One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  Malone looked at the lime-green screen. “How does this thing work?”

  Morris Dunbar said, “Each employee who is authorized to extract information has an identification number. The employee types in his I.D. and the computer gives him permission to proceed. When the go-ahead signal is flashed, the employee inputs the access code to the desired data bank. If he is authorized to enter that particular bank the computer will acknowledge his entry by flashing an entry code onto the upper-left-hand corner of the screen. After the access code is displayed, the desired information is then inputted and the input button depressed. And that is all there is to it.”

  Malone said, “Each data bank has its own access code?”

  “That’s correct. You must input the right code to enter each bank. Financial, Medical, Sexual, Property, Criminal. Only certain employees are authorized to enter all the banks.”

  “Do your banks cover the entire country?”

  “No. Only the tri-state area. If a client should want information on an individual who at one time lived in California, we have to type in the access code for California. Our computer is then hooked into a California data bank. It’s a subscription service. Like Home Box Office.”

  A grin came over Malone’s face. “Do the civil libertarians know you have these capabilities?”

  Dunbar replied in a mocking tone of voice. “Fuck ’em where they breathe.” He pushed his chair closer to the console. “I’ll need as much pedigree information as you have.”

  The next fifteen minutes were spent listing every scrap of information that Malone knew about the four policemen. Dunbar listed each trait in a column under the man’s name.

  “I’ll start with Whitney Zangline. I don’t think there are too many Zanglines around.” Morris Dunbar typed in his I.D. and depressed the input button. The letters RM flashed in the lower-right-hand corner of the screen. He inputted the proper access code. DALL NYSP flashed onto the upper-left-hand corner of the screen. He inputted the pedigree and depressed the PA 1 button. A line of symbols appeared across the top of the screen: RNAM, NYSP, OR1/NY U3U30F1. The PF 3 button was then depressed and a display peeled onto the console, limning the screen with the financial profile of Whitney Zangline, a white male, age 55, assistant chief, NYPD.

  Whitney Zangline was a wealthy man.

  Morris Dunbar chewed the end of his cigar. Tawny snippets of tobacco splotched his lips and his teeth were coated with a brownish slime. He turned sideways. “Want a copy?”

  “Yes,” Malone said, thinking that cops will never learn. After the Gross and Knapp investigations into police corruption you’d think that they would hide their money. But they don’t. Dishonest men never think that they will be found out.

  Morris Dunbar inputted the print code and depressed the PF 3 button. The spoked wheels on the sides of the printer sprang to life, churning out an endless stream of four-ply paper.

  Whitney Zangline was a remarkably wealthy man.

  Eighteen minutes later Malone was armed with computer printouts on Edwin Bramson and Joseph Stanislaus. They, too, were amazingly well off. The profile on Charles Kelly, patrolman, NYPD, remained a secret. Dunbar said that he needed a DOB or the Social Security number. Nevertheless, Malone assumed that Kelly, too, was a wealthy man.

  Tourist buses were disgorging their cargoes on Elizabeth Street when he arrived back at the stationhouse. He paused in front of the steps to watch them. Wide-eyed and country clean they rushed off the buses into the waiting arms of the hawkers. Package tours, the theater, and egg rolls for sixty bucks, he thought, turning and entering the stationhouse.

  Malone waved to the desk officer as he made for the stairway. He spotted Starling Johnson in the muster room talking to P.O. O’Day. He smiled and took the stairs two at a time.

  Inspector Zambrano was standing by the window with his hands thrust into his pockets, rocking on his heels. He looked troubled. Malone crossed the squad room to him. “What’s up?”

  “I had lunch yesterday with my brother-in-law, the one in Audits and Accounts.”

  “And?”

  “Whaddaya know about the financial administration of the Job?”

  “I get paid every second Friday.”

  Zambrano turned and gripped the mesh window covering. “That’s just about what most cops know.” He launched into a long-winded dissertation on police department finances.

  Before the end of each fiscal year the PC is required to submit the operating budget for the new year. Most of the lines are mandated expenses like salaries, rents, maintenance of equipment, telephone, electricity, heat, and gasoline. A cash fund is maintained to supply buy money, pay for sting operations, informers, and for travel expenses for members required to leave the city on official business. Whenever cash is needed, proper authorization accompanied with cash vouchers are submitted to Audits and Accounts. No commander is authorized to make purchases on his own. Everything must go through the deputy commissioner in charge of administration.

  Malone said, “So? What has that got to do with the Eisinger caper?”

  Zambrano faced him. “Zangline is running his own goddamn corporation. My brother-in-law told me that SOD has its own fund which Zangline controls. He is able to buy whatever he wants and he uses the fund to pay. That running track you saw in the SOD compound was built and paid for out of this special fund. He just purchased one hundred Uzi submachine guns and twenty-five silencers.”

  Malone said, “Where does the money come from?”

  “Zangline draws checks on the account of the Simonson Optical Division. A Netherlands Antilles corporation. The checks clear through the Willemsteal Bank of Curaçao.”

  Malone let out a long, low whistle. “Simonson Optical Division. SOD, the acronym for the Special Operation Division.”

  “Sounds like that, doesn’t it,” Zambrano said.

  “Any idea where the money comes from?”

  “Not an iota.”

  “If Zangline is into something illegal, why would he have to use the department to make purchases?”

  “What better way to hide something. And there is Title Eighteen, the United States Code. Under the Gun Control Act of 1968 corporations and individuals are prohibited from owning machine guns without obtaining federal permits and paying a special tax. Silencers are contraband except for government agencies and the police. And”—he shook a finger at him—“police departments do not pay taxes. A lot of money can be saved by making purchases through the department.”

  Malone took out the computer printouts and shoved them at him. “Read these.”

  They told a story of policemen without debts. Of savings accounts far in excess of earnings, of real-estate holdings, private schools, of automobiles without chattel mortgages; policemen with paychecks without any deductions for the Municipal Credit Union. Zambrano handed the printouts back, a scowl of disgust on his face. “What is your next move?”

  “I have a command appearance with the chief of Op at five P.M. after which I have to go …” His voice trailed off and he moved across the room to where O’Shaughnessy was typing a five.

  “Go and what?” Zambrano said, wry.

  “Aw, nothing,” Malone said lamely, looking over O’Shaughnessy’s shoulder.

  “Go and what, Lieutenant?”

  Malone’s eyes narrowed and his face became hard.

  Zambrano said, “There ain’t no stars in this job, Dan. We’re all character actors.”

  Reluctantly he told him of the telephone call and his 11 P.M. rendezvous at Glen Cove Road.

  “And you’re going?” Zambrano said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Alone?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s real clever. I assume that it just might have crossed your mind that you’ll be driving into a setup.”

  “I thought about it.”

  “Well to put your mind at ease, I’m going with you.”

  Malone started to protest. Zambrano shot out a hand in front of him. “Save you
r breath. That’s an order.”

  Zambrano walked over and looked down at O’Shaughnessy.

  The detective wore an angry expression and was typing as though he had a life-long vendetta going with the typewriter. “What got into him?” Zambrano asked Malone.

  Malone shrugged his shoulders. “He has a personal problem.”

  O’Shaughnessy looked up at the inspector. “Did you ever stop to realize that life ain’t nothing but a shit sandwich?”

  Zambrano folded his arms across his chest and pondered the remark. “Well. I’ll tell you somethin’ young fellow. You might as well be happy, ’cause no one gives a fuck if you’re not.”

  The tripod of the one-on-one camera straddled the diaphragm on the bathroom floor. O’Shaughnessy peered into the wide lens, centering the crosshairs of the viewfinder on the fingerprint. In the bedroom, Johnson was spreading black powder over the top of a highboy. Knees bent eye level, he carefully spread the adhesive powder with the plumed end of a dusting brush. He could see the powder clinging to the friction ridges, making them visible against the wood background. He returned the brush to its assigned place inside the fingerprint kit and removed three pieces of rubber lifting tape. After he peeled off the celluloid covering from the adhesive side, he carefully placed the tape over the latent fingerprint and pressed it evenly and firmly to the surface, taking care not to shift its position. Snipping one end, he gently peeled the tape away from the surface. Examining the lift, he was able to distinguish three fingers—a forefinger, middle, ring.

  He placed the tape inside a plastic envelope and clipped it inside the kit.

  A partial palm print and several more fingerprints were lifted off the highboy. After all the lifts were secured in the kit, he reached into the bottom and took out a battery-operated hand vacuum and cleaned all traces of powder from the dresser and floor.

  Malone was leaning against the bedroom wall pondering the dimensions of the queen-size bed. He was deeply uncomfortable at the thought of Sara Eisinger making it with Stanislaus on that bed. To his mind, it just did not ring true. A woman reared in the laws of Abraham, a woman who cleansed herself in the prescribed way, would not hop into the feathers with a gentile cop. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him.

  As Malone and his men worked silently inside Stanislaus’s apartment, a telephone repair truck was parked outside the SOD compound. Stanislaus, Bramson, and Kelly had been followed into the compound.

  If the trio left the compound the detectives inside the repair truck would radio a warning that would be passed over the phone in the apartment to Malone.

  The search warrant was in Malone’s pocket, officially, unexecuted. He wanted to wait until the fingerprints lifted from the apartment were compared with those lifted from the Eisinger crime scene. If there was a match he would return and execute the warrant officially. The proverbial cat should remain in the bag as long as possible, or nails in the coffin, as Epstein had said.

  One Police Plaza is an orange brick mass that resembles a Rubik’s cube on stilts. It is a building renowned for its conference rooms. There are small ones with small tables, medium-size ones with medium-size tables, and still larger ones with great tables. There are no executive toilets or dining rooms to differentiate the proletariat and bourgeoisie. There are only the conference rooms.

  It was into one of the larger rooms that a female sergeant with a head of thick red hair ushered Malone at five o’clock that afternoon. “The chief will be with you in a minute or two,” she said, casting a pitying look at him.

  White Formica paneled the walls and red cushioned chairs were arranged around the oval-shaped table. Photographs of former Chiefs of Operations hung on the walls. He moved from frame to frame looking at the dour faces. When he had first come on the Job the Chief of Op was called the Chief Inspector. A lot of changes, a lot of years.

  He went over to the window and pushed a vertical blind aside. Far below the evening rush hour was congealing into the usual traffic jam. The FDR Drive was packed bumper-to-bumper, cars spilled off the Brooklyn Bridge blocking Worth Street, and the noise of traffic reached up and penetrated the thermopane. He could see the people rushing into the subway under the archway of the Municipal Building, steeling themselves for the perilous journey home.

  The rattle of a doorknob caused him to turn. Joe Mannelli was standing in the doorway, surveying him coldly, his face expressionless, the eyes wide and sullen.

  Neither man spoke.

  Malone went over to the table and sat down, his gaze riveted on the man in the doorway. Without uttering one word, Mannelli pivoted to the left and slammed the door. So that was how it was to be—a stress interview. Do things to fray his nerves; keep him waiting. Well, two could play at the same game.

  At 6:48 P.M. Chief of Operations McQuade entered the room with a manila folder snug under his arm. He glanced at the nodding lieutenant and moved quickly to his place at the head of the table.

  Malone opened his eyes, saw him, and eased his back to attention.

  The four gilt stars on his shoulders glittered as brightly as the rims of McQuade’s gold-rimmed glasses. “So, Lieutenant, we meet at last. I have been hearing your name quite a lot these days.”

  Malone cleared his throat. “I hope favorably, Chief.”

  McQuade opened the folder and removed a stack of evaluation reports. He read from them. “Lieutenant Malone is a loyal and competent commander. He is forthright and tenacious in carrying out his responsibilities and is rated above average.”

  Malone listened with interest.

  McQuade read the summaries of eight evaluations. He then tapped them together and returned them to the folder, flipping the cover closed.

  McQuade gazed impassively down the length of the table. “It appears that your superiors in the Detective Division consider you a loyal and competent subordinate. Do you agree with their assessment?”

  Malone saw the rancor in the tightly pressed lips and was wary. “I’ve always tried to do my job,” he said.

  “Have you now? Tell me, Lieutenant. How would you define the adjective loyal?”

  Malone thought of a response. “Fidelity to the job and its bosses.”

  McQuade slapped his hands down with such force that his eyeglasses popped off his face. He was on his feet, screaming. “Then why the hell are you trying to destroy this department? Mannelli warned you. Zangline warned you. But no! You persist in blunderbussing through the Job, raking up all kinds of shit. You listen and listen good. Lay off this department or I’ll ruin you. I’ll flop you out of the Bureau so fast that your eyeballs will dance. You got that, Malone?”

  Malone looked him in the eye. “I won’t dump the Eisinger case.”

  McQuade was furious. “Do you really think you’re so goddamn perfect? Have you ever made a score? Ate on the arm? Nobody in this job is untouchable. When we want you, your ass is ours.” He spilled the contents of the folder and started to shuffle through the pile. He snatched up a sheet of paper and waved it at him. “The statute of limitations for a felony is five years. But we both know that there is no statute in the Trial Room. It’s a Kangaroo Court. Everyone on the Job knows that. I have here information that you arranged for an out-of-state abortion ten years ago. You committed a felony.”

  Mannelli, you dirty son-of-a-bitch, Malone thought.

  McQuade continued. “I could serve you with charges and specifications. Conduct unbecoming an officer and prejudicial to the good order and efficiency of the department. And, I can guarantee the outcome. You would be dismissed.”

  Malone forced a smile. “A stunt like that would never stand under judicial review and you know it.”

  McQuade leaned forward. “Maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn’t. Whenever you go into court it’s a crap shoot. And, a legal fight could cost you twenty-five large, out of your own pocket. Line organizations do not pick up the tab for appeals from administrative decisions. Can you afford that kind of money, Lieutenant?”

 
Malone nodded grimly and got up.

  “I will tell you when this meeting is over,” McQuade shouted.

  Malone continued toward the door, sweat trickling under his armpits. He was reaching for the knob when McQuade’s hoarse voice caused him to turn.

  “You just won’t stop, will you?”

  “I can’t,” he said quietly.

  The expression on McQuade’s face became benign. He patted the chair next to him. “Come here and sit down.”

  Malone hesitated, unsure.

  “Please.”

  The careful tread back was filled with reflections. It ain’t easy going up against the system. Many have tried it; few have succeeded.

  McQuade was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief when Malone lowered himself next to him. “You think that all the life-and-death decisions are made in the street,” he said, heaving to one side and tucking the white cotton cloth into his back pocket. “Well, let me tell you that they’re not. Don’t think for one minute that working in this pressure cooker is any bargain. The right wants us to kill the niggers and spicks and arm the cops with bazookas and flame throwers. The left wants us to countenance anarchy, riot, and murder. The politicians see the size of the police budget and salivate. They want lateral entry for their cronies.” His right hand was chopping the air. “No more captains and lieutenants. They want civilian managers in charge of police operations. A pork barrel like the Board of Ed. Just take a look at what’s happening in the Job today. We have cops with yellow sheets. Cops who cannot communicate in the English language. We’re forced to hire females. Some of them don’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet; they can’t reach the accelerators of radio cars; don’t have the physical strength to pull the trigger of their service revolvers. We were forced to lower the height requirement to accommodate women and Hispanics. We’re becoming a department of goddamn dwarfs. Juggling interest groups and somehow keeping the department in one piece is no easy task.” He picked up his eyeglasses and started to tap them against his teeth, his crafty eyes holding him. “Now I am going to tell you why you must drop the Eisinger case.” He moved close and confided, “This department is involved in a covert operation that is so sensitive that its exposure would mean the end of the Job as we know it. And that, Lieutenant, is all that I can tell you. You are going to have to trust me.”