Read the Primer

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Read Part 2

Read Part 3

Read Part 4

Read Part 5

Read Part 6

Previously: Animal’s been summoned by Internal Affairs, and is not handling it well. He has one or two bridges left, but he seems intent on burning them. A rift opens up between Ryder and Kristen.

10

Ryder is dumped.

That’s not the word that was used. What is that word, when you get spoken down to like a mother to a child? When you end up feeling like a failure for simply existing? Patronized? Infantilized?

Kristen is moving out. She found a place she can afford on Allen St. Ryder’s a little slow on the uptake, so at first he believes they’re both going to live there. But no, not unless Ryder can ‘contribute to the rent.’ Not until he’s ‘serious about life,’ and ‘willing to make a go of it.’ To grow up. Hearing that one sucked the most.

Does she think Ryder likes living in a fucking squat? Dumpster diving for food? Sneaking into NYU dorms to use the showers? He knows it’s subpar, but that’s just where he is now. He tells her this. He has a whole plan laid out for NATO.

Her tone changes after that. Well, not so much her tone but her whole attitude. She’s clearly done with all of this, and Ryder’s panicking. Will he still see her?

“I’m going to be busy moving in, and I’m going to try to find another job, so I don’t know when,” she replies. But sure, let’s stay in touch. He’s smart enough at least to not ask if they can still have sex.

They go back to the squat and Ryder takes a forty up onto the roof while Kristen goes to bed. He remembers coming into the city on the same bus as her. Ryder was pretty much doing it as a goof. There was nothing for him at home, so why not? But he guesses Kristen was much more serious about it. She had a plan. Her next step in life. She reminds him of Debbie Harry.

Fuck, this sucks.

But hey, remember, he tells himself, it’s just a goof.

He lays down on the roof, tar paper pressing into his cheek, and he listens to the city. People yelling, some woman screaming, a bottle breaking, the screaming stopped, cars revving, plane going by, trucks on the FDR if he really listens, a TV somewhere, music rising and falling as a car passes by, the woop of a police car, the creaks and groans of the building underneath him, the wind slamming the roof door open and closed, open and closed. He falls asleep up there.

Kristen is gone by the time he comes downstairs. That’s okay, because he has a new idea, a great idea.

He wakes up Stiles and tells him about it.

11

The sun is out and the day’s already heating up. Animal walks aimlessly, head down.

The precinct is four blocks away. He figures if he heads in that direction, someone’s bound to clock him before he gets there. Whether it’s some scumbag collecting on the bounty or fellow cops sent to bring him in, he leaves that to fate.

Animal slows, staring at his reflection in the window of a corner bodega. His face is gaunt, his eyes hollow. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with that feeling of sadness and he rests a palm on the glass to steady himself. Inside, the clerk glances up, then quickly away. Animal knows that look. Cop. Even out of uniform, they can still see it on him. He goes inside and buys a pack of cigarettes—not his brand, doesn’t matter—and steps back onto the street.

The first drag burns his throat. Just behind him, a car pulls up to the curb, tires crunching on broken glass. He doesn’t turn to look. He already knows it's a squad car.

He knows how this ends. The only thing left is how he walks into the room. Head held high? Fuck that. He’ll go in broken. Let them see what they’ve made.

"Angelo."

He turns and looks into the face of the cop behind the wheel. Animal doesn’t recognize him. The kid looks about fifteen. Suddenly he thinks about Frankie and the Odessa and hopes he got his eggs or pancakes or whatever.

"Jesus, man. Get in."

He takes another drag, then flicks the cigarette into the gutter. The car door opens.

Inside, they’re waiting for him. The captain. Internal Affairs. His union rep, already discussing all the ways this will fuck his pension. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and walks through the doors.

The future is a courtroom. A cell. A life stripped to the bare.

He’s ready.

The walls are institutional green, a sickly color under the flickering fluorescent lights. Animal sits in a metal chair, palms pressed flat against the tabletop as if trying to steady himself against the weight of what’s coming. He’s also worried he might be sick. He breathes deeply, five seconds in, five out, five in, trying to calm his sour stomach.
The surface of the table is covered with cigarette burns and coffee stains, each one a marker of some past interview, some tragedy. Across from him, The IAD investigator lays out a file with deliberate slowness, his fingers lingering on the edges of the papers as though savoring the moment. A tape recorder sits between them, its red light on, steady.

“Do you know an officer Thomas Conway?”

Animal’s confused by this opening gambit. He has no fucking idea who Conway is, and why are they here talking about him and not Animal?

The investigator moves on without Animal answering. “You’ve answered for the Pueblo raid. We all know this. But we have some new information that sheds light on specific actions taken in that raid that go far beyond simple participation.” So someone talked, Angelo thinks to himself. Now we’re getting somewhere.

His union rep pipes up. “We’ve not been informed of any new evidence.”

The IAD investigator pauses for a beat, then opens the file in front of him and removes a piece of paper sealed inside a plastic evidence bag.

“Here you go,” he says. “Hot of the presses, so to speak.”

The paper inside is crisp and clean, the handwriting steady. There’s not even a crease from a fold. This is the kind of note, Animal thinks, that comes from someone sitting in a chair at a table and given time to compose. A table and chair just like the one in this room. Maybe it was this room?

What it's not is the kind of shaky note written in the moment, messy and with places where the pen’s torn through the paper. This fucking Conway knew what he was doing and probably took his time with it. The investigator starts to read it aloud.

Animal hears only fragments over the ringing in his ears—amphetamines, no badges, the order to clear the building at any cost. He writes about the screams, the blood, the broken bones. Animal’s throat tightens. He has no memory of Conway that night but he was clearly there. The details are there.

His mind flashes back to the aerosol kid, the one who burned him, the one the others dragged into the bathroom. Was Conway one of them? He thinks of the way they stood over the body, waiting for him to do what they all wanted. What he wanted too.

A cold weight settles in Animal’s chest as he realizes his name’s just been mentioned.

“Afterwards, Angelo stood over the body. Didn’t say anything. Just looked at us. Then he started laughing.”

That part, that’s a lie.

Right?

The investigator watches him, his expression unreadable.

“Conway shot himself three hours after writing this.”

The room is silent. The tape recorder’s spools turn, capturing every ragged breath.

Animal’s union rep shifts in his chair. “Three hours? This a suicide note, not evidence. You can’t—” His voice falls off, because IAD can probably do whatever they want to Animal.

“We’re not charging him with anything,” the investigator says. “Yet. We need to get statements from the other officers Conway mentions.”

The investigator reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen. “Your suspension paperwork,” he says, placing the pen down next to a short letter on NYPD letterhead. Animal signs without reading it.

“Your badge and weapon.” Animal unclips his badge. Slides his gun across the table. The investigator collects the letter, the note, the tape recorder. He doesn’t say another word.

Animal closes his eyes and sits with it, just like Gloria–sorry, Dr. Mackenzie–said something like that once.

What he feels, to his surprise, is relief.

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Continues weekly.

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