A life for a life

Saturday, May 28, 0:15 HOURS

I pressed on the accelerator, and the RMP was almost 100 mph. The lights and sirens and the pace at which I drove saw motorists on the Boulevard quick to pull over and get out of the way.

"I told you, Max," I said, as my voice cracked. "I knew something was wrong with Keegs. I just knew it."

We sped across the South Bridge and into the Park section of the Heights.

"Kelly, you need to calm down. There's nothing we can do right now, and you can't be in a rage when you get there. Keegan's going to need you to keep it wired tight. Especially if her brother is there."

I slowed just enough to make the turn onto Ocean Avenue East before accelerating again. I watched as the luxury of the rich flew by me: Prada, Gucci, Ralph Lauren, Moussaieff Jewelers, and more.

When I came to a break in the road near Van Cleef & Arpels, I made a quick U-turn, pulling into the parking lot of McFadden's Marina.

Lighted RMPs glowing red and blue filled the lot. Two buses parked toward the Cabanas as one lone unmarked RMP idled, with the driver's side door wide open against the check-in gate.

"Sweetheart," said Max. "Take a deep breath. Try to be still in the moment before entering the chaos. You know how bad he's going to be."

This can't be happening. Not now and not to Keegs.

Maxine handed me the spittoon she bought me and a fresh tobacco pack. In a hurry, I shook my head, switched off the sirens, and jumped out of the RMP. I didn't even wait for her.

I ran through the parked cars, onlookers, and uniforms, meandering as if nothing had happened. Looking back, I saw Maxine hurrying at my six before I hopped the check-in turnstiles.

I sprinted down the boardwalk path to those leading straight to the cabanas. From there, I heard screams and cries, not only from women but also from men. I saw the yellow tape when I reached the sharp right-hand turn leading toward the more expensive ones leading to the beachfront. CSI investigators flashed one picture after another. The responding officers spoke with bystanders who might have some insight into this tragedy, and then I saw my friend, Johnny Keegan.

He kneeled on the boards, his hands restrained in cuffs, as he lurched forward sobbing.

"Keegs," I screamed. When he heard my voice, he turned. His eyes were bloodshot, and the veins in his neck flexed. He wept and bobbed and refused to look into the cabana.

I rushed to him, stopped at his back, and unlocked the cuffs from his wrist. He fell into my chest, grabbed hold of my neck and shoulder, and squeezed.

"Kelly, why? Why? Why did she do this? I loved her with everything inside of me. I would have married her, moved away from those people, and loved her forever."

As I held my friend for dear life, I looked up at Max. She clenched her hands behind her head, her face wrinkled as tears fell from her eyes and cheeks. I saw her cover her mouth and shut her eyes. But I didn't want to see it; I refused to look at it, trying to will it away to make it stop. I wanted to attack whoever was responsible with an overwhelming acceptance of violence.

Maxine stepped towards us, dropped to her knees, and wrapped her arms around Keegs. As she buried her head in my neck, she wept.

And all I could think of was what I had done to this beautiful, caring woman. I've done nothing but show her the blackness and horror of a job steeped in depression, suicide, and death.

"Hey," sounded a voice from near the crime scene. "Who the frig gave you permission to uncuff him?"

I refused to look up. I needed to protect Keegs. Max responded as the voice grew louder and more potent.

"Are you freaking kidding me? Do you have any idea who they are? That's a corporal, his partner, and I'm his boot. Go write a parking ticket, Class II."

"I was given a direct order to cuff him as a person of interest—"

"By whom, Bongiovan—disappear right now, or I'll kick the shit out of you."

Keegs sobbed, and my heart wretched for him. Yet even amid all of this tragedy and destruction, he was still Johnny Keegan.

"Oh shit," he sobbed. "You better rescue that jackhole from your boot. She'll kill him."

And my friend wasn't wrong. I stood, allowing Keegs to put his head on the boards, and turned toward Max. She was in the face of the class II. She shoved and pushed him again when he tried to stand his ground.

I rushed over, took her by the waist, and turned her away from him. When he saw my stripes, he tried to apologize.

"It's okay," I said. My voice strained from exhaustion. "You didn't know. Head to the parking lot. We've got it from here."

Feeling the weight of Max in my arms, I sensed her chest rise and fall with a turbulent mix of fury and sorrow. With a heavy sigh, she turned towards me, and I embraced her with all the strength I possessed, our bodies pressing together in a desperate attempt to provide solace.

"Go to Keegs," I said. "Just hug him and love on him. Please."

To my right, the family huddled, weeping and gnashing their teeth. Giorgia's father and grandfather hugged and sobbed. Her mom, sister, and grandmother were on their knees, bobbing back and forth and wailing. They all gripped their rosary beads, shouting to the saints and the Virgin Mary and begging as if this Catholic myth would help.

To my left, I saw Sal Bongiovanni on his knees. The only thing he had in his hand was a wallet-size photo. He couldn't turn away from the cabana. Part of me wanted to blame him for what he did to Keegs and Giorgia, but part wanted to pity him because he knew this was his fault. Instead, I walked into the cabana.

Nobody gave me a hard time. And I took in the sight of Giorgia swinging from a rope, her bowels released beneath her. I refused to look at her face.

Her attire was elegant, a beautiful green ladder cutout split thigh with metallic buckles over the shoulders and drawstrings on her left thigh. She was barefoot, a sign of rebellion against the forced abortion and the absolute horror it caused her.

And I saw unspeakable things that I would keep secret forever.

One of the lower-level detectives on the scene walked toward me with the suicide note in hand. He seemed afraid to look me in the eye as he couldn't take his eyes off the note.

"First suicide?" I said.

"Yes. At least like this."

"Can I see the note?"

And just like that, he turned it over to me and walked away.

I scanned the letter, its words cutting through my chest, leaving a lingering tension. The cabana ceased moving as if the walls were closing in on me. My senses heightened, and every breath became labored, each heartbeat echoing like a war drum.

As I glimpsed the third sentence, it seared my retinas. It was a moment of violence and chaos where the boundary between reason and darkness faded.

My loving Johnathon,

You are the greatest blessing God has ever given me. You are my rock and the core of who I am supposed to love. I regret allowing the warped minds of an old-world tradition to separate our love.

Father Moritz, whom I sought for forgiveness, offered only one solution: suicide. My penance, he said, was to take my life in return for our beautiful child.

Yours was the only true love I've ever known, and I will love you forever, my Johnathon. Please forgive me.

Giorgia