Chapter One Not in our town
August 3, 2007
I
can’t get this out of my mind. My dreams won’t let me forget the
lightning that exploded from the end of the barrel, the ripping orange
flash off the black steel, and the burning scent of gunpowder. The
sound, like an M-80, and the pain—the fucking searing pain. It is
permanently scorched into my memory. Everything except for his covered
face. The face I didn’t see haunts me every second. All I remember are
those ultra-white Reebok sneakers as he ran away. The fucking coward
would have shot me in the back, but I turned around and caught the blast
in the chest. I didn’t have time to pull my Glock.
The
blast knocked me off my feet. I thought I was having a heart attack—I
couldn’t catch my breath. Then I understood what happened, and reality
hit: I was going to die.
It
seemed to take minutes rather than seconds, but I managed to radio my
location into headquarters. The response from the good guys was
impressive, to say the least. They saved my life. Cops from my own town
and others surrounded the scene. I knew they would come. When a cop gets
shot, they all come, and with one thing in mind—to find the bastard who
pulled the trigger.
Things
grew foggy. My thoughts became hazy. I saw blue uniforms scurrying
around the scene while white-clad EMTs lifted me onto the gurney and
loaded me into the ambulance. I could hear people talking about
me—reporters, other cops, curious residents. “Detective Matthew Longo…
Only twenty-nine years old, been on the force nearly ten years… Shot in
the fucking chest and shoulder. No wife or children. Parents live in
town; Hutchville lifers. Oh yeah, the town is going to go batshit over
this.”
Blood
oozed from my left shoulder. My friend and paramedic Scotty Franks
hovered over me and placed direct pressure on my wound. Even through my
fog I could tell he was holding back tears. My shoulder was on fire. I
never wore my bulletproof vest unless making entry on a search warrant,
or if a hot pursuit was coming my way; then I quickly threw it over my
shirt. I was lucky I had it on that night. Maybe someone on the other
side was looking out for me.
I
fell unconscious even with all the shouting around me. I dreamed of my
funeral and who would be there. I saw myself in the blue box surrounded
by a sobbing crowd of familiar faces. My parents looked horrible. My
poor mother clutched her bible and rosary beads. My dad kept his eyes
fixed to the floor, angry and broken. My little brother Franny, in full
dress uniform, stood near my casket at full attention, his white gloves
damp from tears. Donny was there too, trying to keep it together.
I
heard Scotty screaming for me in the distance. The poor guy loved me,
but why was he screaming my name, spitting all over my face, at my wake?
Maybe I should have had a closed casket.
Suddenly
I felt him slapping me. I awoke and found myself back inside the
ambulance. Scotty took a deep breath, in and out, and said, “Okay Matt,
okay. Don’t do that again.”
The
pain was relentless, and I couldn’t help but cry. Scotty inserted a
syringe into an IV line that was attached to my arm. My pain vanished
almost immediately. “Don’t give me morphine Scotty,” I managed to
whisper. “It killed my grandparents.” Then, I lost consciousness again,
falling into a world between life and death.
I
heard someone screaming in the night. Was it me? It was too dark to
see. Where’s Donny? I really needed him now. Was I dreaming again or was
this some delusion of reality? I slapped myself and felt a sharp sting,
jolting me awake.
It
has been three weeks of hell living inside this apartment. My social
life has been placed on indefinite hold. The phone rings constantly but
who cares? I don’t answer. The window shades are drawn. I don’t know if
it’s day or night, and I don’t give a shit.
Thankfully,
the wound has been healing well. But I look at my shoulder and am
repulsed by the scar and missing flesh. People say scars are sexy but
this one may be the exception. My left arm is still in a sling. At
times, the pain is still unbearable. The Percocet I’m still taking makes
me pass out.
The
sink is loaded with paper dishes and plastic cups. Last week’s dinner
from my mother sits on the kitchen table still wrapped in tin foil, and
the smell is starting to ferment in my kitchen. I can hear my dad’s deep
voice in my head: “Why don’t you pull it together and clean up around
here? You’re making your mother nervous.” She’s nervous? I can’t help
laughing.
Hey
Dad, your oldest son was almost shot dead in the same small, safe
community where we played Little League baseball. Mind if I take a week
or two to let that one sink in?
Only
cops—and maybe some of their wives—realize how dangerous police work
can become in a millisecond. Parents of cops usually choose to ignore
this reality—it’s too difficult to accept that a life-or-death choice
awaits their son or daughter at any moment. A bank robbery turns into a
shootout; a wanted felon gets pulled over for a broken tail-light and
decides suicide by cop is his only way to avoid a lengthy jail sentence.
As a detective, this is my everyday reality.
This
wasn’t supposed to happen in a small town. We’ve never had a police
shooting—never. In fact, the last time we had any kind of criminal
shooting was ten years ago, and it was a domestic dispute between a
father and his cheating son-in-law. These old-school Italians are no
joke. The father said his son-in-law disrespected him, so he “took care
of it” like they do in the old country.
It
didn’t make any sense. It would have been one thing if I had been shot
on a traffic stop. But I was just picking up a fucking pizza. Half
pepperoni, half sausage. I was just walking down the street. It wasn’t
even dark out as the sun was just setting in the western sky.
My
mentor and partner Detective Domenico “Donny” Mello always told me
never to “go anywhere alone.” He said, “Don’t even pick up lunch alone. A
cop is always a target for someone looking to become infamous. The
public hates us most of the time because our interactions are rarely
positive. Nobody calls us when they have a new baby but if that baby
isn’t breathing, there is no one else to call. Always the bad,” he would
say. “Always the bad.” I miss Donny. He’s been away for three weeks at
his family’s villa in Italy, on the Amalfi coast. Did he even know I had
been shot?
The
press remains close by outside my apartment, salivating for an
interview, the fucking cretins. I’m the talk of the town—everyone wants
to know about the cop shooting. Fuck them. Twice. Even if I wanted to
relive the horrifying experience for them, it goes against department
protocol.
I
swallow down two Percocets, lie down on the couch and let the
painkillers do their magic. In my head the image haunts me—a dark shadow
with the whitest fucking sneakers you ever saw.
The
shotgun blast catches Detective Matthew Longo by surprise. His world
unravels into a nightmare that seemingly won’t end. Murder, rapes,
pedophiles, the small town of Hutchville, N.Y. is changing. It is up to
him to make a difference.
While
partner Donny Mello is in Italy attending a funeral for a family member
who is connected, to say the least, a beautiful F.B.I. agent waits to
question him about his family business. Can Matt keep from answering the
Agent’s questions? More importantly, can he hide a potentially
career-ending secret from his community, his brother, and most
especially Agent Cynthia Shyler?
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Genre – Thriller
Rating – R
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