Hoskins died in June. Healy read it in the Sunday paper and called Serpe about it. The three of them hadn’t spoken since just prior to the moment Hoskins walked Mazzone down to the creek that night in late February. What was there to say, really? Murder made for many things, but not for lasting friendships. Hoskins’ funeral was sparsely attended and Joe couldn’t help but remember the night he’d gone to the funeral home for Rusty Monaco. This was much the same; most of the people present were there out of a sense of obligation. Seemingly few beyond the requisite police honor guard felt obliged. There were no tears.
On their way out, Serpe and Healy ran into Hoskins’ former partner, Detective Kramer. Kramer had worked the hose monkey case with Hoskins and they’d parted ways shortly thereafter.
“Tim didn’t bring out the best in people. He didn’t inspire love. I’m surprised anyone showed up, especially you two,” he said, shaking their hands. “I never had anything against you, Serpe, but Christ, Tim just hated you.”
“I got my reasons for being here.”
“Stupid stubborn prick,” Kramer said, shaking his head as the coffin was wheeled toward the hearse. “He just stopped his treatments. The asshole just gave up.”
“He must’ve had his reasons.”
Kramer opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He shrugged his shoulders and left.
They found William Burns’ body, what was left of it, anyway, in a sand pit out in Rocky Point. When Serpe and Healy first heard about it, they thought that maybe Hoskins had taken his new role as the avenging angel too much to heart. But when the autopsy results were published a few days later, they were relieved to know that it hadn’t been Hoskins at all. Burns’ broken femur and ankle had never knitted. Apparently his drug running biker buddies liked the color of his money, but not his baggage. The medical examiner said that because there was a lot of sand in his lungs and because his hands were badly mangled that Burns had probably been buried alive. There was a time when that might have made Serpe and Healy feel better. That time had passed. Debbie Hanlon and Hank Noonan were still dead.
The Sunday following Hoskins’ funeral, Joe went to church service for the first time since his brother died. He’d only gone then because the FDNY had made the arrangements. He waited around until the church had emptied and the priest was done saying his goodbyes on the front steps.
“Do you remember me, Father Dudek?”
It took the priest a second, but the light of recognition eventually came on.
“The friend of Steven’s,” he said, unsmiling.
“Something like that, yeah, I was wondering, Father, could you hear my confession?”
Dudek began to make excuses, but he could see in Serpe’s eyes that none of the excuses would do. And he had to confess to being curious himself.
“Come with me.”
They took their places in the box. Joe felt as comfortable as if he were trying on his coffin for size, but he knew he had to get through it.
“It’s been a long time, Father.”
“Do you remember the words, my son?”
“As if I could forget. But there’s something I wanna talk about first before you hear my confession.”
“Certainly.”
“These are the names I want to say to you. Khouri and James Burgess, Albie Jimenez, Debbie Hanlon, Hank Noonan, Bogarde Defrees, Edgerin Marsden, Carter Blaylock, Cameron Wilkes, Brian Stanfill, Rusty Monaco, Finnbar McCauly, Stevie Reggio, William Burns, Dave … I forget his last name.”
“Many names, my son.”
“Names of the dead, Father. All murdered. All sewn from the seeds of one mindless act. I can’t understand that.”
“It is not important for you to understand it, my son. Have faith that there are reasons beyond our ability or need to understand. It is why we must put our full trust in the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“I was a detective for a long time, Father. I have seen many things that would make you physically ill. I arrested a grandmother who sold her thirteen-year-old granddaughter for twenty dollars worth of crack. She stood there and smoked it and watched the dealer and his friends gang rape the girl. I had a little trouble believing there was a higher purpose in that.”
The priest was silent.
“I’m ready to confess my sins now, Father.”
“Please, my son, go on.” Dudek’s voice cracked.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Serpe rammed ahead, not willing to wait for the priest’s mumbled blessing. “It has been too long since my last confession. A few months ago, I helped kill the man who murdered Steve Reggio.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean you—”
“You don’t need to understand, Father. I just wanted you to know that I helped answer your prayers.”
Joe Serpe walked out of the confessional and never looked back.
The next day, the first Monday of summer, envelopes arrived at the offices of the New York Times, Newsday, the Daily News, and the Post. Similar envelopes arrived on the desks of all the local, county, and state prosecutors. There were two letters inside each envelope, both confessions. One was signed by Detective Timothy Hoskins. The other was signed by James Mazzone.