Suspects

by William Caunitz

  “Because there’s nothing to tell.”

  Goldberg pointed his stubby finger at Scanlon’s chest. “I’m going to be the next PC. So be advised that I’ve got a long fucking memory.” He turned away and stamped off.

  Scanlon stepped out into the street and immediately picked up on Lew Brodie’s warning look. Brodie’s stare led to a group of reporters trying to talk their way past the police line. Scanlon spotted Daniel J. Buckman, an investigative reporter from the New York Times, standing apart from his peers. Buckman, an avowed cop hater, was described by most of the cops in the Job as the Cocksucker with Lockjaw.

  Scanlon and Buckman’s eyes met.

  Scanlon made for the double-parked department car. Higgins was behind the wheel and Colon was in the passenger seat, pressing his knee against hers. Biafra Baby was squeezed in next to Colon. Christopher sat in the rear, eating sunflower seeds and carefully placing the shells in the door’s ashtray. Lew Brodie was standing in the roadway, holding open the door.

  Scanlon was just about to reach into the car when Buckman rushed over to him. “Don’t you have a good word to say to the press, Lieutenant?”

  “Long live the First Amendment.”

  Undaunted, Buckman said, “A little bird told me that there is a cover-up in the Gallagher case.”

  “Did your little bird happen to be wearing platform shoes and was he smoking a big cigar?”

  “He might be your next PC.”

  Scanlon wrinkled his face. “PCs come, PCs go.” He went to get into the car.

  Buckman stopped him. “I’m not a bad guy, Scanlon. And I could help you in the Job. Might even arrange a transfer back into Midtown.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears, Sweet Lips.”

  “The public has the right to know about its public officials, Scanlon.”

  “Do they now?” Scanlon said, leading the reporter away from the car. “In that case, I’ll give you the inside scope. Gallagher died in the performance of duty, trying to prevent a holdup. Period. End of case.”

  “I’ve been in this business too long not to know where there is smoke there is fire. Your own CofD has been shut out of the case. No one in the Detective Division with the exception of you and McKenzie knows anything about the case. That tells me that there is something afoot. And now Dr. Zimmerman, son of one of the victims, and his wife have been murdered. No. There’s a story here, Lieutenant, and you’re trying to sit on it.”

  “I have no idea why the doctor and his wife were murdered. The only thing I can tell you for sure is that Joe Gallagher’s death was LOD.”

  “Line of duty?” the reporter scoffed. “That’s bullshit and you know it. I’m going to keep digging, and while I do, I’m going to show you just how much pressure I can bring to bear to get at the truth.”

  “You do that, Buckman. I’m a strong believer in freedom of the press and all the rest of that shit.” He slid into the car and slammed the door.

  Higgins looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”

  “Doctors Hospital.”

  The unmarked department auto drove into the emergency cul-de-sac and parked.

  “Wait here,” Scanlon said, pushing open the door. He moved past the two receptionists and scanned the crowded benches in the waiting room of the emergency room. No Linda Zimmerman. He spotted a square-badge standing next to a corn plant in the corner. He went up to him and identified himself, and inquired about Andrea Zimmerman.

  The square-badge was in his late sixties and had thin gray hair. “I retired from the Job in ’66. Used to work out of the old Fourteenth.”

  “Who was the captain when you were there?” Scanlon asked, trying to humor the old-timer.

  “Fitzpatrick.”

  “Ol’ Blood and Guts Fitz. I worked with him during the Harlem riots.”

  A forlorn expression came over the older man’s face. “I guess the Job’s changed a lot since my days.”

  “The Job never changes, only the cast of characters changes.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” the square-badge said. “Wait here, I’ll check on those two names for you.”

  Scanlon watched him go over to the reception desk and shuffle through forms. He yanked one from the pile, read it, and motioned Scanlon to follow him.

  They passed through two large doors that were edged in thick rubber and entered a tiled passage lined on both sides with examining cubicles. “Room nine, around the corner, to your right,” the square-badge said, shaking Scanlon’s hand.

  “Thanks,” Scanlon said, watching the retired cop walk away and wondering what it must be like to be out of the Job.

  Linda Zimmerman was slouched against the wall outside examining room nine, her composure and elegance gone. Her clothes did not match and her hair was in disarray. She appeared to be in a state of disbelieving shock.

  “How is Andrea?” he asked gently, his concern genuine.

  Her tone was feeble, her gaze fixed downward on the gleaming tile floor. “My niece is in shock.”

  “I wish there was something I could say to lessen your pain. I’m so very, very sorry.”

  She started to rock back and forth on her heels, tapping her head against the wall. “First my mother, then my brother and Rachel. My entire family is gone. I’m alone with a little girl to raise.” She stared at him with anguished eyes. “You were supposed to protect us. Why didn’t you do your job? Why?” she screamed, and began to slam the back of her head repeatedly against the wall.

  “Linda!” He grabbed her.

  She fought to free herself from him, screaming, continuing to fling her head back. “Why? Why?”

  He pulled her to him, trying to calm her. The back of her head was bloody.

  “You murdered my family!” she cried, pounding him with her fists. “Murderer! Murderer!” She collapsed into his arms.

  He caught her.

  Several nurses rushed over to them. One of them pulled up a gurney. He lifted her onto the medical trolley.

  “Are you the husband?” asked one of the nurses.

  “A friend.”

  “Please wait outside in the waiting room.”

  Scanlon sat in the pew with the other anxious people. An hour passed. The square-badge offered him the privacy of the doctors’ lounge. He declined; he wanted to wait with the others. He kept telling himself over and over that logically there was nothing he could have done to prevent what had happened to the doctor and his wife. But that nagging kernel of doubt would not leave his mind.

  “Zimmerman?” the intern said, pushing through the double doors.

  “How are they?” Scanlon asked, going up to the intern.

  “Both sedated.”

  “Are they going to be all right?”

  The doctor looked into his concerned face. “When the girl comes around we’ll have a child psychiatrist take a look at her. As for the aunt, we’re going to keep her here a little while to check her out. She did a number on her head. We want to make sure there’s no fracture.” He took a deep breath. “I knew Stanley Zimmerman by reputation. He did good work. It’s a real loss.”

  11

  The detectives filed into the Nine-three station house and went upstairs to the squad room to telephone their families that they would not be home until late Sunday night, if then. Scanlon moved behind the Desk and took the key to the property room out of the key drawer. He walked into the room and switched on the lights. He saw the animal lasso and the bolt cutters leaning against the side of the money safe. Two vandalized parking meters were next to them. Property envelopes with their vouchers stapled to the front of them were scattered about the shelves. A stack of old license plates, each wrapped in its letter of transmittal ready for their weekly delivery to the Motor Vehicle Bureau, was piled on the bottom shelf. There was a bicycle with one wheel.

  The file that he was looking for was on top of the narcotics safe, a one-drawer metal card file with a notice stenciled in orange on the top: CONFIDENTIAL—UF 10, FORCE RECOR
D FILE.

  He slid out the file and fingered the tabs to the Gs. He pulled out Officer Horace Goodman’s Ten Card and left the room. Standing behind the Desk, Scanlon checked the home telephone number as he dialed. He turned to the cop on telephone switchboard duty and asked him what the other cops called Goodman.

  “Hank,” the TS cop said, turning the centerfold upside down.

  Policemen do not answer their home telephones. Their wives and children have been trained to do that for them. My husband is upstate hunting, or my dad is fishing, and thus unavailable. Unavailable, until his next scheduled tour.

  A cheerful female voice answered. “Hello?”

  An equally cheerful voice replied. “Hi. Is Hank around? This is Tony.”

  “Hank,” she sang out, “it’s for you. Tony.”

  A pleasant male voice. “Hello, Tony.”

  “Hank, this is Lieutenant Scanlon from the Squad.”

  Goodman had been snared. Scanlon visualized the lead clerical man making ugly faces at his wife. “Yeah, Lou?”

  “We have to get into the old record room, and the keys aren’t at the Desk.”

  “Can’t it wait until the morning? This is Sunday.”

  “No, it can’t wait until the morning,” Scanlon said, annoyed. “And if the keys aren’t here soon I’m going to give the order to kick in the door. And in that case I’ll have to make a blotter entry. And someone from the borough is going to want to know why the keys weren’t at the Desk as the Patrol Guide prescribes they should be. And then it’ll be somebody’s ass.”

  “I’ll drop them off in a few minutes.”

  The detectives sat around Scanlon’s desk studying the old records.

  The original complaint report was dated August 5, 1978. The Sixty-one detailed how at 1957 hours Walter Ticornelli went to get his car, which was parked on the S/E corner of Engert Avenue between Diamond and Newel streets, and discovered that the left rear tire was flat.

  Ticornelli was in the process of jacking up his car when several shots rang out. The reluctant complainant stated that he fell to the ground and rolled under the car that was parked behind his.

  The investigating officer, Detective Jack Weinberg, reported under details of the case on the original complainant report that the preliminary canvass failed to produce any witnesses to the shooting including the anonymous neighbors who had phoned in the report of shots fired. A search of the immediate vicinity by the patrol sergeant revealed four bullet holes in the complainant’s car. Emergency Service responded and conducted a search of the surrounding area for victims of stray bullets. NR. An examination of the flattened tire revealed four punctures, each in close proximity to the others.

  When questioned, the complainant could offer no explanation for the attempt on his life other than to state that it was probably the result of some kids fooling around. The attached Fives reported on the result of additional canvasses and on the result of checking the recovered slugs against the Ballistics File. Both proved negative.

  Scanlon let the heavy report fall from his hands and looked up at his detectives. He had divided six years’ worth of Sixty sheets among them and told them to check the chronological record of cases by complainants and crimes: Walter Ticornelli—Attempted Murder or Assault 1.

  It took the detectives a little over one hour to complete this task. NR.

  “Looks as though there was only one attempt on Ticornelli’s life,” Higgins said.

  “If there were other attempts,” Christopher said, “they probably went unreported, or went down somewhere else.”

  “Or there were no other attempts,” Scanlon said. “This thing between Ticornelli and Eddie Hamill might be nothing more than neighborhood gossip.” He looked at Lew Brodie. “What have you come up with on Hamill?”

  Brodie consulted his steno pad. “I called the Identification Section and had them read me Hamill’s sheet over the phone. His B number is 435897–2. A male, white, forty-three. His yellow sheet starts out in ’60. Grand Larceny, Auto. He was adjudicated a youthful offender on that one.” Brodie went on to enumerate Hamill’s eleven other arrests. “Our boy Eddie has been naughty,” Brodie said.

  “This is true,” Scanlon said. “Lew, I’d like you to go to the big building and pull Hamill’s yellow sheet and copy it. Then take out each Nineteen, note the accomplices on each arrest, and—”

  “I got the idea, Lou,” Brodie said, slowly getting out of his chair.

  “And Lew, we’re in a hurry, so no stopping off,” Scanlon said.

  “Ten-four, Lou,” Brodie said, leaving.

  Scanlon turned his attention to Higgins. “What have you done about our missing witness, Valerie Clarkson?”

  “She works as a waitress in the Santorini Diner on Linden Boulevard in Brooklyn. I spoke with her boss, Kostos Kalyviotis. He told me that she’s worked for him for ten years, she’s always on time, and is seldom out sick. She called in last Friday and told him that she needed a few days’ vacation because of a personal problem.”

  Scanlon leaned back in his seat and put his legs up on the desk. “What else?”

  “I got a list of her toll calls from the telephone company. There were two numbers that showed up consistently. Both in Suffolk County. One was in Deer Park, and the other in Huntington. I—”

  “Goddamnit!” Hector Colon shrieked, leaping up off his seat and scampering around the office after a cockroach. He caught up with the creature near the corner steam pipe and crushed it with his foot. “I hate them! The son of a bitch tried to crawl up my leg.”

  “Is macho man afraid of a tiny cockarochee?” Higgins said, aping baby talk.

  “Knock it off,” Scanlon said.

  Smiling at Colon, Higgins continued her report. “I ran Clarkson’s name through the precinct computer. She owns a ’78 Volvo, which, according to one of her neighbors, is suffering from terminal dents. I had the Suffolk PD check both addresses. Her car is parked in the driveway of her sister’s house in Deer Park. Do you want me to take a drive out there and see if she’s there?”

  “Get me the Patrol Guide,” Scanlon said to Higgins.

  She reached out and took the thick blue book from the library cabinet and handed it to him.

  Scanlon checked the rear index, then flipped pages until he came to procedure 116–18, Leaving the City on Police Business. He read the pages, then put the thick book down. “This has to be done right. A request to leave the city requires a Forty-nine through channels to the borough commander, and that takes time.”

  “Lou,” Higgins said, “I’ll take a drive out to Suffolk County on my own. No big deal.”

  “No good, Maggie. If you got into a fender-bender with a department auto there’d be hell to pay. And if you used your own car and had an accident, and your insurance company ever found out that you were on police business, they’d cancel your policy.”

  “Why not have the Suffolk PD pick Clarkson up as a material witness?” Biafra Baby asked.

  “That takes too long. I want her in here today.”

  “But, Teniente, Señora Clarkson don’t know that, does she? We can lure her back into the city,” Colon suggested.

  Scanlon looked at Higgins. “Maggie, contact Suffolk and ask them to lay a phony material witness collar on Clarkson. Have them tell her that she can avoid the collar by making a phone call to us.”

  Scanlon telephoned the Nineteenth’s temporary headquarters. When Jack Fable came on the line he asked him if anything had developed on his double homicide.

  “Nothing,” Fable said, adding that the CofD had hung around the scene for two hours, breaking everyone’s balls.

  Scanlon hung up and dialed Doctors Hospital. Linda and Andrea Zimmerman were in stable condition.

  “Lou, what was Hamill’s B number?” Colon asked, checking over his notes.

  Scanlon told him.

  “You ever wonder where the term ‘B number’ comes from?” Colon said, jotting down the number in his notes.

  Scanlon leaned
forward to massage his stump. “It comes from Alphonse Bertillon. He was a Frenchman who originated the method of classifying perps by their body measurements.” He pulled up his trouser leg and leaned back. “Years ago it was known in the Job as the Bertillon number. But like everything else it was shortened, to B number.” He took off his prosthesis and stood it on top of his desk.

  “Lou? That’s fucking disgusting,” Colon said queasily.

  “What is, Hector?” Scanlon said, feigning innocence.

  Colon pointed to the prosthesis. “That is.”

  “It’s only a leg,” Scanlon said, pulling off his stump sock and balling it up and tossing it into the bottom drawer. He took out a clean one and stretched it over his stump. “Ahhh. That feels much better.”

  Colon left the office shaking his head.

  An air of casual expectation had taken over the squad room. Christopher had flipped channels until he found Back Street on eleven. Maggie Higgins had gotten her period. She quietly left the squad room and went to the female locker room and got what she needed, and knowing that the precinct CO was on his RDO, she went downstairs to avail herself of the privacy of the captain’s bathroom.

  Scanlon had finished the Sunday papers. On impulse he snatched up the phone and dialed Jane Stomer’s home number. He felt like an adolescent as he sat listening to her recorded voice. He hung up before the beep. Then he dialed his mother and spoke to her in Italian, telling her that he would be unable to come for dinner and that he loved her. When, to his surprise, Sally De Nesto answered her phone, he said, “I’m sorry I had to rush out on you last night.”

  “I understand.”

  He was aware of a sudden hollowness in the pit of his stomach. “What about tonight?”

  She hummed a few bars of “Never on Sunday.” “A working girl needs one day of rest.”

  His hands were wet. He forced an edge of confidence into his voice. “Dinner. Nothing else.”

  She hesitated, making up her mind. “Dinner, nothing else?”