Once In, Never Out

by Dan Mahoney

  The top brass was represented by the duty chief, but conspicuously absent from the list was the chief of detectives. McKenna figured that Brunette had told him to stay home—Sheeran was to be the man really in charge.

  McKenna memorized the particulars on the victims. Quenton Bachmann, age sixty-eight, had been last seen by his wife, Emily, in their living room. They had been watching a late movie on TV when she had fallen asleep. She had been awakened by the sound of sirens and had looked out her front door to see the police standing over the body of her husband of forty-two years. She had identified the body for the officers, had calmly answered some questions, apparently in shock, and then had suffered her first heart attack. She was in Elmhurst Hospital in critical condition.

  Jessy Banks, age thirty-nine, was a nurse and had worked the four-to-twelve shift at Elmhurst Hospital. She had stayed at the hospital working until 1:30 A.M. because her relieving nurse had come in late. At the time of her death she had been on her way to her mother’s house on 69th Street to pick up her two children, Shawn, age five, and Debra, age three. Her body had been discovered by Robert LeGrand, a passing motorist. He had stopped to render assistance at what he had first thought was a minor traffic accident. He called 911 on his cell phone at 1:49 A.M.

  Jessy’s husband, Jerome Banks, was a civilian tow truck operator for the NYPD. He had been working at the time in Manhattan, assigned to tow cars from the Fifth Avenue parade route. He was relieved from duty and was being brought to the scene by the department chaplain.

  No witnesses to the double homicide had been uncovered so far by the Queens detectives.

  Department van 5988 had been destroyed by the explosion at 1:58 A.M. Most residents of 73rd Street had been awakened by the explosion and many of them were on the street. Included in the crowd were Jack O’Reilly and Dorothy O’Reilly, still being watched by Fitzhughs and Sullavan.

  McKenna put the notes back in his pocket as Cisco shut off the siren and slowed down at the Triborough Bridge toll plaza. He showed the NYPD vehicle identification plate to the tollbooth attendant, and McKenna was shocked to hear the man say, “Hiya, Cisco. You going to the explosion?”

  “Yeah, Blackie. Somebody has to solve these crimes.”

  “You’re the one for the job. Go get him,” Blackie said, and waved them through.

  Cisco brought the car up to normal driving speed and McKenna couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t turn the siren back on. Cisco had that casual look on his face and McKenna recognized the signs: Cisco wanted to talk, but he had to be asked for his advice. First some casual conversation, then to the heart of the matter, McKenna decided. “You know many tollbooth attendants?” he asked.

  “Cisco knows many of his subjects, the high and mighty as well as the low and seemingly insignificant. He spends much time making the rounds in his kingdom.”

  “How long you been working?”

  “Since four yesterday morning.”

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Cisco never rests while there are evildoers afoot disturbing the peace and tranquillity in the realm, which brings me to another point,” he said, dropping the act. “There is a recent, ugly rumor making the rounds that this wonderful, easy overtime is going to be cut.”

  “How recent is this rumor?”

  “About an hour and fifteen minutes. It started roughly two minutes after Mulrooney blew up 5988, but it’s based in fact. Kotowski’s had someone call most of the guys who were supposed to come in at four A.M. Told them to stay home and await further instructions.”

  McKenna saw the point at once. Everyone working knew from the Base’s last transmission to van 5988 that Mulrooney now knew his phone was being monitored and his location tracked. So why have all those very expensive detectives on overtime cruising the city doing nothing but snoozing in shifts while waiting for Mulrooney’s next call, the call he probably wouldn’t be making? Or is it the call he shouldn’t be making? McKenna wondered. “You think he’s gonna use that phone again?”

  “Certain of it.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a rather stupid thing for him to do?”

  “No, it would be an arrogant thing for him to do and totally in keeping with his character. It would only be a stupid thing for him to do if he knew we had all our units concentrated in the place logic dictates he’s going to be tomorrow.”

  “Midtown?”

  “Exactly. That’s where he’s gonna make his call from, right before or after something blows up in honor of good old St. Patrick. He’ll want to rub our noses in the dirt to show us we can’t do nothing about him.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he’s angry at us. Maybe not at us, but at the bosses directing us. He knows now that we’re going to prevent him from taking his kids, so he’s angry and frustrated. He’s the kind of guy who always acts on his anger, eventually.”

  McKenna was surprised to hear Vernon’s assessment of Mulrooney repeated by Cisco. “What makes you such an expert on his character?”

  “I do a lot of talking and reading. I’ve talked to a lot of the old-timers who knew him, and I’ve read all your reports and all Sheeran’s notes.”

  “You raided Sheeran’s office?”

  “Do it all the time. He keeps all the good case stuff in his bottom right desk drawer, behind that puny lock,” Cisco explained. “Did you know that he writes down everything he knows, hears, or suspects about a case?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he does. Hears something new and he runs in his office and closes the door. Writes down everything he heard and then makes these diagrams. Very neat and very pretty. Facts go in square boxes, suspicions go in rectangles, witnesses are underlined, and suspects go in circles. Then he draws lines and arrows connecting everything the way he sees it. When he’s done making his diagram, he studies it to make sure he’s got it right.”

  That Sheeran had a system didn’t surprise McKenna. He knew Sheeran as a dedicated, hard worker and an organized kind of guy who seemed to have the facts at his fingertips on all the cases his squad was working. But McKenna was sure that Sheeran wouldn’t want his successful system to be general knowledge among his troops. “Does he know you’ve been reading his stuff?”

  “Of course he does. Even offered to give me a key once, but that would take the fun out of it.”

  “Why does he put up with it?”

  “Because every great once in a while I’m able to help him out with his notes. For instance, a few times he didn’t properly consider some facts, didn’t attach the proper importance to them, so I underlined them for him. One time he even had all his arrows pointing at the wrong suspect, a guy who turned out to be a minor accomplice, but a very good witness for the State. I erased his arrows and pointed them in the right direction for him.”

  “He never says anything to you about this?”

  “Of course not. He’s a sharp guy, sharp enough to accept good advice from a competent source and then keep his mouth shut. After all, in this Job it can never look like the troops are telling the bosses what to do, can it?”

  “No, it never can. How many people know what you’ve been up to?”

  “Since I started, it was only two—me and Sheeran. As of this moment it’s three, but that’s the limit.”

  “I guess you like Sheeran, don’t you?” McKenna asked.

  “Brian, he’s the best boss I ever worked for. I’m not supposed to know this, but he protects me from other bosses who want to kill me when I sometimes get too crazy, irritating, or annoying for their plebeian tastes.”

  Sometimes too crazy? McKenna thought. Try most of the time, Cisco.

  The secret relationship between Cisco and Sheeran suddenly made clear to McKenna one thing that had many other detectives perplexed; the newest car in the unit was always assigned by Sheeran to Cisco. When the crybabies grumbled, Sheeran stated simply that Cisco had never had an accident and kept his car in great shape, which was certainly true. Cisco’s car was always spot
less and once a week he came in early to wax and polish it.

  There was one more question McKenna had for Cisco. “What did you think of my reports?”

  “Pretty good. They almost looked like something I would write.”

  McKenna was content with probably the greatest compliment Cisco had ever given another detective.

  Thirty-Four

  Cisco parked at 33rd Avenue and 76th Street, which was as close as he could get. Radio cars, unmarked cars, Emergency Service trucks, press vans, fire trucks, and ambulances jammed the blocks in front of them. McKenna picked up his briefcase and they got out of the car, headed through the cars for 74th Street.

  Police barriers had been placed across 33rd Avenue halfway between 74th Street and 75th Street. A crowd of civilians, many dressed in their pajamas and overcoats, stood pressed against the barriers on one side and five uniformed cops were spread out on the other side. Many reporters also stood on the other side of the barriers, along with a few cops and detectives. All were looking up at the Det. Joe Walsh show. McKenna and Cisco stood back and decided to take in a bit of the performance.

  A Con Edison cherry picker was parked in the middle of the intersection under the traffic light and Walsh was on his way up, expertly operating the basket. He stopped just where he wanted to, right at the face of the light and inches from it. In under a minute he had the face of the light off, and then he put on a pair of heavy rubber gloves and a miner’s hat with a light affixed to the front. With a large pair of felt-tipped tweezers, he probed inside the traffic light while press photographers on the ground snapped away. He removed a spent bullet with the tweezers, examined it briefly, then put on the finishing touch. He took a magnifying glass from his pocket, held the bullet at eye level, and examined it through the glass, his face set in his practiced look of perfect concentration. It was a perfect photo opportunity, and the press took advantage of it, illuminating the intersection with flashes.

  Then Walsh shook his head. He wasn’t pleased; either the bullet was deformed or he felt the photographers might still have some film left. He put the bullet in his breast pocket, removed another spent bullet, and repeated his examination process. There were fewer flashes going off, so this time Walsh decided to be pleased. He nodded his head and the crowd said “Ahh,” and a few even clapped.

  Walsh refrained from taking a bow as he surveyed his fans, and then he saw McKenna. “Detective McKenna! I’ll be right down to explain to you what happened here,” he shouted down to McKenna, then took off his miner’s hat and operated the controls to lower the basket.

  I think that sometimes I hate that man, McKenna thought, but he revised his opinion as every eye in the crowd turned toward him and the reporters rushed over. I’m now certain that I hate Joe Walsh most of the time, McKenna concluded.

  McKenna and Cisco stepped forward, the crowd parted, and they were under the barriers. However, in New York the press rarely gives way when they have questions to ask. McKenna knew all the old-timers among the reporters and even counted some of them as friends, but he stopped only long enough to say, “Inspector Sheeran will be here shortly and I’m sure he’ll be giving you a statement on what happened here tonight. I won’t be making any statements.”

  Most of the old-timers believed McKenna and backed away. He knew only a few of the younger reporters, but they obviously believed nothing anyone said and kept their microphones thrust in front of McKenna’s face while they shouted questions. Many of the questions were for information concerning his exact relationship with Maggie Ferguson, and McKenna thought many of them were rudely put. He didn’t answer, he just looked straight ahead, and with Cisco running interference, pushed for the sanctuary offered by the secondary line of defense, the yellow crime scene tape stretched across the street and sidewalk. Once under the tape, the reporters were behind them and Joe Walsh was in front of them.

  Walsh was a big, gregarious man in his late fifties. He was sixty pounds overweight, but he had a full head of curly gray hair that still made him a rather striking figure. He was smiling and had been expecting a good review until he saw McKenna’s face. “I know, Brian,” he said, offering his hand. “Sometimes I even hate myself.”

  “Then why do you do it?” McKenna asked, ignoring Walsh’s outstretched hand.

  “Who knows what incredible sickness makes a man want to be on the front page of every paper every day?”

  “Maybe you’re not sick. Maybe you’re just a big scumbag,” Cisco suggested.

  “No. I’ve examined that possibility and I’m happy to say that’s definitely not it,” Walsh said, not looking at all offended. “My wife still likes me most of the time, my kids love me, and my grandchildren adore me. They’re all very discerning people and I’m sure they would have told me I was a scumbag if indeed I was. It must be something else that afflicts me, but what?”

  McKenna knew that Walsh was still hamming it up for the cameras. He wanted to end the soliloquy and get to work, but knew the only way to do that was to shake Walsh’s hand in another photo opportunity. He did, and Walsh held McKenna’s hand until the flashes stopped.

  Walsh knew better than to offer his hand to Cisco, but he appeared content with what he had. “Want me to show you around and tell you what happened?”

  Definitely not, McKenna thought as he imagined the scene. Walsh would parade him around in full view of the photographers behind the yellow tape, pointing at this and that as he instructed his pupil on the wonders to be learned when a crime scene was expertly processed. “Why don’t you just tell me what happened,” McKenna suggested, then walked slowly toward the intersection and away from the cameras.

  Walsh and Cisco followed McKenna to Jessy Banks’s car. She was still there, spread across the front seat of her car, eyes open and a bullet hole in her ear. There was very little blood visible, so McKenna knew that the bullet hadn’t gone through her skull.

  “The killer’s using a 9mm Beretta model 92 with a Czech-made sound suppressor attached,” Walsh said. “He practices all the time, and he’s using reloads with reduced charges. He fired fourteen rounds, twelve of them quickly while he was on the move, and he hit what he was aiming at fourteen times, which is pretty remarkable. The sound suppressor and the reduced load should’ve considerably reduced the accuracy of the Beretta.”

  McKenna accepted Walsh’s analysis at face value. He couldn’t imagine how Walsh had arrived at his detailed conclusions in such a short period of time, but he had worked with Walsh enough times to recognize that the man was right, that Walsh just knew.

  However, Cisco couldn’t accept it. “How do you know he was using a silencer? Because nobody heard the shots?”

  “Sound suppressor,” Walsh said, correcting Cisco. “Silencers exist only in the movies and there’s really no such thing. Just the action of the slide of the pistol moving back and forth when the weapon is fired makes quite a bit of noise and it’s impossible to completely eliminate the noise the bullet makes when it leaves the barrel.”

  “Okay, what makes you so sure he’s using a sound suppressor? While I’m at it, what makes you so sure of most of the bullshit you just told us?”

  “Elementary, my dear Cisco. The shell casings tell me it’s a 9mm, and there’s fourteen of them. The Beretta Model 92 holds fifteen rounds and it’s one of the few automatics made that has a barrel protruding from the slide, so it’s one of the few 9mm guns where the barrel can be threaded to accept a sound suppressor.”

  Walsh took one of the spent bullets and the magnifying glass from his pockets and handed them to Cisco. “Take a look. You’ll notice that rifling marks on the bullet run clockwise, 1.35mm apart. That’s a Beretta. You’ll also notice there’s a bit of steel wool and burnt fiber on the bullet. That’s residue it picked up on its way through the sound suppressor. The fiber looks like Egyptian cotton to me, and that’s the material the Czechs use in their sound suppressors.”

  Very impressive, McKenna thought, but Cisco still hadn’t had enough. “And the r
educed loads? How do you know about that?” he asked.

  “Even more elementary, my dear Cisco, so pay close attention. First, a bullet ordinarily leaves the barrel of a Model 92 at 1,280 feet per second, much too fast and making too much noise to be muffled by any sound suppressor made. Second, fired at close range, that bullet would go right through the head of anybody it hit. Both our victims here still have a bullet in their heads. Third, a full load 9mm parabellum bullet would be quite deformed after hitting the steel in the traffic light. The bullet in your hand is only slightly deformed.”

  Cisco couldn’t help himself. He had to look down at the bullet and he obviously didn’t like what he saw. The bullet was in perfect shape.

  “See what I mean?” Walsh asked.

  Cisco didn’t answer, but that didn’t bother Walsh. “Where was I?”

  “Fourth, I think,” McKenna said.

  “Ah, yes. Fourth, the fourteen spent shell casings lying all around the crime scene have multiple ejector marks on them, indicating to a reasonable person that the killer is a target shooter and a reloader. These shell casings have been used many times. In my humble opinion, this time he reloaded them with only enough powder to produce a muzzle velocity of approximately eight hundred feet per second, close to the minimum muzzle velocity necessary to ensure that the slide on the Model 92 will fully retract every time. Fifth, as you walk around the intersection, you will note that the ejected shell casings on the ground are spread around. As a highly experienced expert, I inferred from their position that the killer fired at the traffic light quickly while walking around the intersection. Have I answered your questions, Cisco?”

  “Yes,” Cisco said sheepishly.

  “Do you feel the need for any further instruction?”