INTRODUCTION

D AVID STURGES WAS preparing to retire for the evening. He paused for a moment to reflect on the day’s events. He had just closed a deal to build four new office buildings on the west side of Manhattan. His insensitivity to the fact that his project would displace hundreds of lower-class families was typical. His ruthless business tactics had served him well in the past and would again. He had made millions over the years with this callous attitude and when questioned about his modus operandi, he would answer that the end justifies the means. It was all about him; it was always all about him.

Financial success, however, did not come without paying a price. The stress had caused Sturges to develop a heart condition, and he also suffered from diabetes. His medications were routinely prepared by his wife and taken in the evening just before bedtime.

Who’s there? Sturges heard someone walking around in the next room.

It’s me, David, answered his estranged wife, Francis. I’m going to bed. Your medication is on the nightstand.

David Sturges and Francis Dawson were married after a storybook romance. The billionaire entrepreneur and the famous Broadway actress lived a fantasy-like existence for the first few years of their marriage, but shortly after that, the relationship had deteriorated to the point where each slept in separate bedrooms and were man and wife in name only.

Sturges stared at the medication on his nightstand. He thought that if this was the price he had to pay for his financial success, so be it. It was all worth it.

He pulled open the drawer on the nightstand and opened a bottle of blue pills. The prescribed amount was one pill, but he took two. This medication was for the impotence he suffered from the complications of his diabetes. The magic blue pill would make him virile again if only for the night. He had arranged for a companion to visit him within the hour.

Suddenly, he experienced a pain in his chest. He grabbed his chest as the pain became more intense. He tried to stand, and the pain went from intense to excruciating. He feebly cried out for help, but his effort was in vain as his wife’s bedroom was all the way on the other side of the apartment. Overcome by the agonizing pain, Sturges fell into unconsciousness and collapsed to the floor.

The body wasn’t discovered until the next morning by Frances Dawson. She immediately called the police, and detectives were sent over to investigate. After a brief interview with her, they left, and a forensic team started their investigation.

The New York City Police Department wanted to keep the death of David Sturges quiet until they got the results from CSI, but as is usually the case in such high-profile crimes, there was a leak to the press, and all hell broke loose. Scores of reporters were waiting outside the apartment building of the famous couple and in front of police headquarters assaulting everyone with questions concerning the alleged crime.

Finally, after two days, the results from the crime lab was in. David Sturges had suffered cardiac arrest due to an overdose of one of his medications. A meeting was set up to determine a course of action. It was attended by the mayor, the district attorney for Manhattan, and the police commissioner.

After the meeting, a press conference was scheduled to announce the arrest of Frances Dawson for the murder of her husband, David Sturges. She would be charged with first-degree murder.

The New York headlines went rampant with the shocking news: Famous Actress Kills Billionaire Husband. Perfect Marriage Ends Tragically.

The trial of Frances Dawson, however, never took place. A key witness for the prosecution mysteriously disappeared and was never heard of again. Without this witness, the prosecution felt their case was too weak, and they would never get a conviction. Subsequently, Frances Dawson was released. She went into seclusion somewhere out in the East End of Long Island and was never heard of again.

1

I T WAS A typical November

day in New York – cold, windy, leaves of various color browns and yellows whirling around with no apparent destination. Three days ’til Thanksgiving and six months from my final day on the NYC Police Department. First Grade Detective John Michael Brennan or Jack Brennan as I was called by everyone except my ex-wife who called me John because she said Jack sounded too much like a detective.

Six feet two, two hundred – well, two hundred forty – pounds, blue eyes, graying black hair, the typical New York City Irish American cop. Son of Patrick Brennan and brother of James Brennan. Yes, my destiny was sealed before that initial slap of life was administered on November 29, 1949.

My father, Patrick, emigrated here from Ireland at the age of seventeen, seeking his fortune in America, the land with streets paved in gold. He had heard stories of how those before him came to this new country to escape famine and poverty and fulfill their dreams of prosperity. Unfortunately, my father’s timing could not have been worse as the year was 1929. The devastating stock market crash of that year rocked the economic foundation of the country. The effects on the citizens of the country was horrendous let alone a recent émigré like my father. Fortunately or unfortunately as it turned out, my father had an older brother, John, who had come over some five years earlier and was able get work as a mason. He worked long hours and was able to save enough money to buy a bar and grill. Uncle John was always the strong one in the family. His work gave him a sculptured body and physical presence.

While he wasn’t formally educated, he had a sharp mind for business and the mental fortitude to go with it. Anyway, he gave my father some work doing odd jobs, and eventually when he got old enough, he let him work as a bartender. My father had never had any alcohol or smoked in his life until he worked this job. As time went by, he started drinking more and more, and if it hadn’t been for my mother, whom he met through Uncle John, I don’t know what would have happened.

My mother, the former Rose Bieltz who was of German extraction, probably saved my father’s life. After being introduced by my uncle, they started dating and eventually got engaged. My mother insisted that he leave the bartending job and work elsewhere. He did, they married about a year later, and the rest, as they say, is history.

He applied for the New York City Police Department and was assigned as a patrolman in 1939 where he served until 1969. He retired that year and moved upstate with my mother. He lived there until his death in1979. My mother moved in with her sister in Pennsylvania after Dad’s death, but she died six months later.

My older brother, James, was five years my senior and only four years on the job when he was shot and killed in the Bronx during an undercover drug operation. I often wonder why it was him and not me.

With a family history like that, you would think the last thing I would want to be is a cop. Funny thing is that’s all I ever wanted to be. But the years of witnessing the pain of parents losing children, young girls throwing their lives away with drugs and prostitution, kids just never getting a chance at life because their parents are either in prison or dead – it wears you down and saps you of any strength or enthusiasm of changing things.

As I walked down the steps at 1 Police Plaza, the final resting place for all cops, I allowed my mind to escape these depressing thoughts and pictured what life would be after retirement. I didn’t exactly have a plan, but I knew a large part of it would involve my camera. The only thing that came close to swaying me from becoming a cop was a career as a photographer. But after discussing this with my uncle John, he convinced me of the freelance photographer’s irregular eating habits, and that was that.

Then there was the matter of my ex-wife, the former Ann Ryan. The proverbial girl next door. We dated all through high school, and about three years after graduation, we got married. In the first four years of marriage, we had two daughters, Barbara and Rosemarie, the loves of my life. Ann was a good wife but was very easygoing when dealing with the girls. I, on the other hand, was a strict disciplinarian, and that created a major conflict and constant argument. Add to that the ultraliberal attitude going on in this country during the 1970s and ’80s, and I felt the deck was stacked against me. Oh! Don’t get me wrong, I was at fault too, always coming home late, working oddball hours, and developing an increasing taste for Irish whiskey. All in all, the marriage was probably doomed from the start. After all, what the hell do two young kids growing up in a strict Irish Catholic family know about the world. However, despite all the chaos that went on for those twenty years, we still remain friends to this day and have our mutual interest in our daughters to kind of cement that relationship.

As I approached the steps to the Thirty-First Precinct, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was my partner of five years, Teddy Wills, a black man – oops! Afro American, ten years my junior. Ted was an imposing figure at six feet four and about two hundred and seventy-five pounds. This is probably why our suspect interrogations never lasted very long. Ted liked the ladies but never married and, at forty-two years old, probably never would. I liked Ted; he was a good cop and never used his minority status as a crutch or excuse. He believed you play the hand you’re dealt in life and approached everything with a positive attitude. He lifted my spirits on many occasion, whether it was going down to the Blarney Stone after work for a hot sandwich and a few mugs of beer or inviting me to one of his famous outdoor barbeques at his house in Long Island.

Hey, Ted! What’s up?

Nothing much, man. Just wanted to check on what time we’re leaving in the morning.

Tomorrow was Saturday, and I talked him into going on a freelance photography trip in and around the city and promised to buy him dinner at Arturo’s afterward. Ted was not into photography, but the promise of buying dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant was too much for him to resist.

Pick me up at my apartment at 8:00 a.m. We’ll have coffee at the diner, and then we’re off.

Okay, see y, he replied as he walked toward his parked car. Ted – where the hell does an Afro American man get the name Ted?

2

T HE NEXT MORNING, Ted picked me up at my apartment. We walked over to the diner for a cup of coffee and then drove downtown to the infamous section of Manhattan called the Bowery.

The Bowery, though now a decadent section of Manhattan, is rich in tradition and history. It was settled first by the Dutch in the early seventeenth century, who named the area the Bowery, which translated means the farm. It was a rich farmland owned by Peter Stuyvesant, who lived there and was later New York’s first governor. The area prospered and, by the end of the seventeenth century, was residence to many of the elite of society. The streets lined with fashionable shops, and fine mansions drew the envy of visitors both near and far. In contrast, however, a gradual decline began in the mid-eighteenth century, and today the area is inhabited by the poorest element of the society.

We turned the corner at Hester and Bowery Streets, and the home of the bottom rung of the social ladder started to take shape. Bodies strewn in various positions on steps of abandoned buildings and inside alleyways. The gray brick buildings was adding to the dismal mood and was accentuated further by the motionless figures scattered around. A plethora of empty wine bottles and beer cans dotted the streets, as if anyone needed further evidence of the plight of these lost souls.

I don’t know about parking my car around here, Ted said.

Just put your PD identification on the dashboard, I replied. They won’t go anywhere near it. Besides, we won’t be long. Ted hesitantly placed his ID on the dashboard, and we pulled over to park. We got out of the car, and as I gathered my camera equipment, I noticed Ted had a kind of blank stare on his face.

You all right, partner?

I’m all right. I just wondered what could have happened to these people to let themselves get to this point.

Dreams that were never fulfilled, a tragic event in their life, who knows, some people can deal with it, and some can’t, I replied.

I got my equipment set up, and we started down the street. We spent the rest of the morning photographing the area and its inhabitants. At about two o’clock, I had enough pictures, and we started back uptown to my apartment to clean up before dinner. Ted was bored and started to get hungry.

I’m starving, Ted said. "I don’t know about you, but I’m ordering the full treatment from wine to dessert.

Yeah, go ahead, take advantage of my good nature. As usual, the meal was delicious, and true to his word, Ted outdid himself. He started with the wine, and after the antipasto, he had a huge bowl of linguini with white sauce and topped it all off with coffee and two canolis. I wasn’t that hungry, so I just had a calzone and a soda. We left Arturo’s about eight o’clock, and I told Ted I’d see him in the morning. I couldn’t wait to get home and start developing my pictures.

I entered my apartment and started to play my messages. There was nothing special except the last message. It was my ex, and she asked me to call her back. She sounded a little stressed. I was going to call her in the morning, but something told me I should call now. I picked up the phone and dialed, and before the second ring, Ann picked the phone up and said, Hello.

Ann, I wasn’t going to call you tonight, but you sounded a bit concerned. What’s up?

She told me my daughter Rose had come over to visit and had some bruising on her face. She questioned her about it, and my daughter said she accidentally walked into the cupboard door.

You don’t believe her? I asked.

I don’t know, John. You know she had some bruises on her arm a couple of weeks ago.

Ann, are you saying you think Tom did this?

I told you I don’t know, but twice in a couple of weeks, I… just don’t know.

All right, it’s too late tonight, but tomorrow I’ll look into it. Okay?

Thanks, John.

Are you all right?

I’m fine. Please do this tomorrow.

I will, I said. I hung up and wondered what this could be about.

Tom Ruggiero married my daughter three years ago. They met at the law office of Johnson and Ramsey, a reputable law firm where Tom was an attorney and Rose was a legal secretary. He seemed like a nice-enough guy as far as I could tell. He was hardworking, a good husband, and loved my daughter. So what’s this about? I asked myself. It’s probably nothing, but I promised my ex I would check it out, so I will. It was now close to ten o’clock, and I figured it was too late to start my work in the darkroom, so I called it a night and went to bed.

I woke up Sunday morning early, about 7:00 a.m. I just couldn’t sleep any more. I kept thinking about developing the pictures I had taken. I hurriedly made some coffee and enthusiastically approached my darkroom. I worked diligently for an hour or so and felt I had succeeded in capturing the effect of the area. There is no more satisfying feeling to a photographer, even an amateur one like me, than to see his pictures capture what words just can’t.

Later, I gathered the prints and began to sift through them. I separated the better prints and decided to break and get something to eat. I was at it for about four hours or so, and I was getting hungry. After a couple of eggs and some bacon, I returned to the prints and tried to narrow down the really good ones, the ones I really thought captured the mood and feel for the area. I got it down to about ten prints and kept going over them. There was one picture of some derelict sitting against a stoop that intrigued me. I had taken a close-up of his face and the hopelessness and despair of the Bowery was all there. But there was more, something. I don’t know what but something. At that moment, the phone rang. It was Ann blatantly reminding me that I promised her I would look into our daughter’s situation. I told her I was watching the Jets football game and lost track of time and that I would look into it right away.

It was four o’clock, and I decided to call my daughter. I wanted to talk or meet with her before I did anything stupid. I dialed her cell phone, and she picked up on the first ring.

Rose.

Dad.

Yes, how are you?

I’m okay. How ’bout you?

I’m fine. Listen, I was wondering if you might want to meet for lunch tomorrow. It’s been a while since I saw you. How about it?

What time, Dad?

Any time you say.

How about one o’clock.

Sounds good. I’ll meet you at that diner next to your office building.

Okay, Dad!

See you then, bye.

I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to approach her, but at least I had a day to figure it out. After I hung up, I decided to take one more look at the prints. I tried to objectively examine them, but I couldn’t stop looking at that face. There was something familiar about it, but I just couldn’t place him. I kept at it for about an hour and finally gave up.

3

M ONDAY MORNINGS WERE always