“What do you mean?”
“You wouldn’t believe the red tape.”
“Christ, yes,” the fat cop said. “Remember when we had to get that gun from Trenton?”
“What gun from Trenton?”
“It was the murder weapon here, but they didn’t want to surrender it because it was used in an armed robbery there.”
“Oh, right.”
“Same thing here. Nobody’s gonna hand over the murder weapon.”
The wheels were starting to come off, the fabrication spinning out of control. “But there was no murder weapon here,” I said. “Just a bullet. Fuller’s got the murder weapon. The point was to see whether the bullet down here came from it.”
“He thinks the crimes are related?”
“He doesn’t think the crimes are related. There’s no reason to think the crimes are related. The only conceivable reason to think the crimes are related is to ruin my afternoon by making me drive down here to prove that they’re not.” I put up my hands again. “Sorry. Don’t mean to get upset. It’s just the mountains of bullshit they make you swim through. Not you guys. The system.”
“You work with Fuller?”
“That’s not that way I’d phrase it.”
The tall cop seemed amused. “What do you think of him?”
I shrugged. “Guy’s a bit of a dickhead.”
Tall cop laughed. “Hey, Rick,” he said to the guy at the desk. “What you say you help our buddy here out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Call the lab, see if they got the photo he wants. If they do, tell ’em Sergeant Stark wants it and you’re sending a detective to pick it up. They’ll give it to you if they think it’s for me. Another county, they’ll make a fuss.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Don’t thank me yet. They may not have it.”
I should have let that go. I couldn’t help myself. “Why not?”
“There’s no gun. They got a gun, they’re firing test bullets, comparing them, having a grand old time. If there’s nothing to compare it with, it isn’t urgent. Unless someone’s specifically asking, there’s no rush getting it done.”
Rick hung up the phone. “They got it. They’ll hold it for you at the desk.”
I got in the car with mixed feelings. I’d expedited getting the photo. But I’d met far more New Jersey policemen than could possibly be good for my health.
At least I hadn’t had to give them a name.
27
THE CRIME LAB IN TRENTON was in the top floor of a four-story office building in midtown with no place to park. I cruised around, found a parking meter three blocks down. It was a half-hour meter of all things, but how long could this possibly take? Nonetheless, I stepped along briskly on my way to the lab.
Good thing I did. The cop at the desk, who was supposed to have my photo, looked at me as if I were a creature from another planet.
“I’m here to pick up a photo of the fatal bullet in the Vinnie Carbone case. I was told it would be at the desk.”
“Who told you that?”
“Rick. The desk cop. He called over to make sure.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m picking up the photo for Sergeant Stark.”
“Uh huh.” The cop had a computer on his desk. He typed into it. Shook his head. “Not his case.”
“I know it’s not his case. He just wants to see the bullet.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say. He asked me to pick up the photo. He had Rick call over here to make sure there wouldn’t be a problem.”
“And who are you?” he repeated.
I wasn’t sure which was worse, giving my name, or making one up. But if Fuller got wind of this, the name Hastings would be a red flag. “Hailey,” I said. “And what’s your name?”
That caught him up short. “Why?”
“If Stark doesn’t get his photo I need to know who to refer him to.”
There went my last chance of ever being his friend. The not-so-veiled-threat jarred him out of his smug complacency. “Hold on here. I didn’t say you can’t have the photo. Before I give anything out I want to make damn sure who it’s going to.”
“It’s going to Sergeant Stark. He was under the impression you’d give him anything he wanted.”
“Him, I would. You I don’t know from Adam.”
“So call Rick.”
That had him stymied. It was clearly the thing to do, but he didn’t want to do it because it was my suggestion. He reluctantly picked up the phone and punched in the number. “Rick Daniels?… Oh? Where is he?… Hi, Sy. Listen, what do you know about some photo for Sergeant Stark?… How the hell should I know what photo? Guy here says Stark sent him to pick it up. Detective—what’s your name again?”
“Hailey.”
“Detective Hailey … You never heard of him? Well, that’s hardly a ringing endorsement. Hang on.…” The cop cupped the mouthpiece with some satisfaction. “They know nothing about it and they never heard of you.”
“Of course not. I spoke to Stark and Daniels. You’re talking to the wrong guys.”
“I don’t care who I’m talking to. They don’t know you from Adam.”
Uh oh. I could feel my knees getting weak. Envisioned handcuffs being clamped on my wrists. The expression “caught red-handed” came to mind.
I stuck out my chin. “What’s the matter,” I said. “Didn’t they take the photo?”
That caught him off guard. “Huh?”
“Stark told me it would be like that. They got no gun so there’s no rush on the fatal bullet. They may not have even taken the pictures yet.”
He glowered at me. “Who the hell you think you are, walk in here, throw around charges like that?”
“Sergeant tells me to pick up the picture, they even call ahead to make sure it’s okay. Not only is it not okay, the way you’re acting I don’t think they even got a picture of the bullet.”
A technical-looking type came out the other door. I know that’s stereotyping, but the guy had on what could have passed for scrubs if they had been a different shade, and he was carrying his hands as if he had just washed them and was heading into an operating room, though he obviously wasn’t.
“Maybe you know,” I said. “You know anything about the pictures of the Vinnie Carbone bullet?”
He smiled. “Who are you?”
Why did everyone have to ask me that? “I’m Detective Hailey. Sergeant Stark wants a photo of the fatal bullet.”’
“Why, did he find the gun?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You talk to him in person?”
“Yeah.”
“Then he must not have found a gun, or he’d have sent it over.”
“You have the photo?”
“Not my department.” He looked at the cop at the desk. “You know anything about this?”
“Just what you do. Guy waltzes in here, wants the evidence, doesn’t want to give anything in return.”
I couldn’t help asking. “What do you want in return?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Sandwich would be nice. Brisket on white with lettuce and mayo.”
My mouth fell open. The guy had to be pulling my leg. I mean, wasn’t he?
The technician said, “Lemme see if Charlie knows anything about this.”
“Thanks. I sure don’t,” the desk cop said.
The technician went back the way he came.
I wandered around looking at the walls, hoping to distract the cop from asking me any more questions. Luckily, he didn’t seem to give a damn. With the technician taking over, it was no longer his problem, no skin off his nose.
The good news was the technician was back in minutes.
The bad news was his hands were empty.
“Wally says it’s not Stark’s case.”
“Yeah, I know. Stark just wanted to see it.”
“Well, Wally made a copy, left it at the desk.”
The
cop at the desk said, “He didn’t leave it with me.”
“Right,” I said, rather testily. “He left it with the other guy. So where is it?”
The cop’s chin came up. “Hey, you want it or not?”
“I want it, I want it. Jeez, such a simple thing, suddenly it’s a federal case. So, where would he have left it?”
“I have no idea.”
“How about that manila envelope in the Out basket?”
I picked it up, turned it over.
It said “Stark.”
“There you go,” I said.
The cop looked at me. “Just cause it says “Stark” doesn’t mean anything. You want me to turn it over to you, I need some identification.”
I had no identification in the name of Hailey. Even if I did, it wouldn’t have identified me as a police officer. I eyed the door, weighed my chances if I ran for it. They were not good. Even if I made it to my car, they’d be sure to get the license number.
While I was thinking that, the cop picked up the manila envelope, unclasped the prongs, and opened the flap. He reached in, pulled out an eight-by-ten color photograph showing the striations on a bullet.
“I guess that’s it,” it said.
He shoved it back in the envelope, closed the flap, and handed it to me.
28
THE BALLISTICS EXPERT WASN’T HAPPY. “You’re not a cop?”
“No.”
“And you want me to compare a bullet?”
“I want you to fire a bullet through this gun, compare it to the bullet in this picture.”
The photo was an edited version of the one I’d gotten from the lab. The heading with the case, name, number, and jurisdiction had been cut off, as had the signature of the lab technician who had taken the photograph. In my humble opinion they were not necessary. After all, I was only dealing with one bullet.
“I’m studying forensics. I have a homework assignment on identifying bullets.”
“And you want me to do it for you?”
“I don’t have the equipment. I need a picture on a comparison microscope. I’ll write the paper.”
“But you want me to line up the bullet so it matches.”
“Not at all. I want you to compare the bullet and tell me if it matches. If it does, I’ll have a lot to write. If it doesn’t, I’ll have a lot to write, it just won’t be as easy.”
“You think the bullet will match?”
“Frankly, I think it won’t. But I need a comparison to write the paper around. Can you do it?”
The expert was younger than I would have expected, but then everyone is these days. He cocked his head, said, “All bullshit aside, what’s the story here?”
“What do you mean?”
“This bullet came from a police lab.” He put up his hands. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. They use them in education. But they leave the headers on. So you know what you’re dealing with. This photo’s been mutilated. Which means something isn’t kosher.”
“It’s a blind test. One student is given a fatal gun and a fatal bullet. Everyone else is given a placebo.” I wondered if you could say that in forensics, or just in medical trials.
“Doesn’t that give one student an incredible advantage?”
“Yes, if it were true. I think they lied to us. I think either all of the bullets match, or none of them do.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be taking a forensics course?”
“Thank you very much.”
“You mind telling me what’s really going on?”
I sighed. Whipped out my ID. “Look. I have this gun. I need to know if it fired this bullet. If it did, I’ll have to get the police involved. But I don’t want to involve them if it didn’t.”
He considered. “Okay. Two hundred bucks and I’ll have it by tomorrow.”
“I need it now.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t have it now. I gotta fire the gun, make the comparison photos, type up a report.”
“I don’t need a report. I just need a yes or no answer, is it the gun?”
“I understand. And I can’t give you a snap answer. If you’d actually had a course in forensics you’d know this was precision work.”
“Can’t you tell right away if it wasn’t the gun?”
He shook his head. “Gun’s a .38. Bullet is too. Class characteristics are going to match. So you’re talking individual characteristics. It’s a tricky thing. And if this is as important as you say, it better be right.”
“It’s as important as I say.”
“Then maybe you better have it done in a police lab.”
“Fine,” I said. “Tomorrow would be great.”
I got the hell out of there so as not to prolong the conversation. Believe me, I wasn’t happy. Waiting till the next day was going to be excruciating. I was afraid I’d walk into the guy’s office tomorrow and he’d say, “There’s no doubt, the bullet came from the gun.”
But that far from the worst-case scenario.
The worst-case scenario was I’d walk into his office and it would be filled with cops. Whom he’d called as soon as he got me out of his office. Which is why he got me out of his office. I mean, come on, the guy’s an expert, he can’t compare a bullet while I wait? The more I thought of it, the more it seemed a likely premise. Would he have called the New York cops, or would he have called the New Jersey cops? The guy had recognized the photo as coming from a crime lab. Could he tell which crime lab? “Oh, yeah, that’s the type of photographic paper they use in Jersey.” And if he called the Jersey cops, would Fuller be one of them? Wanting to know what the hell a gun and bullet had to do with his homicide, at which he’d recovered the gun and bullet.
No, finding cops in the ballistics expert’s office would be about as ugly as it could get. But aside from that, finding the bullet matched would be a hell of a kick in the crotch. Assuming that happened, I would be one mighty unhappy detective.
I figured I better prepare for that possibility.
29
I STAKED OUT THE BEAUTY parlor at three in the afternoon. I tried staking out Jersey Girl’s home but she wasn’t there. I checked out the beauty parlor on a hunch, figuring she might work different shifts. She did, and she was there, and I staked her out.
Frankly, I didn’t expect to learn anything by staking out Jersey Girl, but I was scared to death of what I might miss by not staking out Jersey Girl. So, there I was, once again, watching the beauty parlor with high anxiety and low expectations.
She was out a 4:35. That was a break. I was afraid she’d stay until eight. I started the car, fully prepared to follow her home.
Only she didn’t go home. She cruised around a few streets, and got on the New Jersey Turnpike heading south. She went two exits, got off, and drove out to where the residential properties looked lush.
Jersey Girl parked in the street beside a sprawling, two-story frame house with a flashy-looking car in the drive. She walked up the concrete path to the front stoop and rang the bell. She must have been impatient, because it seemed only a second before she rang it again.
The door was opened by a teenager with an attitude. In my day we’d have said “bad attitude,” but today we say “attitude” to mean “bad attitude,” which seems unfair to the word, but then who am I to judge? The kid must have been right at that fine line where computer games still trumped computer porn, because lush Jersey Girl might have been a wet dishrag to him. He shut the door in her face, went back inside.
Jersey Girl stood there a few moments, then turned and came down off the stoop. I thought she was leaving, but then she hesitated, looked over her shoulder toward the house. She seemed lost, helpless.
The front door banged open and a woman came out. She might have been attractive but she had her hair in curlers and a scarf on her head. I couldn’t hear her, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was saying. The woman clearly didn’t like Jersey Girl. In fact, a catfight was not out of the question. That seemed a
little harsh, with a woman whose boyfriend was recently dead. Anyway, Curler Head stepped up and went went jaw to jaw with Jersey Girl.
Jersey Girl wasn’t about to take it lying down. Yes, I realized what that sounded like the moment I thought it. But you know what I mean. She strode up to Curler Head as if she were about to give her a permanent without benefit of anesthetic. Then, in a perfectly-timed anticlimax, she turned on her heel, marched down the sidewalk to her car, and drove off.
I was late getting started. Partly because I wanted to give Curler Head time to get inside so she wouldn’t notice the coincidence of two cars pulling out at the same time, and partly because Jersey Girl was so quick she caught me by surprise.
At any rate, I lost her.
I sure hoped I wouldn’t have to explain how that happened to Alice, MacAullif, Richard, or any number of New Jersey cops.
I headed for the Jersey Turnpike, since that was how we came, got on, and drove like the devil. I didn’t see her anywhere. I got off and drove straight to her house.
She wasn’t there.
Proving, as if I needed any further proof, that I am not cut out for this job.
She showed up half an hour later. Hardly enough time to have gotten into any trouble. Long enough to convince me she probably had.
She parked and went into her house.
I weighed my options. I could go inside and ask her where she’d been. Or I could jump into the mouth of an active volcano.
It was a tossup.
30
I CALLED MACAULLIF, GAVE HIM the address of the house.
He didn’t sound happy. “What about it?”
“Who lives there?”
“You’re in no position to be asking any favors.”
“You’re in no position to be refusing.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Remember the thing that was bad?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s worse.”
“How could it be worse?”
“Think about it.”
“You did something stupid?”
“Would that surprise you?”
“Yes, it would. You’re in so much trouble any move you make could be fatal. That should be apparent to even you.”
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