‘No, no – I think you were maybe right about the red socks. I mean, the odds against seeing three bums wearing clean red socks on any given block in the city must be pretty high, and I definitely saw three guys wearing red socks, coming from the hostel. I think maybe you’re on to something there, Jack.’
‘Well, then we’d better turn it over to Narcotics,’ Stryker said.
‘So much for all my computer time,’ Neilson moaned. ‘Just when it looked like we had something, our prime suspect gets blown away with the rest of the pack. I’m telling you, it isn’t fair.’
‘You got connections?’ Stryker asked, going over to look into Toscarelli’s face.
‘I got a hatful,’ Neilson said, and listed them.
Stryker was silent, looking at Toscarelli. ‘That’s good, Harvey. That’s great. The trouble is, I was wrong – it wasn’t Leary, after all.’
‘Au contraire, mon cher lieutenant,’ Neilson said. ‘The lab turned up Leary’s prints on the shotgun that killed your television set. That was his little set-up, all right. I figure maybe he thought it would be put down to the cop-killer and left at that. Your back door lock isn’t exactly up to regulation, you know. No trouble getting in for an experienced bastard like Leary.’
‘But he wasn’t the sniper,’ Stryker said, glumly.
‘Nevertheless, there are connections between Leary and all the rest of the victims,’ Neilson insisted.
Stryker shook his head. ‘So what? I’m beginning to think that if you start looking at people as hard as we’ve been looking at them, you could eventually make connections of some kind between every single human being in the world. After all, they all became cops, didn’t they? They were bound to be alike in some ways, to have things in common in some parts of their lives. But if there’s a winning combination, we sure as hell haven’t found it yet.’ He sighed, heavily, looking down at his partner. ‘Who was it, Tos? Hey? Come out of there and tell us the answer. We got seven cops somebody wanted dead. Five of them are down, you’re in there somewhere, and the other one is climbing the wall. Who did it?’
‘You’ve got a big choice,’ Pinsky said. ‘Maybe it’s something they all did. Or maybe it’s like Rivera said – maybe it’s something they all didn’t do.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Neilson demanded.
‘Rivera said what?’ Stryker asked, turning away from Toscarelli and staring at Pinsky.
‘He said the hardest part of working undercover is ignoring the stuff that goes down right in front of you,’ Pinsky said, patiently. ‘Looking the other way, pretending it doesn’t matter. Not being a cop. Like that.’
‘Bad cops.’
It was a whisper – not very loud, not very steady, but audible.
The voice was Toscarelli’s.
TWENTY-SIX
‘But, goddammit, I’m not a bad cop,’ Stryker said, adamantly.
‘Somebody thinks so,’ Neilson observed. ‘Everybody’s entitled to their opinion, right?’
They had settled down after the brief flurry of excitement over Tos’s first words. Having communicated them to the nurse, celebrated them, and tried for more (unsuccessfully), Stryker had now begun to resent them.
‘Well, you’ve tried everything else,’ Pinsky said, sounding a bit pissed off. It was late. They kept talking and they wouldn’t go away. ‘Why not?’
‘I can see Leary qualifying, that’s for certain,’ Stryker agreed. He glanced at the clock, wondering how close Klotzman was to connecting his accident with the reports of wild driving near the scene of a murder. Their path, if traced back, would lead straight to the scene of Leary’s death – and some nasty questions. ‘But what about the rest?’
‘Yentall was sloppy,’ Neilson said. ‘That came over loud and clear. Trask was a bully.’
‘Randolph was one of those dreamy types, always looking for a way to coddle the criminal,’ Pinsky put in while trying to find a cool, comfortable place on his pillow.
‘And Santosa was afraid,’ Dana said, morosely. Even when Tos had seemed to surface for a moment, she had remained in her chair, quiet, downcast. She felt very much like Santosa at that moment. She was ashamed of her performance during the unsuccessful chase, bitterly disappointed at having lost the killer and let Stryker down. She knew she wasn’t trained in pursuit driving. She was a federal investigator not a proper policewoman, but she felt, somehow, that she should have been able to handle it.
‘I don’t think that’s being a bad cop,’ Harvey said, perceiving instantly her self-comparison with Santosa. ‘Not bad, exactly. Just inexperienced. We’re all afraid when we’re on the street – it’s one of the things that keeps us alive. And you can’t get street-wise overnight, you know. It takes time. He would have been all right.’ You’ll be all right, he was saying, and they both knew it. Dana smiled at him, a little, then looked down at the floor again.
‘Okay, fine, they all had faults,’ Stryker agreed. He went over to stand beside Tos again. ‘So tell us the rest of it, smart-ass,’ he said, with affectionate belligerence. ‘Open your eyes and tell me all about it, why don’t you?’
Tos opened his eyes. He smiled at Stryker.
But he didn’t say anything.
After a while, his eyes closed again.
Stryker wanted to burst into tears. He wanted to forget all about the killer and the world and just sit here and wait for Tos to come back home. ‘I’m not a bad cop!’ he said, rather loudly, to the sleeping man. ‘You’re not a bad cop, either! You’re just a damn dopey one, lying there like a big cannelloni. Come on, give us the answers.’
But there came none.
‘I still think it’s what Rivera said,’ Pinsky observed, after some contemplation of the ceiling. He was getting very tired and he wished fervently that they would all go and continue their conversation somewhere else. After all, he was the patient here. He and Tos should get some sleep, shouldn’t they? He was a sick man, he was broken and bruised, and he deserved some consideration.
They all looked very small and far away, like puppets on a stage, Dana sitting in the chair, Neilson standing beside her, Stryker bouncing around on the balls of his feet, looking for inspiration anywhere he could find it.
Pinsky found it on the ceiling.
‘I think you should find something they all did wrong – intentionally or unintentionally – and see where it takes you,’ he said, in a faraway voice. ‘Like, say, breaches of discipline, for instance. Maybe they all mouthed off about the same thing or the same person at the wrong time or place. Or maybe you could stop looking at people they put away, and look instead at the ones they didn’t. Or maybe they all got mixed up in politics.’ He was beginning to feel light-headed from all the painkillers and the talking. ‘Or periods of absence – how about like they were all picked up by flying saucers at the same time and sent back to spy on earth and now that the aliens have no more use for them, they’re bumping them off. How about that?’
‘Rivera didn’t say anything about flying saucers, Ned,’ Stryker said. ‘Get some sleep.’
‘I told you,’ Pinsky said, with his eyes closed. ‘I told you what he said. Rivera said the hardest part of working undercover is—’
‘The things you don’t do,’ Stryker finished. He looked at Pinsky, and spoke sharply. ‘What colour were Rivera’s socks?’
Pinsky opened his eyes and looked at him, momentarily startled. ‘Rivera’s socks?’
‘Yeah.’
Pinsky thought back to lying on the ground with everyone on top of him. Looking through the forest of legs and seeing Rivera’s filthy trainers prancing around the fire as he waved the gold badge and gun so he, Pinsky, could see they were safe. ‘White,’ he said, and closed his eyes again. ‘Filthy dirty white.’ He sighed. ‘I’m going to sleep now.’
‘Come on,’ Stryker said. Something in his tone made Neilson suddenly stra
ighten up. ‘Come on, we’ve got to sneak into Records. See you tomorrow, Ned.’
‘Why sneak in?’ Neilson wanted to know as they went out the door into the long, silent hospital corridor. Stryker’s answer echoed back into the room.
‘Because Klotzman may be looking to arrest me.’
Pinsky smiled, his eyes still closed. ‘Goodbye,’ he whispered. ‘Goodnight. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.’
There was a silence.
Pinsky had found peace at last.
It was their problem now. He was out of it. He was off the case. He had no more responsibility, no more problems. He could sleep all night. All night.
‘I want a drink of water,’ announced Tos.
TWENTY-SEVEN
They had made it into Records without too many people seeing them. And those they saw paid them no attention. There had been a small uprising of dissident students protesting something or other on the university campus down the block, and there was a constant going and coming of cops, reporters, captive students, concerned parents, and university personnel who had seen it all before and would see it all again.
The resulting chaos in the lobby of the Hall of Justice had allowed them to filter through the crowd quite easily.
Neilson’s friend was off duty, it being past midnight by now, but they found an empty cubicle and a deserted VDU.
‘I still think you’re crazy,’ Neilson whispered as they crowded around the screen. He was cracking his knuckles like a concert pianist about to commence a masterwork. ‘What are we looking for again?’
‘Eberhardt,’ Dana said. ‘Somebody named Eberhardt.’
‘But you can’t be serious about Rivera,’ Neilson protested. ‘I mean, he’s like a legend in his own time, Jack. He’s won all kinds of citations. He’s a cop’s cop. Doing all that undercover—’
‘Yeah,’ Stryker agreed. ‘Doing all that special undercover which means nobody knows where he is or what he’s doing at any given time. He’s also got a reputation as a marksman, right? Won a lot of inter-Departmental trophies?’
‘So I’ve heard,’ Neilson conceded.
‘And a psycho named Eberhardt killed his son. Do you remember Eberhardt?’
‘Not very well – I was out in Madison Heights at the time you and Tos finally put him away.’ Neilson got out his cigarettes. He offered one to Dana, who shook her head, her eyes on the VDU screen. Neilson saw the smudges under her eyes and the paleness of her skin, and knew she was practically out on her feet. He also knew she wouldn’t sit down until she fell down – not after what she saw as her failure in chasing the killer’s car. You’re going to snap, lady, he said silently. You aren’t as tough as you want to think you are, and you’re going to go down if you aren’t careful. But I’ll be there, don’t worry. I’ll be there.
As Neilson’s fingers danced over the keys, Stryker went on, his voice dull with exhaustion. ‘We put him away, all right, but not for long enough,’ Stryker said, as Neilson started pulling up records. ‘We only got him convicted on a count of assault/rape.’
‘But what about the murder of Rivera’s kid?’
‘We couldn’t prove it. It was as clear as the nose on your face, but we couldn’t get enough proof. The girl he tortured and raped managed to get away before he killed her. The method he used to torture her was the same method that killed the Rivera boy. But there was no goddamn proof it was Eberhardt. We tried hard, the labs tried hard, but in the end there wasn’t enough and the DA went for the lesser charge just to get Eberhardt off the street. Eberhardt was as scum as they come – torture was his line. But he was too smart to get caught – at least, that’s what he maintained – too smart and too lucky. He’d been to good schools, he was a rich man’s son, he was special – to himself He bragged about all the times he’d slipped out of our clutches. I want to find out about those times. Here it comes now.’
They watched in silence as Eberhardt’s record came up on the screen.
‘Oh my God,’ Neilson breathed. ‘They’re all there.’
And they were.
Yentall and Hawthorne were the first – they’d arrested Eberhardt for a juvenile offence, but the arrest had been thrown out on a technicality – Hawthorne had failed to Mirandise and Yentall had let it happen.
Tim Leary had arrested him on a charge of assault, then changed his testimony, claiming that on reflection he was not sure of his identification. ‘Probably bought off,’ Stryker said.
Merrilee Trask had beaten Eberhardt up after taking him in on a suspicion of wounding with intent, and the defence had used this to declare his ‘confession’ void.
Sandy Randolph had collared him on a drunk and disorderly after a wild party had drawn complaints, then got the judge to refer him for psychiatric assessment. The shrinks had let Eberhardt off after a month. He had a very high IQ, according to all their tests. They said he was not psychotic, just ‘misunderstood’.
Richard Santosa had identified Eberhardt as possibly having committed an assault on a minor – but he’d let him get away after a brief chase. He’d identified him, but there was no corroborating witness. The child victim had become an emotional cripple because of her terrifying experience, and could not testify.
Stryker and Toscarelli had failed to get proof enough to jail him for the murder of David Rivera, and had to settle for a lesser charge just to get him off the streets.
‘I just can’t believe it,’ Neilson said.
‘I can,’ Dana said. ‘Sins of omission – Washington thrives on them.’
‘I can believe it, too,’ Stryker said. ‘Leary aside, none of these cops were “bad” cops – not in the criminal sense of the word. But they were brutal, or lazy, or soft-hearted, or frightened – and the result was that one vicious piece of crap who started out as a juvenile offender began to believe that he could get away with whatever he felt like doing. Every time he slipped away from us – for whatever reason – added to his fantasy and egomania. Finally he killed – and still we couldn’t get him.’
‘What you’re saying is that all these cops were human,’ Neilson said. ‘They had moments when they failed. That doesn’t mean they failed all the time.’
‘Of course not,’ Stryker agreed. ‘Just at the wrong times, with the wrong man.’
‘Where’s Eberhardt now?’ Dana asked, in a dull voice.
‘Let’s see. He should still be in – oh, shit.’ Stryker stared at the screen, willing the words to go away. But they stayed, bright green and steady.
‘They’ll be releasing Eberhardt at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,’ Stryker said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The morning had arrived filled with the soft primrose promise of spring. Nature was being extremely considerate. An hour of rain before dawn had washed the streets clean, and a light breeze had dried the pavements, so that early pedestrians would not get their feet wet. The air smelled wonderfully fresh – you could sense the green of new leaves and grass with every breath.
Neilson and Stryker had spent most of the night patrolling French Street, hoping for a glimpse of Rivera, but had been unsuccessful. Now they sat, baggy-eyed and gritty, in the front seat of Neilson’s car, watching the gates of the prison.
Dana, who had slept on the back seat for most of the night, was fresher of eye if not of clothing.
‘What does he look like?’
‘Eberhardt or Rivera?’
‘Eberhardt.’
‘Small, skinny, blond, with acne. Long-fingered hands, sort of a sloping walk, like a sneaky rabbit.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘Rivera, on the other hand, could look like anything at all,’ Stryker went on. ‘As Harvey said, he’s a master of disguise. He’s about five ten, olive-skinned and dark-haired, but that doesn’t mean much. He could be anybody walking by here, right now. That’s the problem.’
The church clock behind them suddenly rang the hour. As the bell tolled out the count, the small door in the larger prison gate opened, and a few diffident men began to filter out. Their steps were uncertain and slow, and they seemed to hesitate for a moment before finally committing themselves to the open space in front of the gates. The third man out was Eberhardt, grinning broadly.
‘Over there!’ they all said, simultaneously. The difference was, Stryker and Neilson meant Eberhardt.
Dana meant the killer.
They all got out of the car at once, heading toward their different objectives, not noticing that they were dividing their forces, because each thought the others were with him or her.
It was a lovely morning. They were tired and they thought the end of their quest was near. Only a matter of minutes, and it would all come right.
It happens.
As Stryker and Neilson walked toward the small group of men who had emerged from the prison, a shot rang out. Twenty yards ahead of them, Eberhardt, no longer smiling, was thrown back against the prison gates by the force of the bullet, which entered his head just above the eyebrows, and exited through the back of his skull to hit the brick of the gateposts, causing a shower of brick dust and chips to mix with the blood.
‘Damn!’ Stryker shouted, and whirled to see where the shot had come from.
‘No!’ shouted Neilson at the same time, for he had seen Dana going through the gates of the large cemetery that extended to the left of the church across the way. She was running.
Dana had spotted the figure in the graveyard, perched on top of a small mausoleum behind an almost life-sized figure of the archangel Michael. She saw the rifle, and she saw it jerk as it was fired, once. The spring sun glinted for a moment off the telescopic sight as the dark figure stood up and then jumped down, leaving the rifle behind, its work apparently completed.
Dana ran across the graveyard, her shoes squelching in the spring-luscious mud between the graves. The fresh young grass was slippery, for the graveyard walls had prevented the breeze entering the place of mourning. Breezes weren’t welcomed there, nor were any other intruders encouraged.
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