Reynolds had immediately set up the operation. He knew that even one small lead could blow a case wide open. All you needed were intuition and tenacity.
‘We’ve pulled in a whole lot of them,’ Detective Steve Green said. Green was a young man, not much more than thirty. He looked a lot like Robert De Niro - a comparison that pleased him. He wore a pair of ripped jeans and a flower-patterned long-sleeved shirt. Being left-handed, he carried his gun on the left.
‘Did you get everyone on the list?’ Reynolds asked.
‘No, Lieutenant. Some of them weren’t in their usual haunts.’
‘Keep looking for them. Go back to their apartments until you find them. I want them all here. Don’t leave anyone out. Anyhow, did we find anything?’
‘One of them had a whole lot of stolen property in his apartment.’
‘What kind of stolen property?’
‘Cellphones, stereos, camcorders, laptops. He couldn’t tell us where he’d gotten them. Obviously, considering his priors, we’re assuming they’re stolen.’
Reynolds nodded.
‘We also found a badge.’
Reynolds’ curiosity was aroused. ‘What kind of badge?’
‘FBI.’
‘Right. Anything else like that?’
‘No.’
‘Uniforms?’
‘No, sir. Just the badge.’
‘And how did he explain that away?’
‘He says he found it.’
Reynolds grimaced, as if to say, I bet he knows a lot more than he’s telling us.
‘Whose badge is it?’ he asked
‘We’re checking that now. A team’s already gone over to Federal Plaza.’
‘Let’s hope they can tell us something . . . How about shoes with a cut on one of the soles?’
‘No. But he takes an eight and a half, not a ten and a half.’
‘What kind of priors does he have?’
‘Pretty much everything, starting from when he was a minor. He’s worked his way up from vandalism, vagrancy and larceny up to drug dealing.’
It was the typical pedigree of the petty criminal trying to make his way in the world.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Harry Baker.’
Reynolds leafed through his notebook until he found the name. Next to it, he had written He’s the leader, underlining the word leader and adding two more words: Highly dangerous.
‘I want to speak with this man Baker. Where is he?’
‘In the holding cells.’
‘Bring him to the interview room.’
‘Right now?’
‘Yes.’
Detective Green practically ran out of the room.
Reynolds followed him after a few minutes.
The room was bare, apart from a table and two grey metal chairs screwed to the floor. The walls were mostly white, but with a dark green strip close to the floor. From the ceiling hung a phosphorescent light and a closed-circuit camera.
One of the walls had a two-way mirror.
A man in jeans and a black T-shirt, his arms covered in green and blue tattoos, was sitting on one of the chairs with an arrogant look on his face. He was handcuffed to an iron ring on the table. On his feet, he wore a pair of sneakers without laces. He was thirty-two years old, tall and well built, with reddish hair and a beard.
As soon as he saw the lieutenant come in, he looked up. His eyes were half closed, as if the sun was beating down on him. There was a kind of sneer on his face. He recognised Reynolds. He had seen him in the newspapers and on TV. He had even heard people around him talk about Reynolds as a particularly tough detective: some even called him ‘the Bulldog’. Sooner or later someone would make him pay for it.
‘I’m Lieutenant John Reynolds,’ he said, sitting down on the other side of the table, facing the prisoner. Then he nodded at Green, who took the handcuffs off Baker and remained standing next to him. Baker crossed his arms: the dragons and snakes tattooed on his biceps seemed to swell.
‘I want my lawyer, Lieutenant,’ he said in a sleepy voice. ‘I’m not answering any of your questions.’
‘We’ll call your lawyer in a few minutes,’ Reynolds replied. ‘But before we do, I want to give you a chance.’ His tone had become conciliatory, confidential, as if trying to establish a rapport with him. It was an old trick, and Harry Baker was wise to it.
‘What kind of chance?’ he asked irritably, looking at him with a questioning air. He had not taken his hands out of the pockets of his jeans.
‘I’d like to talk to you about some homicides. Hear about the killings on Madison? I’d like to do something for you. It’s an offer you can take or leave, because once I walk out of this room I won’t mention it again. And you won’t get another chance. Drop your attitude now, and you can get out of here and save on lawyers’ fees.’
‘I don’t know anything, Lieutenant. You’re wasting your time. But go on, if it makes you happy.’ A sarcastic half-smile played over Harry Baker’s lips.
Reynolds was becoming impatient with Baker’s arrogance.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘You’re in deep shit. We found you in possession of a whole lot of things we think were stolen. At the very least, you’ll be charged with receiving stolen property. But if you play your cards right, today could be your lucky day.’
Baker looked at him with eyes full of hate, scorn and resentment.
Reynolds could feel the tension filling the room. With his usual calm, he went straight to the point. ‘I’d like you to explain how you came to be in possession of an FBI badge. This is my offer: if you tell us the truth, we can help you out over the charges of larceny and receiving. I’ll plead your case myself, I give you my word, and I always keep my word.’
‘I already explained that last night, to the detective here,’ Baker replied impatiently, with a sarcastic smile. ‘Which part of it don’t you understand?’ He turned to look at Green, who glared at him in return.
‘Explain it to me,’ Reynolds said.
‘I found it.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I get it. You don’t want our help.’
‘I want my lawyer. I’m not saying a word.’
‘We’ll call him in a while. In the meantime, you’re under arrest for larceny and receiving stolen property. Don’t forget you’re also in unauthorised possession of an object that’s the property of the Department of Justice, which is most likely a Federal offence. Now do you understand how much trouble you’re in?’
Then Reynolds took a sheet of paper from a drawer in the table and read him his constitutional rights.
‘I know my rights,’ Baker said. ‘That’s why I want my lawyer.’
‘So, is that your last word? In that case, do you know what I have to say to you?’
‘Go ahead, say it, don’t be shy.’
Reynolds had had enough of that smug, self-satisfied air. ‘Go to hell!’ he yelled in Baker’s face and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Green soon followed.
When Reynolds got back to his office he thumped the desk with his fist and muttered, ‘Son of a bitch!’ Then he spotted a note that had been left there for him.
The badge belongs to FBI special agent MK. The agent reported the theft on 10 October, along with that of his identification card and a synthetic fibre FBI jacket, all stolen from his apartment.
He put the note down. Denis! The boy had said it. And they’d all made light of his testimony.
‘Green,’ he said, ‘I want to know about all thefts from police officers in the last six months. And I need to know as soon as possible.’
This might be the lead he was looking for. For the first time since the killings, he had the feeling he was finally on the right track.
21
That afternoon, after having lunch with his sister-in-law and her family, Alfredo Prestipino went out alone and walked slowly towards the cemetery. The last part of the road was lined with cypresses
, through which a few houses could be glimpsed. The cemetery gate was ajar, and yielded at the first push. He found himself outside a chapel standing beneath a wind-tossed cypress. Holding his hat with one hand to stop it from flying away, he made the sign of the cross with the other. He walked along the gravel path to his brother-in-law’s grave. The flowers on it were still fresh, and their scent was intense. His eyes swept the cemetery. He was alone. He looked up at the sky and said a prayer. The clock of the main church was striking four thirty. He walked back to the exit. As he came out through the gate, he heard a voice behind him.
‘Prestipino?’
He stopped and turned, momentarily confused. ‘Yes?’ he replied in a thin voice, and a shiver went down his spine.
‘There’s someone who wants to talk to you.’
‘Who?’ he asked, sure now that this was trouble.
‘Just come with us. He’s waiting for you. No problem, don’t worry.’ The man had spoken in a reassuring tone. He was young, short and stocky, with jet-black hair. Next to him, another young man, taller, thick-set with dark hair, stood nodding his head. Both had their hands in the pockets of their padded coats and contemptuous looks on their faces. For a while, Prestipino looked at them, first one, then the other.
His gaze lingered for a moment on the two men’s hands, still in their pockets. It was obvious they were lying. They weren’t well intentioned, but all he could do was follow them.
‘Walk to the car!’ the stocky young man said, indicating a car parked by the side of the road a hundred yards further on. Alfredo started walking. The two young men walked behind him. With every step he took, his fear grew. He reached the car, a four-door BMW. Its engine was running, and a thread of white smoke came from the exhaust.
‘Get in,’ the first young man said, opening the back door for him. The side windows and rear windscreen were blacked out. Alfredo Prestipino did not ask any questions. The only person in the car was the driver, who gave the others barely any time to get in before he set off at high speed. Prestipino folded his arms and dipped his head until it touched the window.
‘Where the hell are they taking him, Salvo?’ the officer from the Squadra Mobile said, more to himself than his colleague.
‘We have to inform the others, Guido,’ the other officer replied. They had been tailing Alfredo Prestipino since the morning, and now they were concealed amid the bergamot plants near the cemetery, from where they had witnessed the whole scene.
‘Salerno Milano 41 from 40, over.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘BMW, black, four doors, licence number AD315 . . . Subject on board, please follow.’
‘Received, over.’
The call had been answered by an officer sitting in an unmarked police car parked just off the main road, a few miles from the village.
‘Salerno Milano 40 from 41.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘They just passed me. What are your instructions?’
‘Follow at a distance. We’re calling Salerno Milano 1 now.’
‘Awaiting further instructions, over and out.’
In the meantime, Guido had called Chief Superintendent Bruni on his mobile.
‘The car mustn’t be stopped, but we need to find out where it’s going,’ Bruni ordered.
The instruction was immediately radioed to the men in the unmarked car.
By now, the BMW had reached the 106 Ionian state highway. Here, it could either turn right towards Reggio Calabria, or left towards Catanzaro. The BMW turned left, drove for a few miles, then took the clearway that led to the Tyrrhenian side. From here, it was only just over twenty minutes to the A3 Salerno-Reggio Calabria autostrada.
The officers in the unmarked car still had it in their sights.
New York
Dick Moore had insisted on being present.
It was noon. On the other side of the two-way mirror, in a room next to the small interview room, Denis was sitting between Moore and Reynolds. Behind them was the boy’s father, Dr McGrey. They were there for the identification. Denis’s father and a detective had come to fetch him from school earlier. He’d had to skip a lesson, which meant it must be something important. But the detective had not given him any explanation. On entering the 17th precinct, the boy’s eyes had become alert and curious, peering into every corner.
‘Here’s our detective,’ Reynolds said, greeting him with a smile. ‘Welcome to the precinct! Now, I want you to look at someone. He’s on the other side of this window. You just have to tell us if you recognise him.’
‘Do you mean I have to tell you if it’s the police officer, the man I saw?’ Denis asked, uncertainly.
‘That’s exactly it!’
‘But I already said I didn’t see him clearly.’
‘I know,’ Reynolds replied. ‘But let’s just give it a try.’
‘Denis,’ the boy’s father said, ‘they have to do their job.’ Denis nodded, although he did not seem very convinced.
Reynolds went to the window and opened two small wooden shutters. Harry Baker appeared on the other side. He was standing. Denis looked at him intently, going right up to the window, almost touching it with his nose. He shook his head. There was silence in the room. The boy turned to Reynolds and whispered, ‘I can’t say if it’s him. I’m not sure. What should I do? I only saw him for a couple of seconds.’
‘Is there any resemblance at all?’ Moore asked.
‘No. The man I saw was wearing a uniform and a cap. I didn’t see his hair. This man has ginger hair. No. I don’t know him.’
Reynolds closed the two shutters. After a few minutes, Denis left the precinct house with his father.
Not long afterwards, Harry Baker would also leave it.
On his way to prison.
Of the reporters who had come to NYPD headquarters at One Police Plaza on Park Row that morning, David Powell of the New York Times seemed to be the most excited. He had heard that the detectives of the 17th precinct had made a large number of arrests, including the leader of a Brooklyn gang known as the Green Birds. It was rumoured that these arrests were somehow linked to the Madison investigation. Police Commissioner Ronald Jones, impeccable in his dark grey suit, had agreed to speak to the press.
‘Please sit down,’ he said, indicating a long walnut table on one side of the room, where he usually conferred with his closest colleagues. ‘Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?’ he asked. He sounded like someone who had no time to spare.
The four reporters quickly exchanged glances. Then David Powell spoke up: ‘We hear there’ve been developments in the Madison murder investigation. Apparently some members of the Green Birds have been arrested. The public have a right to be kept informed. People aren’t feeling too safe right now, and they’re looking to us to reassure them. I think that when there are important developments, it’s in your own best interests to—’
Powell was interrupted by a uniformed police officer who appeared at the door to say, ‘There’s a reporter out here with a TV camera.’
‘He can come in, but his camera stays outside,’ Ronald Jones replied with a grimace.
A few moments later, a tall, slim young woman in jeans and a sweatshirt entered.
‘Please, sit down.’
The young woman took a seat and pulled a notebook from her bag.
‘This isn’t a press conference,’ Jones immediately said. ‘What I say here is off the record.’
The young woman put her notebook back in her bag. She did not look very happy.
‘We were talking about developments,’ Jones said, looking at David Powell. ‘It seems you and your colleagues have heard about an operation mounted by the 17th precinct.’
‘That’s right,’ said David Powell. ‘And we think the public should be informed.’
‘We have nothing concrete as yet,’ Jones cut in immediately. ‘My men are still at work. When the time is right, we’ll inform you.’
‘But we know that objects belonging to the Department of
Justice have been found, and that a witness saw a police officer in the doorman’s booth . . . We also know that right this moment at the 17th precinct—’
Ronald Jones’ face clouded over. ‘Write a single word of this,’ he said, ‘and you’ll be prejudicing the investigation. ’
‘Time’s passing and the killers are still at large,’ Powell said curtly.
‘Please be patient. When the time is right, as I said, you’ll be informed by our press office.’
With that, Jones rose to his feet, as if to say, This is over, now go. The reporters all got the message, and they left the room looking defeated.
But perhaps not yet resigned.
5.46 p.m.
‘Mother?’
‘What is it, Angela?’
‘Is Alfredo with you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘It’s already dark and he’s not home yet.’
‘Are you worried?’
‘No.’
‘You know your husband! Maybe he met someone in the village and they got talking.’
‘That’s possible, I suppose. But when he comes back I’ll give him a piece of my mind.’
‘Don’t you remember, Angela?’
‘What?’
‘When Rocco used to play with Alfredo outside the house?’
‘They were always playing.’
‘And if I sent them on an errand, they’d never come back. You’d say to me, “When are those two rascals coming back, Mother?”’
‘Yes, I remember. All right, Mother, goodbye for now. I’ll call again later.’
7.40 p.m.
‘Mother, Alfredo still isn’t back.’
‘Angela, you know a leopard never changes its spots. They get talking, the hours pass, and they forget to come home.’
Angela really wanted to believe her mother was right. ‘As soon as he gets back, I swear, Mother, I’ll kill him!’
‘Please, Angela, don’t be angry with him.’
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