Policewoman

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  “So?”

  Bill’s voice was tight and hard. “So, he’s a captain. Captain Rettick, assigned to the commissioner’s confidential squad.”

  I closed my eyes, seeing the nondescript, blank-faced redhead intoning childishly: “My brother’s a cop. My brother’s a cop.”

  “And we’re going to see Captain Rettick. Tomorrow. We’re going to meet him in the luncheonette, you know that greasy-spoon around the corner from the Court? At nine o’clock. Sergeant Gerrity called me just ten minutes ago. I’m going to take some milk for my ulcer now. See you in the morning.”

  Bayreuth was on his second cup of coffee when I arrived, and the waitress brought the tea I ordered in a thick, scarred, once white cup. The tea bag dangled limply against the side of the cup; I poured in a teaspoon of watery milk and sipped the tepid drink. As I put the cup onto the heavy, cracked saucer, a tall, redheaded man approached the booth. He smiled broadly, and Bill started to rise.

  “Bayreuth?” he asked, then held up his hand to tell Bill to remain seated. “And Policewoman Uhnak?”

  He slid into the seat next to Bill. He was a tall man with flushed skin, clear green eyes and a slight nervous twitching in the corner of his mouth. Only his red hair related him to his brother. He was well built, with an intelligent, animated face, and was carefully tailored in a dark brown suit, gleaming white shirt and expensive dark tie. There was a small, neat gold tie pin with a replica of his captain’s shield midway down the tie. His hands were long and white and narrow, and the blue veins showed through the golden red hairs as he accepted a cigarette that Bill offered him.

  “Thank you. Oh, miss, may I have some coffee, please. Black, thank you.” He looked around the luncheonette as though he had never seen a luncheonette before, studied the wallpaper, the lighting fixtures, the table top. His beautiful eyes, shaded by long, thick red lashes, darted around with interest. It seemed that he had forgotten why he had come here, or that he had decided not to speak of it after all. And then he turned his eyes on me.

  “Well, officer, I think my preliminary remarks should be that I am about as shocked and stunned as a man can be.” He shook his head slightly, looking now at his fingers rolling the cigarette around. “I’m sure you can realize my feelings about all this. My brother, I mean.”

  He raised his arched, fine eyebrows, and I could see remnants of freckles on his forehead. Bayreuth said nothing, studying a shimmering little puddle of coffee about two inches from his cuff.

  “Would you mind telling me what happened yesterday? I’d like to know from the moment you arrived at the school.”

  I told him the circumstances of his brother’s arrest, and the captain interrupted several times, crisply and professionally asking the policeman’s details. And then there was a silence as the captain seemed to be weighing what he had heard.

  “And there was an important detail I haven’t covered, Captain.”

  There was a pressure on my foot and Bayreuth’s eyes flashed, but the captain picked it up immediately, not really seeing Bayreuth’s face but sensing his signal. He turned to face Bill, and there was light glinting on the tiny golden red hairs along the captain’s cheek.

  “You tell me, Bayreuth. I must know all the details, you can appreciate that. You see, the major concern in all this, for me, is my brother. To help him, I must know the whole thing.”

  Bill studied the glistening drop of coffee as though it were something alive waiting to pounce on his sleeve. He mumbled, quickly, that the five girls had been molested and annoyed by the captain’s brother for several weeks.

  Captain Rettick pressed the cigarette out against the side of his cup and regarded what he had done with distaste, as though he had committed some indiscretion. He sucked his lip thoughtfully, then thrust out his chin. “My God, I had no idea the kid was so bad. You see, I’ve known for some time that there was something wrong—since he came back from the service. He was in Korea. My kid brother was never what you’d call, well, bright, but he was a good kid. He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”

  “No,” Bill answered quickly, “no, sir, he was fine.”

  “I didn’t think he had; he’s a gentle boy, very timid. He’d never hurt anyone. This business with the girls—are they going to appear against him?”

  “No, their mothers won’t let them.”

  The captain let out a long, low whistle of relief at my words. “Thank God for that, anyway. Then it really isn’t so bad, is it?” The captain smiled broadly, and his teeth were even and white. “Then it can be fixed up.”

  The captain was again smiling—a blinding smile, a certain, sure smile that lit up his handsome, boyishly smooth face. “Mrs. Uhnak, I’m sure you can understand my concern for my brother. Believe me, if I had known that he was this sick, I’d have gotten him into the V.A. hospital. That’s what I intend to do now. He lives with my mother; God help her, she’s seventy years old. I have to protect her from this, I’ll tell her it’s his stomach; he’s had trouble with his stomach in the past. Believe me, he will be taken care of; there will be no possibility of this happening again.”

  The captain spoke with the easy assurance of one used to taking over, to commanding. He seemed to relax, now that the problem before him had been reduced to a simple statement of solution.

  “Captain, just what is it you want us to do?”

  He regarded me for a moment, then asked Bill, “You didn’t see him expose himself, did you, Bayreuth.”

  It wasn’t a question, it was a flat statement, and Bill affirmed it.

  “Good.” Now he turned to me. “Mrs. Uhnak, I understand that this is your first arrest.”

  The knowledge that he had checked up on me, had run me down, was unnerving. “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, it will be relatively simple, believe me. I intend to protect you fully. There won’t be any record in your personnel file of a dismissal, and you’ll get full credit for an arrest, so don’t worry about that.” The captain had a certain charm, a way of using his long golden hands and narrowing his green eyes and lowering his voice to put things in their proper perspective. There was no great problem here: everything was under control. It was a studied, practiced performance. “We’ll ask for a hearing, just before lunch break, when there is no one else in court. You see, we’ll make it as easy as possible.”

  I waited, watching him, not saying a word, and he nodded, accepting my silence for compliance.

  “We’ll get it thrown out, on a reasonable doubt. You’ll testify to your affidavit; I wouldn’t ask you to change your sworn statement, of course.”

  My voice was out of rhythm with his, and there was a slight tremor in it. “No prima-facie case? It’ll be thrown out?”

  The captain threw back his head and laughed out loud for the first time. It was a rich, warm, flowing, young sound and it stopped as unexpectedly as it had begun, but his eyes were still crinkled in humor. “Well, I’m glad to see that some of the instruction at the Police Academy rubbed off on someone. Don’t worry about it being thrown out before a prima facie is established. You see, we have made certain, well ...” He spread his hands on the table. “The district attorney understands the circumstances and the magistrate is an ... old friend, you might say. The D.A. will have you testify to your affidavit and that’ll be it. Our attorney will lead you into an opening just slight enough to justify, for the record, the reasonable-doubt finding. All legal, simple; you just follow the lead set for you.”

  He leaned back, so sure, so confident and satisfied and convinced, that the words, unguarded, slipped out. “Do I have a choice?”

  His lips twitched; he clenched his hands, flexing the fingers. He saw my face now, my face, not a reflection of his own image mirrored on an agreeable image, but his voice was still pleasant. “Wouldn’t you expect the same treatment for your own brother, Mrs. Uhnak?”

  “I don’t have a brother.”

  “Well, I do.”

  I ignored the pressure on my foot. Bill was grindin
g his big shoe on me, but I was fascinated by the change in the color of Rettick’s eyes; the green actually faded, paled to a transparent glaze. His cheeks were drawn in, his mouth locked tight and his hands, drawn into tight fists on the table, tapped lightly, just once, indicating that the fact was stated and the matter was closed to further discussion.

  And then he relaxed again, the color flowing back into his eyes, and he thrust his hand across the table to me, squeezed my hand hard and shook hands with Bill.

  “Mrs. Uhnak, you won’t be sorry for this, I promise you. Just testify the way the D.A. and our attorney lead you; it will be very quick and easy. And then, just forget it. But I will remember, believe me. I have an infallible memory.” The words sounded threatening, but the tone was pleasant. “You will always have a good friend, and that may come in handy someday.”

  The good friend smiled warmly, squeezed Bayreuth’s shoulder and left.

  We sat wordless for a moment. Bill played with a spoonful of cold, tan coffee, letting it trickle into his cup.

  “So?”

  He looked up at me. “So you do like the man says. Period. The end.”

  The questioning by the district attorney was brief. He asked for the facts of the arrest, carefully avoided any mention of the teen-age girls who were present, asked a few questions about distance. Where was he? Where was I? Then he asked me, carefully, if I was positive, absolutely positive, of what I had seen. I found myself hesitating for a split second, heard my voice quaver uncertainly before I answered, “Yes.” Did anyone else see this—just answer yes or no. There were “other people” present; I could not say, positively, what they had seen. Did the defendant come along quietly? Yes, he did.

  The defense attorney was an amiable man, short with a bald head and bushy eyebrows and a thick mustache. He could afford to be polite to me, and his voice was cordial. Did the defendant deny that he had exposed himself? Yes, he did. Had he come along quietly, cooperatively? Yes, he had. Had he said anything to me or done anything prior to his arrest to gain my attention? Had he called out, whistled, beckoned? No, he hadn’t.

  Was I positive, absolutely positive, without the possibility of some slight, perfectly human mistake, that I had actually seen him expose himself? I sat there, unable to believe I was hesitating, waiting, and then, softly, in an unknown voice, I said, No I didn’t think there was a mistake—no, no, I was sure there wasn’t.

  The defense attorney stretched his mustache across his face pleasantly, thanked me, and I was excused from the stand.

  The defendant took the stand, his face a featureless, motionless mask. No, he didn’t expose himself. Yes, he had served in the United States Army in Korea. Yes, he had a Purple Heart. Yes, he was a member of a reputable veterans’ organization. Yes, he lived with his mother and supported her. Yes, he worked for the United States Post Office. No, he had never been arrested before. No, he did not expose himself, the girl was mistaken.

  Since the defendant at a hearing is not cross-examined by the district attorney, Rettick was told to leave the stand.

  The magistrate leaned, forward to catch the attention of the court stenographer and mumbled something. “Case dismissed—reasonable doubt.” And then the magistrate held his hand up to the stenographer, who nodded and kept his hands in his lap.

  The magistrate motioned the defendant to the bench, and his attorney pushed his arm and brought him forward. The magistrate, a putty-faced man with gray temples and silver-streaked black hair spoke in a loud, clear voice, flinty with indignation.

  “Young man, you keep away from schools and you keep away from young girls, and I don’t ever want to see you in my court again, do you understand?”

  The magistrate looked past the defendant, directly at me, and nodded, just once, almost imperceptibly. Yes, it had been for me.

  The defendant stood mute and bewildered, not knowing if he was free to go or expected to say something—to protest his innocence or admit his guilt. His lawyer whispered something to him, and he muttered to the magistrate, or to the air, for he looked at space: “Yes. Thank you.”

  As he passed us, leaving the courtroom, Rettick stared at me for a moment, his colorless eyes searching my face as though he were trying to remember where he had seen me or to determine who I was. I sat rigidly watching him walk with his attorney out of the courtroom, and then Bayreuth stood up and we left the room without speaking.

  The captain was outside, waiting for us. He was smiling and he waved.

  “Fine,” he said, “fine, Mrs. Uhnak. Would you like to have some lunch with me? My attorney is taking my brother home. We’re going to make some arrangements, just as soon as possible, to get into the veterans’ hospital.” He held a hand against his flat stomach. “I’m really famished; let’s get something to eat uptown, the places around here are ptomaine dens.”

  “No, thank you, Captain Rettick. I seem to have lost my appetite.”

  The captain stopped smiling, and his face became hard in a more natural setting of the thin cheek bones and square jaw and firm lips. “I told you this morning—and you’d better get it straight right now—forget this. Just forget it.”

  And he walked away without looking back.

  Bayreuth’s face registered nothing, not sympathy or regret or indignation or anger. “You shouldn’t have said anything. Look, Dot, it’s just one of those things. It’s just rough that it happened on your first pinch. It’ll probably never happen again. It was a lousy case all around, so just like the man says: forget it.” His mouth pulled down and his hand pressed against his side—his ulcer.

  I pretended I hadn’t seen him holding his pain. “Sure, Bill, sure.”

  All the way home, in the subway, I thought all around the thing that was bothering me the most—not the case, not the way everything had been set up, not that. But the thing about myself: the hesitation on the stand, the accepting of a role, the acting out. And searching myself, trying to face it out, completely, honestly, I did not know if it had been deliberate hesitation or just due to my nervousness about being on a witness stand for the first time. Or was I avoiding it, trying to keep myself from the fact that I had been an integral part of it, trying to give myself an out? Did I have a choice? Could I have done anything about it? Had I just gone along with it, smoothly a part of it, so easily, so easily? I wasn’t sure, not truly sure, but I knew I felt a nagging little knot of uncertainty and regret at having walked away from a senseless fight.

  Four days later, assigned back to the Policewomen’s Bureau, I picked up a telephone message from my mailbox. Mrs. Small wanted me to call immediately. It was very important.

  Probably to tell me about the fine letter to the commissioner. Or maybe to explain why she hadn’t written it after all. Perhaps Dr. Small felt it wouldn’t be the proper thing to do. After all, they did pay my salary, wasn’t that enough? Or maybe they wanted me to catch a rabid dog who had attacked their French poodle. Wasn’t I paid for that kind of thing? One would assume so.

  Mrs. Small’s voice was edgier than it had been during our last conversation. Something was missing, possibly the social amenities. She sounded breathless. “Policewoman Uhnak, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been trying to reach you.” She sounded slightly accusing, as though I’d been in hiding. “They told me at the precinct where you were.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Small. Look, I’m just on my way out on an assignment. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m in something of a hurry.”

  “I want to know what happened in court.” There was an urgency and lack of composure in the voice of the doctor’s wife.

  “Nothing much, Mrs. Small.” There was a savage pleasure in telling her this: a kind of revenge. “Nothing I couldn’t have predicted.”

  “What do you mean?” She knew. Now she knew.

  “The case was dismissed,” I said matter of factly. It sounded so simple. “The magistrate felt there was a reasonable doubt: my word against the defendant’s. He looked fairly presentable in court—shaved, combed, wash
ed up. Not at all like a degenerate. Did you say something, Mrs. Small?”

  She had gasped, and then she spoke very quickly, as though confiding a secret she could no longer contain. “Mrs. Uhnak, he’s back again.” She paused, waiting perhaps for me to reply to this incredible information, but I was silent. “He’s back, I said. At the school. The girls have seen him. He ... he exposed himself to the girls yesterday. They are absolutely terrified. Mrs. Uhnak, are you there? Did you hear me?”

  Mrs. Small never would have understood my smile. There was something inside me, growing, growing. I was learning. All about it—the sincere statements, the outrage of the injured parties, and the golden assurances. I will take care of him, this won’t happen again. You can be sure. You can be certain.

  Of course he was back at the school; where else would he be? Of course he was out exposing himself; what else would he be doing? I was surprised at my lack of surprise. It was as though I had known all along that this phone call would come, even at the moment when Captain Rettick was telling us, earnestly and with great sincerity in his voice and eye, that his kid brother would be looked after, tended, treated, cured. Of course he was back. We had all arranged it; we were all a part of it. I was a part of it too, however unwilling an accessory. I knew that now, clearly, but I knew also that I had learned from it, that one more new lesson was etched into my mind.

  “Mrs. Small, I’m sorry, but this isn’t my concern. I suggest you call the precinct and speak with the desk officer. He’ll assign someone to your complaint.” And then, meanly, “You’ve been through all this before; you know the procedure.”

  For one crazy moment, it flashed through my mind to give Mrs. Small the telephone number of Captain Rettick. I tried to visualize the meeting of those two. But I didn’t, of course, because the “good friend” would be an even worse enemy, and I knew my name would be carefully written down in a guarded little book somewhere.

  Mrs. Small’s voice penetrated my thoughts, and it was shrill with a kind of hopeless outrage. “But you must help us! You must arrest him!”