Instant Karma

By Donald Frum

Lieutenant Don Tomlin is the head of the homicide division of the Yonkers Police Department.He is called upon to investigate what at first appears to be the suicide of a Yonkers police sergeant, who is also the head of the City Drug Task Force. It quickly becomes apparent that the sergeant’s death is in fact a homicide..
The investigation of his death leads to the uncovering of the sergeant’s corrupt dealings with local drug gangs, as well as his involvement with a paramilitary militia in the Catskill Mountains whom he uses in a scheme to distribute methamphetamine in the City of Yonkers.
The sergeant’s death leads to the unravelling of the plan and to a string of murders in both Yonkers and upstate Haines Falls. The upstate murders are investigated by Lieutenant Tomlin along with the help of the striking female Sheriff of Haines Falls, Joe Fioretti.
The demise of the drug scheme leads the methamphetamine cookers and militia commander, an ex army sniper, to a race to eliminate each other and anyone who could tie them to the scheme. The resulting murders lead to an epic manhunt in the Catskill woods and the sniper’s haunted hideout.. Shocking events lead to the unforeseen ending and leave the reader to answer the question: Is there really ever Justice, or merely Karma?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798369421932

Donald Frum

After forty six years as a trial attorney including more than one hundred jury trials, Donald Frum has retired to a second career of writing novels, songs and spending time with his grandchildren. He lives and works in Somers, New York along with his wife Linda. Instant Karma is his debut novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

D on Tomlin was not born with psychic abilities. He was somewhat artistic but did not even consider himself to be particularly perceptive. He came by his extrasensory abilities completely by accident. They were not the result of a religious experience, meditation, or a psychedelic trip.

Here’s how it happened. Don always considered himself something of a boxer, having learned the basics from his father at an early age. While in college at Boston University, he was goaded into entering the Golden Gloves by his roommates. Miraculously, he won five bouts in a row—three by knockout—and became the Golden Gloves 160-pound champion.

He was more elated when he received an invitation to compete in the Maccabean Games in Israel. Being of Jewish extraction, he was invited to compete with other Jewish athletes from around the world in what is sometimes referred to as the Jewish Olympics. It was a fabulous opportunity for a nineteen-year-old who had never been out of the country.

Unfortunately, he was left with little memory of the entire trip. In his very first bout of the competition, he was knocked unconscious by his 160-pound Nigerian opponent. He was unconscious for a solid ten minutes, and his first clear recollection did not come until he was back in a hospital in the States.

His postconcussion syndrome included a few months of headaches. When he returned to school, however, his concentration seemed better than ever before, and his grades actually improved. He landed on the dean’s list. Curiously, he seemed to anticipate almost the exact questions that the professors would ask on exams.

He had the sensation at times that he knew what people were going to say to him before they ever said it. Shocking events in the news did not surprise him. He did not sleep the night before the shootings at Kent State, lying awake with an unexplained feeling of dread.

After a successful college career, Don went on to enter New York Law School in Manhattan. The bar review course he took bragged that they could predict one case that would be the subject of an essay question that would appear on the bar exam. Somehow, he managed to study two cases that were the subjects of essay questions.

After marrying Linda, he embarked on a ten-year legal career as an assistant district attorney. He initially picked criminal law as it afforded him the opportunity to participate in real jury trials, testing his powers of persuasion and what turned out to be a particular gift for cross-examination of witnesses.

As is the usual progression, he started with misdemeanor trials and moved on to serious felonies, eventually including numerous murder trials. The DA’s office in general had a conviction rate of over 90 percent, not generally going to trial unless they had the real goods. Don, however, never lost a felony trial.

Over his ten-plus years, he became more and more enamored with the prospect of bringing justice to the victims of the ultimate crime, murder. He also began to realize that when he was called to the scenes of crimes, he would often be overcome with strong feelings of what had happened and sometimes even who was involved. His feelings were frequently vindicated by the evidence developed by the police.

He developed a great respect for the detectives’ ability to amass the evidence necessary to make out a case. The one area where he found them deficient was in their questioning of the subjects. Although Miranda rights were mandatory, many suspects liked to talk, feeling they could find out what the police knew and thinking they could outsmart the police.

The police, on the other hand, frequently relied heavily on the tactic of lying to suspects and then browbeating them into questionable confessions or into lawyering up. He always felt that with better, targeted questioning of suspects and witnesses, the prosecutor’s job could become easier and more cases could be successfully brought to trial. Unfortunately, the best place to hone questioning skills is in law school and in the practice of trial-oriented law, where the practitioner not only hones skills in the courtroom but by doing hundreds of preparatory depositions.

After more than ten years as a practicing trial attorney, Don decided, much to the chagrin of his entire family, that he would take the test to become a policeman. After passing both the physical and written elements, he entered the police academy and shortly thereafter was appointed to the force.

He was well-known to the homicide detectives and the police brass. After only six months walking the beat and patrolling in a car, he took the test for detective. He then embarked on what would be a long and eventful career as a detective, eventually rising to the rank of lieutenant and then becoming the head of the homicide division.

CHAPTER 2

T he call came in about 10:00 a.m. while Detective Tomlin was reviewing the mail in his inbox and sipping his morning coffee. A white male had been found dead on his bed by a cleaning woman, with a massive gunshot wound to his head. He buzzed Detective Rodriguez. Arty, we just caught a case. Possible suicide up near Lincoln High School. Pull the car around and I’ll meet you in front. A uniform is already at the scene, and CSI will be there sho rtly.

The crime scene was less than two miles from the precinct, and Detectives Tomlin and Rodriguez pulled into the driveway at 444 Kneeland Avenue less than four minutes after the call came in. It was the only two-family house in a residential neighborhood. It was an all-brick, side-by-side duplex.

They were met at the door of the left-hand side apartment by Officer Brian Sipko, a young, solidly built rookie in his early twenties. A second officer, Jerry Dustin, was comforting a highly upset and tearful woman who was seated on the front steps leading to the apartment.

What do we have here, Brian?

You’re not going to believe this, sir, but it’s Sergeant Rokowski, and it looks like he blew his brains out with his service revolver. Brian, a fair-skinned blond, seemed a few shades paler than usual. His brains are all over the bedroom wall.

Don’t let anyone in the room until I’ve had a chance to talk to the woman.

Detective Tomlin moved over to Officer Dustin and the now calming woman seated on the steps. He spoke directly to the woman.

I’m Lieutenant Detective Tomlin. It looks like you’ve had quite a morning. Can you tell me your name, please?

My name is Maria Suarez. I clean Mr. Rokowski’s house two times a month. He is usually at work when I come, and he gave me a key to get in. Usually, he leaves the money on the night table by his bed.

Maria was a pretty, dark-haired, young woman of about thirty who spoke with a slight Spanish accent. She explained that she let herself in with her key and went immediately to the bedroom to put her pay in her pocketbook before she started work. She walked into the bedroom that was in the rear of the apartment. The door was open. As he walked through, she encountered the shocking site of her employer lying on the bed face up. There was blood all over the bed and splattered on the wall behind.

Marie ran from the room screaming, exited the house, and called 911. She further explained that she had worked for the sergeant for about one year and knew nothing of his work life or social life.

Tomlin joined Detective Rodriguez and Officer Sipko on the top step. Let’s go in and have a look. Watch where you’re walking, and don’t touch anything, he warned. He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and led the way into the apartment.

Upon entering, he noticed a living room on his right, with a reclining chair and a big screen TV. There were a few copies of the New York Post from the weekend and a couple of empty cans of beer on a tray table. A black-and-white cat glared at him from a small sofa on the far side of the room.

I bet you know the whole story, huh? Tomlin said.

But the cat wasn’t talking and just continued to glare. Tomlin’s unusual crime scene sensitivities had not kicked in as they walked through the railroad-style apartment’s kitchen, which included a sink full of dishes. The old-fashioned Frigidaire refrigerator contained no notes under several American flag and Love or leave it! magnets affixed to the door. There was an open gun magazine on the small kitchen table, which also contained a coffee cup still one quarter full. The cup itself retained some warmth. The table had some crumbs on it and an open box of Entenmann’s donuts.

It immediately struck Detective Tomlin as bizarre and unlikely that someone would get up, go to the kitchen, make a cup of coffee, eat a few donuts, return to bed, and then proceed to blow his brains out with his service revolver. He was, however, determined to keep an open mind.

The rest of the apartment contained a full bathroom to the left across from a large bedroom, where the decedent slept on the right, and one additional bedroom in the rear. The bathroom contained a shower in the tub surrounded by a shower curtain with an apparently used towel on the towel rack. There was a cup containing a toothbrush, which was still wet from a recent use, and a tube of toothpaste on the counter. A Gillette Atra razor was on the sink as well, with a can of shaving cream. The razor did not appear to have been recently used.

The three policemen entered the back room next, leaving the murder scene for last. This room contained a couch that could be used as a pullout bed and a small Ikea desk with a desktop computer radiating an American flag screen saver. Detective Tomlin was aware of Sergeant Rokowski’s internet activities.

He had only recently been contacted by the internal affairs unit that was investigating Sergeant Rokowski’s posting of racist and anti-Semitic tropes on some white supremacist web sites. These sites were considered by the department to be highly inappropriate for any police or government personnel, no less a department that was now 60 percent nonwhite policing a city that was 40 percent Hispanic and 20 percent African American. There was also still a large Jewish contingent and numerous synagogues in the city that had suffered vandalism.

Officer Tomlin was contacted in conjunction with the IA investigation since he himself had apparently been the subject of one Rokowski’s anti-Semitic rants. Apparently his position as the head homicide detective was part and parcel to the worldwide Jewish conspiracy.

Apart from the resentments harbored by the now deceased sergeant and expressed on the internet, Detective Tomlin was unaware of Rokowski’s grievances. Professionally they had little to do with each other. Rokowski’s work in the department was mainly with the anti-drug unit. Only when the drug activity resulted in a homicide did their paths ever cross.

We will have to impound this computer as part of this investigation and advise IA of our possession of it. We will need a warrant to examine it, and we need to get on that as soon as we leave here.

Officer Rodriguez nodded and made notes in his book.

Brian, I want you to have Dustin take the girl down to the station for a full statement, and then come back with us until CSI arrives. Don’t let them in the murder room until I have a few minutes to take in the whole situation, OK?

Sure thing, Lieutenant.

All right, Arty, get your gloves on and let’s do this thing.

The two detectives entered the decedent’s room. The former Sergeant Rokowski still had his slippered feet on the floor. His large torso was flat on its back, arms to each side but almost at shoulder width on the full-size bed. The gun itself was resting on the decedent’s right clavicle with the barrel facing toward Rokowski’s very damaged head.

There was no headboard, but there were two pillows on the bed, up against the back wall. The bed itself was not made, but the body was on top of a sheet and light blanket that appeared to have been slept in. Volumes of blood pooled around the head, still reddish and reasonably fresh indicating that this was a recent event. There was still a trace of warmth to the body upon touch.

Most significant to Lieutenant Tomlin was the location of the blood spatter and brain material on the wall behind the pillows. It existed predominantly in an area only a foot or two above the pillows, which themselves contained blood spatter.

The bed was situated against the back wall across from the entrance door. There were two small end tables, one on each side of the bed. The one to the left (decedent’s right) had an alarm clock, watch, reading glasses, and an envelope with cash protruding. Upon inspection, it contained $75, the amount Marie Suarez was to be paid for her cleaning services.

The other night table held the holster to the service weapon, a box of cartridges, and another gun magazine. Inside the small drawer under it were the decedent’s wallet with credit cards, his police ID, and his sergeant’s badge. There was a small police notebook as well, along with a Post-it notes pad and a few pens.

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Lieutenant Tomlin stood stock still and then took a few deep breadths, making sure to exhale all of the carbon dioxide in his lungs. He closed his eyes and felt a flash of a vision cross his consciousness like the flash of a gun muzzle.

It wasn’t proof, it certainly was not admissible evidence, but in his gut, Tomlin now knew that someone had shoved the nine-millimeter service weapon straight into the mouth of Sergeant John Rokowski while he was seated on the edge of his bed and then pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER 3

B arney Hancock’s family dated back to colonial times and had fought in every war that America was in. There was a war memorial in nearby Tannersville evidencing the names of his ancestors who had fought and sometimes died in those wars.

His own father was among those making the ultimate sacrifice, having been killed