Epstein jumped to his feet. “You have no right to accuse him of any dereliction of duty on the basis of some kind of female intuition. It’s fucking intolerable.”
“Captain,” Flynn hissed between clenched teeth. “I cannot have that language here. Let’s calm down. Right now.”
Moodrow, his demeanor unruffled, caught Leonora Higgins staring at him and threw her a broad wink. At that moment Leonora’s suspicions turned to certainty and she found herself convinced that Moodrow did have the solution. Then she remembered that she’d had the same realization weeks earlier, but had failed to act on it, failed to act because her partner, her boss, instead of dealing with her instincts, had patronized her with ill-concealed impatience.
“Sergeant,” she finally said. “I assume you have nothing to add to what you’ve already told us?”
“That’s right,” Moodrow returned.
“But there does remain the possibility that you could track this Greek down?”
Moodrow shrugged. “Maybe.”
“And there is also just a possibility that this Greek is connected to the Red Army.”
“Sure, why not? But it’s a longshot, no matter what.”
“Longshot or not,” Leonora declared. “Suppose there’s only one chance in ten thousand that the murderer of Ronald Chadwick is involved with the American Red Army. Does that mean we should forget about it?” When no one responded, she continued. “I’d like to have Sergeant Moodrow temporarily assigned to me. Let him work exclusively on the Chadwick affair. Nothing else. And let him report directly to my office. We’ve got a dozen avenues of investigation open. This’ll be the thirteenth. When you’re dealing with a threat of this magnitude, you take any chance, no matter how improbable.”
Epstein, protective as ever, interrupted. “But I need him here,” he complained. “This guy’s the heart of a half dozen cases. He knows everybody.”
“Let’s not be hasty, Captain,” Flynn responded. He turned to Higgins. “I assume you mean that the Sergeant will conduct his own, independent investigation. All he need do is file weekly reports.”
“Twice a week,” Leonora said. “In writing.”
“Sergeant,” Flynn addressed Moodrow, “if there’s one truth to be drawn from this confusion, it’s that you are best qualified to run down the killers of Ronald Chadwick and it seems to me that incarcerating them, whether or not they have anything to do with these terrorists, would absolutely benefit the citizens of New York.”
There was a moment’s silence while all considered Flynn’s analysis, then Moodrow broke in, his voice patient and calm. “But I can’t take the case, Inspector. See, I’m on vacation.”
Flynn nearly jumped out of his chair, turning on Epstein. “Why didn’t you tell us this before, Captain?”
“He didn’t know,” Moodrow announced. “I just went on this morning.”
“For how long?” Higgins asked. The move was so perfectly Moodrow, as she understood him, that she almost laughed.
“I haven’t taken a vacation in a long time. I’m not exactly positive.”
Epstein pressed the intercom on his desk, connecting him to a civilian computer operator.
“Yeah?” The voice crackled in the speaker.
“When did Sergeant Moodrow last take vacation time?”
“Gimme his social security number.”
Moodrow gave it and all waited silently until the operator came back on.
“Jesus, this guy ain’t took vacation since 1972. Ya believe that?”
Epstein snapped off the intercom by way of an answer.
“Can’t you just call him back?” Higgins asked.
“It’s not that easy,” Flynn explained. “The union’ll get involved. Let’s face it, we’re almost certainly looking at a wild goose chase. If he refuses, the union’s going to back him.”
“And that’s the last word?”
Flynn tried to salvage some shred of his authority. “I suppose I could always assign another detective to the case. There must be leads someone else could follow—” Moodrow surprised everyone by interrupting before Flynn could finish.
“Uh, look, I changed my mind. I mean if you guys think it’s that important, I could always postpone my vacation for a few weeks. We are talking about killers here, right? It’s my case. I’ll handle it for you.”
Flynn looked taken aback, then smiled with approval. “Then it’s settled. If you need help, just holler and we’ll set you up with anything you need.” Already tasting lunch, he turned to Allen Epstein and nodded. “Whatever he wants, Captain, let’s see that he gets it.”
The thing Moodrow remembered best about the era of the police artist was that his girlfriend at the time, Maria Esposito, got fired when the department bought the I-DEN-TI-KIT concept. All the police artists were fired and then rehired several months later though the I-DEN-TI-KITS were kept when it was found that plastic overlays, no matter how accurate, could not make a suspect appear lifelike, and arrests through the reconstruction of the criminal’s features by eyewitnesses were suffering. Unfortunately for Moodrow, Maria Esposito had found new employment in an ad agency on Park Avenue South and in keeping with her upscale job, had also found an upscale lover from within the company, a genuine 3-piece suitor.
But the I-DEN-TI-KIT was still the first line. Artists were more expensive than plastic and demanded better working conditions, refusing, for instance, to accompany cops to the homes of eyewitnesses, who themselves refused to be seen entering a police station. So the procedure changed. The investigating officer now takes his kit and gets the preliminary likeness, which the artist turns into something resembling a human.
The I-DEN-TI-KIT was invented by an artist who worked for a major encyclopedia, creating plastic overlays of frogs whose flesh peeled back in sheets of plastic to reveal deeper and deeper layers of amphibian flesh—the muscles, the digestive system, reproductive system, heart, lungs and blood vessels, skeleton. Why not use the same technique, the artist asked himself, staring at the picture of a fugitive in the Daily News, to recreate the appearance of a criminal?
Thus the I-DEN-TI-KIT, which consisted of more than three hundred plastic rectangles upon which had been imprinted head shape, hair lines, mustaches, mouths, noses, etc. The adept officer would begin with the shape of the head—oval? square? round? fat? thin? Add the hairline, then the eyes, eyebrows, nose, mouth, finally finishing with a stack of eight or ten stencils, which could then be photocopied to produce a single image which, in turn, could be taken to an artist who would make the composite somewhat human.
The existence of this I-DEN-TI-KIT made Moodrow’s task of creating a recognizable likeness of the Chadwick massacre villains much easier than it would otherwise have been. Under the best of circumstances, it is extremely difficult to smuggle an artist out of a precinct house, but I-DEN-TI-KITS are commonplace and can be taken from the property room at will, never to be missed until the annual winter inventory. After leaving the conference in Epstein’s office, Moodrow simply stopped in the property room, put the KIT under his arm and walked out. Moodrow could have checked out the I-DEN-TI-KIT officially, but as he had no intention of cooperating with any agency, local or federal, and no desire to leave a trail that might let Higgins know he was working with anything more concrete than an educated guess, he thought it best to keep his line of investigation to himself.
He went directly to Riker’s Island, New York City’s enormous holding jail, a place for criminals awaiting trial and unable to. make bail, a true house of pain and sorrow and the temporary home of Paco Baquili, whose prior record had earned him a bail far in excess of his potential lifetime earnings. By this time, Paco’s sight had been restored, returning on its own as the doctors had predicted. He was also accustomed to the idea of jail, was into prison pleasure and five hundred pushups per day in spite of the pain in his right arm. He had his buddies, old pals from the East Village streets, and was, except for official intra-prison warfare, safe from day-to-day attack. No s
urprise, then, that the sight of Stanley Moodrow in a small, spare interrogation cell, aroused a defiance as great as his despair at their prior encounter.
“Good afternoon, Paco.” Moodrow opened.
“Fuck you, too,” Paco replied, unconsciously squaring his shoulders and flexing the muscles of his chest and arms.
“What’s the matter? Get up on the wrong side of the bed?” Moodrow understood that he was at a disadvantage. Paco had already entered a plea and was awaiting his sentence.
“Just tell me what you want.”
“Sure, man. You know Johnny Katanos and his girlfriend? The ones who set you up?”
“No,” Paco responded sarcastically. “I can’t think who you’re talkin’ about.”
“Well, I’m gonna kill ’em.”
“Big fuckin’ cop.”
Without any warning whatsoever, Moodrow flew from a dead calm into a towering rage and it was the suddenness of the change even more than what he actually did that cowed Paco. In spite of his restored eyesight and all his thousands of pushups, Moodrow was on him before he could move, picking him up and flinging him over the table.
“I’m gonna kill ’em and you’re gonna help me. Who the fuck you think got all those charges against you reduced down to felony possession? Who? You think it just flew down from heaven like one of God’s angels? I want that Greek, Paco.”
“I want him, too.” Paco’s voice filled with defiance, though in his heart of hearts, he was just as glad that Moodrow was staying behind the table.
“You’ll never get him. You’re going away. If you could have found him by your methods you’d already have him. But don’t worry, man. You help me and I’ll do it for you. The prick’ll be dead and nobody can do a damn thing to you. Understand what I’m saying? I can’t do anything without your help. You’re gonna make them dead. All of them. The two cunts and the Greek.”
Paco, no longer afraid, came back to the table and sat down. “You ain’t sayin’ you’re gonna bust ’em? You’re gonna kill ’em?”
“Kill ’em? I’m gonna line the cocksuckers up with their hands cuffed and I’m gonna go once behind each ear. No jail. No bail.”
“Why you gonna do this?”
“Cause I gotta.”
“Why?”
Moodrow slammed the I-DEN-TI-KIT down on the table. “Let’s just go to work, all right? I’m giving you a chance to get your revenge here. Take advantage.”
“I’m gonna trust you, man. I’m gonna give you what you want. Just do me a favor. When you do the fuckin’ Greek, say, ‘Here’s a present from Paco’ and let the first one just graze his ear so he thinks maybe he’s gonna get away. Then kill him.”
“Whatever you want, Paco.”
“OK, I help you.”
They worked steadily for the next three hours until the sharp features and skull of Johnny Katanos emerged. “He’s got a face like a hawk.” Moodrow observed, staring intently, as if he could somehow draw the man directly out of the photo.
“You better watch out for this guy. You better show some respect. He’s very bad.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
“How about the two broads he had with him? You want them, too?”
“Sure, but first tell me again about them. When did you first see the women?”
“He brought them bitches around the day before the rip-off. Like I didn’t think nothin’ about it. There’s always New Jersey cunts suckin’ up to us, lookin’ for some thrill, maybe want us to fuck ’em good before they go back to their boyfriends. You know, man, they come down for a year, two years, dye their hair green, then go back to Paramus and get married. Zorba didn’t make no big deal about it. Acted like he didn’t give a shit and I figured he was queer for Enrique, so like it all made sense. Next day I see the same two cunts on the street and they’re very friendly so I naturally invite ’em inside and the next thing everyone’s fuckin’ their brains out. I mean like it didn’t happen every day in that house, ’cause Chadwick didn’t allow no women inside, but they showed up when he wasn’t there, so what the fuck. That was what that Greek motherfucker wanted.”
They went back to work, despite a correction officer’s complaint about needing the room, until they came up with the faces of the two women Paco and the boys had partied with on the night of Ronald Chadwick’s death. Moodrow knew when the faces were right even before Paco, and put the finishing touches on the images himself. No surprise considering he had seen both of them less than a week before, seen them engaged in spirited combat on Sixth Avenue, four blocks from Herald Square.
15
AFTER LEAVING PACO BAQUILI and returning his unmarked police car to the precinct, Moodrow made three stops. First, he went to see his good friend Pauli Corallo. Pauli. had been eking out a living over several decades by buying up junk cars, making them roadworthy, and selling them to fellow East Villagers. He had few rules, but kept religiously to those he did have. He never paid more than a hundred dollars for any car and never sold for over a thousand, even if he spent more on repairs. Most importantly, in a world where ripped off consumers go to the streets instead of the courts for justice, he made sure his cars ran well and honored all guarantees. Pauli was a small, muscular man with a long scar on his right cheek that made him appear to be smiling even when he wasn’t. He loved the Lower East Side and had more friends than any used-car dealer is entitled to. His business had grown to a point where he was considering whether or not to buy a vacant lot to store autos ready for sale. He was very sick of moving them from one side of the street to the other when the street sweepers came through.
Pauli was holding court when Moodrow found him, surrounded by a prospective buyer, a Senegalese, and the man’s entire family, all of whom were vocally involved in this momentous purchase. It was a loud, but not unfriendly gathering, as the participants struggled to establish a final price on a 1973 Ford LTD, a four-door beauty with only a small scrape on the right quarter panel. The fact that the hood was flat, olive green while the rest of the car was pale yellow was considered only of minor importance, since it was assumed that no one buys a car on Avenue C unless they already understand the realities of keeping a junker together.
“Man, you got to be crazy,” Pauli shouted. “Six hundred for a car like this? You can’t buy the engine for $600.”
“In my country,” The Senegalese began, “such a car would not sell for $300.” His family rushed in with loud confirmations.
“Don’t hand me that shit,” Pauli moaned, half-turning away, as if he had some thought of closing the negotiations. “You came here because in your country you didn’t have ten dollars to buy a goat cart. Now you want something for nothing. Nobody will give you a better deal.”
They fell into a side discussion on the method of payment, quickly agreed that it must be cash, and then began to squabble over the deposit. It was understood that late collections were effected by means of baseball bat or worse.
“Hey, Pauli,” Moodrow called, peering over the grandfather’s shoulder. “I need a coupla seconds, awright? I’m not busting balls, but I’m in a hurry.”
The interruption produced general consternation among the purchasers until Pauli told them, “Hey, this guy’s a fuckin’ cop and he’s my friend, so you’re just gonna have to wait.” At the sound of the word “cop” the Senegalese had already begun to drift away. In their country, it was understood that relative to them, policemen were gods and they had not yet realized that as legal aliens in America, they might have something so abstract as civil rights.
“Hey, Sarge,” Pauli said, instinctively reaching out to touch the back of Moodrow’s hand. “I heard about it. I mean what happened and everything. I used to drink in that bar and she was a fine lady. Everybody loved her.”
“Yeah, I know Pauli. That’s what people keep telling me. But you know how it is, man. I can’t let it go. I got to take the cocksuckers out.”
Pauli smiled, revenge being a preoccupation of peop
le commonly ripped off by society. “I’m hip to it. Just tell Pauli what he can do.”
“I need a car. For a few weeks, probably. Maybe longer.”
“Well, you come to the right man. Pauli Corallo got the most cars on the Lower East Side. I got cars up the ass.”
“Like on a loan, Pauli.”
“No problem. Just bring it back when you’re finished.”
“Gimme something with a little room and some kick. I might have to chase.”
Suddenly the Senegalese family, rediscovering their courage, rushed over, totally ignoring Moodrow. “Six hundred and fifty,” they shouted in unison. “The deal is $650.” Even the grandmother, bent and shrunken, joined in the cacophony. Having reached a decision, they were unable to postpone its deliverance in spite of their fear of the police. Pauli looked at Moodrow helplessly.
“Whatta ya think?” Moodrow asked. “Should I bust ’em?”
“Take the whole bunch,” Pauli said, grinning.
“No, no.” The youngest of the men reached into his pocket, a quick movement guaranteed to upset a policeman, and Moodrow’s gun was in his hand before anyone realized what happened.
“Just leave your hand where it is,” Moodrow shouted, aware of how bad his joke would look if someone got shot.
“No gun. No gun,” the old woman admonished. “Achmed show you his card from the immigration. All legal. You no arrest.”
On cue, Achmed slowly withdrew a small, green card from his pocket, a card which Moodrow had absolutely no interest in seeing.
“All right, Pauli,” he sighed, “finish up with these people.” He walked fifty feet away and leaned against the hood of a parked car while Pauli completed the negotiations. It had been a warm day, but it was cooling down quickly, a reminder of New York’s unpredictable spring weather. Finally, a full fifteen minutes later, after Moodrow, trapped, was forced to accept the condolences of a dozen passersby, Pauli concluded his business and walked over.
A Twist of the Knife Page 17