Suspects

by William Caunitz

Higgins glared her disdain at him. “Whaddaya hear from your head these days, Crawford? Nothing, I bet. You just get a steady dial tone.”

  Shaking his organ, Crawford said, “I bet this’d make you whistle ‘Dixie.’”

  She sauntered over to him. “Break it out, numb nuts. Let’s see what you got.”

  He took her dare, spreading the fly of his underpants, revealing himself.

  She took a few steps backward, looking in at the shriveled organ, shaking her head in pitying disbelief. “There’s not enough there to fill a thimble. Thank God I’m gay.” She went back to the urn. The other detectives laughed at the chunky detective in his oversize checkered boxer shorts.

  Scanlon got up from his desk and went over and kicked the door closed, a signal that he did not want to be disturbed. His stump throbbed and his phantom leg was receiving messages. That happened whenever he did not get enough sleep. He took a pad from the bottom drawer of his desk and made notes. He recounted his conversation with Gretta Polchinski and Walter Ticornelli. He reread a Five that he had gone over last night. Something about it bothered him.

  At T/P/O the undersigned personally interviewed Sigrid Thorsen F/W/27 of 2347 Avenue Z, Brooklyn, who stated that at T/O she was sitting on a bench in McGoldrick Park playing with her eight-month-old daughter when a man who answered to the description of the perp sat down on the adjoining bench. Witness states that the man fed pigeons peanuts. She stated that she looked over at him and he gave her a nasty look and she turned away. Witness further states that there was something peculiar about this man, but when pressed by the undersigned to state what, was unable to do so.

  He pushed the Thorsen statement aside and after a brief search through the case folder came up with the statement of another witness, Thomas Tibbs. A M/W/32 of 1 Pinkflower Drive, Scars-dale, New York, who stated that he was the manager of the Gotham Federal Savings Bank located at 311 Wall Street, New York City. Witness stated that at T/O he was walking east on Driggs Avenue when he heard three loud reports that sounded like gunfire. He looked in the direction of the reports and saw a man running from a candy store toward a blue van that was parked at the curb. This man, stated the witness, was carrying a single-barrel shotgun in his right hand. Tibbs stated that he would make himself available to view photos and that he would recognize the perp if he saw him again.

  “Why Tibbs on Driggs Avenue at that time of day?” Scanlon wrote.

  After filling seven pages with notes he turned to the department envelope containing the photographs of the crime scene. He untied the string and removed colored 8×l0s. He studied each one, searching for some telling piece of overlooked evidence. In the end, he thought, raw meat always looks like raw meat. He slid the photographs back into the envelope and turned his attention to the composite sketch of the perp. Studying it, he thought, Who are you, pally? What was your motive? He had become painfully aware of the scarcity of physical evidence and hoped that the lab boys would come up with something that he could hang his hat on.

  As he restudied his notes, he mentally reviewed his conversation with Walter Ticornelli. A week’s vig and two large off the principal, the shylock had said. He reached back into the pile of department forms and pulled out the property clerk voucher. As he had thought, Higgins had invoiced sixteen dollars and thirty-two cents in U.S. currency. If Ticornelli had told him the truth, and if his calculations were correct, Gallagher should have had twenty-one hundred and fifty dollars on him at the time of his death. So, he asked himself, where was that money? After thinking about that for a minute or so, he heaved himself out of his chair and left the Squad.

  Police Officer Kiley O’Reilly had never read Interim Order 11 dated March 4, 1983—Early Identification and Referral of Employees with Alcohol Problems.

  O’Reilly had been on the Job sixteen years, and as close as his peers could figure, he had been drunk for the last eleven. Despite all the publicity about its modern management techniques, the NYPD protects its drunks.

  O’Reilly had become part of the Job’s folklore. At one time he was the scourge of the bars of Manhattan North. His frequent toots often ended with him using the terraced bottles of booze behind the bar for target practice. Miraculously, no one had ever been hurt during one of O’Reilly’s toots, and he became a legend. But, alas, the day came when the borough commander of Manhattan North lost his sense of humor with Kiley O’Reilly. It all happened on a November evening, a payday, on or about 1800 hours. Police Officer O’Reilly found himself swaying in front of the rectory of the Church of the Redemption, stewed to the mickey. In his stupor, he associated the clouded second-floor window with instructions that he had received during his firearms training in Recruit School—aim for the gray area. And that was exactly what Kiley O’Reilly did. He put six standard-velocity lead bullets through the second-floor bathroom window. When the first of his bullets thundered through the window, Msgr. Terence X. Woods was seated upon the throne enjoying his nightly bowel movement and paging through the latest issue of Playboy. The right reverend monsignor leaped howling from the toilet seat, with his trousers gathered at the ankles, and made a desperate hop for the door in an attempt to escape the fusillade. He had made one good hop before he stumbled upon the cold floor, unable to control his bowel movement.

  Within the hour, Kiley O’Reilly had his guns removed, and was transferred into the bow-and-arrow squad, and banished to the Nine-three, where he was assigned as the Broom, which meant it was his responsibility to keep the station house clean. He was most diligent in performing his daily chores, meticulously ensuring that the green Second World War–vintage window shades on every window were pulled down to exactly thirty-two inches from each sill. Duties finished, O’Reilly would retire to the garage and hide inside one of the two morgue boxes that were stored in every patrol precinct so that bodies found in a public place and offending public decency could be removed to the station house without having to wait for the meat wagon. Squirreled inside the morgue box was O’Reilly’s “flute,” a Pepsi bottle filled with whiskey.

  Scanlon hurried out of the station house, passed under the two huge green globes that were affixed to the entrance of the fortresslike stone building, turned right, and made for the garage.

  He pushed in the walk-through door and stepped into the garage. The interior was military-clean, with everything in its assigned place. Red buckets filled with sand were next to the two gas pumps; the portable generator was oiled and ready for the next blackout. The snow blower was next to the generator; the emergency string lights were strung over the brick wall.

  Joe Gallagher’s Ford was parked inside a rope barrier that had a single crime scene sign attached. The surface of the car was smudged with white fingerprint powder. Scanlon lifted the rope and ducked under. He peered inside the car and was relieved to see that the glove compartment was closed and that no personal property was strewn about. The precinct scavengers had not been at the car.

  He climbed back out over the rope and went over to one of the morgue boxes. He flipped down the top lid. Kiley O’Reilly was stretched out with his feet crossed at the ankles and a Pepsi bottle at rest on his stomach. “Howya doin’, Lou?” O’Reilly singsonged.

  “You see anyone messing with this car?”

  O’Reilly swung his legs out over the side and sat up, legs dangling over the edge. “That car belonged to the dead, Lou. Ain’t nobody going to mess with it.”

  Scanlon took in the half-filled Pepsi bottle and went back to the car.

  Scanlon entered the car on the passenger side and stretched his hand under the seat, searching. NR. Then he stuffed his hand between the front cushion and the back of the seat and inched along, slowly making his way across to the driver side. NR. Kneeling on the front cushion, he reached into the back of the car and yanked out the rear cushion. NR. Fascinated, Kiley O’Reilly watched him, taking short pulls from his bottle.

  By now the seats were askew and all four doors open. Scanlon stood with his foot on the rear bumper, trying to gue
ss where the money could be. After a few contemplative moments, he slapped his foot down and left the garage.

  He returned within a few minutes twirling a key ring that he had just removed from the property clerk folder that contained Joe Gallagher’s personal property.

  Kiley O’Reilly took a long pull, anticipating.

  Scanlon opened the car’s trunk, leaned inside, and began poking around, moving tools and other things. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he unthreaded the wing nut that secured the spare tire in the well. Nut off, he hefted the tire out and set it down on the rim of the well. He spotted the department multi-use envelope on the bottom of the well. He reached in, removed it, opened the flap, and fanned twenty-one hundred-dollar bills and a brand-new fifty into the palm of his hand. Ticornelli told me the truth, he thought, looking down at the spread of money. But why had Gallagher been so cautious? Why hide money in his car? The gun and shield that cops carry usually give them a sense of invincibility.

  The Gotham Federal Savings Bank had a glass facade. Bank executives could be seen at desks earnestly discussing things with customers. Higgins parked the department auto in the crosswalk and tossed the vehicle identification plate onto the dashboard. Scanlon started to slide out on the passenger side, hesitated, and reached back into the car and removed the radio handset from the black rubber cradle and laid it across the dashboard. “Now let one of the meter maids say she didn’t know it was a department car that she hung one on.”

  “We should carry M&M candy wrappers with us and put them on the dash. That’s how the parking enforcement people identify their private cars to each other,” Higgins said, locking the door. They walked over to the bank and asked to see Mr. Tibbs.

  “I told my story a dozen times to the other detectives.” Thomas Tibbs was a man of medium height who wore his thinning black hair plastered down and parted on the side. He wore a three-piece gray business suit and had the obligatory college ring on his right hand.

  “I’m afraid that you are going to have to tell it one more time,” Scanlon said.

  The banker came out from behind his desk and motioned the detectives over to a grouping of chrome-and-canvas chairs that had been arranged around a chrome-and-glass table. It was a large airy office with its own bathroom. As Scanlon lowered himself into the chair, he took in the precisely arranged photographs of bank executives that lined the nearby wall. They were all stern men with the look of acute constipation etched into their scowls. He looked away in time to catch the banker’s gaze caressing Higgins’s body. She had perched sideways on her chair, the fall of her blouse accentuating her healthy bosom. She too had noticed the banker’s interest and had shifted in her seat and crossed her legs, ensuring that the hem of her skirt rode up above her knee, revealing some thigh. The witness stole a quick look and returned his full attention to Scanlon.

  Higgins said, “We appreciate your seeing us, Mr. Tibbs.” She used her best saccharine tone.

  Tibbs looked at her and smiled. “It’s my pleasure, Detective Higgins.”

  Scanlon leaned back and relaxed. This was going to be Maggie’s show.

  “Mr. Tibbs,” she began, “you stated that the man whom you saw running from the candy store was carrying a single-barrel shotgun in his right hand.”

  Tibbs began to rub the stone of his college ring across his lips. “That is correct,” he said, trying to make eye contact with her.

  “The time sequence was in seconds,” Higgins stated flatly. “How can you be so positive it was a shotgun that you saw and not a rifle or a stick, or a piece of pipe?”

  Tibbs lowered his hand from his lips and responded smugly, “What I saw, Detective Higgins, had a ventilated-rib barrel and a plated breechblock. Only shotguns possess those characteristics.”

  Cocky bastard, thought Scanlon.

  “There might come a time, Mr. Tibbs, when you will be asked to testify in court. If that time should come you are going to be asked what qualifies you to make such technical observations concerning firearms.”

  A confident smile caught the edges of Tibbs’s lips. He sneaked another look at Maggie’s thigh and said, “I’m an avid hunter, Detective Higgins. And when I was in the army I was trained as an armorer.”

  She started to ask the next question but he interrupted her and said, “Please make it Tom,” so she continued, “Tom, did you notice if the stock or the barrel was cut down?”

  “The stock was cut way down.”

  “In your previous statements you mentioned that you noticed something odd about the killer as he ran for the van. At the time, you were unable to say what it was. Now that you have had time to think about it, can you tell us?”

  “I’ve racked my brains and I just don’t know what it was about him that bothered me. But I do know that it had something to do with the way he ran. It was unnatural.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Would you recognize the killer again if you saw him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Before they’d left the squad room Scanlon had taken several composite sketches that were connected to other cases and the one that the artist had prepared in the Gallagher/Zimmerman case and had laid them out on a desk. He’d taken the Squad’s Polaroid one-on-one camera and photographed the layout. He now picked up the envelope from his lap and opened it, hoping that the witness would pick out the correct one. Leaning up out of his seat, he passed the layout to Tibbs. “Would you please take a look and see if you recognize anyone?” Scanlon said.

  Tibbs scrutinized the layout. “This is the man I saw running from the candy store,” he said, tapping the fourth sketch.

  Tibbs had selected the correct one.

  Higgins looked at Scanlon with an expression that said, He’s going to make one helluva witness.

  Juries tend to believe bankers and priests; it’s the veracity of cops, lawyers, and doctors that they hold in disrepute. Scanlon was bothered. At one time cops didn’t concern themselves with the credibility of witnesses. That was the DA’s job. That was no longer the case. And Scanlon had learned that the hard way. Several blown cases had taught Scanlon to learn everything there was to learn about potential witnesses.

  Higgins broke his private reverie. “Got any questions, Lou?”

  Scanlon cupped palms over kneecaps. Arched his back. “You’re married, live in Scarsdale, and work in Manhattan. Correct?”

  A kernel of apprehension crept into the witness’s bland expression. “Yes.”

  “How do you get to work, Mr. Tibbs?”

  “The seven-sixteen from Scarsdale. It gets me into the office …” The witness stopped in midsentence, his eyes dilated with sudden concern. Scanlon nodded knowingly at him. He knew his secret and he wanted him to know that he knew. Scanlon would not press the issue, at least not yet. Scanlon pried himself up off the chair. “Thanks for your cooperation,” he said, shaking the banker’s limp hand, staring into his worried eyes.

  Sigrid Thorsen lived on the southern edge of Brooklyn, in Bath Beach, the Six-two. When she answered her door she was holding a baby and her hair was turbaned in a white towel. While Scanlon displayed police credentials and explained the purpose of their unannounced visit, Higgins reached past him into the two-bedroom apartment and playfully grasped the baby’s tiny fist.

  The witness opened the door for the detectives. Higgins walked at the witness’s side, admiring the baby and cooing at her. Thorsen led the detectives into a large comfortable living room with a black folding room divider that separated the room from the dining area. There was a terrace that overlooked other apartment houses and terraces.

  Sigrid Thorsen was a Nordic beauty: tall and thin with clear white skin that emphasized her wide umber eyes. Thin crescent lines were visible around her lips. She was wearing fawn-colored shorts and a white short-sleeved cotton top. Her nipples were evident through the soft cotton. She offered them seats and excused herself; it was time for her baby’s nap, she
explained. As she moved toward the bedroom Scanlon took in her long legs, tight calves, and round behind. Higgins, who had sat next to him on the long white couch, leaned close. “Nice,” she whispered.

  “Competition I don’t need,” he said, watching the legs disappear into a distant room.

  When the witness returned some time later, Scanlon noticed that she had applied makeup and had brushed her hair out. It was long and had a soft yellow hue and flowed smoothly past her shoulders.

  She sat in a low leather chair. “How may I help you?”

  Scanlon led her through the statement she had given the other detectives. She listened attentively. At appropriate places during the narrative she would nod or say yes. She stared down at the shaggy carpet as he talked. “You told the other detectives that there was something strange about the man who sat on the next bench, that he frightened you. Can you tell me exactly what it was about him that made you feel that way?”

  Sigrid Thorsen looked up at him. “There was something odd about him, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Anything else?”

  She shook her head.

  Watching her closely, he asked, “Would you be willing to submit to hypnosis, Mrs. Thorsen?”

  “Hypnosis? Why?”

  “Because you’re the one person who got a good look at the killer. Under hypnosis you might be able to recall some bit of information that could prove important.” He leaned forward to emphasize the importance of what he was going to say next. “I assure you, it’s perfectly safe, and we’d provide you with transportation and a policewoman to baby-sit.”

  “I would have to discuss that with my husband. I’ll let you know.” Scanlon picked up the envelope containing the sketches. He removed the layout and handed it to her. “Would you mind looking at this and seeing if you recognize anyone?”

  She took it and laid it down on her lap, studying the grouping of composite sketches. After a while she looked up and said, “It’s number four. That’s the man in the park, the one who sat on the next bench and fed the pigeons.”