupt cops knocking down my front door was the extent of the command. I had literally been handed an order from God. How the department shrinks would love me: “auditory hallucinations” would probably buy me a full pension disability.
I immediately sobered. Tell me this isn’t my ego running amok. “On a mission from God”? Does this even sound like me? Or did I finally just drive off the deep end of what I think I’m capable of, with or without God’s help? Because, Lord, no offense, while I am certain that with You all things are possible ... are You going to make me bulletproof? Or, more importantly, my family? Have gale-force winds hurl grenades sideways? You’re all powerful, but if I’m your pointman on this, then I’m going to need a lot of divine intervention...more than usual, I mean.
Sigh. Here I am Lord. Bring it.
I said aloud, “I’m a cop. We don’t run.”
A split second later, the RPG hit the front door.