I dived headfirst off the porch, taking Betsey with me. We lay on the lawn, scrambling to get our guns, breathing hoarsely.
"Jesus Christ! Jesus!" she gasped. Neither of us had been hit, but we were scared shitless. I was also angry at myself for being careless at the door.
"Damn it! I wasn't expecting him to shoot at us."
"Last time I ever doubt your gut feelings," she whispered. "I'll call for back-up."
"Call Metro first,” I told her. "This is our city."
We crouched beside an untrimmed hedge and several out-of-control rose bushes. Both of us had our pistols ready. I held mine raised skyward along the side of my face. Was this the Mastermind in here? Had we found him?
Across the street, the teens in front of the deli were brazenly checking out the action, more specifically, where the gunshot had come from. They had wide-eyed expressions and were watching us as if we were characters in an episode of NYPD Blue or Law Order.
"Crazy fuckin' Joe," one of them shouted loudly, his hands cupped around his mouth.
"At least he's stopped shooting for the moment," Betsey whispered. "Crazy fucking Joe."
"Unfortunately, he still has his scatter-gun. He can shoot some more if he wants to."
I shifted around on the ground so I could see the front of the house a little better. There was no hole in the door. Nothing.
"Joseph Petrillo!" I shouted again.
No response came from inside the house.
"DC police!" I called out. You waiting for me to show my face again, Crazy Joe? You want a little better target this time?
I inched up closer to the porch, but I stayed down below the railing.
The kids across the street had started mimicking me. "Mr. Petrillo? Crazy Mr. Petri, You okay in there, you nut so asshole?"
Help arrived minutes later. Two cruisers with their sirens wailing. Then two more. Then a couple of FBI sedans. Everybody was armed to the gills and ready for big trouble. Blockades were set up up and down the street. The houses across the way were vacated, as was the corner store. A TV news helicopter dropped by for an unexpected and unwelcome visit a fly-by.
I had participated in this kind of shoot'm-up scene more times than I liked to think about. Not good. We waited another twenty minutes before a SWAT team arrived. The blue knights. They wore full body armor and used a battering ram to take down the front door. Then we went inside.
I didn't have to go, but I entered the house behind the primary. I had on a Kevlar vest and so did Agent Cavalierre. I kind of liked that she went in with us.
It was weirder than weird inside. The living room of the house looked like the attic of a library: Musty, coverless books, tattered magazines, and old newspapers were piled as high as seven feet and took up most of the room. There were cats everywhere, dozens of them. They meowed loudly, pathetically. The cats looked as if they were being starved to death.
Joseph Petrillo was there too. He lay in a pile of old copies of Newsweek, Time, Life, and People magazines. He must have toppled them when he fell backwards. His mouth was open in what looked like a smile half a smile anyway.
He had blown himself away with a shotgun. It was on the floor near his bloodied head. Most of the right side of his face was gone. Blood was splattered on the wall, an armchair, some of the books. One of the cats was fastidiously licking his hand.
I looked down at the overturned books and papers near the body. I noticed a brochure for Citibank. Also several of Petrillo's bank statements. The statements showed a balance of $7,711 three years before, but it was now down to $61.
Betsey Cavalierre was crouched near the wasted body. I sensed that she was trying hard not to be sick. A couple of the mangy cats were rubbing against her leg, but she seemed oblivious to them.
"This couldn't be the Mastermind," she said.
I looked into her eyes and saw fear, but mostly sadness there. "No, I'm sure it isn't, Betsey. Not poor Petrillo and his starving cats."