Absolution

by Henry Hack

  “You hope.”

  “We hope. These two are getting a bit difficult.”

  “They are teenagers,” I said. “They know everything, and they are a pain in the ass to their parents, same as we were. Uh, do they know about Mort?”

  “Yes, I told them.”

  “And?”

  “Tears and anger. And a surprising amount of profanity.”

  “Oh?”

  “Andrew said, ‘Don’t worry, Dad will get that son-of-a-bitch.’”

  “He’s fourteen, and he did love Grandpa Mort.”

  “That’s not all of it, I’m ashamed to say.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Our sweet, beautiful, sixteen-year old daughter said, ‘I hope they cut the balls off that son-of-a-bitch!’”

  “And you said?”

  “I’m still in shock. She stormed out of the house. What do you think?”

  “I think she’ll probably be a cop someday. Drink up and let’s go to bed. I have another long day tomorrow. And they will all be long days until I catch that son-of-a-bitch, as Maddy so eloquently put it.”

  . . .

  With no new information on our plate, I dispatched my six cops after our morning coffee. They were all out the door by 8:15 a.m. I stopped in to chat with the CO of the 106 Squad, Lieutenant Bert Simmons, and thanked him for the use of Catalano and Nitzky on our murder case. “As if I could have objected,” he said with a smile and reaching out to shake my hand. We had been academy classmates over twenty years ago, and we both were contenders for the position I now held. If Bert had any hard feelings about losing out, he never mentioned them, or treated me other than as a friend. Besides, his number was coming up soon on the captain’s promotional list. He should get those gold railroad tracks in less than a year, I figured.

  I walked down the end of the hall to chat with the precinct CO, Captain Glen McHale, again thanking him for the use of his two officers. He said, “Glad to help, Mike, but how valuable can they be to you?”

  “I know they only have a couple years on the job, but they both have been of great assistance, so far.” I explained how they identified and located Vinny DeGiglio and what I had them doing now.

  “How long do you need them?”

  “I know your manpower is squeezed, Captain, so let me say, no longer than necessary. I’d like for them to be in on the bust which I’m hopeful will be soon. Can you give me three days?”

  “Three days? Not bad. I figured you were going to say three weeks.”

  “If we don’t crack this in three days we’ll be in for a long haul – probably longer than three weeks.”

  “Bert Simmons told me the victim was an old friend of yours.”

  “Yeah, that he was. He was a thick-headed survivor who wouldn’t give up running his store. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  “I hope you collar the perp soon.”

  “Thanks, Captain, and thanks again for Jamison and Ferrand.”

  I drove away and checked in with my guys on the radio, but they were all out of their vehicles, working hard knocking on doors, I figured. I called Queens Narcotics and got a hold of John and Richie who said they were waiting for information from the street snitches and were going to go out with Geyer and Isnardi to see what they could scare up. I told them I was going down to the area being canvassed and to meet me in my office in Queens Homicide at 1600 hours for a debriefing.

  . . .

  I spotted Tom Catalano coming out of a grocery store and waved him over. He said, “I got nothing so far, but we are going slow and thorough.”

  “Good. When all four of you wrap up, meet me back at my homicide office at 1600 hours.”

  “Will do, and I hope we have some decent info by then.”

  “Me, too, Tom. See you later.”

  I cruised around the area and as I passed Stern’s, I spotted Robert and Debbie unlocking the front door. I pulled over to the curb and followed them inside. I knew Robert had a duplicate set of keys to Mort’s building, and I reached into my pocket and got Mort’s set, handing them to him.

  We hugged each other and a few tears were shed by all. Robert said Mort would be cremated this afternoon and that Mort’s ashes would be FedEx’d back to him in San Diego. “Do you still want some, Mike, like Mort wanted to give you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I plan to put them around the graves of my parents.”

  “Ah, Mikey, the parents you never knew. Such sadness. Such unfairness.”

  I wanted to respond with something like, Unfairness? Where was God? But this was not the time to do that to these good people, so I said, “Yes, much.”

  Robert mentioned he had contacted a real estate agent to list the building for sale. I showed him and Debbie the hole in the closet floor and explained how it had gone down and that Vinny DeGiglio had overdosed.

  “So you think his supplier had Vinny set the robbery up?”

  “That’s exactly what we think, and we are vigorously pursuing that right now.”

  “Mike, when you catch that bastard put one right between his eyes for me, will you?”

  “Robert!” Debbie said. “Mike is not a vigilante. He must proceed within the criminal justice system.”

  “Yeah, I know. The system we now have where murderers go free on a technicality, or for some phony police procedural error.”

  “I’ll make certain we do it correctly, Robert. Rest assured of that.”

  “And if you do it all correctly, and he still skates?” Robert asked.

  “Then Mike will put two bullets in his head, one for you and one for me,” Debbie said.

  Robert opened his eyes in surprise and said, “From my wife, the bleeding heart liberal?”

  “In this case, dear, my heart only bleeds for my father-in-law, and I do hope justice prevails and it won’t be necessary to resort to violence, despite what I said.”

  “I hope so too, Debbie. I’ll keep you informed of our progress. I have six good cops on this. I’ll add more if necessary.”

  We parted ways and I headed back to my office, weighted down in sadness and the utter unfairness of things.

  . . .

  By four p.m. my team of six and I were assembled in my office, and I knew from the occasional contacts I had with them during the day it had been a productive one. “Let’s have the canvass results first,” I said.

  There was silence until Tom Catalano said, “Go ahead, Cindy. You found the prize.”

  “That’s because I started with the businesses directly across the street from Stern’s candy store, and I got lucky.”

  “How lucky?” I asked.

  “Got a description of the perp, his car, and an I.D. on DeGiglio.”

  “All from the same witness?”

  “No, from three different witnesses. Two saw DeGiglio, two saw the perp, and all three saw the car.”

  “Continue,” I said, getting really interested now.

  “Putting their observations all together, we have a car pull up to the curb on Rockaway Blvd. with two males in it. They both get out and walk toward Stern’s, looking around, ‘acting suspicious’ as one witness put it. DeGiglio stays outside and the other guy goes into Stern’s. Not more than ten minutes later he comes out, nods to DeGiglio, and they casually walk back to the car, get in and drive away.”

  “Did any of those witnesses hear a gunshot?” I asked.

  “No, sir. Rockaway Blvd. is wide, and a lot of traffic was whizzing by in both directions.”

  “Plate number?”

  “No pl
ate number, but maybe something as good.”

  “Oh?”

  “The left front fender on the otherwise black car was painted gray prime, probably a replacement awaiting a finish coat.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “No consensus. The three witnesses were relatively elderly and said all cars now look alike to them. They couldn’t even say if it was a foreign or domestic make.”

  “Good job, Cindy,” I said. “You got their statements, right?”

  “Uh, no, but Detectives Catalano and Nitzky did when I called them to the area.”

  “Understood,” I said, realizing this type of detailed statement taking was beyond Cindy and Artie’s expertise at this stage of their career.

  “Right here, Boss,” Catalano said, patting a manila file folder on the desk. “We got a good description of the perp which we immediately gave to Richie and John who were in Queens Narcotics. And good on the car, as well.”

  “John?”

  “We got the descriptions out to the rest of the narcotics squad, the anti-crime units, and the uniform force in all the local precincts.”

  “Great work,” I said. “Now we wait for something to break. I can’t see driving aimlessly around the borough without a more defined area to search for that car.”

  “Narco feels their informants will turn up something soon,” Richie Paul said.

  “We’re not going home anytime soon. Let’s get dinner. And no beer – coffee would be more appropriate. If something goes down tonight I want us all sharp and I don’t want a detectable drop of alcohol in our blood. Agree?”

  They all agreed, but I saw a perplexed look on Artie Ferrand’s young face. I said, “In case we have to shoot somebody, Artie. Wouldn’t go over too well with Internal Affairs if you had a high blood-alcohol level, would it?”

  “Uh, right, sir. I wouldn’t have thought of that. How –”

  “Experience, Artie. Let’s leave it at that.”

  NINE

  After we ate at a local diner, we adjourned back to my office and we put a fresh pot of coffee on the burner. As we nervously awaited a call, we did what cops were prone to do to pass the time – tell war stories of our past exploits, cases, and situations. John Micena egged on his partner saying, “I know you don’t want to talk about the SS uniform out of respect for Mort Stern, but surely you can tell this group about Harvey.”

  “Harvey?” Catalano asked when Richie stayed silent.

  “Come on, Richie,” Nitzky said. “I need a good laugh now.”

  “Dan’s right,” I said. “We’ll get serious again when the phone rings. Let’s hear it.”

  Richie Paul sighed and said, “Okay, you asked for it. There was an old movie where Jimmy Stewart had an invisible friend, a giant rabbit, named Harvey. One of my team members in the 40 Squad, I won’t mention his name, decided to get his own giant rabbit. He found a rabbit costume in a shop in Manhattan. It had white fur, a pink nose, big feet, paws, and big floppy ears which were pink on the inside. He loved wearing that thing and called himself Harvey when he had it on.”

  “He wore it around the squad?” Cindy asked.

  “Only on special occasions,” Richie said, “like when a suspect was reluctant to confess to him or another detective.”

  “I don’t get it.” Ferrand said, but all of us seasoned detectives present in my office knew what was coming.

  “He would put on the rabbit outfit in another room and walk, no, hop, into the interrogation room. He had a large carrot in his hand, uh, his paw, which he had made at home and inside the carrot, was his nightstick. In a squeaky rabbit voice he would say, ‘You don’t want to talk, tough guy?’ And then he would whack the suspect a few times. Sometimes, more than a few times, and hop away.”

  “Did the suspect confess?” Artie Ferrand asked, obviously enthralled with the story.

  “Most of the time,” Richie said, “but that was a long time ago, and we don’t beat suspects anymore.”

  John Micena chuckled and said, “And that’s a damn shame. I had to retire my blackjack.”

  “Are you putting us rookies on?” Cindy asked with a smile creeping up on her face.

  “Not at all,” Richie said. “But all good things come to an end. One guy who had been knocked around by Harvey said, ‘I was in Vietnam and I would have rather been captured by the Viet Cong than you guys,’ and he told all about being beaten by Harvey to his lawyer and to the judge. The judge, a former assistant district attorney, told him he was crazy and disregarded his claims. But when a second defendant told a similar story a few weeks later, the wise judge called the squad commander and whispered, ‘Bout time to retire the fuckin’ rabbit, Lieutenant. Time to put him back on the farm, don’t you think?’ And that was the end of Harvey.”

  Other stories followed from all of us, including me, but none could top Harvey the rabbit. We were about laughed out, and Richie had started to put on another pot of coffee when the phone finally rang. I motioned for John, the lead detective, to pick it up. He listened for a moment and then pressed the button to activate the speaker phone. Detective Geyer said, “We got him spotted.”

  We all sucked in a breath and I said, “Give us the details, George.”

  “One of our snitches came through with his name and he definitely identified that his car had a primed front fender. His name is Ismael Rosario and he deals on Jamaica Avenue and Liberty Avenue in the 102, 103, and 106 precincts. Anti-Crime spotted him and phoned it in. I dispatched a couple of my undercover guys to see if they could make a buy from him. If they’re successful we’ll bust him right away and then he’s all yours.”

  “Great job, George,” I said. “Got an address on Rosario?”

  “Yeah, a house on 146 Street between Jamaica and Hillside Avenues. He probably rents a room or apartment there.”

  “If all goes as planned, take him to your office in the 109 precinct and we’ll interrogate him there,” I said.

  “You got it, Loot. Hope to call you real soon.”

  . . .

  In my experience, narcotics cases – particularly buy-bust operations – rarely go as planned, and this one was no exception. When one of the UC’s approached Rosario’s car and asked to buy some smack, Rosario immediately smelled a rat and said, “Who the fuck are you to ask me that?” He peeled away and Anti-Crime, not wishing to further spook him, followed him from afar, but lost him. But we knew where he lived. And he had to go home eventually. “Ready for a stakeout?” I asked.

  “Shouldn’t we get some paper first?” John asked.

  “Yes. You and Richie get a hold of the ADA on call and get an arrest warrant and a search warrant for his car and pad. We got more than sufficient probable cause to take him without it, but I want to do this strictly by the book. This is a murder case, and I don’t want anything we find to be excluded in court by some sleazy defense attorney.”

  “We’re on our way,” Richie said, grabbing his suit jacket and heading out the door with Micena.

  I told Nitzky and Catalano to split up and partner with Ferrand and Jamison. “Here’s what I want you to do as we wait for the warrants. Take turns driving by the perp’s house. Do it alternately, once every twenty minutes, so we don’t spook him again. In between, patrol the main avenues in his distribution area to maybe spot him. But don’t do anything until we have all our paper in hand. Loose and easy guys, I want to take him down when he is tucked away, fast asleep in his bed. Understood?”

  They all nodded and eagerly jumped into action. This surveillance was most likely unnecessary, but I knew cops and these cops wanted to be in on the action in any manner they could. They were sick of sitting around doing nothing. So
was I. After they left, I finished my fifth or sixth cup of coffee, stopped at the bathroom to eliminate the previous cups now straining my bladder, and headed for my car.

  . . .

  It was nearing eleven o’clock and Rosario still hadn’t arrived home. I guess the drug business was going well in the Boro of Queens. My cell phone rang and it was Tom Catalano. He said he had grown up not far away in a house similar to Rosario’s and there might be a problem. “Tell me,” I said.

  “These homes have three entrances. The front door leads into the main floor living area. A side door leads directly up to the second floor apartment, and a back door, six steps down, goes into the basement apartment. Unless there’s a big family occupying the whole place, it’s usually three separate apartments.”

  “Unless we know which door Rosario goes in, if we get lucky and spot him, we’re going to need three teams to kick in three separate doors. Shit!”

  “I got an idea, Boss. Put a guy in the backyard and one across the street. When Rosario comes home, we’ll know precisely which one is his pad. Uh, but it can’t be one of us.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re all palefaces here. This is primarily a black and Central American neighborhood. We will be made immediately.”

  “Okay Tom, I’ll get a couple of dark faces from Narco. I’ll head over there now. Let’s hope we can get them in place before Rosario shows up.”

  Not a minute later a plainclothes Anti-Crime unit got on the air saying they had Rosario spotted on Liberty Avenue in the 102 precinct. He was sitting in his car apparently waiting for customers. All units had been briefed that we were going to take him at his pad, but I reinforced that. I said, “Ten-four, Anti-Crime. Just observe, but let us know if he pulls away.”

  Rosario’s location was about five miles from his home and I needed him to stay there a little bit longer. I hit the gas and ten minutes later I pulled up in the parking lot of the 109 Precinct, where Queens Narcotics had their home. I had called ahead and told them what I needed and when I arrived, the supervisor in charge, Sergeant Nellis, said, “I got your guys, Loot. Charlie Evans and Doug Monroe.”