Suspects

by William Caunitz

  Sally De Nesto’s voice was next. She confirmed their date for later that night and asked that he not arrive at her place before ten. She offered no explanation; none was needed.

  He read through the Gallagher/Zimmerman case folder, jotting reminders to himself. Had Maggie Higgins located the missing witness, Valerie Clarkson, the only one of Gallagher’s girlfriends to pull a Mandrake? Call Thorsen woman to ascertain if she’ll consent to being hypnotized. Interview Gallagher’s wife. He wondered what it must have been like to be married to a living legend. He’d have to wait until after the funeral to find out. He had started to jot down something else when he caught a whiff of Linda Zimmerman’s fragrance. He wondered what it would be like to hold her in his arms. At one time when he used to fantasize about women he’d feel a stirring in his stomach, sometimes a sudden hardness. And now … He tweaked his genitals. They felt useless. He snapped the pencil in half, threw the pieces down on his desk, got up, and hurried from his office.

  The exercise room in the basement of the station house was empty. The heavy bag hung still; the speed bag glistened. Weights and barbells were neatly lined up in their cases. He stripped off his shirt, took his gun out of his holster, put it on the shelf, and began doing bench presses with ninety pounds of bells.

  Limp dick, with the pegleg, he kept repeating to himself, as the sweat appeared on his body.

  The E. G. McGuinness Funeral Home had a porte cochere of four stately white columns. Tara of Greenpoint. It was on Austin Boulevard between Baker and Furbish streets. Scanlon arrived a little before seven. Police cars were lined up on both sides of Austin and on the side streets. Policemen’s private cars also clogged the streets. A detail of one sergeant and ten cops had been assigned by the borough command to ensure the free flow of vehicular and pedestrian traffic. Wakes of hero cops were public affairs. The precinct designations on the radio cars attested to the solidarity of the patrol force. Every precinct command in the city was represented.

  Inside, the funeral home was thronged with mourners. Every cop wore his dress uniform; no savers here. Every shield bore a mourning band. The portable walls on the first floor of the home had been opened to form one enormous room to accommodate the overflow crowd. There were hundreds of floral pieces. Many stands were filled with mass cards. There were dozens of chasubles and chalices that would be donated to churches and priests. An honor guard of six lieutenants was formed around the closed, flag-draped coffin.

  Mourners queued up to the prie-dieu to pay their respects. A grim-faced George Harris was there to greet each one, to lead them over to the cushioned prayer stand, and wait as they silently prayed. As each mourner stood, Harris would escort him over to the widow, who sat grieving in the first row. Harris would wait as condolences were mumbled and then usher the mourner away.

  The widow’s chair distinguished her as the primary mourner. It was a wing chair with walnut cabriole legs and was covered with floral needlework on a black background. The other mourners sat on metal folding chairs that had thin black cushions tied onto their seats.

  Scanlon’s eyes played over the crowd as he shouldered his way into the viewing room. He spied the familiar group of retired cops clustered together talking about the old days. There were no cops on the Job then with names like Abdul Illah Baihat or Kim Lee Song. In those days the Job was lily-white, Christian. Scanlon recognized a few of the old chiefs. Some of them had been powers in the Job when he was a rookie. Now they were shriveled old men with nothing to do but attend cop retirement parties and wakes in the vain hope that someone would recognize them and acknowledge their past glories with a “Howyadoin’, Chief?”

  Across the vast room, standing by themselves, was the PC, and the first dep and Deputy Chief MacAdoo McKenzie. Scanlon thought that the first dep had put on a few pounds. He grimaced inwardly when he saw what MacAdoo McKenzie was wearing: trousers with a purple-and-white tartan design, a maroon shirt with a black tie, and a black double-knit sport jacket with white saddle stitching over the lapels and pockets. A motley assortment of used parts indeed.

  McKenzie looked in Scanlon’s direction and quickly turned to the PC and said something.

  Scanlon stepped into the crowd and began to edge his way forward toward the coffin. He reached the front of the room in time to see Harris lead an elderly woman over to the prayer stand. Scanlon thought that Harris’s expression was a perfect blend of graciousness and solemnity. Perhaps a wee bit too perfect.

  When Harris turned to lead the woman over to the widow, he saw Scanlon and motioned to a nearby cop to take over for him.

  “Thanks for coming, Lou,” Harris said, shaking his hand. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Joe’s widow.”

  Mary Ann Gallagher had dark shadows under her eyes. Her long, light brown hair hung limp around her pallid face. She wore an unflattering rusty black dress and no jewelry, save her wedding band. She had a rosary clutched in her right hand, and she slowly beat her chest in dazed prayer.

  Scanlon bent to express his condolences. Her lips were lined with a white pastelike substance. Despite her disheveled appearance, Scanlon could see an attractive woman in her late thirties, a woman who had exquisite blue eyes.

  Mary Ann Gallagher gazed blankly into Scanlon’s face as he whispered his sorrow at her loss. Duty done, he turned to leave, but Harris held him by the elbow and bent to say something in the widow’s ear. Suddenly a cold clammy hand gripped Scanlon’s wrist. He looked down and saw that her face had come alive in some strange frightening way. Her nostrils flared as though to breathe flames; her lips were curled into an ugly snarl.

  Anchoring herself on his wrist, she hoisted herself up out of her seat. Her face was inches away from Scanlon’s, her breath stale. “Get them!” she shrieked. “Those animals who took my husband from me. Those savages who destroyed our lives. Kill them!” She went limp and collapsed into the chair. Women rushed from their seats to console her.

  For the first time Scanlon took note of the two frightened children sitting on either side of the widow. The girl was about ten and obviously suffered from Down’s syndrome. She wore Mary Janes, white lace socks, and a blue dress.

  The boy was about twelve or so and had brown hair. His thin black tie was askew and his serge suit too large.

  “Let’s go outside and grab a smoke,” Harris said.

  They made their way out to the veranda. A purple twilight filled the horizon. The outline of the Malcolm X Housing Project was stark against the backdrop. Scanlon glanced at the compact mass of azaleas in front of the home.

  They made their way through the lingering policemen and down the wooden steps. The grass was freshly cut and had a clean smell to it. They made their way over to the weeping willow in the center of the manicured lawn. Scanlon noticed that Harris was wearing black cowboy boots with his uniform. The Patrol Guide mandated that uniform and equipment conform to Equipment Section samples: shoes—black, plain, smooth leather, lace-type with flat soles and raised rubber heels.

  Sergeant George Harris liked to break the rules.

  They leaned against the tree trunk; Harris took out a package of cigarettes and shook out a half-smoked butt. Scanlon watched him light it. “Are things that bad, Sarge?”

  “Cigarettes are expensive. I don’t toss nothing away. Waste not, want not.”

  Reaching up, Scanlon pulled down a branch and smelled the tassellike spike of flowers.

  “A couple of your detectives were around looking for you.”

  Scanlon let go of the branch. It rustled upward. “Where are they?”

  Harris nodded across Austin Boulevard to McJackoo’s Bar and Grill.

  “They said that they were going to stop for a taste.”

  Scanlon looked over at the line of policemen leaving the funeral home and making tracks to McJackoo’s. “Were you able to find out anything at the One-fourteen?”

  “With the wake and all I haven’t had much time to nose around. You gotta remember that Joe was a boss and didn’t exactly soc
ialize with too many cops. The few that I did rap with didn’t know nothing about his private life.”

  Harris took a deep drag and then field-stripped the butt.

  “You come up with anything?” he asked, with a side glance at the lieutenant.

  “I interviewed the Zimmerman family. They’re intelligent, affluent, and decent people. When I hinted that their mother might have been hit they were furious. Impossible, they said. The daughter said that if I don’t believe it was a robbery then I should delve in Joe’s life, because her mother’s was as pure as the driven snow.”

  “Ain’t we all,” Harris said. “What makes you so sure that it was a hit and not a robbery?”

  “Because we got witnesses that tell us that the perp just walked into that candy store, called out, ‘Hey you,’ and started blasting. We also know that the perp had a getaway van and an accomplice. There was no ‘give me your money, get your hands up, open the till.’ The guy who stepped through that door came to do murder.”

  “And you think that Joe was the mark?”

  “He’s the logical target. He was Mister Perfect in public, but we know what his private life was like. He wasn’t exactly pure.”

  “Who the hell is?”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Scanlon said. “Somewhere there is a motive, and I’m going to keep digging until I find it. And when I do, it’ll be a blazing signpost that will point me in the direction of the perps.”

  “You got any ideas who or why?”

  “All I got so far is suspects.” Scanlon looked at him. “Joe ever talk to you about a woman named Valerie Clarkson?”

  Harris’s face hardened in concentration. “Not that I recall. Who is she?”

  “One of his girlfriends. We asked her to come in for a chat and she agreed. Then she copped a mope. She was the only one of his lady friends to do that.”

  “You got people out on the streets looking for her?”

  “Higgins,” Scanlon said. “I didn’t know that Joe had a child with Down’s syndrome.”

  “Both them kids are adopted. Him and his wife made a home for two unadoptables. Gave them love, a family. The boy is slightly retarded. That’s the kind of guy Joe Gallagher was. The fuck had a heart of gold. Never mind all that shit about his weaknesses. Look at those two kids. That will tell you the kind of man he was.”

  “How did you and Joe get along?”

  “We were friends. On the job Joe was my boss. What he said went.”

  “You never had any disagreements over how to do things?”

  “Of course we did,” Harris said. “And Joe would listen to my side of the argument and then decide. Sometimes he saw it my way, and sometimes he didn’t.”

  “I also interviewed Luise Bardwell and her husband.” He watched for Harris’s reaction at the mention of his girlfriend’s name.

  “What did you think of her?”

  “A strange lady. And her husband certainly doesn’t operate on all his cylinders either.”

  “Takes all kinds, Lou.”

  “Amen to that. You still seeing her?”

  “Naw. I haven’t seen her in a while. I’ll tell you, with this AIDS thing I don’t feature going with bisexual women. It’s one thing if you don’t know, but when you know it, and you still go with them, then you ain’t operating with a full deck either.”

  “You going out with anyone else involved in the case?”

  “No.” Harris pushed away from the tree. “I gotta get back inside, Lou. I’ll call you if I come up with anything.”

  A group of policemen left the funeral home and went down the stone path and across Austin Boulevard, heading for McJackoo’s Bar and Grill.

  More mourners arrived. Among them, dressed completely in black with a lace mantilla draped over her peroxide head, was Gretta Polchinski.

  Scanlon caught up with her as she was about to go up the steps. He took hold of her shoulder, stopping her. Her face was heavily made up. “Black suits you, Gretta.”

  “I’m here to pay my respects to the dead. Not to get my balls busted by you.”

  He moved up close to her, said conspiratorially, “Got anything to tell me?”

  She laughed and turned to leave. He stopped her. “I assumed that a community leader like yourself would be able to pick up some tidbits for your friendly policeman on the beat.”

  She jerked her arm free of him. “I heard that your dead lieutenant and his sergeant were as close as a quarter to nine. Harris ran the show for Gallagher. And Gallagher never said thank you. But then, that’s just like a cop.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Don’t you ever stop working? You oughta get yourself a wife. That way you’d have other things to fill your time with than just breaking my chops.”

  Scanlon’s right eyebrow arched. “I have a friend who’s been married three times. He always looks depressed.” He watched her march up the stairs.

  Denny McJackoo was a paunchy man with a round, thick-jowled face, a perpetual twinkle in his clever gray eyes, and the bogs of Ireland fogging his booming voice. As the proud owner of six bars, all of which were located within a three-block radius of the local funeral home, Denny McJackoo knew from experience that the wakes of cops and firemen were sudden bonanzas. “Aye, reposing the dead is a thirsty business, for the dear lads do truly love their whiskey,” Denny McJackoo had confided on more than one occasion to his seven sons. When he found out that the Gallagher wake was to be held at E. G. McGuinness’s he prudently gave his regular bartenders off and replaced them with his sons, with the following admonitions: buy back every fourth round, work from an open cash drawer, and ring up every sixth sale. “Aye, lads, there’ll be undeclared cash that’ll need burying.”

  A squeamish feeling made Tony Scanlon hesitate in front of the entrance to McJackoo’s. Many sad experiences had taught every boss in the Job about the dangers inherent in St. Patrick’s Day and cops’ wakes. These were the occasions when drunken policemen shot other cops. Scanlon took a deep breath and reluctantly pushed his way inside. His apprehension grew as he took in the scene around him. Raucous policemen reeled through the crowd to greet friends. A heavy cloud of smoke hung under the ceiling. From somewhere a jukebox blared “Old Fenian Gun.” A large dice game was in progress in the rear of the bar. The camp followers who go to all cop functions to gamble were out in force, from all parts of the city. The shuffleboard had been converted into a twenty-one table. Policemen crowded in around the long board, watching the dealer, a tall cop wearing the jodhpurs of a mounted cop and with a corncob pipe gripped between his teeth, toss out hole cards to the many players. As usual in such large games four decks of cards were being used simultaneously by the banker.

  Uniform blouses, minus their shields, were stacked high atop the jukebox. The coatracks that extended upward from the green leatherette booths were bundled high with uniforms. Every cop had his shield clipped onto his gunbelt or tucked securely into his pocket. Drunk or sober, cops are a wary lot.

  Scanlon stood among the crush searching for his men. “How-thefuckarya, Lou?” an unfamiliar voice shouted. Scanlon nodded in the direction of the voice. Taking in the scene around him, Scanlon decided that it was time to haul his ass out of there. Too many cops in too small an area, too many loaded guns mixing with too much booze. He had just started to go for the exit when he heard a familiar voice shout his name. He turned and saw two pairs of arms waving wildly over the tops of heads. “Shit,” he mumbled, elbowing his way over to the arms.

  Hector Colon and Simon Jones were squeezed in at the end of the bar. Lew Brodie sat on a stool, hunched over a shot of rye, glaring down into the whiskey glass. His harelip was pronounced and red, the result of the alcohol in his system.

  “You wanted to see me,” Scanlon said, pushing his way up to them.

  Colon jerked a thumb at Simon Jones. “Me and Biafra Baby have come up with something.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Colon put down his glass of beer, wiped froth from hi
s mustache. “We finished a canvass of where the van was found and came up with nothing, so we went into the house to bang out the Five. As we were coming out we ran into Stone and Trumwell coming in on a personal. They were the two cops first on the scene.”

  “I know who they are,” Scanlon said, irritated because of where he was.

  Colon continued, “Stone stopped us. He said that he remembered a case that went down five, six years ago that might have some connection to the Gallagher/Zimmerman caper.” He took a gulp of beer. “An attempted homicide on a dude named Eddie Hamill. It seems that Hamill was a certified nut job, a burglar, and a heavy-duty-type gambler. According to Stone, Hamill was into Walter Ticornelli for some real bread. Around twelve large, Stone said. The story goes that Hamill unilaterally decided to cancel out his debt with Ticornelli. And when the shy demanded the vig from Hamill, Ticornelli done got knocked on his delicate ass.” Colon drank more beer.

  Lew Brodie threw down the shot, grimaced, and chased the whiskey down with beer.

  The tumult had grown louder. A shouting and shoving match between two cops at the twenty-one table was quickly broken up.

  Colon drained his glass, licked his mustache clean.

  Scanlon grew more impatient. His phantom leg itched. He leaned sideways and scratched it. “Continue.”

  “Ticornelli was supposed to have sent three gorillas around to change Hamill’s attitude toward paying his just debts,” Colon said. “The word is that Hamill sent the three of them to the hospital with various parts of their anatomy in splints. People in the neighborhood started to say that Ticornelli didn’t have the muscle to back up the money that he had out on the street. And that, Teniente, is bad advertisement for a shylock. Ticornelli was supposed to have made a pilgrimage to Mulberry Street to seek permission from the head goombah to have Hamill hit. Permission granted.”