Crime School

by Carol O’Connell

  Ronald Deluthe sifted though the Polaroid photographs of Stella Small madly beating flies from her hair in a subway car. In another shot, a blue garment was slung over one arm as she actually smiled for the camera – while bleeding. Then she was climbing into a cab, unaware of the line of blood on the sleeve of her blouse. In the next photograph, Kennedy Harper twisted on her rope, blurring the shot. Among the other Polaroids of the dead and dying, the prettiest subject was Sparrow, the vegetable woman in the hospital.

  He glanced at the newspaper beside the telephone. Backstage was open to the columns for auditions. Two for tomorrow were circled in red ink. The mission was an ongoing thing.

  Pssst

  CHAPTER 20

  Lieutenant Loman set down the phone and yelled loud enough to be heard all over the squad room, ‘Hey, you bastards!’

  Five heads turned his way.

  ‘Has Deluthe been around this morning?’

  ‘Blondie? No,’ said one detective. ‘I’d remember that.’

  The East Side lieutenant closed the door of his office and returned to his phone call. ‘No, Riker, he’s not here. So, like I was sayin’, the kid ain’t the greatest cop material, but you got him all wrong. The brass didn’t put him on any fast-track. The deputy commissioner hates his guts.’

  ‘His father-in-law? Why?’

  ‘Deluthe’s marriage fell apart four months ago, and the wife’s old man is out for blood. He ain’t too subtle neither. Came right out and told me to crush his son-in-law. But I didn’t want any part of it.’

  ‘And that’s why you unloaded him on me?’

  ‘The truth, Riker? I forgot Deluthe was alive. He was only takin’ up desk space around here. Wasn’t just me – nobody noticed him much. Then, the night that hooker got strung up, he comes walkin’ in here with a bad bleach job.’

  ‘And that got your attention.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. So how’s he doin’, Riker?’

  ‘Good. The kid’s doin’ good.’

  Pssst.

  Ronald Deluthe listened to the police scanner as a dispatcher reeled off codes for domestic disputes and robberies. This address was not among the calls, and another few minutes would make no difference at all.

  The insecticide permeated everything in the apartment including the closet and the clothes. There was no other discernible odor, though the body in the plastic bag was badly decomposed.

  Pssst.

  ‘Great!’ Riker paced the length of the back office at Butler and Company. ‘Now I got two AWOL detectives.’ He leaned over the fax machine to read the last report from the Wisconsin State Police. ‘So Mallory’s on the phone with these cops, and then what?’

  ‘We talked about the scarecrow.’ Charles turned to the computer monitor. ‘She was working on this machine, and then she left. Just got up and left.’

  Riker glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll give it a few minutes. Maybe she’ll call in.’ He sat down at Mallory’s desk and reached for the phone. While the detective waited on hold for Sparrow’s doctor, Charles left the room to give him some privacy, saying, ‘I’ll make some fresh coffee.’

  The office kitchen was only marginally more comfortable than Mallory’s domain, though it housed fewer electronics. He loathed the coffee machine of chrome, plastic and computer components. The programmed brew was sterilized in his mind before it ever reached his taste buds. Unlike Geldorf, Charles was a Luddite by choice: he could work the machines, but he would not. Instead, he returned to his apartment, four steps from the door of Butler and Company, to light a flame under an old-fashioned coffeepot. The coffee was done by the time Riker had tracked him across the hall and into the kitchen.

  The detective pulled up a chair at the table, and Charles set out an ashtray, inviting him to smoke if he liked. ‘So how is Sparrow?’

  „Bout the same. Still dying. They keep telling me that. She keeps hanging on. Then, an hour ago, the doctor thought she might be coming around. But he was wrong. A nurse confused a muscle spasm with a hand squeeze.’

  Charles filled two large mugs with coffee. ‘You check on her frequently, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But not just because she’s a crime victim and a witness. You really like this woman.’

  ‘We got a lot of history, me and Sparrow. She was one smart whore, and she made my job a little easier. All the dirt she ever gave me was gold. If she’d been on the payroll, she might’ve made lieutenant by now.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘And she was good to Kathy.’

  Charles wondered how Riker could say that. According to the prostitutes, Kathy had been left to fend for herself most of the time – with a little help from the Hooker Book Salon. ‘Sparrow was an addict – hardly mother material. If she cared so much, why didn’t she turn the child over to the authorities?’

  ‘Because, more than clean sheets and three square meals, the kid needed somebody to love her. Sparrow loved Kathy like crazy. That was the best the whore could do – and it was a lot.’

  Charles set the coffee mugs on the table, then sat down. ‘But now Mallory hates this woman, doesn’t she?’

  Riker said nothing – and everything. The answer could only be yes. Charles held out a box of the detective’s favorite pastries.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Riker. ‘A bribe?’

  ‘Just one question. It’s about the westerns and the prostitutes.’

  Riker smiled. ‘What a kid, huh? We only saw ten hookers last night. Figure most of them died or left town. That means Kathy was workin’ whores all over the city.’

  ‘And you think that was her only use for the books – trading stories for a support network?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Riker shrugged. ‘Lou and I spent a lot of time trying to figure out the attraction. We didn’t know about the Hooker Book Salon.’

  ‘You don’t think she cared much about the stories?’

  ‘Well, she always liked cowboys and Indians. Saturday mornings, she used to watch old westerns on TV with Lou. That was their only common ground for a while. She loved Helen at first sight, but it took Lou years to get that kid to trust him.’

  ‘You know,’ said Charles, ‘I always wondered why she never called him anything but Markowitz.’

  The detective looked at his watch. ‘I never did read that last western.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘So the Wichita Kid takes a bullet? Did I hear that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I guess I always knew it would end that way.’

  ‘If you only read the first six books, how did you – ’

  ‘I knew the sheriff would do his job.’

  ‘But the sheriff loved the Wichita Kid.’

  ‘That’s why he had to kill him, Charles. That’s what made Sheriff Peety a hero, bigger’n life. Now my job is a dirtier proposition. We give the bad guys a pass every day. They rat out their friends. We cut a deal, then watch ‘em walk away.’

  ‘But not killers.’

  ‘No, that’s the cut-off. Nobody walks away from that.’

  ‘Except Kathy Mallory. Last night, you said she was wanted for murder and arson.’

  ‘And the kid was posthumously charged,’ said Riker. ‘Case closed.’

  ‘But Kathy didn’t actually die.’

  Riker drained his coffee mug. ‘And she didn’t actually kill anybody. So?’

  The detective never noticed the comical look on Charles’s face as he was left hanging one more time. This would be maddening to most, but he was a patient man. ‘One more question? Are you disturbed by the parallels between Mallory and the scarecrow?’

  Riker stared into his empty cup, considering his words carefully. ‘It’s an old idea that cops and killers are twins. What separates us -that’s what happens after the killing is over. You think this freak has any remorse about murder?’

  Charles shook his head. ‘Not this man, no.’

  ‘But when a cop’s involved in a fatal shooting, we take away his gun – so he won’t die of remorse.’

  ‘So
you don’t see Mallory identifying with the scarecrow?’

  ‘Never,’ said Riker. ‘I’m thinking now she knows what it was like to be Lou Markowitz.’

  ‘Hunting the lost child?’

  ‘Natalie’s son, one sick puppy. Some days you got nowhere to put your hate.’ Riker stared at his watch. ‘Why doesn’t she call?’ He pulled a crumpled fax from his pocket and glanced at the text. ‘So Odeon, Nebraska, was the last place the scarecrow called home.’

  ‘We were discussing a definition of home when Mallory got up and left.’

  Riker’s fist banged the table hard enough to make the coffee mug dance to the edge. ‘She found him! Mallory knows where the scarecrow lives. Tell me everything you talked about.’ That was an order. ‘Every damn word.’

  Mallory stood on the steps of the East Village building, Natalie Homer’s last address. She pressed the intercom button for the apartment on the parlor floor. There was no answer, and she heard no sounds within.

  A man on the sidewalk was strolling toward her, regarding her with mild curiosity. He climbed the short staircase to join the detective at the front door. ‘I live here. Can I help you?’

  It was Mallory’s impression that he actually had some sincere desire to be helpful, and now she coupled him with another Midwest transplant. ‘Are you Mr White? Alice White’s husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mallory held up her badge and no more words were necessary. Smiling, he unlocked his front door and opened it wide, never questioning her right to come inside. She wondered how these friendly Wisconsin folk survived in New York City. ‘Is your wife home?’

  Mr White consulted a note on the glove table in the hall. ‘This says she’s gone to the store.’ He opened the large double doors to the front room and waved her toward a comfortable chair. ‘Please make yourself at home. I’m sure she’ll be right back.’

  When they were both seated, he said, ‘I understand Alice gave you the guided tour. So what do you think of our renovations?’

  ‘Nice job.’

  Mr White leaned forward, eyebrows arched, expecting more from her. Then he gave up and sat back, perhaps realizing that this was her entire store of small talk. ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Mallory pulled out the two sketches of the scarecrow, the poster boy for the average man, and laid them on the coffee table. Beside these portraits she set down the computer printout of another likeness.

  ‘Oh, he’s from Nebraska,’ said Mr White, after reading the address line of the driver’s license. ‘I have a sister in Nebraska.’ His forehead puckered as he stared at the picture. ‘Terrible photography.’

  Pssst.

  Deluthe was slowly becoming accustomed to the poison. He knew better than to touch anything, including the off switch for the machine that sprayed the insecticide into the air. He hunkered down before the body on the closet floor. The flesh was covered with green mold and black, and so was a good part of the bag’s interior surface. The age of the corpse was evident by the white hair, and he sexed the body by one mannish square hand pressed up against the clear plastic.

  Next to the closet, an umbrella stand held a baseball bat, the New Yorker’s favored weapon for defending hearth and home. However, the white-haired man in the bag had no bloody wounds, no apparent cause of death.

  The young detective stood up and turned round, though he could not have said why. He looked about the room. Everything was just as it should be.

  Pssst.

  ‘Well now,’ said Mr White. ‘This could be most anybody.’ He looked up from the sketch, which had been no more helpful than the driver’s license. ‘Sorry. You know I’m gone all day. It’s my wife who knows all the neighbors on sight.’

  ‘Maybe you noticed a stranger hanging around your building at night. He wears a baseball cap and – ’ Mallory turned her head toward the sound of a small bell tinkling over the front door.

  Alice White was home.

  *

  Deluthe walked toward the closed bathroom. He could not remember if he had left the door ajar. Between the automatic sprays of insecticide, the room was dead silent. He was almost certain that he was the only living thing in this apartment. Almost certain, he drew his gun as he reached for the doorknob. His skin prickled and drops of sweat slid down his face as he conjured up a vision of Mallory standing over his dead body, making caustic remarks about his failure to call in for back-up.

  Yet he opened the door.

  A hand shot out and smashed into his face. His nostrils gushed blood. His knees were weak and threatening to dump him on the floor. The man in the bathroom was raising his other hand. Was that a gun? Deluthe raised his own weapon.

  No, it was an aerosol can.

  Pssst.

  Deluthe’s eyes were on fire. He had taken a direct hit of insecticide, and now he was partially blind, only able to discern a blurry white shape, a floating face, as he hit the floor, landing on his knees. More pain.

  Mrs White entered the hallway, calling out to her husband, ‘John? Did you see my note?’ She walked into the front room and set her grocery bag on the carpet, then noticed that her husband had company. ‘Oh, hello again. You know you’re the third police officer I’ve seen today.’

  ‘What? Say again,’ said her husband.

  ‘Early this morning, there was a young man in uniform. He came right after you left. I think he must have been a friend of George’s. And then there was another one – ’ She stopped and turned to Mallory. ‘George is one of our tenants. He used to be a policeman years ago.’

  Mallory held up the sketches. ‘Does he look anything like this?’ ‘Oh, no,’ she laughed. ‘George is sixty-five if he’s a day. A very heavy man, and not so much hair.’

  Deluthe moved back. Tears had washed his eyes, and now he could see the shadowy form of a man in front of him. When he aimed his gun, it was simply taken from his hand, for he had misjudged the distance of his assailant. Fists waving blind, he made contact with the other man’s body. A savage kick to Deluthe’s testicles doubled him over in pain, and a hard punch to his stomach took his breath away. He hit the floor and lay there, rolling on to his side, curling like a fetus and listening to the opening and closing of drawers, then the sound of something tearing. He tried to get his bearings in the room. Where was the umbrella stand, the baseball bat?

  Next to the closet.

  His vision was still blurred, but he could make out the dark rectangle of the open closet door. He crawled toward it and located the nearby umbrella stand by touch. As he reached up to grab the bat, he heard the running footsteps, gained his legs and swung at the thing rushing toward him.

  He hit something. Yes, flesh and bone. The shadow man was down.

  Mrs White looked at the sketches and the photograph.

  ‘Take your time,’ said Mallory. As if she had the time. ‘Have you ever seen him before?’

  ‘Well, he looks like lots of people. He could even be that young policeman. I told him George wasn’t here. But the man he sublet the apartment to – ’

  ‘He works nights,’ said John White. ‘Same as old George.’

  ‘So I thought he might be sleeping,’ said his wife. ‘And I told that to the officer.’

  ‘The first one?’ asked John White. ‘Or do you – ’

  ‘Well, both of them,’ said his wife. ‘The second policeman was a detective. He asked if it was all right to leave a note under George’s door.’

  Deluthe’s legs were pulled out from under him. He cracked the back of his skull when he hit the floor. The baseball bat was still clenched in his right hand.

  The other man’s weight was on top of him, and together they rolled across the rug and knocked up against the wall. The assailant was beneath him now, and Deluthe smashed his fist into the face that he could barely see. His opponent did not seem to feel the blows, a hand was closing on Deluthe’s testicles, and he screamed in agony.

  When had he let go of the bat?

  M
allory was deep in denial. ‘This man lives in your building, and you never got his name?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr White, speaking for his wife, ‘it’s not like he’s a complete stranger. He’s been visiting old George for years.’

  Once more, Mallory tapped the pictures on the coffee table. ‘Could this be your sublet?’

  ‘It could be.’ Mrs White picked up one of the sketches. ‘I’m not sure. It could also be one of those policemen. The detective – he’s the one who wanted to leave a note. He came by just a little while ago, and I sent him upstairs. Well, I had to run to the store, so the young man said he’d let himself out.’

  Pssst.

  Ronald Deluthe was lying on his side. He could taste the blood in his mouth as he ripped off the tape. His other hand was feeling around for the baseball bat. Blind fingers no sooner closed around the wood than it was twisted out of his grasp. His right arm was forced up behind his back, and he could feel muscle and bone ripping away from the socket. The pain was beyond anything he had ever imagined. Tiny points of shooting white lights were all that he could clearly see. His scream was muffled by another piece of tape covering his mouth.

  ‘George’s sublet is a very quiet young man,’ said Alice White. ‘We never hear a sound from that apartment.’

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t, would we?’ Her husband smiled. ‘It’s on the top floor. So one day, I met him on the stairs. He had George’s keys. He said the old man left town in the middle of the night. Some family crisis.’ He smiled to reassure the skeptical detective. ‘Well, he did have George’s keys, and he seemed presentable. There was no reason to – ’

  ‘And you were afraid of him.’ Mallory did not have to wait for a reply. It was in the man’s face. And now she understood why no one had pressed the sublet for so much as a name to call him by. ‘Take another look.’ She held up one sketch. ‘Imagine him with a baseball cap and a gray canvas bag with a red stripe.’