Felony Murder

by Joseph T. Klempner

  “No, I still didn’t get the tape,” Bingham assured him.

  “How about the sprint report?”

  “I think I’ve got that,” said Bingham. “Let me see.” There was a long pause, during which Dean could hear papers being shuffled. At one point, he thought he could hear the muffled sound of voices, as though Bingham had placed the receiver, mouthpiece facing down, on an upholstered couch or chair. Or intentionally covered it with his hand.

  After several minutes, Bingham came back on. “Yeah, I’ve got the sprint,” he said. “How about I drop a copy in the mail?”

  “No, I’ve got to come over to the building anyway,” Dean lied. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.” He hung up without giving Bingham a chance to argue.

  The usual seven-minute walk took Dean twelve minutes. He winced in pain each time he had to step off a curb and land on the street surface below. He had thought all sidewalks had sloped portions at intersections for wheelchair access; he was surprised to discover how many did not.

  Dean knew the receptionist at the seventh-floor entrance to the District Attorney’s Office, and she waved him through without asking his destination. He negotiated the one flight down and found Bingham’s room. The door was open, but he knocked anyway as he entered.

  “Hey, Dean. How’s the cripple?”

  “Getting along.” It might have been Dean’s imagination, but he thought Bingham covered some papers on his desk with a file before extending his hand to shake Dean’s.

  “This is the sprint report,” Bingham said, handing Dean several pages containing small computer type.

  Looking down at it, Dean could see that certain portions had been blacked out. “What’s with the Magic Marker attack?” he asked.

  “Oh, that. I’ve redacted it. All that’s covered up is the names, addresses, and phone numbers of civilian witnesses. S.O.P.”

  “C’mon, Walter. That’s standard when your witnesses need protection from an organized crime defendant or a drug dealer with nasty friends. My client’s a fucking homeless guy, sitting in jail without bail, with no friends or family in the whole world.”

  “Sorry, Dean,” said Bingham, and he looked to Dean as though he might actually be. “You know I’m not exactly calling all the shots on this one.”

  “Who is?”

  “People who get paid a lot more than I do. Don’t ask me questions I can’t answer, Dean.”

  “What are they afraid of? This case is a goddamn grounder for you guys.”

  “If it’s such a grounder, why doesn’t your guy take the fifteen to life?” Bingham asked. “You know Rothwax will whack him out after trial. And I know you’re not one to force it to trial for the publicity.”

  “What can I tell you, Walter? My guy says he didn’t rob anyone.”

  “Right,” said Bingham. They both smiled.

  Hobbling back to his office, Dean wondered if his failure to encourage Joey Spadafino to plead guilty and take the fifteen to life might, in fact, have been motivated, in part, by his own desire for the publicity the trial would be certain to bring him. Lawyers did it all the time. Jean Harris might have plea-bargained and been out in three years for killing the doctor who was her former lover. Dean liked to think he was a cut above that, but who knew, really?

  It was not until he reached his office and tossed his cane on his couch that it struck Dean that, in Walter Bingham’s office, there was neither a couch nor an upholstered chair to muffle a telephone mouthpiece.

  Dean spread the sprint report sheets out on his desk. Each page was subdivided into twelve boxes, two across by six down. The boxes, in turn, contained computer-printed lines made up of coded numbers and abbreviations arcane enough to stump an experienced cryptologist, but easily decipherable to someone with a working knowledge of police jargon.

  Since each box referred to a single “job,” or investigation, Dean’s first task was to skim through them to determine which boxes related to the Bleecker Street incident and which related to other jobs altogether. The latter he drew a line through to eliminate. When he had completed the four pages, he was left with a total of thirteen boxes pertaining to the Bleecker Street job. Using scissors, tape, and the copy machine, Dean cut and pasted, copied, and enlarged until he had three pages containing all thirteen relevant boxes in sequential order and legible type size. Then he began the more arduous task of deciphering the coded lines of print.

  The first entry began:

  0228 911 Op 23 10-20 vicinty 76 Bleekr x sts 6th & 7th

  To Dean this meant that the job had begun with a call to the 911 operator at 2:28 a.m., reporting a robbery in progress in the vicinity of 76 Bleecker Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues.

  0229 Any 13 Pet unit: 10-20 76 Bleekr 6th 7th Ave

  0229 Adam resp. Any further?

  0230 No furth, Adam. Civ hung up. Any other units in area?

  0230 Charlie on 7th Av hding S, ETA 2 mins

  The remainder of the first box told Dean that the operator, within a minute of receiving the 911 call, had put out a request for any radio car in the Thirteenth Precinct to report to the scene. Car A had been the first to respond, asking if the operator had any further information. No, the operator had responded; the civilian caller had hung up the phone. Answering a request for further cars in the area, Car C had radioed in to say they were on their way, heading south on Seventh Avenue, about two minutes away.

  Dean continued through the boxes. The next several dealt with radio traffic among the responding units and the central operator. Then the original civilian had called back.

  0232 911 Op 06 Dupl Job: Fern clld

  earlier rpts perp took money fled rt on Bleekr towrd 7th Av. Perp is MW or Hisp 5-4 to 5-7 dark jak blue wool cap ID’s self as tel

  The operator had transmitted the description of the perpetrator to the responding units, together with the fact that he had headed right to Seventh Avenue. This time the caller, a woman, had left her name and phone number, though both items had been blacked out on Dean’s copy.

  Dean continued to read. In spite of the fact that he had been told that there were two eyewitnesses to the crime, he noted that no other civilian had called the 911 operator. All of the remaining entries chronicled the chase and arrest of the perpetrator. It had ended six minutes after it had begun.

  0234 Adam to Central One under at 7th and Spring 4 units on scene No further, repeat no furth

  Dean went back to the boxes containing the two calls from the female civilian. He did not know her name, address, or telephone. What he did know was that, somehow, he had to find her. Accentuate the positive, he told himself. What did he know? Unless she was calling from a phone booth on the street in a snowstorm at two-thirty in the morning, it meant she was in one of the buildings near 76 Bleecker Street, where the crime had occurred. Moreover, in order to be able to see that the perpetrator had actually taken money, Dean figured she had to be either in 76 Bleecker Street itself or directly opposite, more or less. Since 76 was an even number, it would be on the downtown, or south, side of Bleecker Street. If the caller was in that building, her window would face north, putting Seventh Avenue to her left. But she had told the 911 operator that the perpetrator had fled to the right - no doubt meaning her right - toward Seventh Avenue. That placed her across the street from 76.

  The District Attorney’s Office might not want to give the defense the name of its eyewitnesses, Dean decided, but that didn’t mean that the defense had to sit on its butt.

  He got his address book out and looked under “I” for Investigators. He had used a number of private investigators over the years. They tended to be retired detectives who would work hard on the first case you brought them in on. But the rates they were paid to work on assigned cases such as this one were pitifully low, and they soon tired of putting in the creative energy and time-consuming canvassing that criminal investigations demanded.

  Dean made two calls. The first was to Jimmy McDermott, a former federal agent who was pretty go
od when he was sober. If he was in, he was not answering his phone. The second was to Charlie Hayes, who had a cheerful message on his answering machine that promised he’d get back to the caller as soon as possible.

  Patience was not Dean Abernathy’s strong suit. He tossed the Spadafino file into a briefcase, along with an extra writing pad and pen. He decided to keep his suit and tie on instead of changing back into his more comfortable jeans-and-sneakers outfit. He figured he might appear a little less threatening in his lawyer costume. Then he headed for the subway to Greenwich Village, to find a female who lived across from 76 Bleecker Street. More or less.

  It’s not with the two Dominicans that Joey finally gets into his first fight. Instead, it is with a black kid who can’t be any taller than five-four, but who’s built like a fire hydrant. It’s on a Monday night, and they’re in the TV room, watching a rerun of M*A*S*H. Something that Hawkeye says strikes Joey as funny, and he laughs. This black kid sitting in front of him turns around and says, “Why don’t you shut your mouth, motherfucker.”

  Joey knows it’s not a question that calls for an answer, but before giving it too much thought, he says, “Because it was funny. Lighten up a little, man.”

  The black kid says, “I ain’t your man,” and then, in one movement, he is up and on Joey, knocking him backward off his chair. Joey, falling, grabs the black kid by the front of his shirt and pulls him down with him. They roll on the floor together, too close to hit each other with any force. A CO shouts something that Joey can’t understand, and he and other inmates grab at Joey and the black kid, trying to pry their arms loose. Just when Joey lets go of the black kid, the black kid butts him, forehead against forehead. Joey sees a flash of light, then feels the pain. His forehead is opened so bad it’ll take seventeen stitches at the infirmary to close it. Meanwhile, the black kid doesn’t even seem to be hurt.

  Late that night, back in his cell and nursing a headache that’ll last two days, Joey wonders if the black kid avoided injury because he was ready for the collision, or because black heads are somehow harder than white ones.

  Lying on the two-inch-thick mattress of his bunk, he’s aware that in some peculiar way, he’s glad to have been in his first fight on the Block, relieved that it happened, that he didn’t back down, and that he’s survived it. It makes him feel like he can survive anything. He also kind of likes the idea that he’ll have a mean scar across his forehead. He knows it’s something that’ll warn others not to mess with him: here’s a guy who’ll fight back, who doesn’t give a fuck.

  What’s more, he’s glad he’s told his lawyer what they can do with that fifteen-to-life shit. Joey Spadafino didn’t murder nobody, no matter what they say, and he ain’t copping out this time around. They can bring on the whole fucking twenty-five to life; he’s taking this one to trial.

  Dean found 76 Bleecker Street without difficulty. He could readily see why Joey Spadafino had selected that particular doorway to stand in. It was deeply recessed and would have afforded its occupant a fair amount of protection from either the reach of swirling snow or the visibility of an approaching victim.

  There was only one building directly across the street, 77 Bleecker, but instead of being a small brownstone like most of the buildings on the block, it was a larger apartment house. Good news and bad, thought Dean. Good because it increased the likelihood that his witness had to have been in it to see as clearly as she apparently had; bad because it was large enough to contain many apartments, instead of the four or five likely in a brownstone.

  Dean noticed also that there was no pay phone in sight, in either direction.

  Crossing the street to 77 Bleecker, he counted six stories including the one at street level. Except for the first, which was broken by the entrance, each story contained seven windows, though he could not determine where one apartment ended and another began.

  An outside door, closed but not locked, let him into a vestibule that contained a panel of names arranged by apartment number and letter, each accompanied by a buzzer. There was also a telephone intercom. Dean counted twenty-three names in all, beginning with 1A and ending with 6D.

  He tried the handle to the inner door but found it locked. He was about to reach for his wallet and try either a credit card or a small piece of Venetian blind slat he had kept from his DEA days, when he heard a noise from within the inner door. Seeing someone approaching, Dean pulled out his keys instead, put them up to his mouth and held them between his teeth. Then he tucked his briefcase under one arm and leaned his weight in an exaggerated fashion on his cane, which he grasped with the opposite hand. When the inner door swung open, revealing a gray-haired woman led by a tugging dachshund, Dean released his bite on the keys, letting them land noisily on the floor. As he struggled to pick them up, the woman held the inner door wide for him, all the while bestowing a sympathetic smile upon him. The dachshund, not fooled for a moment, growled impatiently and strained at its leash toward the outer door.

  Dean found the elevator and pushed the top button, being careful to keep his orientation with regard to the front of the building. Getting off on the sixth floor, he was able to determine that only 6A and 6B fronted on Bleecker Street, while the windows to 6C and 6D had to face the sides or rear of the building. Using the stairs on the way down, he saw that the pattern repeated itself on each floor except the first, where a storage room of some sort replaced the B-line apartment, leaving only 1A in the front.

  Back in the vestibule, Dean removed a pad and pen from his briefcase and copied the information he needed from the panel. When he was finished, he had a list of eleven names.

  1A NOVACEK (Super)

  2A CIPPOLINO

  2B H. DILLARD

  3A KLEIN/RINER

  3B J. KILLIAN

  4A DELVALLE

  4B CHANG

  5A DRABINOWITZ, S.

  5B JACOBANIS-BREWSTER

  6A A & M MANGIARACINO

  6B ALTSHULER

  Dean’s first reaction was that he had stumbled upon a miniature United Nations in the heart of Greenwich Village. But he was pleased: All of the apartments had names to go with them, and that at least gave him a starting place.

  Dean knew that he couldn’t rush this, that he dared not charge in and go from door to door expecting that the lawyer for the murderer of the Police Commissioner would be given the time of day, much less the answer to who had witnessed and reported the crime. He had to be more patient than that. And more creative.

  Back at his apartment, Dean decided to make himself a real meal for a change. Though he stubbornly refused to follow recipes (they reminded him of lessons), he considered himself an innovative cook and was not above using his talent to impress a female friend now and then. His philosophy was simple: If you used ingredients you liked individually, and didn’t do anything to hurt them in the cooking process, you were bound to end up with something good. Another cardinal rule was to avoid garlic at all costs. He hated it in any way, shape, or form with a passion, and had come to believe that he could detect the most minute quantity in any food that contained it, the way a shark is said to be able to pick up one part of blood in a million parts of seawater.

  On the way home, he had bought fresh pasta, bread, a red pepper (they were on sale), asparagus (the thin ones), and scallions. No garlic. Dicing the vegetables, a task most would consider tedious, gave Dean the same kind of mindless pleasure he got from mowing a lawn in perfect lines. He didn’t own a food processor, preferring to use a knife and wooden cutting board, making little piles of red, green, and white, the essential food-color groups. Then, using chicken broth in place of oil, he sautéed the mixture while the pasta boiled, making certain not to overcook either. He tasted the vegetables as he stirred them, adding salt, red pepper, and pinches of various dried green leaves that filled a dozen or so tiny jars on his kitchen shelf. He drained the pasta but did not rinse it, then added the vegetables. The result, along with a half a loaf of sourdough bread and a tall glass of iced tea sweetene
d with sugar and soured with lime, was dinner.

  If the meal was good, the ambience was decidedly second-rate. Dean had no dining room table or, for that matter, dining room. He ate sitting on his all-purpose couch, plate balanced on his knees, breadcrumbs accumulating on his lap. Every month or so, he vacuumed his apartment, and the things he discovered underneath the cushions were wondrous to behold. Forks, spoons, loose change that had escaped from his pockets, all sorts of dessicated reminders of long-ago meals. Once he had found what he was certain was a tiny fetus, carefully planted there by some militant right-to-life group, only to realize upon closer scrutiny that it was a cooked shrimp that had somehow slipped away from its companions.

  Sitting with his second glass of iced tea, Dean toyed with the idea of lighting a fire. He needed a break from work. But his thoughts drifted back to the Spadafino case. A lawyer by profession, Dean was still an investigator at heart, a carryover from his DEA days that would forever shape his approach to his craft. And the Bleecker Street puzzle beckoned him.

  In the end, he opted for both a fire and work. Leaving the dishes unwashed, he set about laying a fire. He rolled pieces of newspaper into tubes tight enough to burn slowly, but not too tight to prevent some air from circulating within the sheets. He ripped the ends of each roll to allow the flame a starting place. On top of the paper, he placed a kindling of twigs, small branches, and splinters from logs. Those he topped with three split logs, recognizing each from having cut and split them: one piece of ash, easily identifiable from its thick, deeply furrowed bark; a red oak, which would last into the night; and a small cedar log, which he selected for the scent it would produce. He placed a single sheet of newspaper on top of the logs and lit it first. It burst into flame, creating an immediate draft up the narrow chimney. With the same match, Dean quickly lit the lower rolls of newspaper, then sat back and watched with a child’s pleasure as the fuel ignited in stages, bottom to top.